ritsatoru

[ritsatoru]

Gojo, im telling u, stop yearing for someone who doesn't love u, I'm here broski, cmere😭😭😭🙏

She Needs Him- G.S

You and Geto are two peas in a pod, acting like the cutest of couples to any outsider. Gojo can't stomach the feeling of his best friend and the girl he loves being so close, so what does he do?

Warnings: None Words: 1.4K A/N: Honestly ooc but we need yearner Gojo and I'm here to deliver- hopefully. And yes, THAT mission doesn't happen and Geto never leaves.- Part 2 already in the works :p

Satoru Gojo was the strongest, everyone knew that. Nothing could faze him, so why does his heart feel so broken at the sight before him. He’s seen it many times, but it never gets any easier. It should be his shoulder you're lying on, not Geto’s. 

Deep down, Gojo was jealous of his best friend and his effortless connection with you. Sure, you and he were friends, but it was different, you didn’t drift to him in a room, you didn’t whisper and giggle with him and you certainly weren’t as touchy. Gojo wanted to ask, if there was something between you and Geto, but even he knew he couldn’t handle the truth.  

It didn’t bother him at first. Didn’t bother him that you always held onto Geto’s arm when you walked, or that you smiled so sweetly when he handed you your favourite ice cream. It totally didn't drive him crazy that it was Geto making you grin like that. Okay, he lied, it irked him from the moment he realised his feelings. After all, he saw you first, he spoke to you that first night on the stairs, the starts bringing you together. Gojo wonders if that memory is as important to you as it is to him; do you consider it special? 

Gojo couldn’t count how many nights it had been where he laid in his bed, tossing and turning, his thoughts full of you. The side he left vacant was cold, it was a habit he had developed, keeping to the left side of the bed, imagining you beside him. In his half-asleep state he’d reach out, hoping to feel the warmth of your body, but alas, you weren’t there. He’d continue the fantasy in his head, wishing to feel your hands around him as you whispered sweet nothings. On some nights he’d let himself cry, the tears staining his grey pillow. Gojo’s doubts rolled in then, voices telling him ‘She doesn’t deserve you, you’re nothing like him; why would she choose you, she needs him more.’ 

The mornings after were torture. Exhaustion filled his body, his black glasses covering the growing bags under his eyes.  

‘Satoru, are you okay? Did you sleep at all?’ a sweet voice calls to him; in his sleep deprived brain, he thinks it's an angel, but he sees you and knows you’re better than that.  

‘The strongest never sleeps Y/N, don’t you know that?’ Gojo replies, putting on his charismatic facade; being vulnerable in front of you was never an option. 

‘Toru... You can te-’ 

‘Y/N!’ Geto shouts, ‘There you are, come on we have training.’ Gojo sees your face falter but thinks nothing of it, ready to turn away. But then he feels your hand on his wrist, the warmth seeping through his sleeve, 

‘Take care of yourself.’ you smile softly. He watches you skip to his best friend, immediately hooking your arm with his, jealousy pooling in his stomach again. 

°•. ✿ .•°

It had been months, if not a year by now, and it was only getting worse. Gojo couldn’t handle the small interactions with you, he wanted needed more. He rarely slept, instead laying on top of his covers, the ceiling more interesting than the dreams that await him. The bin in the corner and his desk full of crumpled papers, words alone could never be enough to profess the adoration he held for you. He days began to blur, and repeat; wake up, look at you, watch you with Geto, stay awake wondering what was wrong with him. Just last week Gojo watched as you brushed away Geto’s bangs, smiling up at him with that toothy grin. He was losing you, and he despised it. The next day wasn’t easier.  

Geto slid into the seat next to him as he watched you spar with Haibara.  

‘She’s great, isn’t she?’ Geto spoke, the softness in his voice is another punch to the gut, but Gojo bites back the envy, 

‘Yeah, she is...’ 

A singular mission changed everything. A special grade appeared, one that shouldn’t have been there. Gojo doesn't remember much except for fighting tirelessly, only seeing the curse head towards you. You were beaten and bloody when it was done, your cursed energy drained. He ran. He ran as fast as he could towards you, but he couldn’t be the hero. 

Shoko could fix his injuries but not his broken heart, Geto got to you first, cradling your weak body. 

‘She’s still breathing, I’ll take her back, can you handle this Satoru?’ Geto calls out. 

Gojo regains his composure, placing the cocky persona back on, ‘I’m the strongest, aren’t I?’  

He ignores the soft coos that fall from Geto’s mouth as he's scooping you up and taking you away. It should be him next to you instead. He casts aside the thoughts and focuses on ending this fight; for you. 

°•. ✿ .•°

A few days pass and Gojo makes his way to your dorm, wanting to check up on you, but stops short of the door when he hears muffled voices. 

‘I’m glad you’re okay Y/N/N.’ Shoko’s in your dorm, a normal occurrence, so he steps closer, about to knock. 

‘So, are you and Geto a thing?’ she asks. He wants to leave, not wanting to worsen the ache he feels, but he’s intrigued.  

‘Shoko, you know what the answer is.’ Geto. He’s in there too? Gojo turns and leaves, sweat pooling on his back. It’s over, no longer could he think of you, you weren’t his, you weren’t even anything close to that. He enters his dorm, the silence deafening, why does he have everything except the thing he really wanted? 

°•. ✿ .•°

‘Hey Satoru, wanna come get ramen with Geto and I?’ Gojo can hear your voice through his door, he wants so desperately to reach out and say yes, be close with you, but he can’t. He made himself a promise and he must stick to it. 

‘Nah, I’m good.’ 

‘Oh... well see you later.’ He hates hearing you so sad, but he can’t falter. The avoidance tactic had been working, his room becoming a sanctuary for him. The letters to you continued but remained crumpled, ready to discard. A different letter lay in front of him as he listens to your retreating footsteps, ‘Kyoto Jujutsu High Transfer Form’ 

°•. ✿ .•°

It had been two weeks since he signed the letter and two weeks since he last saw you. When Yaga asked why the sudden move, Gojo could only say one thing, love. 

As he packed away the last remaining items, his thoughts drifted, maybe in another life it was you and him, but why not this one? He clears his throat and looks around the now empty room. He glances at the clock and pushes his glasses further up his nose, deciding he can spare a few minutes. It was for the best he kept repeating, he needed to do this. Regrets started to piece together and Gojo buried his head in his hands, wishing he had just made a move. 

He leaves in the dead of the night, avoiding the goodbyes that would have kept him here. His suitcase rolls behind him and the bag on his shoulder weighs him down. Gojo stops just short of the entrance, taking everything in. The stars tonight were bright, lighting up the sky like a stage. He smiles softly, remembering that night again. He remembers wanting to give you his jacket when you said you were going back inside, wanting to stay with you longer. But he didn’t, he let you turn and head back into the school, ‘Maybe that would have changed things.’ he mutters. 

Gojo, too absorbed in his mind, failed to realise you on the steps behind him. You hug your arms around yourself and stand.  

‘Toru where are you going?’ He’s missed your voice so much, he wants to reach out and confess, but he doesn't, only tilting his head.  

He notices your shivering and decides to redeem his lost chance, ‘You’re cold, here.’ he says shrugging off his jacket and handing it to you.  

Accepting the jacket, you press further, ‘Are you leaving the school.’ 

‘You deserve him Y/N/N, you need him more than you need me, take care.’ 

[ritsatoru]

all the other women in your gardening club were so incredibly jealous of you.

it had started off when you were showing them a photo of some fresh strawberries that you grew. the photo was of around 16 perfect looking, freshly washed strawberries placed on top of a cloth inside a basket... and the basket was being held by your husband, satoru.

it was a simple photo, satoru had a cute face, not looking at the camera but instead, was looking down at the fresh fruit, impatiently waiting to eat them.

your fellow club members gawked and smiled widely at your photo.

"wowh! what a beauty!"

"how perfect!"

you smiled in pride as your club members complimented the photo of your stawberries, unaware that they were staring only at satoru and his annoyingly handsome face.

the next instance was when you had shown them photos of your perfect, weedless garden.

"wowh! what weed killer do you use?" one of the older women exclaimed in shock.

"ohh ahah!" you smiled "i don't use any weed killers, we have a dog in the house and i'm afraid he might sniff the toxins, so i pick out the small ones by myself, and i ask my husband to get the bigger ones for me"

"ah... you're so lucky, [name].. my husband is far too lazy to pick out the large weeds when i ask..."

"your husband listens to you, just like that? i wish my husband would do that.. if i ever asked, he'd complain and whine like a baby"

the last was when your car broke down and had to stay in maintenance for a few days. satoru dropped you off to your gardening club that saturday.

when you walked in, all the ladies' heads snapped over to see satoru.

".. he's even more handsome in person.."

"he's sooo dreamy.."

"look at his biceps..."

you turned around, going on your tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. satoru placed his hand on your waist, leaning in to pull you into his hungry mouth. you pulled away, much to his dismay, satoru tried to pepper more kisses on your face, but you quietly told him to stop, causing him to pout.

"... and he's so inlove with her too..."

"what a loving man.."

"... i hope [name] knows how lucky she is."

those other ladies whispered among themselves before you gave satoru another kiss farewell before turning around and greeting your club members. satoru lingered around the doorway for another minute, watching you with a gentle smile before forcing himself to turn around and leave.

that alone made the ladies expel any thoughts of seducing him to cheat on you... it was too late. He was too deeply in love, and much to their dismay, they understood clearly why he was so obsessed with you.

— likes and reblogs are appreciated!!

[ritsatoru]

SANCTUARY

💗 GOJO さとる

warnings : angst, some fluff (?), satoru is such an asshole on the exterior 🥹, not proofread

the strongest... falling in love with the weakest. he's bullied n teased u about being the weakest, a weakling; "how did they let someone like you into jujutsu tech?"

he's so mean and condescending. he trails alongside u on missions. he asks "hey, bet you missed me" when he intrudes on missions that you very nearly had under control. he watches you from the bleachers as you hopelessly practice martial arts with suguru. he steals your quiz papers when the teacher isn't looking.

but of course... he has ulterior motives. his exterior is just a big act, he's really just a teenager who belongs in the drama club.

he's sticking to ur side during missions to protect ur "stupid weak ass". he's always popping his face into a scene to make sure that curse doesn't escape, cuz otherwise he has to listen to you getting another reprimanding from yaga. satoru's the one who asked suguru to teach you martial arts every day, encouraging his best friend to grill the movements into your brain. and he steals your quiz papers to quickly rub out all the wrong answers you filled in, and correct them so that tomorrow you're met with a baffling A* grade.

he's doing everything he can to keep you from being expelled.

yet he stands in front of you, hands lazing in his pockets, taunting you about being a shorty who can't fight for shit. "you're one of those fucking weaklings i have to protect..." he says bitterly, through gritted teeth... but he doesn't mean it how you interpret it. he's so upset with the world, and how he has to work hard to protect someone who deserves to be born into an idyllic paradise.

when you're making that defeated frown, looking helpless on the floor after losing to a curse, he glares over and yells "what are you doing... get up." and he forces you to get on your feet.

he's confusing, isn't he? how he tells you in the school corridors on hot summer days, "you're too weak to fight for yourself." and then when you're unconscious after encountering a special-grade, he clutches your body protectively and sobs, "are you crazy? why wouldn't you call me... hey, keep your eyes open..." he's furrowing his brows at you, expression angry not because you're weak... but because this world treats frail people terribly and he hates it with all his soul. he doesn't want to see you fighting. he doesn't want to see you practicing jujutsu. he doesn't want you to ever see another curse's morbid face again.

he's determined to turn the world into a sanctuary for you. that's what he puts in his wedding vows to you, when the two of you reach the age of 25. and he doesn't break it, he doesn't falter, he always keeps good pace and drains and exhausts himself in order to mold the shape of the world to fit someone as soft as you.

"i can't believe something as soft as you was given to me from such a hard world."

i'm gonna make it better, baby. i'm gonna build a new world for you. one that doesn't try to hurt us. until i can achieve that goal, i hope my embrace can act as your sanctuary.

[ritsatoru]

true love waits

eight | gojo's ghost hunting guide

seeing spectres? got a ghost problem? it seems Satoru Gojo has one of his own - one he doesn't want to get rid of

synopsis: full-time nerd turned part-time amateur ghost hunter, you've become Gojo's favorite occupation! living with a roommate is hard enough - let alone falling in love with your (un?)dead one!

pairing: nerdjo x ghost!Reader

content: mdni, angst and fluff, death, rebirth/reincarnation, happy ending, pining and yearning, gojo is LOYAL, doomed lovers and second chances, kissing, drinking, idiots in love

art by @chu-cho + divider by @petalpxl

Four years.

Not quite 1500 days.

He finished graduate school. Traded his day job of interning at a research labs for something with steadier hours. Came home from work by six every night to kiss you at the door. Ignored his relatives asking when he'd buy a house or find somewhere bigger.

What was that saying? Home was where the heart was? Well, his was with you.

It didn't matter how much money he was offered to move or transfer to a new city. He couldn't imagine walking in without you there waiting for him.

It wasn't like he was making the only sacrifice.

You could've moved on too.

Found peace in the afterlife, on my whatever plane was waiting for you. But you refused to leave him either.

Even when he found the first few wrinkles, laugh lines starting to etch in his skin already, frowning and poking at them in the mirror while you giggled on the counter.

"I'm not even thirty," Gojo murmured, groaning as he pulled out his phone to order moisturizer.

"Not that far from it," You laughed, dragging your thumb over the side of his mouth. "At least you can age."

You couldn't.

In fifteen years, he'd already be in his forties while you'd never make it past twenty-five.

He hated thinking about it. Despised the disgusting way it made him feel and the fact he was far too attached to ever let you go either.

"Will you still love me if I go gray?" He pouted, pulling you in by your hips, your thighs automatically wrapping around his waist while he started peppering your face with kisses to make himself feel better.

"You're close enough," You giggled again, reaching up to ruffle his white hair before he cut you off with a proper kiss. Your lips were still sweet, parting for him already, a present in itself.

Four years of small moments - and it still wasn't nearly enough.

Gojo didn't even see the car that hit him.

It was kind of like what you said. Crossing the street, glancing one way, and the next he was on the pavement, his brain barely processing the sound of metal crunching and glass shattering. It didn't even hurt that much - a dull pain he couldn't place.

But he knew what was happening.

Aware of what would come next.

His last thought was of you though, smiling to himself at the idea you'd finally be able to move on. That he wouldn't be tethering you here anymore. Geto would tell you what happened - would make sure you made it where you needed to go.

And hopefully, wherever that was, you'd be together.

He guessed he didn't end up making it to thirty after all.

The sun was warm on his skin, thick summer heat drifting through his window. There weren't any clouds in the sky, but it still felt oppressive, hanging down over his head while he yawned and forced himself to get out of bed.

He'd been having the same dream for the past year. The same girl. A pretty smile and a prettier laugh. One that looked at him like he hung the stars, with soft lips that kissed him like he was one. So why the fuck did he wake up feeling so gutted?

Like he was grieving someone he never met?

He'd never been much of an artist, but he'd picked up a pen more than a few times in pathetic attempts to sketch her. Never quite capturing the details so vivid in his head. The shape of the mouth was always a little off, the eyes never even enough, the hair the wrong shade.

And it was stupid, instead of focusing on his physics lecture or paying attention to his engineering homework, he ended up doodling in his notebook most of the time, only looking forward to a night art class he'd started taking solely to learn how to draw.

The day always drudged by, just waiting for dusk to fall to find his way into one of the older buildings on campus with a bag slung over his shoulder, notebooks and pens jostling around inside, loose sheets of paper getting crumpled by the time he made it into the dusty old room that doubled as a ceramics class during the day, long tables and stools already set out and ready.

No one else was there yet.

It was the only thing in his life he was ever early for.

He got set up in the second row from the front, dumping out his stuff before rearranging everything how he liked it when the door creaked open.

Gojo didn't glance over at first. Too focused on fixing his pencils to look up until he heard a soft murmur.

"Oh, hi."

It felt like he'd been electrocuted.

Maybe he'd never met you. But he knew you. Knew your voice.

He was stuck slow motion. Head refusing to move faster, turning towards you just to freeze the second he found your face.

You were already staring at him.

Mouth hanging open just slightly, hair mused and eyes wide, lip gloss catching the light as you let out a little gasp. He didn't know how much he's been craving hearing that would until he was immediately replaying it in his head.

"Hey," He choked out, his voice strangled in his throat.

Somehow, you were even prettier in person.

"I haven't seen you here before," He awkwardly added, nervously fidgeting with his pen before dropping it. Pushing up his glasses next, fixing his hair and hoping you didn't notice how anxious he looked.

"I'm, um, modelling for the class," You gestured to the empty spot in the front, watching him like a deer in headlights before dragging your eyes away. "Do you know where I can put my stuff?"

He wasn't sure how he managed to reply, mumbling something almost incoherent as he pointed over at a desk towards the front, his brain too jumbled on how you were actually real and more than a dream, about to jump to the conclusion he must have just seen you around school and his subconscious must really like your face before you spoke up again.

"This is going to sound like, crazy," You started, chewing on your bottom lip equally nervous. "But I literally just had a dream about you. Have we met before?"

He gaped at you, hurrying to rummage through his bag to conjure up one of the fifty drawings he had if you, stuttering something along the lines of me too before shoving it forward.

You approached him a little reluctantly, constantly searching his eyes for something just to immediately look away the second he caught your stare. But you seemed to relax once you saw the sketch, a small laugh escaping at the chicken scratch on the page.

"Is that supposed to be me?" You giggled.

Before he could embarrass himself more with another reply, more students started filtering in, along with the instructor who was quick to call you over. You dropped the paper back on his desk and smiled at him, and he was pretty sure the world stopped spinning.

It was torture to watch you strip down in front of ten other people - even for artistic purposes.

To trace the lines of your body with charcoal instead of his fingers, to study every little curve and divot and not imagine kissing them, to watch the little changes in your expression when you occasionally threw him a tiny glance.

And God, it was embarrassing that his cock was already hard in his boxers, straining against the band when he hadn't even looked at the swell of your breasts.

It was his best work yet.

You were his favorite subject after all.

He waited after class, drawing tucked inside his bag for safe keeping while you fixed your clothes. Pulling a hoodie on and touched up your hair, looking at him like you couldn't decide if he was something new or old.

"C-can I get your number?" He asked, throat dry as he wiped the sweat from his palms on his jeans.

"Sure," You blinked, a brief flash of surprise crossing your face before you shoved it down.

He ended up ripping out a new sheet of paper and passing you a pen, a tingle running down his spine at the brief second your skin was touching his. You scribbled it down, pausing before adding your name underneath it.

"What are you doing tonight?" You hesitantly asked, finger brushing against his again when you passed it back. On purpose this time.

"Whatever you want."

The two of you in a hole-in-the-wall diner, eating off each other's plates and telling stories over soda and desert, absorbed in every word that left your lips. Talking to you felt like deja vu, able to preemptively guess what faces you'd make, or when you'd laugh. Finding pieces of himself in the crinkles by your eyes and the tilt of your head.

"It really feels like I know you," You hummed, leaning across the table, your foot nudging against his shin.

"You know," Gojo started, clearing his throat and sitting up straighter. "Some studies suggest that the brain uses faces we've already seen in our dreams so it is possible we saw each other somewhere-"

You threw a french fry at him.

"Personally, I like the idea we were lovers in a past life," You interrupted.

Gojo blushed, heat rising to his cheek at the idea of that despite the fact he'd seen you naked just a couple hours ago.

"Isn't fate more fun than science? Maybe I was a princess and you were my knight," You shrugged, smiling at his clearly flustered face. "Or you were some poor, struggling artist and I was your muse?"

None of the words felt big enough to describe what you were to him. Whatever this was.

"Yeah," He breathed. "Maybe."

Dinner turned to drinks. A nightclub he'd never been to before, his hands on your hips and your wrists around his neck, dancing and laughing and murmuring dazed and drunken things he knew he wouldn't remember the next morning.

The rest of the world forgotten in favor of you. He didn't want to go home. Didn't want to have to go stare at the ceiling and dream about something that was right in front of him.

But you eventually pulled him out by his hand, groaning that you had to get up early in the morning for work and asking if he'd want to grab dinner again afterwards. He had never agreed to anything so fast, hardly paying attention when he was walking backwards so he could keep his focus fully on you.

And almost backed out into the street filled with incoming traffic.

You yanked him by his collar at the last second, and he toppled back on top of you, sending you both sprawling across the concrete, scraped up but not seriously injured.

"Be careful," You scolded him, but you didn't push him off your lap.

It might've been the adrenaline spiking, the near death experience talking, but it was like some weight had just been lifted off his shoulders, like everything he'd been searching for had finally showed up, relief washing over him in one wave.

He found you.

"I'm not going anywhere," Gojo murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. Tangible. Real. The first of many more. "You're stuck with me."

a/n: well this is officially over!! our doomed lovers have their happy ending (even if gojo had to get hit by a car to get it) <3

taglist: @fati27ma @soraairo @s-guru @shokosbunny @ssetsuka @deathofacupid @kayskow @pillkits @inoluvrr @baepsays @imm0rtalbutterfly @heartcam @littlenutmaestro @mia-can-yap-too @bbatzvil @sugarcoatedsoul @designerpvssy @gravity-valley @stellasloth @dostoevskyzz @aldebrana @lashaemorow @monstersholygrail @mai-505 @itsinherited @gojosprettyprincess @mimiluvzu2 @poopooindamouf @emochosoluvr @nina-from-317 @beautiful--macabre @gris3o @petalshxwer @oneirataxiaa @onixsky @flowerpot113 @ryuvies @anyx404 @herefor-tojis-tits @takethechai @miizuzu @entr4p3 @nonamebbsblo

[ritsatoru]

true love waits

seven | gojo's ghost hunting guide

seeing spectres? got a ghost problem? it seems Satoru Gojo has one of his own - one he doesn't want to get rid of

synopsis: full-time nerd turned part-time amateur ghost hunter, you've become Gojo's favorite occupation! living with a roommate is hard enough - let alone falling in love with your (un?)dead one!

pairing: nerdjo x ghost!Reader

content: mdni, heavy angst, smut, mentions of murder, gojo is in LOVE, discussions of death/afterlife, heavy yearning, hurt/comfort, grief, ghosting, confessions, jealousy, drinking, unprotected piv sex, creampie, idiots in love

art by @chu-cho + divider by @petalpxl

It was kinda like he was living with a ghost. Well, he was literally living with one, but still. He hadn't seen or heard you at all since your fight a few weeks ago.

He came home to find all his items untouched, nothing moved. No scent of you to cling to or cold spots to find. His bed unused, blankets not wrinkled and the tv still on whatever channel he last left it to.

Talking to you didn't work.

His neighbors would probably think he was fucking crazy for begging the empty air for forgiveness, fumbling around like he was blind just for the chance to bump into you one more time.

"Did you find anything else out?" He anxiously asked, peeking over Geto's shoulder to see the bright screen of the laptop, reading the curt email he received from the cops when they tried to request an inquiry into your death.

"They rejected it so no," Geto sighed, shutting the computer and rubbing his eyes.

His best friend had insisted he come stay over for a few days - to make sure he was eating and showering and not sending himself to an early death to join you.

Gojo wasn't at that point - yet.

The harder he searched for clues he couldn't find and scrounged through articles to find even just a friend or two of yours to talk to, the closer he got to losing it though.

"No one gives a shit," He gritted his teeth, taking off his glasses to rub his eyes.

"You do," Geto reminded him.

It didn't seem to matter when you didn't realize it.

He went back to his undisturbed apartment the next day and slept in his cold bed. You were still what he dreamed of these days - but your face had become blurry again. Or worse, bloody.

He rested his head against pillow, wishing for one more touch, one more word, wondering if this was what grief was. The emptiness, the huge gaping hole in his heart where you had been, in all the little spaces of his life that you'd carved out for yourself just to disappear from.

Loss had been something foreign to him before.

A concept he only understood as that - a concept.

He'd never experienced it. Never felt the full weight of it sinking into his bones, the million tiny things that you were made of, the moment he looked forward to, all just gone.

"I miss you," He murmured, hoping that just maybe you were still listening.

Tracing over the spot in bed where you used to be, as if he could will you back into existence.

And then he heard it.

The rustle of fabric. A soft sigh.

"You should move on."

It would've hurt less if you killed him. At least then he could be with you.

"I don't want to," He whispered.

You didn't answer him.

Retreated back somewhere in the shadows, out of his reach.

"Don't go," Gojo pleaded. Begging for just a brush of your skin against his, no matter how small. "Come back."

Sometimes, he could swear he felt your hurt. The ache that ate at you. The betrayal behind it. He hated his part in that.

"Haunt me."

Couldn't you hear how much he meant it?

He couldn't evict you from his heart or his head. You'd already established a permanent residency there even if you decided you didn't want it anymore.

A phantom he was convinced he couldn't survive without.

You didn't budge though. Starving him of your attention, staying silent once again even after he spent the next four days moping in bed and watching your favorite shows, chocolate wrappers littering his nightstand while clothes piled up in the laundry basket.

He guessed this was depression, already on the fourth stage of grief and unable to comprehend how he was ever supposed to get to acceptance.

He refused to leave his room for more than food or the bathroom - but Geto had other plans, using the spare key Gojo had once given him to get in, scrunching his nose up at the mess and rolling his eyes when he find Gojo in the nest he'd made out of his bed.

"Get up," He groaned, tossing off all the blankets that probably needed to be washed.

"No," Gojo rolled over, burying his face back in his pillow.

Geto huffed, grabbing a different one and smacking the back of his head with it.

"You need to get out of here."

Gojo wouldn't have let Geto drag him out if he'd known where he'd take him.

The loud music, the flashing lights, too many bodies too clue, reeking of cheap colognes through the sweat. It used to be one of his favorite clubs. A place to destress and let loose, to dance and make an idiot out of himself after a single drink. But that was another world. Another him.

Now he was sipping something fruity in a corner booth and wishing he brought noise-cancelling headphones.

Geto was across from him, talking about something that happened at work was if he could actually hear anything over the crowd and the heavy thump of the bass ringing in his ears. As if he could listen when his mind was back on you.

Girls would come out, giggle and flirt a little, grinning at Geto and occasionally throwing him a sheepish glance, apologetic that they weren't paying attention to him.

He didn't notice.

Too busy counting cracks in the table and thinking about how fucked everything was. How fucked he felt. How unfair this was.

Until two girls sat down, one of them scooting into the booth next to him, her thigh pressed against his, her lips leaning in to graze against his neck and murmur, "Hi."

"Um, hello," He awkwardly answered, scooting back to put some distance, but she just giggled.

"You're cute," She commented.

"Not really," Gojo dryly replied, fixing his glasses.

Geto was distracted by the girl next to him, whispering something to her and chuckling before throwing a glance back at Gojo, trying to shoot him a look that said relax.

He couldn't.

Every laugh, every word felt like a betrayal to who he actually wanted to be with.

Cheating on a ghost.

What would you say if you saw him?

Would you be upset? Hurt? Or would you just tell him to move on again?

Gojo excused himself to get another drink, but walked right past the bar, snagging a taxi passing by to get back home.

He stumbled back through the door after taking five minutes fumbling with the lock, unable to get his fingers to work right.

"Sweetheart," He called out, closing his eyes and reclining his head back on the door after he shut it, head throbbing and exhausted. "Please."

More nothing.

"I don't want to live without you." It was tactless. He knew it. But the alcohol in his system only made him even more of an idiot than he usually was. It wasn't warmth in his chest. It was a fire, running through his veins and wrecking his body, all the stuff he repressed and pushed down simmering back up to the surface.

He could get everything he ever wanted - but not you. He'd never get you. So what was the point of keeping up the pretense of pretending he was fine going on like that?

"Don't say that," You whispered, so quiet he almost missed it.

"It's true," He argued, keeping his eyes closed, covering his face with his hands to hide the tears that were pricking at them.

"You're being an asshole," You muttered, somehow more broken than him. Voice cracking, barely audible. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I'm selfish," He admitted. "And I'm in love with you."

"Is that why you have lipstick on your shirt?" You scoffed.

He winced.

"It wasn't like that," Gojo cringed as he said that, the same slimy feeling in his gut from the club returning. "I left after she tried to kiss me."

"Why?" You asked, a bitter little laugh accompanying it. "I can't compete with someone who can actually touch you. Stop asking me to try."

"You don't have to try," He huffed back, taking his hands away and removing his glasses in the process, cleaning where he smudged them in the hem of his shirt. When he put them back on, pushing the thick pair up the bridge of his nose, he froze when he saw you standing in front of him, almost unable to finish his thought. "There isn't any competition."

No one else could compete.

Your eyes wavered with hurt, icing on a hundred other tangled and twisted emotions. Regret and raw anger, betrayed but still begging him to make it up to you with the little pout on your lips.

"All I want is you," He murmured. "And I never, ever thought of you as some kind of tourist attraction. I just liked you."

"I want to believe you," You spoke softly, looking down at the floor instead of at him.

"What I did was stupid, and I'm sorry, but I swear I just wanted to help," He started to say before you made a strangled little sound.

"Gojo-"

"No," He shook his head, refusing to let your relationship go backwards, refusing to put on the act like he was just accepting this was how it was. "It's awful and I'm probably a horrible person, but I hate the idea of you moving on. I want you to stay with me. I want to wake up next to you and go to sleep with you in my arms. Actually get to take you on a fucking date and take pictures together."

"We can't," You reminded him, tears welling up in your eyes.

"So why can't we just enjoy what time we do have?"

He didn't know who moved first.

Only that you tasted ten times better than those shitty drinks at the club. Savoring your lips on his like it might be the last kiss he ever got, hot and hungry as he pinned you down beneath him on the couch. Your form was more solid than it had ever been, maybe from how much energy you'd conserved ghosting him.

Every kiss, every touch was concentrated.

All his nerve endings burning and begging for more, neurons firing and brain demanding your body, his hands shaking as he skimmed over your hips and your waist, one squeezing your tit while the other eventually cupped your cheek.

"Let me love you," He murmured into your mouth, barely breathing at all in favor of marking every inch of your lips with his own.

"I don't think I can stop you," You wryly commented back, cracking the first hint of a smile he sorely missed.

Loving you was just too easy.

His fingers sinking into your skin and his mouth latched into your neck when he buried himself back inside you, content to stay there for the rest of his face.

The sex was slow this time.

Sensual and steady, memorizing every second of your face scrunching up and your thighs wrapped around his waist. The sinful squeeze of you sucking him in and your nails scraping down his shoulder blades when he grinded himself in deeper, fitting inside you nice and snug. Slowing down as he dragged himself in, drawing it out just to make you squirm.

"Tease," You murmured before moaning his name again, unable to even fully pronounce it. "S'toru."

He had to make it count.

Glasses fogging up and hair hanging in his face even when he kissed your collarbone, wishing he could stay inside you longer, staving off his incoming climax just for a few more minutes of this.

His thumb swiped back over your swollen clit, nearly cumming just watching you cum, how pretty you looked with your head tossed back on the armrest. And then your nails sunk in deeper, more physical proof you were here and all his, and he unravelled.

Cum leaking out all over you and on his couch, cock still throbbing and aching when he finally dropped his head down in the nook of your throat.

"I'm not leaving you," He whispered, flipping you around after a few minutes, letting you lay on top of him this time. "Not now or ever."

"I know."

Neither of you talked for a while. But it wasn't the same silence as before. Not painful, although it was filled with a different kind of pining.

"It was an accident. Sort of," You murmured, readjusting on his chest but refusing to look up at him when he stiffened.

"What?" He asked, his lungs straining for air as it set in what you were talking about. How you died.

"I didn't have a lot of friends. But um, someone from my work dropped by when I wasn't expecting it," You swallowed hard. "I was excited, I guess, it wasn't like people ever came over so I called in pizza and drinks. It's funny, you know, I don't even remember exactly what we ended up arguing about, just the disappointment."

Gojo hadn't thought you could break his heart more. But you kept going.

"One second, I'm asking them to leave and trying to get them out the door, and the next, I'm being shoved," You laughed, light and airy and somehow absolutely depressing at the same time. "It didn't hurt. Just a snap when my head hit something and the next thing I knew I was here and none of my stuff was."

"Who did it?" He murmured, craning his neck down to kiss the top of your head.

"Does it matter?" You muttered. "I was angry at first, upset that the world kept spinning without me."

He was angry. Upset at the cops who didn't care. That you weren't mourned properly by anyone but him. But your feelings were more important.

"Then you moved in," You said it like he saved you. Like everything else was simply inconsequential. "I let my life go a long time ago."

You were holding onto his now.

Only staying here for him.

"I wish I met you sooner," He wistfully muttered.

Something in his tone made you look up, your eyes soft, glittering in the low light when your stare flickered from his lips up to his glasses.

"Maybe in another life," You shrugged, reaching up to trace his jaw with the tip of your finger.

Even if he didn't remember, he'd be damn sure to find you in the next one - and fuck you for real.

taglist: @fati27ma @soraairo @s-guru @shokosbunny @ssetsuka @deathofacupid @kayskow @pillkits @inoluvrr @baepsays @imm0rtalbutterfly @heartcam @littlenutmaestro @mia-can-yap-too @bbatzvil @sugarcoatedsoul @designerpvssy @gravity-valley @stellasloth @dostoevskyzz @aldebrana @lashaemorow @monstersholygrail @mai-505 @itsinherited @gojosprettyprincess @mimiluvzu2 @poopooindamouf @emochosoluvr @nina-from-317 @beautiful--macabre @gris3o @petalshxwer @oneirataxiaa @onixsky @flowerpot113 @ryuvies @anyx404 @herefor-tojis-tits @takethechai @miizuzu @entr4p3 @nonamebbsblo

[ritsatoru]

nerd!gojo ‘accidentally’ sending you nudes ♡ྀི .

it’s become a bit of a habit for nerd!gojo when he finds himself late at night with you on his mind, gently pumping his cock at your instagram posts where you’re showing a little too much skin. he gets an idea into his head, one influenced by his horniness as he snaps a photo of his hardened cock, his fist gripping it’s base and his mushroom tip pretty and pink with leaking pre cum. he’ll always follow it with a message that usually reads ‘oopsie, didn’t mean to send that’ and he can’t help but smirk at the grey typing bubble from you that keeps appearing and disappearing. what he especially loves is when you do decide to entertain these shenanigans of his, sending back an explicit picture of your own that has gojo’s cock throbbing with excitement as he bites the bottom of his lip, a cheeky smirk making way onto his face as he pumps his eager cock at your naked form. but your reply after is what has him the most, his cheeks flushing a cherry at the message that reads: ‘you definitely meant to send that, you liar.’

[ritsatoru]

DON’T FORGET THE OCEAN

PAIRING: Surfer!Satoru X F!reader

CW: ANGST, summer love, fluff, angst mild comfort, strangers to lovers, bittersweet, water related accident, slow burn, longing,

SUMMARY!! You weren’t supposed to fall in love in Rio. Not with a stranger. Not with a boy who laughed like salt spray and kissed like the tide might steal him back. Satoru wasn’t from Brazil. He was just passing through—like you. But some people feel like home even when you’ve only just met. And some love stories end before they ever begin.

wc: 6.2k

You touched down in Rio de Janeiro with summer already wrapping its arms around your skin. The airplane window framed the city like a postcard—sapphire waves biting at the shoreline, the distant green folds of mountains, favelas spilling down like stories etched in concrete and red tile. Somewhere far above, the statue of Christ watched with open arms, but to you, he felt more like a warning than a welcome.

This was supposed to be a trip of distraction. A summer to forget routines and responsibilities. You arrived with five friends, a mess of tangled headphones, rolling suitcases, and group selfies, all drunk on the promise of youth and freedom. But beneath your sunglasses, your eyes felt heavy. And even as Lila wrapped her arm around your shoulder with her usual buzzed smile, something inside you whispered that this wasn’t just a vacation.

This was an escape.

You stayed in Santa Teresa—a hilltop neighborhood woven with cobblestone streets, colonial mansions turned guesthouses, and street murals that burst in color like stained glass. The hostel was bohemian in the loudest sense. Ceiling fans, open windows, thin mattresses, a roof deck with hammocks, and a bartender who mixed caipirinhas that tasted like melted limes and sugar.

That first night bled into the second. Music poured into the streets like smoke. Every corner vibrated with drums, clinking glasses, and the occasional distant shout of joy or heartbreak. Your friends dove headfirst into the rhythm of the city—hookups, bar crawls, samba lessons in alleyways, beach bonfires.

You followed. You smiled. You danced. But in truth, you were drifting—feet in the sand, mind somewhere else. Watching. Waiting. For what, you didn’t know.

It happened by accident.

You woke up early on the third morning, disoriented from too much noise and too little sleep. Your friends were still passed out, tangled in hostel sheets, and the room smelled like sunscreen, salt, and sweat. So you slipped out. No plans. Just your sandals and a linen shirt over your swimsuit, a tote bag slung over your shoulder.

You tried to get to Ipanema, but the bus you took went too far. You ended up somewhere quieter—Barra da Tijuca maybe, or some stretch of beach unnamed on your map. The tourists hadn’t arrived yet. The sand was wide, hot, and nearly empty. The wind tangled your hair and pushed the scent of ocean straight into your lungs.

And that’s when you saw him.

He stood at the edge of the surf, holding a longboard like it was an extension of his body. His skin was sun-warmed but not native, hair so white it looked unreal beneath the sun, and his eyes—when they flicked in your direction—were a blue so clear it felt like being seen all at once.

You were still staring when he noticed.

“Didn’t expect company this early,” he called, his voice rich and easy, touched with an accent you couldn’t place—maybe American, maybe not.

You blinked, flustered. “Sorry, I thought this beach was... public?”

He laughed and began walking toward you. “It is. Just quiet. Locals usually sleep in after carnival weekends.”

“You’re local?”

“God, no,” he said, grinning as he dropped the board into the sand beside him. “I’m staying in Rio for the month. Solo trip. Japan originally, but I’ve been everywhere lately.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Everywhere?”

He shrugged. “When you keep moving, no place becomes home long enough to disappoint you.”

You didn’t know why that line struck you the way it did. But it did.

“Y/N,” you offered after a beat.

“Satoru,” he replied, his hand brushing sand off the edge of his board. “Nice to meet a fellow wanderer.”

It started with small things.

He asked if you’d ever surfed before. You said no, not unless falling off a boogie board counted. He offered to show you, and you declined—until he added, “I promise I’ll laugh politely when you wipe out.”

That first lesson wasn’t a lesson at all. He let you try to stand on the board on dry land, corrected your stance with light hands on your shoulders, and when you both fell backward into the sand, laughing, you realized you hadn’t thought about anything else—not your life back home, not the things you came here to forget—in over an hour.

You sat under the sun together after that, sharing a coconut and stories that didn’t dig too deep. You told him about your friends, your job you needed a break from, your parents who worried too much. He told you he was taking a break from everything too—surf competitions, pressure, expectations.

“No one really tells you what happens after your dream becomes a job,” he said quietly, pulling a towel over his shoulders. “I used to love the ocean. Now I’m trying to fall in love with it again.”

You looked at him, watched the way he stared at the waves like they held the answer to some private riddle.

And just like that, the current began to shift.

You didn’t exchange phone numbers. He walked you back to the road, told you the best bus to take, and paused like he wasn’t sure if he should hug you or wave.

“You’ll be at the same beach tomorrow?” you asked, feeling a tug you didn’t expect.

He tilted his head, smiling. “Only if the tide’s good. And if you’re bringing better balance.”

You laughed. “No promises.”

When you turned to go, your heart pulled like a tide—out, and then sharply back in.

You didn’t tell your friends about him that night. You kept Satoru like a secret tucked into your chest, just for yourself.

And in your bunk, above the noise and late-night chatter of the hostel, you thought about the way he stood in the water—like it had chosen him. You didn’t know yet that something already had.

The next morning, you didn’t wait for your friends to wake.

The hostel room was a mess of tangled limbs and muffled snoring. Someone had left the balcony door open, letting in the sound of birds and the faint beat of drums from somewhere down the hill. You rose with the sun, slipped into your swimsuit and a linen cover-up, and let the door close behind you with a click that felt louder than it should.

You didn’t even need to think about it—your feet knew where to go. Back to the wrong beach. Back to him.

Satoru was already there.

He was waist-deep in the water, hair slicked back, his board cutting through the surface like a knife through silk. You stood barefoot at the edge of the sand, watching the way his body moved with the rhythm of the waves, unhurried and unafraid. He spotted you before you called out, paddling toward shore with a crooked smile.

“You came back,” he said, hopping off the board as the water lapped around his calves.

“I told you I might,” you replied, shielding your eyes from the glare.

“I thought you were bluffing. Tourists love promises in the sun.”

You smiled. “What if I’m not just a tourist?”

He arched an eyebrow, walking his board back up the beach. “You planning to stay in Brazil forever?”

You shrugged, settling beside him in the sand. “I didn’t say I wasn’t lost.”

He sat down next to you, arms loosely resting on his knees. “Good. I like people who admit they’re running from something. It makes them honest.”

You looked at him then, close enough to see the thin scar above his left eyebrow, the salt caught in his lashes, the faded string around his wrist—a bracelet that looked handmade, worn soft by sun and time.

“What about you?” you asked softly. “What are you running from?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for the wax in his bag, began rubbing it over the board in slow circles.

“When you win too young,” he said eventually, “people stop asking if you like it. They just expect more wins.”

You tilted your head. “Surfing?”

He nodded.

“So... you’re famous or something?”

He gave a small laugh, almost shy. “Not really. In the Pacific circuit, maybe. A few sponsors. My face on an energy drink once. But the real surfers... the lifers... they’re different. They love the ocean no matter what. I started to feel like I didn’t.”

Your fingers curled into the sand.

“Is that why you came here?”

“To remember.”

A pause.

“And maybe to disappear for a little while.”

He stood and offered his hand. “Come on. Today you’re getting in the water.”

You hesitated. “What if I fall again?”

“You will,” he said, grinning. “Falling’s the point.”

The lessons were slow, patient. He had a way of touching without hesitation but never without permission—guiding your shoulders, nudging your knees, lifting your chin. The first few times you tried to stand, you crashed hard into the water. Satoru didn’t laugh. He swam beside you, helped you up, and tried again.

“Relax,” he said once, brushing wet hair out of your face. “You’re fighting it too much.”

“It’s trying to drown me,” you muttered.

“No,” he said gently, “it’s just testing you. The ocean doesn’t want obedience—it wants respect.”

You blinked at him.

“Wow,” you said. “Was that a surfboard fortune cookie quote?”

He laughed—a bright, boyish sound that caught you off guard.

“Maybe,” he said. “But it’s true.”

The sun climbed higher. You fell and rose again, laughing louder each time, salt stinging your eyes, heart swelling each time Satoru reached for your hand without hesitation.

When you finally caught a wave—even just for three seconds—he whooped loud enough for the lifeguards to glance over.

“You did it!” he shouted.

You tumbled off the board into the surf and came up grinning.

“Barely!”

“Doesn’t matter. You were part of it.”

You looked at him, standing in the water, the sun catching the sea around him like light caught in crystal. Your smile faded, just a little. That moment—fleeting, glittering, full—was already starting to hurt. Because you knew, even then, that nothing like this could last.

That evening, he walked you to a spot above the beach, a small rise where the cliffs met an old weather-beaten shack and a bench carved with names. He said he came here every night he stayed in Rio. To think. To watch. To listen.

You sat beside him, silent at first. The sky exploded in watercolor—pinks, golds, blues bleeding into purple. The sea caught every color like it was reflecting memory itself.

He leaned back on his palms.

“I like the silence,” he said after a while. “It’s honest.”

You glanced sideways. “Is everything with you about honesty?”

“Most things should be.”

You exhaled slowly.

“My friends think I’m here for the adventure. What they don’t know is that I wasn’t sure I’d even come until the morning we left.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve been... stuck,” you confessed. “With my life. My choices. Who I am when no one’s looking.”

He nodded, like he understood more than you could explain.

“I used to be scared of that version of myself,” he said. “The one who couldn’t perform. Who didn’t win. Who just... existed. Now I think maybe he’s the one I want to know better.”

The sky turned darker. Lights began to blink on down the beach. People laughed somewhere far below. A lone gull cried out.

You turned to him. “Will I see you again tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing like the space between you was shifting.

“Yeah,” he said. “You will.”

The next morning, you woke with his voice still echoing in your ears.

“You will.”

You told your friends you had plans. Vague ones. No one pried. They were too wrapped up in their own hazy flings and hangovers to care that you kept slipping away, pulled by something they hadn’t noticed yet. And maybe you liked it that way.

You bought two cold açai bowls from a vendor on the walk. One topped with bananas and honey. The other with strawberries and coconut shavings. You didn’t even ask what Satoru liked—you just guessed.

When he saw you approaching the same beach, your usual tote on your shoulder, he jogged up barefoot through the sand and took the container from your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Banana,” he said, opening the lid. “How did you know?”

You smiled. “Guessed.”

He grinned. “Guess again tomorrow.”

You didn’t surf that day. He didn’t suggest it. Instead, he asked if you wanted to walk the length of the boardwalk that curved past the beach. You said yes.

You walked in slow rhythm, stopping to watch old men playing cards, kids doing handstands in the sand, lovers on towels whispering into one another’s necks.

He bought you coconut water in a shell and drank his with lime.

“Have you ever been in love?” you asked, surprising yourself.

He sipped slowly. “Yes. Once.”

You didn’t press. He looked at you then, like he could feel the weight of the question hanging between you.

“You?”

You hesitated. “I thought I was. He was more in love with the version of me I pretended to be.”

Satoru nodded like he understood.

“I think sometimes we get good at wearing masks,” he said. “Especially when we want to be loved more than we want to be known.”

That silence again. But now it wasn’t awkward. It was full.

Later, he took you to his rental—an apartment tucked into the hillside above the neighborhood, quiet and sun-washed, with an open rooftop lined in string lights. It was sparse: a single hammock, a speaker, two wooden chairs, and a fridge full of coconut water and beer.

“Do you bring people up here?” you asked.

“No.”

“Why me?”

He turned toward you, blue eyes softening. “Because you don’t need noise to fill silence.”

That night, you sat on the rooftop under the stars, barefoot, knees curled toward your chest. The sounds of Rio buzzed beneath you—music, car horns, laughter—and you let it all fade into the background as Satoru put on soft, instrumental music.

He didn’t try to kiss you. He didn’t touch you unless it was to pass another bottle or brush a curl from your shoulder.

Instead, he asked, “If you could disappear into any moment and stay there, what would it be?”

You thought for a long time.

“This one,” you said.

He looked at you then—really looked—and didn’t say a word. Just nodded slowly.

Before you left, he picked up a small, beat-up film camera from his side bag.

“Let me take a photo of you,” he said.

You almost said no. You hated photos. You hated the way they made you feel frozen, too visible, too performed. But something about the way he said it—soft, reverent—made you nod.

You sat on the ledge, hair wind-swept, city behind you. He crouched low, adjusted the focus with steady hands.

“Don’t smile,” he said. “Just be.”

The shutter clicked.

And it felt like something permanent had been made.

walked you halfway back to your hostel. The streets were quiet now, the stars dimming as morning threatened to rise.

Outside the gate, he paused. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Maybe earlier,” you said.

He leaned down just a little—close enough to smell the salt still caught in his shirt, the clean scent of his skin.

For a moment, the kiss almost happened. It hovered there in the air between you, heavy with promise and something unnamed.

But you both pulled back. Not yet. You watched him go. His figure shrinking into the quiet street, board under one arm, camera slung across his back.

You didn’t know it then, but that photo would become the last full memory he’d leave behind.

For a while, it became a rhythm. Quiet, easy, real.

You’d wake up with the sun creeping past the hostel’s balcony curtains, your friends still wrapped in bedsheets and sleep. And somehow—without texting, without confirming—he’d already be there. At the beach. In the water. Or sitting on the edge of his board, watching the horizon like he was waiting for something only the sea could give back.

Always alone. Always with one extra açai bowl in hand, just in case.

One afternoon, instead of the beach, Satoru met you outside your hostel with two helmets in hand.

“You ride?” he asked, nodding toward a rented motorbike waiting at the curb.

“No,” you answered, pulling your sunglasses down, “but I trust you.”

That made him pause. His eyes flicked up to yours. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

He smirked, fastening your helmet. “Because I don’t know where we’re going either.”

You rode through Lapa first—the arches, the staircases painted in endless mosaics, children racing with kites, street vendors yelling in three languages. Then up into Santa Teresa again, where old colonial homes spilled over the hills like quiet ghosts.

At one point, you leaned your chin into his shoulder, just to rest. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you felt his fingers tighten just a little on the handlebars.

That night, you ate grilled cheese on sweet bread from a vendor in Glória. He made you try pão de queijo until you moaned with approval. You tried to guess the story behind each of his tattoos (wrong every time). He asked you what your middle name was, then said it sounded too pretty to be real.

You ended up back on his rooftop, barefoot again, sharing a mango and the same bottle of water like it was sacred.

He told you that day had been the best he’d felt in months. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The next morning, he taught you how to paddle out properly—really paddle. How to read the break in the tide. When to sit. When to chase. When to let go.

Every time your arms shook, he was there beside you, grinning like he was proud anyway.

“You’re not supposed to be this patient,” you told him.

“I don’t do this for anyone,” he replied.

You tried to ignore the way your chest tightened when he said that. But later, as the two of you floated quietly past the breakers, boards side by side in the gentle lull of the sea, he said something else that stayed even longer.

“You feel like calm water.”

You turned toward him.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just reached over, trailing his fingers down the length of your forearm, slow, barely there. A shiver ran under your skin. His hand stayed, resting against your wrist.

“It means I don’t want this to end.”

And you didn’t ask what “this” was. Because you didn’t want to define it yet.

You just wanted it to last.

That night, you brought a bottle of wine to his rooftop.

You drank barefoot, legs dangling off the ledge. He showed you the stars he remembered from home, even though the smog blurred most of them. You showed him the scar on your ankle from childhood. He traced it with his thumb, so lightly you almost didn’t feel it.

The wine made everything warmer. At some point, the conversation dipped quiet again, and he turned toward you.

His voice was lower now.

“Are you scared of leaving?”

You blinked. “Rio?”

“No.” A pause. “This. Us.”

You swallowed, feeling the words slip down into something that hurt.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Because I’ve never had something that felt like it could vanish before I even touched it.”

He leaned in. You didn’t kiss. Not yet.

But your foreheads touched. And your hands found each other again. His fingers slipped between yours like he belonged there.

You fell asleep like that—still fully dressed, heads tilted toward each other on the rooftop. A breeze moving softly through his hair. Your legs tangled.

When you woke in the blue haze of dawn, he was still holding your hand.

You never talked about what you were. He didn’t ask. You didn’t push. And it was almost better that way—like the minute you said it out loud, it would crumble.

But in all the ways that mattered, he was becoming the center of your summer. And you were becoming his anchor.

It was one of those days where everything felt too quiet to be real.

The hostel had emptied out—your friends were gone on some boat tour up the coast, their laughter already fading in the distance as you closed the door behind you. You hadn’t told them you weren’t going. You just didn’t show.

Some things didn’t need announcing. You found him already waiting. No words. No plans.

Just the understanding: today is just ours.

This wasn’t the tourist beach. Not the one where your hostel sat near caipirinha carts and endless volleyball matches.

No, he took you further west—down a path of cracked pavement and tall green scrub until the city fell away and there was only sand and sea and sky. A place where the water whispered instead of roared, and the only sounds were birds and breeze and breath.

He laid out his towel. You laid beside him. No music. No sunscreen. Just silence and sun.

At first you talked. A little. About everything and nothing. He told you about his hometown again, a place by the sea where the water was colder and the waves had teeth. You told him about your childhood summers and how you’d always pretended to like the beach but secretly feared the way the tide pulled.

“I get that,” he said. “The ocean’s a little like people.”

“How?”

“Some pull you under. And some carry you back to shore.”

Your chest tightened. But you didn’t speak. You rolled onto your side, your knees brushing his. He didn’t pull away.

At one point, you reached for your necklace—a small, thin thing you’d worn since you were sixteen—and fumbled with the clasp. It had twisted. He reached over instinctively.

“Let me.”

His fingers brushed the back of your neck. Light, unhurried. Not possessive. Not bold.

Just... careful.

And something in you cracked quietly open, like a shell in gentle hands.

His fingers lingered just a little too long after fixing it. And when he looked at you, his eyes didn’t hold that playful glint anymore. They held something heavier. Something warm and unsure and real.

You leaned into his touch.

You walked into the sea together later, slow steps through the gentle break. He held your wrist without thinking, guiding you forward until the water reached your waist, then your ribs. You floated beside him, half-turned to the sky, your hair fanned out like seaweed in the tide.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “Just listen to it.”

You closed your eyes and did. The rhythm of the ocean. The sound of his breath.

The closeness of your bodies—not quite touching, but tethered, somehow, by gravity or want or fate.

The ocean curled softly around you, warm and endless. You floated beside him, the salt drying on your lips, your fingertips brushing occasionally with the gentle roll of the tide. Every time your skin touched his, it was like a spark that didn’t burn—just glowed, quietly, inside your ribs.

He was watching you again. And this time, you let him.

You turned toward him slowly, your chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea, the hush between waves thickening into something suspended. His expression had changed. No teasing now, no amusement or flirtation. Just something raw. Vulnerable.

Like if he looked away, he might lose this moment forever.

The space between your faces narrowed. Just a breath. One inhale. One choice.

Then his hand found the side of your neck—fingertips tentative, almost afraid. As if he didn’t want to shatter whatever it was blooming between you. His thumb brushed your jaw, a motion so light it made you shiver.

You leaned in. So did he. And then—you kissed. At first, it was just a press. Lips to lips. Barely there.

But even that soft contact sent something crashing through you—an ache and a warmth, like your entire body had been waiting for this exact moment without ever knowing it.

His lips parted slightly, like a question. Yours answered.

He kissed you with the kind of patience that made time slow. Like he wasn’t in a hurry to claim anything—he just wanted to feel it. Savor it. Understand it.

There was no battle. No dominance. Just this shared, sacred gravity pulling your mouths together, again and again. The taste of him—salt and sun and something clean—filled your senses, and the rest of the world blurred into white noise.

The kiss deepened slowly.

One of his hands slid from your neck to your waist, anchoring you as the tide swayed you both. Your own hands lifted to his chest, fingers fisting in the wet fabric of his shirt like you were holding on for dear life—because in that moment, it felt like he might float away if you let go.

His nose brushed yours. His lips moved against yours with more surety now—still gentle, still soft, but searching. Like he was learning your shape by heart, memorizing how to fit himself into your spaces.

The ocean moved around you, steady and wide, and he kissed you like you were the only person left in it.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched. Both of you breathless. Your lips still tingled. So did your skin.

You opened your eyes, unsure what you’d see.

But his were already on you. Quiet. Blue. Wide open. And for a second, it felt like he wanted to say something.

He didn’t.

Instead, he just kissed your forehead—softly, slowly—as if sealing something between you. A promise. A pause. Something that couldn’t be named, only felt.

And then, he smiled.

“Still scared of the tide?” he whispered.

You smiled back. “No.”

But you would be. Just not yet.

You stayed in the water a while after that.

Not kissing. Not speaking. Just existing—drifting side by side, the sun slipping down behind the hills, the sky painted in gold and lavender. The kind of color that never shows up in photos. The kind you have to remember by feel.

When you left the water, his hand found yours without needing to look. And when you laid back down on the towel, curled into him, your head resting on his chest—you could hear his heartbeat like a drum under your ear.

Steady. Real. His lips pressed to your forehead once. That was all.

The morning didn’t feel right.

Not in the obvious way—not storm clouds or shattered glass. But in that quiet, invisible kind of way. The way the sky looked too still. The way the sun seemed too golden. The way you couldn’t quite keep your smile on your face, even as he kissed your cheek and handed you half of his papaya with honey.

He still wore that easy grin. Still looked like the same boy who kissed you in the sea the night before.

But something in his eyes… it wasn’t the same.

You sat on the rooftop ledge with your legs hanging off, a shared thermos of strong Brazilian coffee between you.

He asked you what your friends were doing today. You said you weren’t sure—you hadn’t checked your phone. He laughed, said maybe he’d finally show you how to actually surf. You rolled your eyes and promised to try.

It was all normal. But it wasn’t.

His touch was still gentle, but there was a new tension behind it. Like he was aware of the moment passing as it happened. Like he was trying to memorize it in real time.

You said his name once. Just softly.

“Satoru.”

He turned to you with a look that made your stomach pull.

“Don’t fall in love with me,” he said, teasing. Light.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Later, while walking down toward the beach, you told him something—something you didn’t think would matter.

You told him your return flight had been moved up a few days. That your parents wanted you home early. That your friends were booking their transport out of Rio.

“We’ll still have tomorrow,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker in his face.

He stopped walking. You didn’t mean to make it heavy. But he just stood there, silent, eyes on the water like it had called him suddenly.

“Hey,” you said gently. “It’s not goodbye yet.”

But he didn’t answer. He kissed your forehead. And then, without warning, he turned and started running—down the sand, toward the water, board under his arm.

You watched him paddle out fast, past the soft waves you were used to, past the calm shallows where the other surfers lingered. He went deeper. Farther.

You waited. At first, it was just him being dramatic. You told yourself that. But then the waves shifted.

The ocean wasn’t storming—not yet—but the rhythm had changed. The breakers were harder now, crashing sharper against the reef, pulling faster on the tide. You could see him out there, slicing across the water like it was something he needed to fight. Again and again.

Too far out. Too wild.

You walked down to the edge of the water. He caught a wave. And fell.

It didn’t look bad at first—he disappeared under the foam like always. You waited for the board to bob up. For his white hair to break the surface, laughing. But seconds passed. Then more. Your heart began to pound.

“Satoru!” you shouted, uselessly.

The ocean roared back. Then the board surfaced—without him.

You ran into the water. So did another surfer.

You don’t remember how long it took. How many minutes passed between screaming and freezing. All you remember is the sick, cold numbness in your chest as you stood waist-deep, scanning the horizon for the face you’d memorized.

Then— Someone yelling. Movement in the water. A man dragging a limp body toward the sand. And that white hair, soaked red with blood from his temple, tangled in seaweed and foam.

Satoru.

The hospital smelled like cold metal and bleach and fear. You didn’t remember the ride there.

You didn’t remember who called the ambulance, or how your legs carried you up the sand, or when your hands started shaking. You only remembered the moment they took him away from you—took him, like something stolen. Rolling him through double doors on a stretcher, wires and monitors already clinging to his body like second skin.

And how they didn’t let you follow.

You sat in plastic chairs that made your skin stick to the seat. Someone handed you a paper cup of water you didn’t drink. Your phone buzzed again and again—your friends, calling, texting, asking where you were, if it was true.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your eyes were locked on the hallway doors at the end of the corridor, like if you stared hard enough, he’d walk through them—drenched and alive and smiling that cocky smile, already making some joke about the nurses. But the doors stayed shut.

An hour passed. Then two. A woman in scrubs finally emerged, and you stood so fast the world tilted.

“He’s stable,” she said gently. “But unconscious. There was a strong impact to the back of the skull. He swallowed a lot of water. We managed to resuscitate him on the beach… but it was close.”

Close. That word hit you like a slap.

You nodded, trying to hold your voice together. “Can I see him?”

She hesitated. “Just a few minutes. He won’t respond. But sometimes patients can hear.”

You didn’t care what he could or couldn’t do. You just needed to be near him.

The beeping was the first thing you heard. Rhythmic. Constant. Fragile.

Satoru lay there in a white bed too big for him, pale against the linens, his silver lashes damp against his cheeks. His face looked softer in the fluorescent light. Younger.

The bruising around his temple had bloomed into something dark and terrible.

But he was still breathing. You pulled a chair close and sat beside him. He didn’t move. You reached for his hand. It was cold. So you held it tighter.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t mean for today to feel like a goodbye.”

The monitor beeped back at you. Steady. Unmoved.

“You idiot,” you said softly, brushing his hair away from his face. “You said I was calm water. But you’re the one who made everything feel like summer.”

His hand twitched faintly. Maybe. Maybe not.

Your thumb rubbed slow circles over the back of it.

“I don’t know what happens next,” you whispered. “But don’t you dare leave me wondering what could’ve happened if we had more time.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away.

“You said not to fall in love with you.”

You leaned closer, pressing your forehead to his.

“But I think it’s too late.”

The hospital room was still dark when you returned the next morning. He hadn’t moved. Same wires. Same bruises. Same deep, unmoving sleep.

You stood at the door for a long time, your suitcase still warm from the cab’s trunk. The wheels didn’t roll quietly, and the sound echoed too loud in the sterile silence. You felt clumsy, wrong. Like you were trespassing in your own goodbye. You had thirty minutes before the airport van came. You sat beside him one last time.

He looked a little better that morning. Color had returned to his lips. His chest rose more steadily. The monitors didn’t beep quite as angrily as they had the night before.

But his eyes never opened. And that silence—that awful, bone-deep silence between you—grew louder with every second.

You wanted to believe he was just asleep. That he was dreaming something vivid and sweet. Maybe about the kiss, or the papaya with honey, or the way the sun hit your shoulders when you laughed.

But you didn’t believe it. Not really.

You didn’t plan to write it. But the words came out anyway.

You borrowed a pen from the nurse’s station and scribbled onto the back of an old flyer from your backpack—a hostel event that had already passed.

The handwriting was messy. A little smudged. But true.

“Hey.

I know you might never read this. I know I might never see you again.

But thank you—for showing me that something could feel real, even if it doesn’t last forever.

You made me feel warm again.

If you wake up… I’ll be wishing I could be there.

Don’t forget the ocean. Or me.

—Y/N”

You folded it in half and slid it into his palm. Your fingers lingered there.

Then you leaned down and pressed a kiss—gentle and quiet—into his hairline. It was softer than your first kiss. It hurt more than anything.

You didn’t cry until you were in the van.

The city blurred outside the window as you left the hospital behind. And the ocean—your ocean—came into view one last time, sparkling under the summer sun like it didn’t know what it had taken. You pressed your hand to the glass. You didn’t say goodbye out loud. But inside, you whispered it.

“Come back to me. Even if I’m not there.”

The machines beeped softly. The light outside the hospital window was golden again—another warm morning that didn’t know what it had waited for.

Satoru stirred. It was slight at first. A twitch of fingers. A shift of breath. Then a quiet groan as his brow knit and his eyes fluttered open for the first time in days.

His vision blurred in and out. White walls. A ceiling fan. The sting of saline in his nose.

And then—something in his hand. Crumpled paper. His fingers clutched it without knowing why. When he finally blinked enough to see clearly, he turned his head, slowly, painfully—and saw it.

A note.

Unfolded by trembling fingers. He read it once. Then again. And again. Until his lips, chapped and dry, finally whispered:

“Y/N…”

You were back home.

Back in a bedroom that felt too clean. Too untouched. The kind of space that made you question whether the past few weeks even happened—whether the boy with the white hair and salt-kissed laugh had been real at all. Your friends had stopped asking. They assumed it was a summer thing—a fling that burned quick and bright before fading out.

But you couldn’t stop checking your email. The hospital line never rang. No number with a Brazilian country code ever appeared.

You tried to forget. But every time the wind picked up, every time you heard the ocean in a shell or passed the surfboard rentals at the beach back home—he came rushing back.

And the note… the one you left behind? You didn’t know if he ever read it.

It arrived three weeks later. Plain. No return address. But it smelled faintly of sunscreen and sea salt.

Inside: a polaroid.

Taken by a nurse, maybe. It was blurry—but unmistakable. Satoru, half-sitting in a hospital bed. Bruised but smiling. One eye bandaged. A peace sign lifted toward the camera.

In his lap: your note. And beneath the photo, in the corner of the envelope—barely legible scrawl:

“You didn’t forget the ocean.and I didn’t forget you.”

Your hands shook. And for the first time in weeks, you smiled.

[ritsatoru]

don't worry about it

[ritsatoru]

Hi!! I didn’t even realize ur requests were open until I checked your pinned omg. Can u write something dark with loser reader and bully fratboy Gojo pls?? They used to be rly close like lowkey childhood besties and everyone thought they were gonna end up together, BUT he got mixed in with the wrong crowd (aka the frat) and now he’s just so MEAN. He bullies her for no reason now but like... in that messed up way where he’s still obsessed w her?? Like he knows her too well, knows what makes her tick and he uses that against her just to watch her squirm. I want toxic codependent vibes, power imbalance, him being POSSESSIVE as hell and her still clinging to what they used to be. And maybe he’s extra cruel bc he HATES that she still gets to him. Also, this is embarrassing but please write the reader as flat chested. Thank uuu

a/n: ahhh this was actually the second request i ever got on here and it made me spiral (in the best way). i literally paused all my wips to double down on this one because the brainrot was insane. i hope you enjoy what i cooked up hihi <3

cw: dark content, somnophilia, cockwarming, dacryphilia, edging, overstimulation, oral sex, fingering, spanking, nipple play, hair-pulling, public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, filming, degradation, humiliation, sadism, drug use, alcohol consumption, jealousy, possessiveness, gaslighting, victim blaming, slut shaming, coercion, stalking, obsessive behavior, 18+ only, MDNI.

fratboy satoru who was once your north star, the kid who’d slip you extra cookies during late-night study sessions, his goofy grin lighting up your world. you’d giggle at his dumb jokes under a blanket fort, his hand brushing yours, promising forever with the kind of sincerity only a kid could muster. but that satoru’s dead, buried under the weight of his family’s collapse, his own arrogance, and the frat’s toxic grip. now, he’s a king in a jungle of red solo cups and bass-heavy trap music, his blue eyes cutting through the haze of a packed house party.

fratboy satoru who’s buzzing from the xans suguru slipped him, his veins electric after a football game win, dragging you to the frat house basement where the air’s thick with weed and desperation. the couch is stained, sagging under your weight as he shoves your skirt up, pinning you down with a hand on your chest. “don’t fucking scream,” he hisses, eyes glinting with sadistic glee as his fingers plunge into you, slick and merciless, curling deep while his other hand smothers your whimpers. “bet you’re soaking ‘cause you love this shit.” your body betrays you, clenching around him as tears stream down your face, and he’s eating it up, his grin wicked as you shatter, sobbing into his palm. “look at this pretty cunt, dripping for me like it knows who owns it,” he growls, his voice low and filthy, fingers pumping harder just to hear you choke on your own moans. he doesn’t stop there—keeps going until you’re shaking, cumming again, your thighs slick and trembling. “fuck, you’re a mess, my favorite fucking mess,” he laughs, licking his fingers clean, eyes never leaving your tear-streaked face. he doesn’t soften, just pulls you onto his lap, muttering, “stay still, or i’ll fuck you right here.”

fratboy satoru who thrives on your fragility, your too-soft heart that cracks under his cruelty. you’re in the library, glasses slipping, surrounded by textbooks, trying to claw your way through a chem assignment. he finds you, of course—slips into the chair behind you, yanking your ponytail back just hard enough to make you gasp. “thought you could hide from me?” he whispers, voice dripping with mockery, but he’s already pulling you into a cramped study room, locking the door. he bends you over the table, skirt flipped up, your notes scattering like confetti. “fuck, you’re so small, so breakable,” he pants, belt clinking as he frees himself, slamming into you so deep your nails dig into the wood. “cry for me, baby, you’re cutest when you’re a mess.” you do, snotty and pathetic, your glasses fogging as he fucks you senseless, his cock stretching you until you’re dizzy. “look at you, taking this dick like it’s your fucking job,” he snarls, slapping your ass, loving how you flinch. your tears only make him harder, and when you beg him to slow down, he just laughs, kissing your wet cheeks. “nah, you’re too fucking cute like this, all pathetic and ruined.”

fratboy satoru who’s got an unholy obsession with your tits, small as they are, worshiping them like they’re his personal altar. he’s got you sprawled across his dorm bed, the sheets reeking of weed and cheap cologne, straddling your waist as he sucks and bites, leaving your chest a map of purple bruises and red teeth marks. “fuck, these are perfect,” he groans, teeth grazing your nipple until you whimper, your hands fisting the sheets. he pins your wrists above your head, his knee between your thighs, grinding against you just to feel you squirm. “keep still, or i’ll tie you up and do this all fucking night,” he warns, eyes glinting with that mean streak, and you know he means it. his tongue’s relentless, swirling over sensitive skin, and when you arch into him, he growls, “goddamn, you’re begging for it, aren’t you? little tits driving me fucking insane.” he leaves you raw, marked, and when he’s done, he kisses you hard, all teeth and possession, muttering, “you’re my fucking angel, don’t forget it.” but there’s no softness, just his hand squeezing your bruised chest one last time.

fratboy satoru who can’t get enough of your pussy, addicted to the way you taste like it’s his last hit. “been thinking about this all night,” he says, spreading your thighs wide, his fingers digging into your ass as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue’s obscene, lapping at your clit like he’s trying to drown in you, sucking hard until your knees buckle. “taste so fucking sweet, could live down here,” he mumbles, voice muffled as he pushes two fingers inside, curling them just to make you scream. you grip the counter, biting your lip to stay quiet, but he doesn’t give a fuck—he wants the whole house to hear. “let it out, baby, let ‘em know who’s eating this pussy,” he taunts, licking you through your first orgasm, then another, until you’re a shaking, dripping mess. he stands, chin glistening, smirking. “that’s my girl.”

fratboy satoru who’s a monster when he’s jealous, his blood boiling when he spots you laughing with some nerd at a campus café. he doesn’t confront you there—just waits, simmering, until he’s got you alone in his car, parked in a shadowy alley. “think you can flirt with other guys?” he snarls, ripping your blouse open, buttons pinging off the dashboard. he reclines the seat, forcing your legs over his shoulders, fucking you so hard the car creaks. “this pussy’s mine, you fucking get that?” he spits, slapping your thigh, his cock relentless as you cry out, overwhelmed. “bet he can’t fuck you stupid like i do,” he growls, his pace brutal, overstimulating you until you’re sobbing, begging for him to ease up. but he doesn’t—he leans down, kissing your tears, smirking, “so fucking pretty when you’re pathetic.” when it’s over, he doesn’t soften, just tosses you his jacket, muttering, “cover up, you’re a fucking mess.”

fratboy satoru who films every depraved second, his phone propped on a nightstand as he’s got you bent over his desk, your skirt bunched at your waist. “smile for the camera, baby,” he taunts, spanking you hard enough to leave welts, the sound echoing in the room. the video’s grainy but vivid—your choked whimpers, the wet slap of skin, your thighs trembling as he fucks you raw. “gonna keep this forever,” he says, voice low and possessive, “jerk off to it when you’re not here.” he doesn’t share the vids, thank fuck—they’re his alone, a private shrine to your broken devotion. “look at this tight little cunt, swallowing me whole,” he groans, zooming in as you clench around him, your tears glistening in the low light. “fuck, you were made for this dick.” he cums with a grunt, watching the footage later, stroking himself to your snotty, ruined face, muttering, “you’re mine, always.”

fratboy satoru who’s unhinged when he’s high, snorting lines with sukuna in the frat house attic before stumbling to your dorm at 3 a.m. you’re asleep, curled up in a t-shirt, but he doesn’t care—he crawls into your bed, yanking your panties off, giggling like a fucking lunatic. “shh, just let me have you,” he slurs, burying his face in your pussy, his tongue sloppy but desperate, moaning like he’s getting off more than you. “fuck, i’d die for this pussy,” he mumbles, licking you until you stir, gasping as your body betrays you, cumming under his relentless mouth. he’s still high when he fucks you, slow and messy, his cock slipping in with a wet squelch. “you’re my fucking lifeline, i’d die without you,” he whispers, eyes bloodshot, but there’s no softness—just his hand gripping your throat, keeping you in place as he takes what he needs.

fratboy satoru who’s got a fetish for your panties, always checking what you’re wearing like it’s his birthright. he corners you in an empty lecture hall after class, flipping your skirt up without preamble. “let’s see what you’re wearing,” he says, fingers brushing the fabric, smirking when he sees the plain cotton. “boring,” he scoffs, pocketing them, leaving you bare. “walk back to your dorm like this,” he orders, his voice low and mean. “bet you’re wet thinking about it.” he’s right—your thighs are slick, your face burning with shame as you obey, and he kneels, licking a slow stripe up your inner thigh, teasing your clit just enough to make you whine. “so fucking needy,” he laughs, standing to kiss you, his lips tasting of you and spearmint gum. “you’re mine, don’t forget,” he adds, twirling your stolen panties around his finger like a prize.

fratboy satoru who lives for fingering you at a frat party, right in the middle of the chaos, perched on his lap like his personal trophy. the room’s a blur of flashing lights and pounding music, but he’s got two fingers buried in you under your skirt, pumping slow and deliberate while he laughs with suguru about some dumb bet. “keep quiet, or they’ll all know what a slut you are,” he whispers, biting your earlobe, his thumb circling your clit until you cum, shaking in his lap, tears welling up from the embarrassment. but he doesn’t stop—keeps going, chasing another orgasm, then another, because you’re just too fucking cute, all teary-eyed and red-faced, trying to hide your face in his neck. “fuck, look at you, falling apart for me in front of everyone,” he taunts, his voice dripping with filth. “bet you want ‘em all to see how this pussy creams for me.” you’re sobbing, mortified, but he just licks your tears, thrusting harder, making sure every drunk asshole in the room knows you’re his. when you cum again, he doesn’t even flinch—just smirks, licking his fingers clean, muttering, “good fucking girl.”

fratboy satoru who’s got you bouncing on his dick like a ragdoll, his phone pressed to his ear while he’s laughing with suguru about some frat drama. you’re in his dorm, straddling him on his gaming chair, your skirt fanned out, tits jiggling with every brutal thrust as he grips your hips, slamming you down harder just to feel you choke on a sob. “yeah, sugu, tell me more,” he says casually, but his eyes are locked on your tear-streaked face, your mouth open in a silent scream. “fuck, this pussy’s gripping me like it’s scared i’ll leave,” he growls low, just for you, his free hand smacking your ass to make you yelp. “keep it down, baby, don’t want suguru hearing how you’re creaming on my cock.” but he’s lying—he loves the idea of someone knowing, and when you cum, shaking and snotty, he mutes the call for a second to kiss your tears, smirking. “you’re too fucking cute when you’re falling apart.”

fratboy satoru who catches you washing dishes in the frat house kitchen, your apron tied tight, looking so domestic it makes his dick twitch. you’re humming softly, oblivious, and he can’t take it—you’re too much like wife material, and it’s fucking with his head. he yanks you against the sink, ripping your leggings down, and fucks you right there, the counter digging into your stomach. “look at you, playing house like you’re not my little cumslut,” he sneers, his cock splitting you open as water sloshes in the sink. “this pussy’s so wet, like it’s begging me to ruin your perfect little fantasy.” your hands grip the faucet, knuckles white, as he pounds into you, dishes clattering with every thrust. “gonna fuck you so good you’ll never dream of anyone else,” he says, biting your neck, leaving a bruise. when you cum, crying his name, he just laughs, leaving you there, panties soaked, to finish the dishes.

fratboy satoru who’s paranoid you’re dreaming of someone else, watching you sleep so peacefully in his bed, your face soft even after he’s fucked you raw. he’s high, overthinking, and can’t stand it—he needs to own every part of you, even your dreams. he slips your panties off, careful not to wake you, and slides his cock into you slow, groaning at how warm and tight you are. “fuck, even your sleeping cunt knows it’s mine,” he whispers, thrusting shallow, watching your brows furrow in your sleep. he’s gentle at first, but when you stir, moaning softly, he goes harder, waking you with a gasp as he fucks you deep. “no one else gets to haunt you like this,” he growls, cumming inside you as you whimper, half-conscious. he doesn’t soften, just kisses your forehead, muttering, “stay in my bed, always.”

fratboy satoru who’s got you cockwarming him while he’s gaming, his headset on as he barks orders at his Valorant team, crushing some rival frat. you’re perched on his lap, his dick buried deep, your thighs trembling as he keeps you still, one hand on your waist, the other clicking his mouse. “don’t you fucking move,” he hisses during a pause, his voice sharp, “or i’ll fuck you till you’re screaming and they all hear.” every time he gets a kill, he thrusts up hard, making you gasp, your pussy clenching around him. “this tight little cunt’s my good luck charm,” he taunts, slapping your thigh when you squirm. he edges you for hours, ignoring your whimpers, until the match ends and he finally fucks you proper, growling, “cum for me, show me you’re mine.” you do, sobbing, and he just smirks, leaving you to drip on his chair.

fratboy satoru who’s feeding you bites of his burger at a crowded frat party, perched on a table while he stands between your legs, his plate balanced in one hand. everyone’s too drunk to notice how he’s grinding his bulge against your clothed cunt, your skirt riding up as he presses harder with every bite he offers. “open wide, baby,” he says, shoving a fry in your mouth, his hips rocking subtly, making you squirm. “fuck, you’re so wet through these panties, like a needy little bitch,” he whispers, his voice low and filthy. “bet you’d let me fuck you right here, let ‘em all see how you take this dick.” you’re blushing, teary, trying to chew while he keeps the pressure on, your clit throbbing. he doesn’t let you cum, just keeps you on edge, smirking when you nearly cry from frustration. “eat up, you’re gonna need the energy.”

fratboy satoru who’s obsessed with edging you until you’re a babbling mess, especially after a nightmare where you tried to leave him. he’s got you in his dorm, tied to his headboard, your thighs spread as he teases your clit with slow, featherlight strokes. “you love this dick too much to leave, don’t you?” he taunts, stopping every time you’re close, your hips bucking desperately. “say it—say you’re fucking obsessed with me.” you’re crying, snotty, babbling, “i love you, satoru, please,” and he just laughs, cruel and delighted. “that’s right, my pathetic little angel, keep begging.” he finally lets you cum after hours, your body shaking, and he’s kissing your tears, but it’s not soft—just possessive. “don’t ever fucking dream of leaving me again.”

fratboy satoru who’s got a sick obsession with public bathrooms, dragging you into one at the science building during a lecture break, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. “be quick,” he snaps, locking the door, his belt already clinking as he shoves you against the sink, your skirt yanked up. he spreads your thighs wide, his cock slamming into you with a wet squelch, the mirror fogging from your ragged breaths. “love how you take this dick,” he growls, smacking your ass hard, the sound echoing off the tiles as your face crumples, tears spilling from overstimulation. “cry harder, baby, it’s so fucking cute—look at you, sobbing like a slut in a shithole like this.” your hands claw at the porcelain, your body shaking as he fucks you relentless, his pace brutal, loving how your tears streak your cheeks, snot dripping. he doesn’t stop after you cum once—keeps going, growling, “gimme another, let ‘em hear you outside.” you’re a wreck, begging for mercy, but he just laughs, cumming with a guttural groan, his seed dripping down your thighs. he kisses you soft after, wiping your cheeks, but it’s fleeting, his voice cold. “you’re okay, yeah? just us. now fix your face, you look fucked out.”

fratboy satoru who’s vicious when you try to slip away, catching you creeping out of his dorm after a screaming match over his latest stunt—spreading lies about you to keep guys away. you’re halfway down the dim hallway, heart pounding, when his hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you back. “where the fuck you going?” he snarls, his blue eyes wild with something raw, almost feral—fear masquerading as rage. he pins you against the peeling wall, ripping your jeans down, your legs forced around his waist as he fucks you right there, rough and angry, the drywall scraping your back. “you don’t get to leave me,” he spits, voice cracking, his cock stretching you so wide it burns. “this pussy’s fucking mine, you hear me?” you’re sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he’s relentless, slamming into you until you cum, crying into his neck. he’s kissing you like he’s pleading, desperate, his hands bruising as he holds you tight, whispering, “i’m sorry, fuck, don’t scare me like that.” but there’s no softness, just his grip tightening, a warning not to try again.

fratboy satoru who’s addicted to breaking you, loving how you shatter under him. he’s got you on all fours in his room, the frat house walls thin enough to let every sound carry, fucking you from behind with a sadistic edge. “nah, baby, take it,” he growls, yanking you back by your waist when you try to crawl away, your body trembling from the stretch of his cock, so thick it feels like it’s tearing you apart. “you can handle more, i know you can,” he says, slamming into you, the headboard banging loud as you sob, snot dripping onto the sheets. “fuck, you’re so cute like this,” he whispers, kissing your spine, his voice mocking as he keeps going, even when you’re shaking, cumming around him with a choked scream. he doesn’t stop, pushing you into another orgasm, his cum spilling inside you as he groans, low and filthy. after, he cleans you up, his lips soft on your swollen pussy, murmuring, “you did so good for me,” but his eyes are already glinting, planning the next way to ruin you.

fratboy satoru who flips out when he sees you chatting with a guy in chem class, his jealousy a live wire. he doesn’t confront you there—just stews, his jaw tight, until he’s got you alone in an empty campus parking lot at dusk. “think you can replace me?” he growls, shoving you over the hood of his car, the metal cold against your stomach as he rips your tights open, the fabric tearing loud in the quiet. he fucks you so hard your knees buckle, his cock driving deep, relentless, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick surface. “this cunt knows who it belongs to,” he spits, his hand fisting your hair, yanking your head back as he overstimulates you, pushing you past your limit until you’re crying, begging, your voice hoarse. “so fucking pretty when you’re pathetic,” he laughs, kissing your tears, his tongue licking the salt off your skin. he cums with a snarl, leaving you shaking, but he doesn’t let you collapse—carries you to the passenger seat, tossing his jacket over you, muttering, “you’re mine, always remember that.” his hand rests on your thigh as he drives, possessive, unyielding.

fratboy satoru who’s rarely tender, but when he is, it’s after he’s pushed you to the edge, leaving you bruised and trembling. after a night of fucking you senseless—your thighs marked with bites, your wrists sore from his grip—he pulls you into his bed, the sheets tangled and smelling of sweat. “you’re my only light,” he mumbles, voice low, kissing your hair, your shoulders, the purple welts on your thighs. his fingers trace the marks he left, like he’s trying to piece you back together, his touch almost reverent. “don’t hate me, okay?” he says, voice small, almost boyish, and you nod, too exhausted to argue, your body curling into his warmth. he holds you through the night, stroking your back, and for a fleeting moment, he’s that kid again—the one who’d sneak you candy and whisper promises under starry skies. but by morning, his eyes are cold again, his smirk sharp, reminding you the softness is a trap, a rare glitch in his cruelty.

[ritsatoru]

He's literally my everything

nerd!satoru who yaps nonstop about the multiverse while you’re just trying to eat your lunch, waving his hands around dramatically as he explains the concept of alternate dimensions with half a rice ball in his mouth and crumbs stuck to the corner of his lips. who pokes at his food with a mechanical pencil because he forgot his chopsticks again, and then insists with wide eyes and a mouth half full, “technically, pencils are just wooden utensils for intellectuals.” he gets giddy over a new graphing calculator update like it’s a new iphone drop, tapping the screen like it’s a baby animal, and once dragged you into a 40-minute rant about ant communication hierarchies while you were just brushing your teeth, half-asleep and mouth foaming with toothpaste.

he has no less than ten tabs open at all times—reddit conspiracy theories, physics forums, a paused youtube video on quantum tunneling, a spreadsheet titled “do cats defy newton’s laws?”, a google doc labeled “reasons why kissing might be a form of molecular alignment,” and none of it has anything to do with the assignment he’s supposed to be doing. he zones out during lectures, doodling black hole spirals, equations shaped like hearts, and cats in lab coats in the margins of his notes. once, he drew you holding hands with a worm in a bowtie and captioned it “me and my universe.” somehow still manages to get top marks every single time, even though he once turned in an assignment with a greasy fry stain in the corner because he used it as a napkin in the library mid-cram session.

he mutters the weirdest things under his breath like “i feel like a misaligned proton today” or “the moon’s energy was too sarcastic last night” and you just blink at him like🧍‍♀️while sipping your drink. he wears mismatched socks on purpose and says, “it’s a metaphor for duality.” has five alarms labeled “wake up genius,” “ur gonna flunk,” “your girlfriend will leave you,” “pls satoru,” and “EMERGENCY: CUTE, PRETTY AND SCORCHINGLY HOT GIRL WAITING” and still manages to sleep through all of them unless you call him. his glasses? perpetually smudged, held together with washi tape. his notebooks? an unholy fusion of complicated theorems, grocery lists, pressed flowers, cat doodles, love notes to you, and a page just titled “top 10 reasons why my girlfriend is cuter than entropy.”

his laptop is a biohazard—dusty, overworked, full of files like “time_is_an_illusion_final_FINAL_reallyfinal_actuallyfinal.pptx” and “uRwrong_iMright.docx.” the case is covered in anime stickers, tiny equations, stars drawn with glitter pen, and a wrinkled polaroid of you sticking your tongue out that he keeps taped on like it’s a sacred relic. he listens to lo-fi while studying and pauses every few minutes just to sigh dreamily and whisper, “this part sounds like you looking at me for the first time.”

and yet… he’s so fine it’s borderline illegal. tall, messy white hair that sticks up in all directions and defies every known force of nature, ice-blue eyes that melt when they look at you, and a cocky little smile that makes your chest hurt even when he says things like, “do you think our cells are spiritually linked?” he doesn’t even try to be charming—he just is, like he spawned with a flirt trait.

you fw it. you fw him. every unfiltered ramble, every hyperactive explanation about wormholes or why he thinks bees are secretly time travelers. the way his voice speeds up when he’s excited, and how his hands start waving like he’s conducting an invisible orchestra of nerdiness. you don’t even bother trying to follow every word—you’re just watching him, heart doing somersaults, because he’s so beautiful when he’s passionate. and the fact that you never laugh at him? only ever smile and let him go on? yeah. that cracked his emotional firewall a long time ago.

so now he’s all sunshine and sparkles around you. a literal bundle of joy. grinning at his phone like a middle schooler when you text him “lol ok.” kicking his feet while giggling, voice memos full of stuff like “what if we held hands inside a particle accelerator 😳👉👈” sent at 2:13 a.m., followed by three minutes of him wheezing into a pillow. he calls you his “favorite constant,” even if you don’t get the joke. and if you do? he twirls his hair, blushes, and stares at you like you just split the atom and made it cute.

he makes playlists named “gravity got nothing on how hard i fell for you,” draws you in lab coats saying “ur the thesis to my hypothesis,” keeps your photo in his pencil case and shows it to random people like “this is my girlfriend. she understands my quantum jokes.” if they blink weirdly, he’ll just smile and say, “it’s okay, not everyone gets theoretical perfection.”

being loved by you makes him goo. makes his neurons do the macarena. you make all his bizarre little pieces light up like neon signs. you walked into his strange little world and said “yeah, i’ll stay,” and now he’s rearranging every cosmic thread to make sure it’s perfect for you. adds fairy lights. labels his notebooks “our theories.” buys matching pens. you made his chaos feel like a cozy little planet. he buys you plushies shaped like atoms and puts your name in the acknowledgements of his lab reports. tells people “she’s the reason the data graphs came out prettier.”

nerd!satoru who’s helplessly, hopelessly, tooth-rottingly in love with you. who grabs your hand mid-ramble just to feel you close. who brings you hot cocoa and explains entropy like it’s a bedtime story. who kisses your forehead and tells you “you’re my favorite anomaly in this whole universe.”

and he thanks you—not in grand declarations, but in the quiet moments: when he scoots closer to you without saying a word, when he tugs on your sleeve with glassy eyes after a long day, when he looks at you after an hour of nerding out like you built the whole galaxy just to hear him talk.

his world was spinning way too fast. then you walked in and gave it gravity. and now he orbits you—and he’s never been happier to revolve around anything in his life.

[ritsatoru]

gojo satoru was spoiled, sure. but he wasn’t used to being cared for.

he had people who answered to him. people who revered him, feared him, respected him. his clan, his school, his students. everything he wanted, he could have. everything he needed, someone got for him.

but then there was you.

you, who didn’t flinch when he joked too loudly or smiled too wide. you, who didn’t tiptoe around his legacy like it was made of glass. you, who leaned into him instead of away, who called him “satoru” like he was just a man, not the strongest.

and when you touched him, it wasn’t reverent or worshipful or like you owed him anything. it was simple. kind. natural.

like reaching to fix his collar on a windy morning.

like putting his favorite tea on the stove before he even asked.

like dragging him to bed when he passed out on the couch, glasses skewed, mouth slightly open.

“come on,” you’d mutter, soft but firm, “sleep properly, sato.”

and he’d blink up at you, half-lidded and drowsy, and feel something sweet settle in his chest.

you didn’t do these things because he asked. you didn’t do them because he was gojo satoru. you just… cared.

it rattled something in him.

once, you made him lunch and packed it for him in a neat little box. he opened it during a break at jujutsu tech, laughing at a text from you about something dumb his students did.

inside, there was his favorite food. a little sticky note with a doodle. a stupid pun you’d written.

don’t fight anyone on an empty stomach!!

he sat there, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, and just stared.

he thought about how no one had ever done that before. not like this. not with that silly, mindless affection. not because they wanted to make his day better.

and that night, when he came home, he found you on the couch in your pajamas, phone in hand, hair messy from the way you curled up against the cushions.

he walked over without saying a word, dropped to his knees in front of you, and laid his head in your lap.

you blinked down at him. “…long day?”

he nodded, face pressed against your stomach, arms winding around your waist.

“thank you,” he mumbled.

you snorted. “for what?”

he didn’t answer. just closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of your laundry detergent, your skin, your home.

he’d always had everything he could ask for. but until you, he didn’t know what it meant to be loved for nothing. for free.

and god, did it make him want to give you the world.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ i love satoru 😔

[ritsatoru]

entrance vs graduation ceremony

[ritsatoru]

i like the thought of you never having been a sunglasses person before meeting satoru. not for fashion or for function.

before, the sun would be blazing overhead — and you’d still squint stubbornly rather than slide on the extra one you carry for him in your purse.

you used to say they made you feel like you were trying too hard to be cool, like you were pretending to be someone you weren’t (satoru definitely picks up on the way you inadvertently call him cool).

then, as fate would have it — satoru comes blazing into your life like the big fireball that is the sun itself. both blinding and impossible to ignore.

and of course, he wears sunglasses out like they are glued permanently to his skin.

but somewhere along the way, you find yourself wearing them too. you don’t know how — it simply just happened. maybe after a late night in bed when he wordlessly places his own shades on you just to see how they’d look and you’re too tired to fight it.

maybe then is when you finally start making use of the spare. and not just occasionally. always. and only bc it helped block out the annoying light. no other reason (you like to tell yourself).

and satoru notices.

he pretends he doesn’t at first. just grins with that usual cocky tilt of his head. but he definitely notices. especially when you pull an old pair of his from your purse mid walk and slip them on in sync with him.

the first time it happens, he pauses mid stride. blinks. then stares at you for a second longer than necessary before smirking.

“is that my influence i see?” satoru murmurs, failing to hide the swelling in his chest that is a mixture of pride and absolute joy — bc he already knows the answer.

“careful, sweets.” he points at your face with a serious tone like he’s warning you. “next thing you know, you’ll be walking around telling everyone you’re the strongest too.”

you roll your eyes behind the lenses, adjusting your purse over your shoulder. but the way you fidget with the strap betrays your nerves. you wonder if he thinks you look good in them. but you don’t ask.

instead you say, “oh, please. you wish.”

later that night when you’re asleep, he traces the arm of your sunglasses where they sit on the nightstand beside his. lined up perfectly — like they belong together.

and he smiles.

not his big, theatrical grin. but the smaller, softer one. the one meant only for you. bc you wear sunglasses now. and without ever saying it, you’re telling him he’s changing you in ways that stay.

and you’re letting him.

[ritsatoru]

convinced that all americans do is lie

[ritsatoru]

𓂃 toxic ex satoru fucking you on your wedding day.

implied cheating. public humiliation. relationship destruction. wall sex. hair pulling. toxic ex dynamic.

its your wedding day, hours from vows, yet the joy’s tainted when you glanced in the mirror and see him. satoru gojo, leaning against the doorframe. your toxic ex, the one you dumped years ago when his possessiveness, his need to control every move you made became too much.

he’s here, uninvited, in your private moment, and your stomach twisted. “fuck are you doing here, satoru?” you growl setting the fan down with a clatter, turning to face him, your hands balled into fists, he raises his hands mocking innocence.

“damn, i can’t visit the bride now?” he muttured stepping closer, his long frame casual but predatory. “thought you’d miss me, sweetheart.” you furrowed. “leave.” you snap, your voice low, serious, pointing at the door. “i don’t want you here.”

“leave?” he says feigning hurt, taking another step, his boots clicking on the floor. “im your guest.” his eyes flick over you, lingering on your dress, your bare shoulders, and you gulp. that old pull you swore you’d broken free from.

“you’re not my fucking guest.” you hiss, stepping back, your back brushing the vanity, your heart racing. “you’re here to mess with me, and im not letting that happen.” he tilts his head, shades slipping down, revealing those piercing blue eyes.

“mess with you?” he says, his voice softer, dangerous, closing the distance until he’s inches away, towering over you. “i just wanted to see you, one last time, all dressed up like this.”

you should have shouted, screamed at him, hit him, but the pull was unbearable, you still needed him. and now, it was too late.

he groans, his voice raw, lifting you onto the vanity, your dress bunching up, his hands sliding up your thighs, rough and needy. “satoru..” you gasp, your voice breaking as he pushes your dress higher, his fingers finding your panties, tugging them aside. “we shouldn’t—fuck...” you moan, his fingers brushing your clit, making you arch into him.

“tell me to stop.” he says his voice strained, pausing, his fingers hovering, giving you an out. “say it, and im gone.” you don’t say it, can’t, your hands pulling him closer, your lips on his neck, biting hard. “do it..” you mutter, your voice desperate.

“but make it quick.” he groans, low and raw, unbuttoning his pants, freeing his cock hard and thick, already leaking and lines up, thrusting into you in one deep, rough stroke, making you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“fuck, still so tight for me.” he growls, his voice breaking, his hips slamming into you, the vanity shaking, bottles clattering to the floor. “satoru, shit!” you moan, your legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper, your body betraying you.

he grips your hips, thrusting hard, fast, each stroke hitting that spot that makes you see stars, your moans loud, reckless.

“you’re mine.” he mutters his hand tangling in your hair, pulling your head back, making you gasp. “always fuckin’ mine, no matter who you marry.”

you whined pulling his hair back and he groaned thrusting deeper, his hand sliding to your clit, circling fast, relentless. “cum for me, sweetheart. show me you still want this.”. “cum for me, sweetheart. show me you still want this.”

“fuck, satoru!” you cry your orgasm hitting, your body shaking, clenching tight around him, pleasure crashing through you, he groans, loud and raw, cumming with you, spilling inside, his hips stuttering, his face buried in your neck, panting.

you’re both still, breathless, the room quiet except for your gasps, the reality of what you’ve done sinking in.

your white dress feels heavy, stained with the memory of his hands hours ago in the bridal suite. you push it down, your heart pounding, as the officiant’s words blur, leading to the moment you’ve been dreading and craving. the kiss to seal your vows.

your husband leans in, smiling, and you force a smile, your lips trembling, inches from his, then, a sharp crackle cuts through the air, the big screen behind the altar flickering to life.

gasps ripple through the crowd, and your stomach drops, a sick premonition hitting as you turn. there, on the massive screen, is you moaning, legs wrapped around gojo, his hair unmistakable, his cock thrusting into you, the vanity shaking, your voice crying.

“satoru, fuck!” the audio’s loud, obscene, your face clear, flushed with pleasure, his hands gripping your hips. its the moment from hours ago, when you gave in, let him fuck you one last time, thinking it was private, a mistake you could bury.

“no...” you whisper, your voice breaking, stepping back, your hands shaking, the veil slipping from your hair, your husband freezes, his face paling, eyes wide as he stares at the screen, then at you, betrayal carving his features.

“what the fuck is this?!” he says trembling with shock and rage, stepping away, his hands clenched, the crowd’s murmuring, some turning away, others staring, horrified.

you feel naked, so exposed, your chest is tight and your tears are burning your eyes. “i—im sorry..” you stammer your voice small, turning to the crowd as if it could keep them away from the disgusting screen while you search for him, gojo.

he’s there at the back, leaning against a pillar, shades low, a smirk playing on his lips.

he meets your gaze, his unapologetic eyes glinting like he’s won something.

[ritsatoru]

gojo isn't particularly religious but he's thanking whatever divine being is out there when you come down with baby fever

[ritsatoru]

Photographer!Gojo — headcanons, one shot

Pairing: Photographer!Gojo x Model reader

Content/warnings: MDNI, mostly smut, oral (fem! Receiving), fingering, Gojo being a freak on this one, downbad Gojo, swearing, PiV seggs, him recording everything with his camera, pet names, squirting, small aftercare

——————————

Photographer!Gojo Who is a famous photographer who takes pictures of people, especially models, and especially you to be exact.

Photographer!Gojo Who is an expert when it comes to your photo shoots. Always thinking of unique angles and poses every single shoot.

Photographer!Gojo Who secretly zooms in on your ass or tits and takes multiple pictures, keeping them all to himself to jerk himself off to.

Photographer!Gojo Who always gets hard everytime he sees you change into another outfit. Bonus points if you’re wearing a bikini or lingerie for advertisement. Hell, his boxers are already wet by the end of the photo shoot with how much he came.

Photographer!Gojo Who looks through the camera roll after each session, not only just to see what are the best takes he did, but also look at the secret ones he took. It makes him hard every. Single. time.

Photographer!Gojo Who always comes up with a plan to talk to you, mostly meeting you in person to talk about each shot he thinks is good.

Photographer!Gojo Who accidentally showed one of his secret shots he took of your ass, blowing his cover.

Photographer!Gojo Who gets surprised when you weren’t mad at him for taking pictures while you weren’t looking.

Photographer!Gojo Who accepts your sudden offer for a free drink at the café. He was confused but in joy.

Photographer!Gojo Who can’t stop staring at you while taking a sip of his coffee, he can’t even focus on his meal when there’s another meal right infront of him.

Photographer!Gojo Who gladly repayed you by eating you out on the kitchen counter of his apartment, his tongue swiftly lapping on your sweet, sweet juices.

“Nghh…G—Gojo—“ You moaned, tugging on his white snowy hair.

“Call me Satoru, gorgeous.” He slapped your pussy, and gosh it only made you clench around nothing even more.

Photographer!Gojo Who spells out S-A-T-O-R-U’-S G-I-R-L with his tongue, while purposely teasing your cute little clit with his finger.

Photographer!Gojo Who took out the same camera he always uses for your photoshoots, and pressed record. You didn’t have time to react when he pushed his long finger inside of you. The camera recording every single moan.

Photographer!Gojo Who was so good at fingering you precisely that you managed to squirt all over him, He cooed and it made him more feral than he was before.

“Attagirl, good girl for squirting..Can’t believe I got that on camera..Can’t wait to replay that everyday.” He chuckled, thrusting more of his fingers into your soaked pussy.

“T—Toru~! S—Sensitive..” Your legs were shaking, basically noodles now as you couldn’t even spread them anymore.

“It’s alright, darlin’. I’ve got you.” He held your legs apart with his hand while the other continued to professional finger you, making you orgasm again.

Photographer!Gojo Who rewarded you with his cock after you squirted twice. You couldn’t believe what you were looking at—8 inches standing tall, reaching his stomach.

“Ngh..see this, honey? This is what you do to me every photo shoot..making me so fucking hard that it hurts..” He said, putting you on mating press as he positioned his cock right at your entrance.

Photographer!Gojo Who even though wants to thrust in immediately, softly asks you for consent before stretching you inside biiiigg and niceee..

Photographer!Gojo Whose thrusts are so powerful that you started seeing stars. Eyes rolling back into your skulls.

“Awhh is my princess speechless? Don’t worry, just let her speak for you.” He said, referring to your pussy, who was getting nicely pounded by his cock.

Photographer!Gojo Who lets you orgasm many times as you like before cumming inside of you, his warm white seed coated your insides like paint.

Photographer!Gojo Who knew you couldn’t even move an inch, so he prepared you a nice warm bath, pampering you gently compared to his rough demeanor a while ago.

Photographer!Gojo Who heard you calling the management and your excuse for not being able to come to the photo shoot, knowing full well that he is the reason. And now, he has you laying beside him in bed, all his.

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© YeonaYearns, Do not steal nor repost.