satosray

[satosray]

Musician Geto Suguru, who's in a band as their main producer and bassist.

Who sometimes audio records him and his partner while they fuck; to later hole himself up in his studio and listen back to those audios to get inspiration for their next album.

Sometimes he'd slip in the audio files of your moans in his songs, either making it barely recognizable in the background, unless you isolate everything to figure it out. Or just making it super obvious and the main focus of the song, and when his band members ask him where did he get such an unique audio without any copyright issue? He simply says— 'oh don't worry about it'. Half the members already know who the moans are by and half are blissfully unaware. Which is for the best maybe, because the ones who know can't seem to look you in the eyes next time you meet them without sweating a bucket's worth and blushing crazy.

And when Suguru shows you the new track(s) where he used your moans—at first you just hype him up, 'omg baby it's so good! New hit!' And when the obvious track comes around with a full on 20 second long intro of just you moaning and whimpering, with his bass in the background— the realization leaves you super embarrassed, as always. Then you beg him and wrestle with him to delete it, as always, we all know how effectively that works. The whole thing just ends with him manhandling you, and throwing you playfully on the leather couch in his studio, then fucking you on it. And of course he records that as well.

Later you just think; oh well yet another track with my moans on it for the world to hear. secretly you find it really thrilling and hot. And the fact your boyfriend is so obsessed you, is just a cherry on top.

.

.

.

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[satosray]

☘︎ ݁˖━━━ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐒 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐌 𓍊𓋼

𝐃𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐳𝐞 .☘︎ ݁˖ ⸻ “ お前は、俺のすべてだ ”

rules ✧ masterlist ✧ works ✧ asks ✧ rambles ✧ recs ✧ ao3

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 ⸻ .✦

I'd give you everything chap 3 .☘︎˖ incubus Gojo part one

Ray (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) . 20s . desi . student (excuse for late updates) . any pronouns . NSFW blog . MDNI second acc: @satosray

݁˖☘︎ ݁˖ ⸻ 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞��

.☘︎˖ I'd give you everything [clan head Gojo series] .☘︎˖ Catoru & Suguru's adventures

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 [𝐖𝐈𝐏𝐒] ⸻ .✦

✧ chap 4, I'd give you everything ✧ ink and markings, tattoo artist sukuna

.☘︎˖ To be added to my tag list please drop a comment below the specific series/preview you want to be notified about, or to be added to my general tag list, leave a comment below my wip list (linked above)! <3 I would much appreciate asks and comments regardless ^^

a/n: divider at the bottom is by @/strangergraphics. fanart is by @/deltapork, their acc can be found here. all the other pictures are from Pinterest, studio ghibli, and edited by me.

pfp by @/snackanimals on Twitter

[satosray]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ clan head g.satoru x f.reader ―୨୧⋆ ˚

pt 1. , pt 2.

It's been a few weeks since your last real encounter with satoru,

Few weeks since the day you tucked that pink flower into your hair while he watched from a distance,frozen behind you, the last time you had let him see a piece of you.

Since then everything has just been quiet, not cold, but just --careful.

He's still there,

Every morning your tea is ready before you awaken,the garden is swept of wet leaves before you and your son step out, your child giggles more all of a sudden, now that his father is around more than he used to be, to your surprise must you say? You see genuine care and love in Satoru's eyes for your baby, he's clumsy with affection, learning how to be gentle in a place where he was once absent.

And as for you? You feel the weight of his presence in every room,like something unfinished, like something is left unspoken, something which is daunting upon you.

The kitchen smells of steam and ginger, your son is napping,

You're chopping up vegetables, sleeves rolled up, your hair in a loose bun, there's sunlight pouring in from the shoji screen behind you. It halos your shoulders, makes your profile glow. There's a faint sheen of sweat near your collarbone from the steam.

You hear footsteps walking into the kitchen ,he walks in quietly as if he's scared to break the peace you've built for yourself, without him.

He sees you, he really does, with something twisting and aching in his gut he thinks, you look beautiful, even when you're angry, so strong, still radiant.

He watches the line of your neck, the slope of your back, the way your fingers move with precision, like they remember everything even when your heart tries not to.

He wonders though, if he was ever worthy of being loved by someone like you.

He moves closer with a bowl of rice, a quiet offering ,

"you didn't eat lunch" he murmurs.

"don't do this" you reply softly , "you don't have to act like you care",you put down the knife.

He watches you as his heart drops.

"You weren’t there,” you say, voice low but steady. “I cooked alone. Slept alone. Gave birth alone. And now you want to feed me and pretend it’s always been this way?”

He opens his mouth to say something but , then he closes it.

You finally turn, your eyes dark and unwavering.

“Tell me something, Satoru,” you say. “If she hadn’t left… would you have come back?”

He’s staring at you ,at your face flushed from the stove, the tendrils of hair clinging to your cheek. You’ve never looked more divine, and it breaks him, because he realizes this is the woman he should have chosen , the one he ignored while chasing something shallow.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t have.”

You nod.

Not because you accept it. But because you already knew.

“I was wrong.”

His voice is low. Unsteady.

“Not just about her. About everything.

About what mattered. About who was always there.”You gave me a home. A family. And I treated you like a placeholder.

Like something I didn’t have to choose, because you were already there.

"you didn't deserve it"

“I thought love was supposed to feel easy. Loud. Exciting.

But it was always you, quietly showing up. Quietly loving me and I was too blind, too proud to see it.”

“I was wrong in every way that counted.

And if I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

“But that version of me,who chose wrong,he died the day you looked at me and didn’t smile.”

"he died the day you looked at me and didn’t even flinch"-

just… stopped looking at all.”

And then,slower, lower, like it costs him something,

“I didn’t just lose your smile that day.

I lost the only future that ever would’ve made sense.”

He steps closer ,

Closer than you expected, just a few inches between you.

His hand lifts slightly ,almost as if to tuck your hair behind your ear again. Almost.

Your breath catches, you can smell his scent ,one you have ingrained in your senses,

something in you wants his warmth,wants to let him close, something maybe you haven't let yourself fully feel, because it scares you.

But your skin still remembers his.

And your chest aches with the memory of nights when this closeness was all you ever wanted. You want to close the space between, almost.

But you don’t move.Neither does he.

“I miss you,” he says softly. “Not the idea of you. Not the guilt. You. The way you laugh when no one’s looking. The way you hum when you're pouring tea. The way you used to… look at me like I was your world.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “But you could’ve been.”

“You were never really mine,” you add, each word a blade, “So don’t look at me like I’m your world now, Satoru. You were never mine even if I thought you were,And I was never yours.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you almost hope that’s it. That he’ll shut up and go.

But instead, you're met with a look in his eyes,not guilt, not arrogance,but yearning.

It's in the tilt of his head ,The slight part in his lips like he wants to say something but is afraid to ruin it. The way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding back from reaching for you.

He looks at you like a kicked dog.

No,like a man who just realized he had sunlight in his hands and let it slip through because he was too arrogant to believe he needed warmth in the first place.

His voice breaks the silence again,now quieter and heavy.

“I know I wasn’t yours. Not the way I should’ve been.”

“But I don’t want to be your world.”

That makes you blink, startled.

“I want to be a part of it,” he says, “Even if it’s just a corner you let me earn back. Even if it takes my whole life.”

Unbeknownst to him, something more fragile slips in under his words,

“Because you’re my world. And I think… you always were. I just didn’t see it until I was blind without you.”

You freeze.

There’s a beat of silence.

And in that space ,something breaks.

No… something bends.

Just slightly.

It would be easier if he were still cruel, easier if he begged ,or cried, or shouted,but this ..is worse , because this is him being honest, because the Gojo Satoru now standing in front of you is not the same person who had hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

You don't walk away either,

Your breath catches.

It would be easier if he were still cruel. Easier if he begged, or cried, or shouted , but this… this is worse. Because it’s quiet. Because it’s honest. Because the Satoru Gojo standing in front of you now isn’t the one who hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

But you don’t walk away either.

The silence lingers , heavy, intimate.

His shoulders are tense like he's bracing for rejection, but there's something in his eyes , open, pleading, a quiet ache like he's never been more afraid of being unloved.

You hate it.

You hate how honest he looks now.

You hate how your chest tightens at the sight.

And still, your voice comes out soft,barely more than a whisper.

“You look tired, Satoru.”

He blinks. For a second, he doesn’t know if you’re addressing him or just thinking out loud.

You glance at him. Finally. It’s fleeting, but your gaze holds a kind of softness that wasn’t there before ,a flicker of the girl who once picked a flower from the mud and gave it to him just because he looked sad.

“You haven’t been eating properly, have you?”

Satoru swallows thickly. “Not really,” he says, truthfully.

You nod slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, as if debating with yourself. You’re not ready to forgive. Not ready to fall back. But-

“There’s food , We should eat.”

His heart stumbles in his chest,

We.

he's not sure if he's hearing things or you really said it,

He doesn’t say anything ,doesn’t dare break the spell. But he walks to the table like a man who's just been handed a second heartbeat.

You don't wait for him to respond,you grab two bowls.laddle food.

You set one bowl across the table,

And when he takes the seat opposite you , not beside you, not too close ,you let him.

You don’t look up.

You don’t smile.

But you let him eat beside you.

And that… that is enough for tonight, enough to make him believe that there's still a road back to you.

A/N : took me a while ! and I didn't expect it to become this long, I'd love to know you guys' thoughts on this 🏃🏻‍♀️

Tags: @straows

@voidfulcrumdilemma

@ppejmurde

@twinkling-moonlillie

[satosray]

✭THE ART OF GIVING HEAD?!

Synopsis: If Suguru Geto was asked how he'd spend his last few minutes? He'd only be conflicted between having you between his legs or him being the one between your legs - his heaven after all! ✭ Giving him head, him giving you head

-a/n: because i realised there is more to suguru than just brat taming and being a perfect male wife<3 and somehow suguru being soft and scrumptious is my holy grail. and if you saw this earlier, no you didn't baby

-warnings: reader acts like a brat, this is a result of pure horny - idek if any of this will ever make sense, usage of 'doll', some brat-taming, oral (m! and f! receiving), soft sex, reader is at the verge of breakdown in second case, don't use sex to rid your stress, MDNI, AFAB! reader; use of 'good girl', yes idk.

An Easy Guide for the Brats!

He truly does possess the patience of a saint, he does...but somedays, even Suguru cannot help himself. Days when your sighs count to be too much, when your whines fall sharp at his ears, when every word you utter is aimed at him - insult, when your pretty lips do everything but kiss him, mouthing off like there's no tomorrow. These days Suguru doesn't hold back either, and he doesn't bother with the good guy act either, no warnings or telling you off, no "just a spanking" or maybe edging - no. Because someone's slutty self enjoys it too much (you, yes you do).

"did you even bother with the recipe?" a tired mumble, you didn't bother looking up as you toyed with the food in your plate - his jaw ticked, again.

Hours spent on the exact dish that you had managed to call bland the moment you saw it - it was a special dinner, something he had planned all week, a small compensation for all the neglect both of you had caused onto the other.

But seemingly, you had no such intentions - not a single step to meet him half way.

A pout rested on your lips the entire day, a whine escaping every hour and a complaint added to the list everytime he breathed.

"You didn't even bother with your hair," you scoffed - you could tell without looking that this was a big one - a clenched jaw and then a small clatter of his fork against the plate - cold.

An hour at least Suguru had spent on his hair alone, to look his best for you - all his efforts to achieve the best 'messy' hairdo and here you were, pulling that under the bus too; especially when you yourself had pulled on just another one of his shirts and some shorts.

But patient was the word that described Suguru best, and that virtue he exercised lavishly - putting it all off on the work stress.

A single hand ran through his hair nonetheless, an attempt to smoothen it, to please you - but he'd realised earlier in the day that there would be no pleasing you, not when this had been your mood all day.

Faults in everything, criticism laced in every sentence - it was enough to make any man lose his mind.

Thus, this was how Suguru decided he'd had enough of this - enough of your attitude, swiftly he got up, the scraping sound of the chair against the floor making your heart drop for a second.

A step and a few more, silent he sat on the couch - away form you.

Complete silence as he sat, phone in one hand and blank eyes just staring - legs spread wide.

You couldn't manage anything - not another whine, not another jab, not a question - for you knew what he was doing and you couldn't help but fall right into it.

And thus, slowly you stalked your way, onto to the same couch he sat on - mindful to cover both your left-overs, you knew you'd require it for later.

"Suguru," a mumble you passed - no response shot back, it would be too easy - it would dignify your attitude.

"oh, I'd rather you be mad than the silent treatment," you huffed, inching closer to him with each word - earning no more than quiet inhales and exhales from him - maybe, just maybe, your plan for attention wasn't quite working.

He was aware of all that, aware since morning of course - and it was now that he'd make you pay; aware of how you were staring at him, aware of the pout he knew was on your lips, aware of your fidgety fingers - hesitant to touch him.

And finally, defeat written on your face, you crawled right between his thighs - spread comfortably - as if only to accommodate you.

That was when - he finally glazed his eyes over your form, taking you in, taking in your desperation.

"Sorry? at least talk to me,"

whines, whines, whines - that was all you'd offered all day and that was all you offered right now as well.

An eyebrow shot up - "begging already? thought your game was going to last longer than that doll,"

Pure amusement in his eyes as he watched you squirm - "m' not begging," quiet a response, it amused him further - you hadn't been this quiet when you were annoying him.

A smirk slowly crawled up his lips as his fingers slowly played with your hair - your nervousness was cute - eyes cast down, head bowed too, fingers playing with the hem of his pants.

"Could've fooled me," he murmured softly - voice so gentle - his fingers tugged at your hair, "Kneeling between my legs, looking up at me with those big, sad eyes..." a simple shake of his head and an exhale, "Classic attention-seeking behavior."

Though not visible, Suguru knew the heat was crawling up to your face, that your ears were burning, a small scoff you passed in your attempt to fight back, "i just missed you."

A scoff again - his, "and i don't miss my good girl when this brat starts acting out?"

"and miss me, did you?" Suguru continued, his voice a low rumble.

Using his grip on your hair to guide your face closer to his crotch - so close - your breath felt hot against the fabric. "And what makes you think you deserve my attention after the way you've acted today?"

A shudder was all you could manage, "I swear I'm sorry,"

A chuckle passed on - "Sorry? Sorry that you got called out on your bratty behavior?" a thumb guiding your face to glance up, "You've been nothing but a handful all day, and now you want me to just forgive and forget?"

A small lick of your lips - you shook your head, "No...I mean, yes, I am sorry," you clarified, eyes wide and earnest. "I didn't mean to be so awful today. I just...I just wanted you to notice me."

Suguru's grip on your hair only tightened briefly before he released you, his hand moving to palm himself through his pants.

"Oh, I've noticed you alright," his voice lay a low growl. "Noticed how you can't seem to appreciate anything I do for you."

You knew he didn't mean it - you knew he was only playing it this way, you knew what you had to do.

Transfixed you eyed him, his hand moving over his clothed cock, "I do appreciate you," a whisper, "I do, Suguru. I swear."

"Prove it," he challenged simply, his thumb rubbing over the growing bulge in his pants. "Show me how much you appreciate me, baby. Put that pretty mouth to good use."

Hesitation passed you for a beat before your tongue darted and gave his clothed cock a tentative lick. The fabric of his sweats dampened slightly as your saliva soaked through - a small groan he allowed.

"jus' like that, hm? Put that bratty mouth of yours to good use. Lick."

Suguru groaned softly, his hips twitching as your mouth worked over his clothed dick. "That's it," he encouraged, his hand moving to the back of your head to hold you in place. "Worship my cock like the good little girl you are."

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice strained with pleasure. "Get it nice and wet. I want to feel that hot little mouth wrapped around my dick."

You whimpered against him softly, continuing yourr ministrations, tongue and lips working over his clothed cock with increasing fervor. Suguru could feel his orgasm building already - he had you right where he wanted you.

"Fuck," he groaned, his hips bucking slightly as he fought the urge to thrust into your face - not yet anyways, "You're going to make me cum in my pants if you keep that up."

Suddenly you pulled away, watching as his eyes snapped open - hooded still, with the pleasure you were providing him, "Then take them off," you breathed, your voice husky with desire. "I want to taste you properly."

Just like that, Suguru smirked down at you, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Oh no, baby. You don't get to make demands anymore. You've lost that privilege with all your whining."

His hand reached out still, patting your cheek condescendingly.

Another pout - perhaps that day's last decorated your face again - Suguru just chuckled and tugged at your hair, guiding your face back to his crotch. "Keep licking," he ordered. "And maybe if you do a good job, I'll let you have a taste later."

Right before you attached your mouth to his crotch again - he tugged your head back, a hiss escaping you - "oh, and doll, i see that pout again and I will fuck it out of your face, yeah?"

A fervent nod you passed, an encouraging thrust of hips you recevied.

An Easy Guide for the Crybabies!

One thing about Suguru is that he only loves the tears he gives you, that too, just when you’re choking or clamping down on him — so it rarely takes him beyond a minute or two before wrapping you up in his arms, so sweet and gentle, almost cooing at you. And when you still can’t stop? A frown still rests on your lips? When everything feels too much? It’s not all so practical, Suguru knows many would consider it a bad tactic — but that doesn’t stop him from crawling between your legs, a gentle smile as he peels away your clothes because Awh, thinking too much makes his baby sad? He’ll just have to turn that head off, right?

Quiet, except for the constant typing on your laptop, Suguru peered in for the 4th time in the past hour.

Overwhelmed and stressed - he was used to seeing you this way, typically whenever any deadline began approaching - some cases were worse than the rest, tonight being, of course, one of the worse ones.

He watched as you fumbled - quick fingers trying to grab anything and everything you could manage, manic eyes staring at the screen - comical almost, if not for the concern that grew in his chest.

"Hey there," soft - too soft, as if afraid even his voice would set you off, "Still at it, huh?"

The twitch didn't go unnoticed by him, nor did the sudden sigh off relief as you took him in - nor the slight redness of your eyes - "I...I'm almost done," slight reassurance, wavering still "Just a little more and then-"

"-No more," his words were firm - final, placing his hands on your shoulders. "You've been at this for hours, baby. You need a break."

your head shook fast - fingers tightening the grip around your pen - as if that mattered, "But my deadline is tomorrow and I can't-"

"And you won't meet it like this," he said simply, experienced fingers starting to massage your tense shoulders, creeping up and down exactly the way you preferred, "Not if you keep pushing yourself to the brink."

A small whimper was all that escaped you - he knew you well,knew your body too well, knew your limits better than you.

He smiled softly as your head fell back - a small groan passed as he worked the tense knots - "It's a big project," a quiet confession, he offered his silence to have you at ease - "work's been rough - I...I don't know, nothing seems enough."

He gulped, eyes falling to look at your face - he leaned in slowly, a soft kiss pressed to your temple, "You are always enough, you are perfect - everything you do will always and always be appreciated,"

a low hum you offered - everything you needed, everything he had to offer poured into that kiss.

a small smile slowly crawled up, it wasn’t the best method but it was always efficient—and his favourite.

“want me to help you relax doll?”

your eyes fluttered open - alarmed for a second, and then a groan, “Suguru-! It’s not the time for …” your words faltered as he smiled at you — a mischievous smile, boyish, hard to refuse.

“you need it, don’t you?” He simply egged and a sigh was all you passed between the two of you — “only once.”

Before you could even manage to think against it, he slid his hands down your arms and tugged you out of your chair.

a stumble- right into his arms, your back flush against his chest. It was as if you melted right into him - his warmth encapsulating you — another small kiss pressed to the back of your ear.

Suguru held you close, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back while the other slid down to cup your ass, pulling you more firmly against him.

He could feel the tension slowly starting to drain from your body as he caressed you, his touch both comforting and arousing.

"Shh, it's okay," he soothed, his lips brushing your neck, "I've got you, doll. I'm going to take care of you, just like I always do."

you allowed yourself to nuzzle into his chest — eyes snapped shut, he held you perfectly. Suguru took his time — his touch lay simple, skilled, sensual.

Slowly, he walked you backwards, guiding you towards tryout chair. Pliant you moved - his touch was all you needed. Suguru took no time — kneeling before you, working his fingers to spread your thighs wide for him.

soft eyes looked up at you - a smile ever present, he pressed another soft kiss to your knee, then your thigh —“I’ve got you, yeah?”

“and that would be, how?” You smiled back finally - some ease seeped into Suguru as well — you bit your lip as his kisses inched closer and closer to your core — his hands sliding up and down your thigh.

Your breath hitched as Suguru tapped his finger against your clothed sex — “I'm going to eat this pretty little pussy until you forget all your silly worries," blunt lay his words - neither of you cared - his thumb brushing over your clothed slit.

"Until all you can think about is the way my tongue feels inside you, fucking you, making you come on my face again and again until you're a silly, satisfied mess."

You couldn’t help a whimper, nor the twitch of your hips at his words. “don’t be mean t’night?” A plea — Suguru had no intention anyway — a smirk met your eyes as he teased, “I’ll think about it.”

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your pant and panties together — usually he’s spend his time dealing with just those as well - not tonight, tonight you needed him.

"No resistance?" he teased, starting to tug them down her thighs - your hips bucking up to allow him - watching as he tossed the clothing carelessly.

“can you please begin,” you snapped finally - warning a thorough chuckle from your lover.

He took a second too long - salivating as he stared, your arousal so evident — he could sleep you, see it in the way your slit glistened — and he knew too, that you were at your limit, teetering at the edge.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh as he gazed up at her adoringly. "Don’t why away from asking for what you want, hm?"

A small nod - your fingers grazing through his hair - “need you…” you mumbled and he nodded back.

"Shh, I know exactly what you need right now. buy good girl," he cooed, his lips brushing over your slit teasingly.

You didn’t bother nodding - your head already pushed back against the head rest as his lips attached to your cunt.

"Mmm, fuck — should do this everyday, shouldn’t I? Twice, in fact," he purred, before diving in and licking a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit.

"Ohhh!" You cried out, back arching off the couch as pleasure sparked through you, eyes already hazy — you didn’t care much about what he was saying — “get your mind off the world.”

Suguru - ever the gentleman, flicked your clit fast , his tongue hot against your little nub - and just like that, he sucked hard on it then, your hips bucking instantly — a small tut of his tongue as he pressed you down, patience was key after all - “you’ll get your fill baby, won’t stop till this pretty cunt is overflowing with your cum.”

your grip on his hair only tightened — pushing his face closer to yourself — grinding your pussy right in his face — all he did was moan, aware of just how the vibrations of that too, got you going.

his tongue plunged in and out — thumb drawing slow circles against your clit — his other hand keeping your thighs spread apart, not only making a mess out of you but also your chair.

"Fuck, you taste so fucking good," he panted against you, his fingers digging into the fat of your thighs as he pulled you harder against his mouth. "I could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough."

"Do it then!" You begged, voice high and breathy with pleasure, “please please please,” a whine, “please make me cum, wanna cum f’you - please Suguru…” he smiled against your skin as you dragged his name.

hazy, too hazy.

Your words only ever spurred him on, and he redoubled his efforts, sucking harder, licking faster, his tongue delving deeper as he fucked you with wild abandon. and finally - with a sharp gasp, he felt your body go rigid — a slight Trimble as you gripped him firmly.

Your pussy clenched and fluttered around his invading tongue, gushing your release all over his chin and cheeks as he worked you through it, his lips and tongue never stopping their relentless assault.

Finally, as the last aftershocks faded away, Suguru pulled back, his face glistening with your juices. He looked up at you with a smug, satisfied grin, his eyes shining with adoration and love.

"There now, doesn't that feel so much better, sweetheart?" he cooed, pressing a soft kiss to your sensitive slit — warning himself a shudder from you, "All that tension and worry, melted away?"

you could only nod, a blissed out smile on your face as you stared down at him, your chest heaving. Suguru just chuckled, knowing he had done his job well.

All of this work is original and entirely my own—please refrain from copying or reposting.

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[satosray]

your hands feel so small compared to his, trying to hold him steady while he leans back against the couch. "like this?" you ask, teasing, pressing your chest around him, and the groan he lets out is more of an answer enough.

"fuck, yeah- just like that, baby." his voice is low, a little breathless, and he's already reaching for your hair, tangling his fingers in it as he watches you work. you can feel the heat of him between you, slick and hard, his hips rocking up slightly to match your movement.

his head tips back when you lean down, letting your tongue flick over the tip just to drive him crazy, and the little curse he mutters under his breath sends a pulse of satisfaction straight to your core. “shit, you’re perfect!” he says, his voice rough, eyes half-lidded when he looks down at you. “gonna make me lose my mind, my.. ahh..”

you just smile up at him, all sweet and innocent, even as you squeeze him tighter, letting him glide a little faster, chasing that edge. “good,” you whisper, leaning close enough that your breath ghosts over him. “that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

when he finally breaks, spilling his warm and sticky seed over your skin, you just can’t help but grin at the way his chest heaves, at the way he looks at you, at the way his eyes look glossy.. there's no doubt in your mind that you need him inside. like right now.

[satosray]

—Boyfriend girlfriend

❥ Rubbing clits with Fem!Toru after a curse turns him into your girlfriend!

A.N. Super short drabble but I might write more...

“Uuughnn– I’m gonna hah, miss this when I transform back,” Fem!Toru gasped, grinding her hips forward to smother both of your pussies in each other's juices. You two whine when your clits bump together, sliding and slotting against each other perfectly.

You twitch, every feeling of Satoru's pussy on yours having sparks of electricity shoot up your spine. Through the haze, you lean forward, mouth finding purchase right on Satoru’s small, perky tits that bounced just right whenever she’d rut against you roughly. The action has Satoru arching her back and into you, head thrown back as she lets out a loud moan, grabbing your hair as your hand plays with her other nipple.

“Fuck baby!” Satoru’s higher-pitched voice keens, eyes rolling to the back of her head as your warm tongue toys and licks her nipple. “No wonder you like that so muuuuch– Ah!” You hum, brows furrowed in concentration as you suck on the soft flesh, bringing your other free hand to rub Satoru’s clit as she grinds down onto you.

You release Satoru’s tit from your mouth with a wet pop! Licking your lips as you watched your saliva slick right on your pretty boyfriend-turned-girlfriend. “You’re so pretty as a girl ‘Toru,” You coo, sighing as the stickiness in between the two of you intensifies, having both of your clits throbbing against eachother. “I almost like you better like this.” You joke, giggling breathlessly.

“You don't mean thaaaatt—” Satoru whines, pouting down at you but making no sign of stopping. “I’m better with a dick, right?”

You shrug, a taunting smile gracing your features. “That's debatable baby.”

Satoru’s pace slows, beautiful blue eyes growing dark. “Hey, I might not have a dick, but I can still fuck you stupid.”

“Try me.”

[satosray]

as a severely mentally ill 14 year old, I remember thinking “the medical system would treat me better if I was physically ill and not mentally ill” and then I coincidentally developed multiple chronic illnesses and found out that actually they dgaf even when you’re essentially bedridden

[satosray]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU

pairing: sukuna ryomen x male reader

synopsis: College is hell—but it gets worse when your ex is scheming, your sister just wants to date, and the only guy bold enough to flirt with you might be doing it for a bet. Sukuna is cocky, tattooed, and impossible to ignore. What starts as a setup spirals into something real: a kiss at a paintball park, a night you can’t forget, and a truth that ruins everything.

content warnings: 18+, college au, alcohol consumption, tipsy sex, semi-public sex, morally grey characters, manipulation, betrayal, cheating (implied), emotionally charged sex, lying for personal gain, heartbreak, swearing, slutshaming, emotionally neglectful behavior, public confrontation, yelling, one slap, characters being hot and toxic, unresolved family dynamics, loud party scenes, academic pressure (light), emotionally vulnerable confession in a poem, a little nanami slander, inspired by the titular movie.

word count: 8.0k - art belongs to @/to00fu on tumblr

People didn’t avoid you because you were scary. They avoided you because you made it clear you didn’t want to be spoken to.

No fake smiles. No nodding along. No “haha, yeah” in the hallway. You weren’t mean—you were efficient. Quiet when you could be. Sharp when you had to be. Your sister said it was a defence mechanism. Your last boyfriend said it was unattractive.

You said nothing. And they all took it personally.

So it wasn’t shocking that Gojo Satoru, of all people, took it as a challenge.

He dropped into the seat next to you five minutes before class, sunglasses still on despite being inside, iced coffee in hand like he wasn’t already vibrating out of his skin.

“Okay,” he said, way too casually, “hypothetical for you.”

You didn’t look up.

“What would it take for someone to date you?”

You blinked once. Turned the page of your book. “A lobotomy.”

Gojo laughed like you were joking. “Nice. So you’re saying there’s a chance.”

You finally glanced at him. He was grinning. Bright, smug, stupid.

You went back to your book. “Whatever plan you’re working on,” you said flatly, “leave me out of it.”

“Can’t,” he said. “Your sister’s dating life depends on it.”

That made you pause. Just a little.

Of course it did.

✧✧✧

Gojo said your sister’s dating life depended on you like it were some minor inconvenience. Like you were the problem, and not, say, your parents’ medieval take on dating logistics.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. He took your silence as permission.

“So—” he leaned in, like you were co-conspirators and not two people who’d had a total of three conversations ever, “just out of curiosity, are you into guys? Girls? Hot RAs with emotionally complicated backstories?”

You stared at him. He winked.

Thankfully, the professor walked in, saving you from felony assault.

But Gojo wasn’t done.

Later that day, you found Utahime sitting on the quad lawn, phone in hand, surrounded by three empty bubble tea cups and a stack of psych readings she was pretending to highlight.

She didn’t look up when you dropped onto the grass beside her.

“Gojo’s bothering me again,” you said.

“You bother yourself,” she muttered. “I just get collateral damage.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looked at you. Actually looked. Her face was too pretty to pull off annoyed, but she tried anyway.

“It means,” she said slowly, like you were a particularly stupid lab rat, “I’ve been asked out twice this week. I had to say no both times.”

You blinked. “...why?”

She stared.

“Oh,” you said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

The silence stretched between you.

“I told them you didn’t care if I dated,” she said, half-hopeful. “That you weren’t, like, emotionally invested or anything.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why won’t they believe me?”

Because once, when you were seventeen, you told your mom that if she let Utahime date some slimy little theatre kid named Kento, you’d report them both to CPS. She’d laughed. But apparently the rule stuck.

No dating for Utahime until her older brother—the one who allegedly told his ex to choke on a thesaurus—started dating again.

Flawless system.

“I'm going to die alone,” she said. “And it’s going to be your fault.”

You tipped your head back and closed your eyes. “Tell Mom and Dad I’m gay. Maybe they’ll make an exception.”

Utahime huffed. “You’re not gay. You’re just emotionally unavailable.”

“Same difference.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for you to hear the quiet buzz of her phone screen lighting up.

She didn’t say anything, but her tone shifted.

“I’m not giving up,” she said, almost to herself.

You cracked one eye open. “On dating?”

“On you.”

You frowned. “What the hell does that mean?”

But Utahime was already standing up, gathering her notes and shoving a half-drunk boba into your hand.

“Drink this,” she said. “You need sugar or something. You’ve been looking extra feral lately.”

You watched her walk off, phone already to her ear. She was smiling. Strategically.

You narrowed your eyes.

That couldn’t be good.

✧✧✧

Naoya didn’t usually come to this café. It wasn’t his scene. Too many broke kids and philosophy majors pretending they were deep because they ordered their lattes with oat milk and wore Doc Martens like they invented rebellion. But today, he made an exception. He had a plan, and it needed someone very specific. Someone fucked-up enough to say yes.

Sukuna sat in the corner, back to the wall, hood up, earbuds in—but not playing anything. Just a signal: don’t talk to me unless you want problems. Naoya talked to him anyway.

He didn’t bother with greetings. Just slid into the seat across from him, like they were equals. Like Sukuna wasn’t already deciding if he wanted to walk out or throw his drink in Naoya’s face.

“You’re bored, right?” Naoya said. “You walk around like nothing matters. Like you’re above it all.”

Sukuna didn’t look up. “You’ve got five seconds to stop wasting my time.”

Naoya smirked. “You know Ijichi, yeah? The older one. Poetry kid. Looks like he hates everyone.”

Now, Sukuna looked at him. Not surprised—just interested enough to pause.

Naoya kept going, casual like he wasn’t holding a knife under the table. “He’s my ex. And he’s been going around acting like he’s too good for everyone now. Like he dumped me. Like I’m the joke.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow. “...didn’t he?”

Naoya ignored that. “I want you to date him.”

That made Sukuna smile. Or something like it. Barely there. Sharp. “You want me to fuck your ex?”

“No. I want you to make him fall for you. Properly. The whole show. Make him trust you. Think you care.” Naoya leaned in. “Then you dump him. Publicly. Leave him the way he left me. Let everyone see it.”

Sukuna studied him like he was a puzzle with missing pieces. “You want revenge.”

“I want to win.”

There was a long silence. Sukuna tilted his head, just slightly. “What’s in it for me?”

Naoya smiled. “If you pull it off, I’ll owe you. I’ve got connections. People who look the other way. Professors. Admin. You’re smart, but your grades are shit. I can fix that.” He paused. “Or—if you’re more into humiliation—I’ll read one of Gojo’s poems at open mic night. Dead serious.”

That got an actual laugh out of Sukuna. Soft. Cruel.

He leaned back in his seat and cracked his knuckles, slow and deliberate. “You think your ex is dumb enough to fall for me?”

Naoya’s grin curled like a cigarette being lit. “I think you’re pretty enough to make it happen.”

Sukuna tilted his head like the whole thing was beneath him—but maybe still worth his time.

He grabbed his drink, stood slowly, and gave Naoya a look that didn’t say yes or no—just, watch me.

“Sure,” he muttered, turning to leave. “Could use something to do.”

He didn’t wait for Naoya’s reply. Didn’t care.

Because the truth was—he’d already seen you around. And maybe, just maybe, he’d been waiting for an excuse.

✧✧✧

The campus bookstore was one of your favourite places to be ignored.

Not the main one—too many screaming first-years buying overpriced highlighters. No, this one was tucked into the corner of an old side street, half-forgotten and dimly lit. Records lined one wall, poetry chapbooks on the other. The kind of place where no one asked questions if you sat on the floor and read for an hour without buying anything.

You were thumbing through the “melancholy bastard” section—Leonard Cohen, Elliott Smith, the usual suspects—when someone moved into your peripheral vision. Slow. Purposeful. Close enough to make it obvious, not close enough to say hi.

You glanced up. Froze.

He was taller than you expected. Sharper, too. Hair pulled back in a lazy knot, a black hoodie stretched across broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. You recognised him instantly. Everyone did. Sukuna Ryomen wasn’t a person so much as a rumour with cheekbones.

He didn’t say anything. Just flipped through records two rows over like he wasn’t fully aware of your existence—like he wasn’t performing not noticing you.

So you ignored him right back. Or tried to. Until he spoke.

“Pretty sure you already read that one.”

You glanced at the book in your hand. Sylvia Plath.

“Maybe I like rereading things,” you said.

Sukuna’s mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. “Sure. Or maybe you just like being sad on purpose.”

You turned fully to face him. “You following me, or are you just naturally this annoying?”

“Neither,” he said, stepping closer now, not even pretending anymore. “You’re just loud for someone who pretends not to want attention.”

Your jaw clenched. “I’m not loud.”

“You are,” he said, so casually it felt surgical. “But it’s fine. I like loud.”

You stared at him. He stared back, lazy and unbothered, like this entire conversation was just a thing he was trying on for size.

Then he held up a record—slowly, deliberately—like an offering. The Smiths. Of course.

“Not my type,” you said.

He grinned. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”

And then he turned and walked out.

No name. No number. Just static, and you're holding a book that you suddenly can’t read anymore.

✧✧✧

He didn’t come up to you again the next day. Or the one after that. Which would’ve been fine, except now you were aware of him. Aware in the way a body is aware of a bruise: a low ache, something you’d keep accidentally brushing up against.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That the record store thing was nothing. That you weren’t flattered, weren’t intrigued, weren’t still thinking about the way he looked at you like he already knew how the story would end. But then he started showing up.

Once in the library, at the table across from yours. Once in the dining hall, passing close enough to brush shoulders. And once—most irritatingly—in your creative writing elective, which you were sure he hadn’t been enrolled in the week before.

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just… hovered. Orbiting your schedule like it was gravitational. Always on the edge of your attention. Never too obvious. But you weren’t stupid. You’d seen this game before. Some guys flirted with flowers. Others with sarcasm. Sukuna, apparently, flirted with proximity and smirks.

The next time he spoke to you, it was after class, some Thursday afternoon that already felt like a headache. You were halfway down the hallway when he fell into step beside you, calm like you’d invited him.

“You free tonight?” he asked, like you were mid-conversation.

You didn’t even look at him. “Do I look like I am?”

He hummed. “Hard to tell. You’ve got the kind of face that always looks annoyed.”

You stopped walking. Turned to face him. “Are you flirting with me, or just bored?”

Sukuna shrugged, unbothered. “Why can’t it be both?”

You stared at him. He stared back. There was something maddening about the way he held eye contact—like he wasn’t afraid of anything you could say. Like he didn’t believe you could hurt him.

“Look,” you said flatly, “whatever this is? You can stop. I’m not interested.”

He tilted his head. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He smiled, soft and slow. “Alright.” Then, almost like it was nothing: “You’ll change your mind.”

And then he walked off. No argument. No doubling down. Just that fucking smugness trailing after him like cigarette smoke.

You watched him go, jaw tight, heart doing something it shouldn’t have been doing. You hated people like that. People who were too confident, too casual. The kind of confidence that meant they never really got rejected, only delayed.

Still, you told yourself it was over. That he got the message. That someone like Ryomen Sukuna—someone cold, magnetic, and clearly a walking disaster—wouldn’t waste time chasing someone who wasn’t biting.

You were wrong, obviously.

✧✧✧

Utahime wasn’t sure what annoyed her more—the fact that Gojo had somehow gotten into her French class halfway through the semester, or the fact that he kept insisting it was fate. Not like “divine intervention” fate. More like “we made eye contact one time outside the dining hall and now we have to get married” fate. Which, for Gojo Satoru, was probably the same thing.

Today, he’d positioned himself at the desk next to hers with all the subtlety of a hurricane. Notebook open, sleeve rolled up just enough to show the faint tan line from a friendship bracelet someone had clearly made for him. Probably Utahime’s roommate. Or her professor. Or both.

“Je veux du café,” he said smoothly, pencil twirling between his fingers. “I want coffee. Which I do. Right now. With you.”

Utahime stared at him. “I want a lobotomy.”

Gojo grinned. “How do you say that in French?”

She didn’t answer. Mostly because she didn’t know, and partly because answering would be giving him exactly what he wanted—attention, reaction, eye contact that lingered a second too long.

Which she gave him anyway.

Because she was weak. And he was pretty. And she hated that about herself.

“I cry during movies,” Gojo added, like that would help. “And I recycle. I’m, like, morally irresistible.”

Before she could threaten him with physical harm, Naoya dropped into the seat on her other side like a glitch in the matrix. She hadn’t even seen him come in.

“Utahime,” he said, voice dipped in manufactured charm, “you’re looking…”

“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

He smirked. “Feisty.”

Gojo leaned back in his seat, letting his arm drape casually behind Utahime’s chair. “We’re doing adjectives now? I can play. She’s radiant. Intelligent. Dangerously under-caffeinated.”

Naoya scowled at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be gay?”

Gojo’s grin sharpened. “I’m supposed to be a lot of things.”

Utahime sighed, grabbing her books. “I’m getting coffee.”

“Alone or fake-alone?” Gojo asked, already rising with her.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m practising immersion.”

Naoya frowned. “I could come, too.”

Utahime didn’t answer. She just walked off with Gojo trailing behind her like a heatwave. Naoya watched them leave, something bitter flickering behind his eyes.

Across the room, Geto—Gojo’s longtime friend and reluctant enabler—looked up from his sandwich.

“You’re losing,” he said helpfully.

Naoya turned to him. “Who even are you?”

Geto shrugged. “A prophet, apparently.”

And then he went back to eating like nothing had happened.

✧✧✧

You’d always hated group work. It was academic Tinder—awkward pairings, fake small talk, and someone inevitably doing all the work while the other coasted on vibes and a vaguely tragic backstory. You’d perfected the art of preemptively claiming a seat at the edge of the classroom, angled just far enough to be left out of any “everyone find a partner!” moments.

So when Professor Yaga said, “Pair off for today’s workshop,” you didn’t even flinch. You just opened your notebook and waited for some poor idiot to make eye contact with you long enough to get guilted into joining.

What you did not expect was Sukuna Ryomen to slide into the chair next to you like he’d been assigned to you by the devil himself.

“You’re late,” you said flatly, not looking up.

He shrugged. “I’m unpredictable.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, folding his arms behind his head, “here I am. Partnered with you. Fate’s weird like that.”

You didn’t reply. If you didn’t give him attention, maybe he’d get bored and go haunt someone else.

No such luck.

Sukuna leaned over like he was actually going to read your notes, which would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t also extremely annoying. “So… what are we doing?”

You side-eyed him. “I’m doing the assignment. You’re vibing.”

He grinned. “I like your handwriting.”

“Thanks. I use it exclusively to write insults.”

“Write one for me.”

You turned to him, finally, incredulous. “You want me to insult you?”

“Sure. Most people just talk behind my back.”

You blinked. For half a second, you caught something real in his voice. But then he smiled again, lazy and crooked, like he’d flipped a switch and gone back to whatever version of himself he thought you wanted to see.

You looked away. “I don’t know what your deal is,” you said. “But it’s not working.”

“What’s not working?”

“This.” You gestured vaguely. “The whole dark-and-mysterious routine. The sudden interest in me. The flirting that’s somehow also condescending. Whatever game you’re playing—it’s boring.”

Sukuna was quiet for a beat too long. Then: “Damn. Tell me how you really feel.”

You turned back to your notes. “I did.”

He didn’t say anything for the rest of the class. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t smirk. Just sat there, too still. Too quiet. Like maybe—for once—you’d actually surprised him.

And you told yourself that was the end of it. That you’d won. That this weird little game had finally hit a wall he couldn’t smooth-talk his way around.

But later that day, when you opened your locker, there was a Post-it stuck inside. Black ink. Slanted handwriting.

“I’m not flirting. I just like the way you look when you hate me.” —S.R.

You crumpled it and threw it away.

Then stood there for another twenty seconds, staring at the empty space where it had been.

✧✧✧

You were already regretting everything by the time you got to the front steps of the frat house. The music was so loud it vibrated through your shoes, some bastard remix of a pop song you didn’t recognise, drowning out your thoughts. You tugged at your sleeves, scowled at the flashing lights, and turned toward Utahime. “We’re not staying long.”

She rolled her eyes. “You say that like I didn’t blackmail you into coming.”

“I’m still not sure how you did that.”

“I know what happened in freshman year with that T.A.,” she said sweetly. “And I still have the screenshots.”

You glared. “You are the worst.”

“And yet,” she smiled, “you’re here.”

The house was packed. Someone was already puking into the hedge. Inside, it smelled like cheap beer, weed, and something tragically floral—like a Bath & Body Works exploded. You manoeuvred your way through the crowd, ignoring every attempt at conversation, every accidental brush of arms. You were just here to babysit. To make sure Utahime didn’t end up locked in a bathroom crying because Naoya said something gross about astrology.

And of course Naoya was here. Centre of attention, glittering in that way only rich, boring people knew how to do. He spotted Utahime instantly and made a beeline for her, offering a drink and a smirk that probably worked on freshmen with low standards.

You watched from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, mood already circling the drain. And that’s when you felt it—his presence. Like a shift in pressure, a temperature drop, the back of your neck prickling for no good reason.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the hallway wall, red solo cup dangling from his fingers, eyes on you. Not on the party. Not on the crowd. You.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just watched you like he was waiting for something. You looked away fast, heart doing something stupid in your chest. You hated that he got under your skin so easily. Hated even more that he knew it.

Time blurred. The music got louder. You ended up with a drink you didn’t ask for and downed it faster than necessary. It burned. You didn’t care.

Another cup. Another burn.

And then—somewhere between your third drink and Utahime yelling “YOLO is dead, stop saying that” at Naoya—you found yourself in the living room, lights flashing, bodies moving around you like smoke, and someone yelling for you to “get on the table if you’re hot.”

You didn’t remember climbing up. Didn’t remember deciding that dancing was a good idea. All you remembered was the heat in your face, the weightlessness in your limbs, and the absolutely feral look Sukuna gave you from across the room.

His expression didn’t change, but his posture did. He stood straighter. The cup disappeared from his hand. His eyes followed you like you were a threat he wanted to keep close.

You moved to the music, loose and loud and lit up with the kind of recklessness you usually buried under sarcasm and disdain. People were cheering. Someone whistled. You didn’t care.

Sukuna was at the base of the table now. Right below you. Watching. Waiting.

You dropped into a crouch, leaned forward, close enough to speak into his ear if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

But you almost did.

Instead, you held his gaze for one beat too long. The kind of look that felt like a dare.

You jumped down off the table, blood hot and your head swimming with smoke and sugar. The crowd swallowed you whole, but your eyes found him instantly, leaning against the wall like he owned it, red cup in hand, lip caught between his teeth.

Sukuna.

His eyes were locked on you. Sharp. Starved.

You didn’t even think—just pushed through the bodies, grabbed his shirt, and muttered something like “upstairs, now.”

He followed.

Didn’t say a word. Just pressed a hand to your lower back and let you drag him through the chaos, up the stairs, into the nearest room with a door you could slam shut behind you.

The lock clicked.

And then your mouth was on his.

It was messy, clumsy at first, all teeth and breath and too many hands trying to touch at once. He groaned into the kiss when you pushed him up against the wall, his fingers tightening on your hips like he’d been waiting for this all damn semester.

Your shirt came off first. His followed. Then yours again, because he wanted to see. Touch. Explore the heat under your skin and the way your breath hitched when his mouth dragged down your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispered, against your collarbone, like you were something sacred and ruined all at once.

You backed toward the bed, pulling him with you. Fell into the mattress, legs tangled, teeth clashing, laughing into his mouth when he groaned your name like it hurt.

When he settled between your thighs, grinding down just hard enough to make your spine arch, you gasped. Grabbed at him. Let your head fall back with a choked sound you didn’t mean to let slip.

“Still hate me?” he asked, breath hot against your jaw.

“Shut the fuck up,” you muttered, pulling him closer.

You didn’t stop touching him. Didn’t stop moving. Your bodies slid together like they’d done this before—like they needed it. Your fingers digging into his back. His mouth on your throat, your chest, your stomach. The way he kissed you after every gasp—like he wanted to savour it. Make sure you never forgot.

And you wouldn’t.

Not the way he whispered your name right before you came. Not the way he held your face when you did. Not the way he kissed you after, slow and reverent, like he hadn’t just destroyed you.

You lay there in silence, bodies warm and wrecked and too tangled to pretend it meant nothing.

And you knew, even then: This wasn’t just a party hookup.

This was the moment you’d remember tomorrow—when it all came crashing down.

✧✧✧

You woke up with the kind of hangover that made you question every life decision from age seven onward. Your mouth tasted like regret. Your head pulsed like there was a rave happening behind your eyes. You blinked at the ceiling for a full minute before sitting up and immediately regretting that too.

Your phone had five missed texts from Utahime, two from unknown numbers, and one photo you had to squint at to realise was you, on a table, mid-dance. Shirt ridden up. Face flushed. Sukuna—barely in frame—standing below, half-shadowed, looking up at you like you were some kind of puzzle he was deciding not to solve.

You deleted the photo. Then deleted the delete.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. People danced at parties. People got drunk. People flirted with dangerous men and almost fucked them in front of fifty witnesses. It was fine.

You were halfway across the quad, hoodie up, headphones in with no music playing, when you saw him again.

Sukuna.

Sitting under one of the older trees near the main lecture hall, legs stretched out, notebook open on one knee. Writing. Or pretending to. His eyes flicked up the moment you got close.

“Morning,” he said, like nothing had happened. No sarcasm. No smirk. Just… the word.

You stopped. Against your better judgment. “Are you stalking me?”

He shrugged. “I was here first.”

“You’re always ‘here first.’ That’s weird.”

He didn’t look at you when he answered. Just kept flipping the stupid lighter in his hand like it might say something for him. “Or maybe,” he said, calm as anything, “we just hang out in the same places.”

You snorted. “We don’t hang out.”

“Tell that to the version of you dancing on the kitchen table last night.”

Your stomach turned. Too fast. Too hard. Like it had been waiting for that line, and now it didn’t know what to do with it.

“You’re not funny,” you said. Too sharp. Too flat.

“I’m kind of hilarious, actually.”

But he didn’t smile when he said it. Not really. He wasn’t doing that thing he usually did—leaning in too close, voice dipped just low enough to make you feel it. He wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t pushing. He just looked tired. Quiet. Like he was standing on the other side of something you couldn’t see yet.

You folded your arms across your chest. “I don’t remember much,” you said. Which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

He nodded once. No judgment. No sarcasm. Just—“Cool. Then we’ll say nothing happened.”

That landed harder than it should have. You blinked. “You’re not gonna be annoying about it?”

“Nope.”

And he meant it. That was the worst part. No smug grin. No smug anything. He was offering you an out. A clean break. Like he’d already accepted whatever version of this you were willing to give him.

You scoffed, because it felt safer than silence. “Fine. Nothing happened.”

“Exactly.”

You turned to walk away. Fast. Too fast. Like you could outpace the heat still lingering on your skin or the phantom feel of his hands on your waist.

But then, just as the door creaked behind you, you heard him say it.

Soft. Almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it at all.

“But it could’ve.”

You didn’t stop.

But you felt it.

All the way down.

✧✧✧

You were halfway up the metal bleachers when you realised something was off.

It was supposed to be a quiet practice. The field was open, sun bleeding through low clouds, a few students jogging the track, the campus radio playing somewhere in the background. You’d come out here to clear your head, not to be witnessed. Definitely not to be ambushed.

And yet.

The radio cut out mid-song. A pause. Then: feedback. And then—his voice.

“This is probably a bad idea,” said Sukuna, crackling through the speakers like an accidental god.

You froze.

“But you’re ignoring me, and I’m not built for being ignored. So here we are.”

Heads turned. The girl stretching two rows down looked up, confused. A guy on the field pointed toward the press box, where the campus radio station was housed.

You turned slowly.

There he was.

Sukuna, leaning into the mic, half-laughing, one arm resting on the desk like he owned the place. A little breathless. Hair pulled back. That same damn look in his eye.

“You don’t like me. I get it. You think I’m an asshole—which is fair. But you also think I don’t notice things. That I’m not paying attention. And you’re wrong.”

You felt your heartbeat in your teeth.

“You always start your notes on the bottom line of the page. You mouth the words when you read. You don’t laugh out loud unless it’s mean or unexpected. You’re mean when you’re scared. You’re scared when you like someone.”

You were going to kill him.

Not immediately. Not in front of witnesses. But soon.

“So if you’re listening—and I know you are—just know this: I’m not asking for anything. I’m just saying I see you. And I’m still here.”

Then static. Silence. Someone started clapping. A few others joined. The moment cracked open like a dropped plate.

You stood up.

Walked down the bleachers.

And made sure not to look at anyone until you were off the field and back inside.

You didn’t text him.

But that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way his voice had sounded through the speaker.

A little unsure.

A little real.

Too real.

✧✧✧

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered, climbing into the passenger seat of his beat-up car.

“Sure you can,” Sukuna said, sliding into the driver’s side like this wasn’t the biggest win of his month. “You’re dying to hang out with me.”

“I’m skipping class, not confessing my feelings.”

“Same thing,” he smirked, revving the engine.

You rolled your eyes and refused to smile.

He didn’t tell you where you were going, but you didn’t ask. You just watched the trees blur past the window and tried not to think about how your chest still ached from hearing his voice on the radio yesterday. Or how he hadn’t pushed you afterwards. No smug comments. No, “so, you like me now?” Just a nod across the quad, like he knew what he’d done and wasn’t going to ruin it.

And then, suddenly—you were here.

It was an abandoned paintball park just off the edge of campus, tucked behind a shuttered rec centre and a forest that hadn’t been trimmed in years. Half the inflatables were sun-bleached. The other half looked like they were waiting to be condemned. It was perfect.

“Is this trespassing?” you asked.

He looked at you. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He pulled two masks and a backpack full of old paintball gear from the trunk and tossed you one.

“Winner gets to ask one question,” he said, already loading his gun.

“What if I win?”

“You won’t.”

You hit him first. Right in the ribs. Yellow paint exploded across his hoodie, and he staggered back, laughing—really laughing—and called you a bitch through the mask. You didn’t stop grinning for ten whole seconds.

It went like that for a while. Running. Hiding. Hitting each other with sharp, wet bursts of colour. At one point, you tripped and rolled behind a bunker, breathing hard. Sukuna slid in after you, tackled you with just enough force to knock the wind out of your lungs, and pinned you there.

You froze.

Paint smeared between you. His mask was off now. So was yours. His eyes were close, wild and bright. His breath hit your face in fast bursts.

Neither of you said anything.

Then—just like that—he kissed you.

Quick. Hard. Like he hadn’t meant to do it until it was already happening.

You didn’t stop him.

You kissed him back.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie, and his mouth tilted against yours, hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you told him to fuck off during class that first week.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Not from the game. From you.

You swallowed. “I still hate you.”

He grinned. “Sure you do.”

And then he kissed you again.

✧✧✧

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Sukuna had followed you downtown because you wanted “real food, not vending machine garbage,” and somehow that turned into ducking into a cramped little music shop just off the main strip. Guitars lined the walls like trophies, faded band posters tacked behind the counter. The whole place smelled like old wood and warm metal.

You didn’t say anything when you picked one up.

Just grabbed the pair of beat-up studio headphones from the display, plugged in, and sat down on the little stool in the back.

Sukuna watched from a distance, pretending to be interested in a rack of bass picks. But his eyes kept sliding back to you.

The way your fingers moved—confident, casual, muscle memory kicking in like it had never left. Your eyes were half-lidded, head tilted just slightly, as you plucked out something low and slow. Not a song he recognised. Maybe not even a full melody. Just sound. Easy. Yours.

You looked so fucking calm.

So quietly happy.

When you noticed him watching, you smirked and pulled the headphones off.

“Didn’t peg you as the lingering type,” you said.

“Didn’t peg you as the secretly talented type,” he shot back.

You shrugged. “Used to play. Can’t afford one anymore. Not like I’d have time anyway.”

Then you set the guitar back on the wall, careful, like it mattered.

And walked out like none of it had meant anything.

Sukuna stayed behind a second longer.

Long enough to memorise the make. The colour. The way your eyes had gone soft when you played.

He didn’t say anything about it then.

But he remembered.

✧✧✧

Naoya wasn’t a genius, but he wasn’t stupid either.

And something was definitely going on.

He watched them from across the quad—Utahime, Gojo, and that stupid little spiral of tension they tried to play off as banter. Gojo leaning in just a bit too close, Utahime swatting him away, but never really moving. Her eyes lingered. His hands were always busy—spinning a pen, adjusting his sunglasses, reaching for a piece of her attention like it was second nature.

They weren’t dating. Not officially. But it was obvious. Everyone could feel it.

And it pissed Naoya off more than he cared to admit.

He’d asked Utahime to prom in the most low-effort way possible—half a smile and a “You’re free Saturday, right?” by the vending machines. She’d paused for a second, then shrugged. “Sure.” No exclamation point. No heart emoji. Just sure.

Still, he considered it a win. Until later that week, when he overheard Gojo asking her what colour she was wearing so he could “match his tie to her aura.” And the worst part? She laughed. Laughed. The kind of laugh you didn’t fake for social survival. The kind that lived in your throat when someone actually got under your skin—in a good way.

Naoya stared from a distance, fuming silently as Gojo offered Utahime a bite of whatever overpriced pastry he was eating. She took it. Didn’t even hesitate.

That’s when it hit him.

Gojo didn’t care about prom. He cared about winning.

And Utahime? She wasn’t even pretending anymore. Not even a little.

Naoya didn’t say anything. Just watched them walk off, their shadows overlapping on the pavement.

He had a date to the prom.

But he was starting to wonder if he was the only one who didn’t know it was a joke.

✧✧✧

You didn’t expect him to ask.

You’d already decided you weren’t going. Told Utahime you hated crowds, loud music, the idea of putting effort into something that would end with people puking in bushes and fake glitter in your underwear. She didn’t believe you, but she knew better than to push.

And then Sukuna showed up.

At your dorm door. Leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just jogged up four flights of stairs, hair a little messy, a half-wrinkle in his shirt like he’d slept in it and didn’t care. Like always.

“You going to prom?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read a language he hadn’t studied enough. “Figured if I have to suffer through a school event, you should too.”

You scoffed. “Is this your version of asking nicely?”

“It’s my version of asking at all.”

You should’ve said no.

Should’ve shut the door in his face, curled up in bed, and watched something violent while pretending you didn’t care. But the problem was—you did. And the way he was looking at you? Not smug. Not teasing. Just… waiting.

So you said yes.

Quietly. Grudgingly.

And two days later, he picked you up for suit shopping like this was just a thing you did now. Like the two of you had rules. Traditions. Somewhere between enemies and not-quite-lovers.

The shop was tucked behind a row of old bookstores, with mirrors that made you look taller and music that felt like static. You tried on three suits before settling on one that didn’t make you want to punch yourself. Sukuna lounged in the corner chair the whole time, pretending not to watch you adjust the collar, the cuffs, the shoulders.

“You clean up,” he said eventually, like it was a fact. Like it didn’t mean anything.

“You’re staring,” you replied.

He smiled. “Can you blame me?”

You didn’t answer. Just turned back to the mirror, trying not to imagine his hands on your waist again. Trying not to remember the way he kissed you behind that bunker, like he didn’t care who saw. Like he’d been waiting to do it since day one.

Later, you sat cross-legged on your bed while Utahime painted a line of dark eyeliner under your lashes. Her fingers were steady. She didn’t ask you anything, didn’t tease you about your date or your nerves. Just hummed under her breath, like this was something she knew you needed.

Gojo texted her mid-mascara. Something about his tie.

She smiled when she read it. Soft. The kind of smile you used to wear around people you didn’t think could hurt you.

And for the first time in weeks, your stomach sank.

Something about all of this felt too good. Too smooth.

And when things felt this good, something always broke.

✧✧✧

The gym didn’t look like a gym. Not tonight.

String lights dripped from the rafters like stars trying too hard. The floor had been covered in some kind of black satin tarp, and the punch had actual fruit in it, which meant some overworked student council member was probably passed out backstage from exhaustion.

You stood in the doorway, fingers curling into the cuffs of your sleeves, breath caught somewhere between dread and disbelief.

And then you saw him.

Sukuna.

Leaning against the back wall in a suit that looked criminal on him. Shirt half-open. Tie loose. Hair swept back like he’d tried, then gave up halfway. He looked bored. Dangerous. Stupidly hot.

But the second his eyes found you, he stared. Like you were gravity.

“Damn,” he said when you reached him, voice a little rough. “You clean up scary good.”

“You look like you lost a bet with fashion,” you shot back, but your voice was softer than usual.

His grin cracked something in your chest.

You danced. Eventually. Not because you wanted to, but because the song was slow and the room had started to spin, and Sukuna held out his hand like it wasn’t a question. His palm was warm. His fingers were steady. One hand on your waist, one on your wrist, like he was grounding you and holding you hostage all at once.

“I don’t do this,” you murmured.

“Dance?”

“Let people in.”

His grip tightened just a little. “Maybe you should.”

You didn’t pull away.

Across the room, Utahime was laughing at something Gojo said, a crumpled corsage in her hand. Gojo looked so smug that you wanted to throw something, but she looked happy. Like… happy.

Then Naoya showed up.

Lurking on the edge of the crowd like a shadow that hadn’t been invited. Eyes sharp. Smile sharper.

You felt it before you saw him approach—Sukuna going tense, his posture shifting just slightly, like he’d spotted a crack in the floor and knew what was coming.

Naoya didn’t say hello.

Didn’t greet you.

Just looked at Sukuna and said, loudly enough to turn heads:

“So, how’s it feel? Winning the bet?”

The music didn’t stop. But everything else did.

You blinked. “What bet?”

Naoya’s smile widened. “Oh, you didn’t tell him? Thought that was part of the game.”

You looked at Sukuna.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t deny it.

Just stood there. Still. Silent.

And that—that—was all it took.

You stepped back. Out of his reach. Out of his orbit.

He tried to speak—tried to explain—but you were already walking away, mouth dry, vision tunnelling.

Utahime caught up to you in the hallway. “What happened?”

And then behind you: a smack.

Loud. Sharp. Clean.

You turned just in time to see Utahime’s hand drop from Naoya’s face.

“Don’t ever talk to me again,” she said.

Naoya stood there, stunned, cheek blooming red.

Gojo looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

And Sukuna? He was still in the doorway. Still staring after you. Still not moving.

Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, you’d turn around.

You didn’t.

✧✧✧

You stopped answering texts.

Not just Sukuna’s. Everyone’s. Utahime. Gojo. That one guy from chem who always sent you TikToks you never watched. Your phone became a thing that buzzed and blinked and begged for attention, and you left it facedown every time. Like ignoring it could make everything disappear.

The campus felt smaller after that night.

Every hallway echoed. Every classroom felt like a spotlight. Every glance from people who’d heard about the scene at prom—because of course they had—made your skin itch.

And Sukuna?

He didn’t vanish. That would’ve been easier. Instead, he showed up.

Everywhere.

Leaning against the locker outside your lecture hall. Sitting on the bench across from your favourite coffee place. Lingering by the library entrance like he didn’t know where else to go.

Sometimes, he tried to talk.

Not loudly. Not the way he used to. He didn’t yell or chase or beg. Just stood there, voice low, hands in his pockets, eyes rimmed red like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I didn’t think it would matter,” he’d said once. “Until it did.”

You didn’t respond.

Another time: “It wasn’t about the bet. Not after I got to know you. I swear to god.”

You walked away before he finished.

He never pushed. Never grabbed your wrist or blocked your path or made a scene.

And that, somehow, was worse.

Because he meant it.

Because if he’d laughed in your face, you could’ve hated him clean. Sharp. Easy.

But he stood there instead—like he’d been gutted. Like you were the one who’d broken him.

It would’ve been poetic if it hadn’t hurt so much.

The worst part was: you missed him.

You missed the stupid smirk. The way he leaned too close when you talked, like he couldn’t hear you unless you were touching. You missed the quiet moments. The half-finished thoughts. The way he said your name, like it was something earned.

But every time you remembered the gym lights, Naoya’s voice, and the way Sukuna didn’t deny it, you wanted to scream.

So you didn’t say anything.

You didn’t say anything.

And Sukuna stood in your silence like it was a cage he built himself.

✧✧✧

Sukuna had never really been afraid of silence. He’d lived in it, grown up in it, learned to weaponise it. But this? This wasn’t silence. This was absence.

A blank space where laughter used to live.

No more text messages with half-spelt insults. No more boots scuffing the tile next to his. No more eyes burning into the side of his face when he said something stupid just to get a reaction.

It was like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And he was losing his mind because of it.

He hadn’t been eating. Barely sleeping. His classes were background noise, the campus a grayscale blur he wandered through in a haze. Every corner reminded him of something. A smirk. A comment. That look—the one from the paintball park, all flushed cheeks and fire.

Gone.

He was in the quad when they found him.

Gojo and Geto. The human embodiment of chaos and judgment. The worst tag team in existence.

“You look like shit,” Gojo said, flopping down next to him on the bench. “Like, more than usual.”

“Thanks,” Sukuna muttered.

Geto sat on the other side. Calm. Calculated. “So. You ruined it.”

Sukuna didn’t answer.

Gojo leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’m just trying to understand how you managed to fumble that hard. Was the bet worth it? Huh?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Sukuna said, voice low. “Not really.”

“But it was, at first,” Geto said, no venom—just facts.

Sukuna stared at the ground.

Gojo exhaled sharply. “Look. I don’t care how it started. I care that you meant it by the end. And that you let him walk away without a fight.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sukuna snapped. “I already told him it wasn’t about the bet. I told him I was sorry. He doesn’t want to hear it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Gojo said. “Not yet.”

“So what then? I keep showing up and making an idiot of myself until he forgives me?”

“Maybe,” Geto said. “Or maybe you show him something real. Something that proves it wasn’t just a game to you.”

Sukuna scoffed. “Like what? A fucking song? A love letter?”

Gojo grinned. “Oh my god. Please write him a love letter. I’ll frame it.”

“Be serious.”

“I am,” Gojo said. “You’re in love with him, Sukuna. Do something about it before it’s too late.”

That shut him up.

Because it was the truth.

He was. He was in love.

And he was going to lose you for good if he didn’t stop sulking and start trying.

✧✧✧

The assignment was simple: write a poem. Present it aloud. Be vulnerable. The professor’s words, not yours.

You weren’t going to do it.

But then you sat up the night before, fingers clenched around a pen, and the words came out like teeth.

So now you're standing here.

In front of half the class, with Sukuna sitting somewhere behind you, quiet for once, his presence like static behind your ribs.

You clear your throat.

Your hands don’t shake.

But your voice does.

“I hate the way you look at me,” you begin, tone flat, eyes locked just above everyone’s heads. “Like you’re already in on the joke. Like I’m something you’re about to ruin.”

Someone chuckles. You don’t stop.

“I hate the way you laugh when you’re nervous. Hate how it still sounds good anyway. I hate that I notice that.”

You breathe through your nose.

Don’t look at him.

“I hate the way you sit next to me like we’re not still pretending. I hate that you said it wasn’t about the bet. I hate that I believed you.”

The room is quiet now.

No laughter. No shifting chairs.

Just silence.

You swallow.

“I hate that I miss you when I shouldn't. I hate how you looked at me that night, like I meant something. I hate the paint on my old hoodie because it still smells like you. I hate that I can’t forget you. I hate that I don’t want to.”

Your voice catches.

You let it.

“I hate that I still look for you in crowds. I hate that I still love you.”

You fold the paper. Calm. Controlled.

And walk back to your seat without looking up—without looking at him.

Because if you did?

You might not survive it.

✧✧✧

A guitar was sitting in your passenger seat like it had always belonged there.

You stared at it through the open car door, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Your mouth was dry. Your hands were shaking. You didn’t know whether to scream or cry or smash it over someone's head, and honestly? That was on brand.

“Hey.”

You turned fast, shoulders tense.

Sukuna was standing a few feet behind you. Hoodie pulled over his head. Eyes soft. Like he’d been waiting hours to catch you alone.

“You broke into my car?” you said, because of course that’s what you said.

He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “Spare key. Utahime gave it to me. Under threat of bodily harm, for the record.”

You looked back at the guitar. Then at him.

“I meant it,” he said, before you could fire another round. “What I said. What I didn’t say. I was a dumbass. You know that already. But I meant everything. Every second.”

You exhaled, slow and shaky.

“I hate you,” you said, and you weren’t sure if it was true or not anymore.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

He stepped closer.

“I still want you.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Your hand fisted in the collar of his hoodie, yanked him forward, and kissed him like you were trying to kill the version of yourself that ever gave a shit about pride.

It was messy. Breathless. A little desperate. The kind of kiss that made up for all the ones you’d missed and then some.

He kissed you back like his life depended on it.

Like he’d been waiting.

When you finally pulled away, both of you dazed and a little stunned, he whispered, “Does this mean I can ride shotgun?”

You rolled your eyes. “Only if you shut the hell up.”

He grinned.

You tossed your bag in the back seat, slammed the door shut, and jerked your chin toward the car.

“Get in, asshole.”

He did.

And this time, he didn’t stop smiling.

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

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[satosray]

I miss my sugushoko 🥺💛💚

[satosray]

ever since i was a little girl i knew i liked problematic tropes

[satosray]

Cowboy gojo❗️

[satosray]

gojo

[satosray]

cowboy geto ❗️

[satosray]

flirty co-star || satoru gojo x gn!reader, jjk drabbles, pure fluff, 418 words (◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

actor!gojo who is always spotted—in all the behind the scenes snippets—clinging to your every move. that man is all over you, hugging your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world. your smiling and waving to the camera, casually explaining what's happening in the scene, but then like clock work, he's suddenly behind you, giving you a good morning hug and kiss on the temple as he arrives on set, shining his cocky grin to the camera as he casually rests his arms around your shoulders.

actor!gojo who ignores his manager's scolding, shrugging as he continues his shameless clinging, remaining at your side at every red carpet, interview or season premiere. the fans are getting wild, reposting the same clip where he grows extremely protective of you in public outings, unapologetically shoving away some people who got a little too close to you for autographs, not caring about the potential backlash online, because if your safe, that's all that matters.

actor!gojo who mentions you in every single interview, honestly, the question has nothing to do with the show but your name is falling right out his mouth at the first given moment. it happens so much that it's widely known in the industry, all interviewers now ask a question pertaining to you to keep him engaged, which works wonders with the way he sits up straighter in his seat, now enthusiastically rambling about your little habits on set.

actor!gojo who starts getting pouty when you're taken away by the glam team for touch-ups, he's stubbornly following close behind, insisting on needing extra hairspray just to be at your side. you can only laugh when he's dramatically pulled back on set, watching him whine the whole way back, until you return a few minutes later with a smoothie in your hands, which he takes it upon himself to take a little sip from, not caring about an indirect kiss as he teasingly smiles at your surprised expression.

actor!gojo who finds himself frowning at some stupid shipping wars in the comment sections, noticing how some fans think you and another cast member look cute together—oh hell no—not on his watch. he's immediately on edge all day, but when you end up sleeping against his shoulder in the lounge area, he smirks to himself, pulling out his phone to snap a quick picture, and eventually posting it on his insta story, tagging you with a little heart next to it, hmph, that'll show them!

➤ navigation

[satosray]

um.

[satosray]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭ ⭑ clan head g.satoru x f.reader ―୨୧⋆ ˚

pt 1. , pt 2.

It's been a few weeks since your last real encounter with satoru,

Few weeks since the day you tucked that pink flower into your hair while he watched from a distance,frozen behind you, the last time you had let him see a piece of you.

Since then everything has just been quiet, not cold, but just --careful.

He's still there,

Every morning your tea is ready before you awaken,the garden is swept of wet leaves before you and your son step out, your child giggles more all of a sudden, now that his father is around more than he used to be, to your surprise must you say? You see genuine care and love in Satoru's eyes for your baby, he's clumsy with affection, learning how to be gentle in a place where he was once absent.

And as for you? You feel the weight of his presence in every room,like something unfinished, like something is left unspoken, something which is daunting upon you.

The kitchen smells of steam and ginger, your son is napping,

You're chopping up vegetables, sleeves rolled up, your hair in a loose bun, there's sunlight pouring in from the shoji screen behind you. It halos your shoulders, makes your profile glow. There's a faint sheen of sweat near your collarbone from the steam.

You hear footsteps walking into the kitchen ,he walks in quietly as if he's scared to break the peace you've built for yourself, without him.

He sees you, he really does, with something twisting and aching in his gut he thinks, you look beautiful, even when you're angry, so strong, still radiant.

He watches the line of your neck, the slope of your back, the way your fingers move with precision, like they remember everything even when your heart tries not to.

He wonders though, if he was ever worthy of being loved by someone like you.

He moves closer with a bowl of rice, a quiet offering ,

"you didn't eat lunch" he murmurs.

"don't do this" you reply softly , "you don't have to act like you care",you put down the knife.

He watches you as his heart drops.

"You weren’t there,” you say, voice low but steady. “I cooked alone. Slept alone. Gave birth alone. And now you want to feed me and pretend it’s always been this way?”

He opens his mouth to say something but , then he closes it.

You finally turn, your eyes dark and unwavering.

“Tell me something, Satoru,” you say. “If she hadn’t left… would you have come back?”

He’s staring at you ,at your face flushed from the stove, the tendrils of hair clinging to your cheek. You’ve never looked more divine, and it breaks him, because he realizes this is the woman he should have chosen , the one he ignored while chasing something shallow.

“Say it,” you whisper.

“No,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t have.”

You nod.

Not because you accept it. But because you already knew.

“I was wrong.”

His voice is low. Unsteady.

“Not just about her. About everything.

About what mattered. About who was always there.”You gave me a home. A family. And I treated you like a placeholder.

Like something I didn’t have to choose, because you were already there.

"you didn't deserve it"

“I thought love was supposed to feel easy. Loud. Exciting.

But it was always you, quietly showing up. Quietly loving me and I was too blind, too proud to see it.”

“I was wrong in every way that counted.

And if I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

“But that version of me,who chose wrong,he died the day you looked at me and didn’t smile.”

"he died the day you looked at me and didn’t even flinch"-

just… stopped looking at all.”

And then,slower, lower, like it costs him something,

“I didn’t just lose your smile that day.

I lost the only future that ever would’ve made sense.”

He steps closer ,

Closer than you expected, just a few inches between you.

His hand lifts slightly ,almost as if to tuck your hair behind your ear again. Almost.

Your breath catches, you can smell his scent ,one you have ingrained in your senses,

something in you wants his warmth,wants to let him close, something maybe you haven't let yourself fully feel, because it scares you.

But your skin still remembers his.

And your chest aches with the memory of nights when this closeness was all you ever wanted. You want to close the space between, almost.

But you don’t move.Neither does he.

“I miss you,” he says softly. “Not the idea of you. Not the guilt. You. The way you laugh when no one’s looking. The way you hum when you're pouring tea. The way you used to… look at me like I was your world.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “But you could’ve been.”

“You were never really mine,” you add, each word a blade, “So don’t look at me like I’m your world now, Satoru. You were never mine even if I thought you were,And I was never yours.”

He’s silent for a moment, and you almost hope that’s it. That he’ll shut up and go.

But instead, you're met with a look in his eyes,not guilt, not arrogance,but yearning.

It's in the tilt of his head ,The slight part in his lips like he wants to say something but is afraid to ruin it. The way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding back from reaching for you.

He looks at you like a kicked dog.

No,like a man who just realized he had sunlight in his hands and let it slip through because he was too arrogant to believe he needed warmth in the first place.

His voice breaks the silence again,now quieter and heavy.

“I know I wasn’t yours. Not the way I should’ve been.”

“But I don’t want to be your world.”

That makes you blink, startled.

“I want to be a part of it,” he says, “Even if it’s just a corner you let me earn back. Even if it takes my whole life.”

Unbeknownst to him, something more fragile slips in under his words,

“Because you’re my world. And I think… you always were. I just didn’t see it until I was blind without you.”

You freeze.

There’s a beat of silence.

And in that space ,something breaks.

No… something bends.

Just slightly.

It would be easier if he were still cruel, easier if he begged ,or cried, or shouted,but this ..is worse , because this is him being honest, because the Gojo Satoru now standing in front of you is not the same person who had hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

You don't walk away either,

Your breath catches.

It would be easier if he were still cruel. Easier if he begged, or cried, or shouted , but this… this is worse. Because it’s quiet. Because it’s honest. Because the Satoru Gojo standing in front of you now isn’t the one who hurt you.

He’s someone who’s trying. And you hate that it makes your heart squeeze.

You don’t speak.

But you don’t walk away either.

The silence lingers , heavy, intimate.

His shoulders are tense like he's bracing for rejection, but there's something in his eyes , open, pleading, a quiet ache like he's never been more afraid of being unloved.

You hate it.

You hate how honest he looks now.

You hate how your chest tightens at the sight.

And still, your voice comes out soft,barely more than a whisper.

“You look tired, Satoru.”

He blinks. For a second, he doesn’t know if you’re addressing him or just thinking out loud.

You glance at him. Finally. It’s fleeting, but your gaze holds a kind of softness that wasn’t there before ,a flicker of the girl who once picked a flower from the mud and gave it to him just because he looked sad.

“You haven’t been eating properly, have you?”

Satoru swallows thickly. “Not really,” he says, truthfully.

You nod slowly, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, as if debating with yourself. You’re not ready to forgive. Not ready to fall back. But-

“There’s food , We should eat.”

His heart stumbles in his chest,

We.

he's not sure if he's hearing things or you really said it,

He doesn’t say anything ,doesn’t dare break the spell. But he walks to the table like a man who's just been handed a second heartbeat.

You don't wait for him to respond,you grab two bowls.laddle food.

You set one bowl across the table,

And when he takes the seat opposite you , not beside you, not too close ,you let him.

You don’t look up.

You don’t smile.

But you let him eat beside you.

And that… that is enough for tonight, enough to make him believe that there's still a road back to you.

A/N : took me a while ! and I didn't expect it to become this long, I'd love to know you guys' thoughts on this 🏃🏻‍♀️

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[satosray]

crying in a corner i miss and yearn for my spouses. :((( just know i am chewing down on the bars of this enclosure.