sleepyafcapricorn

[sleepyafcapricorn]

ain't submissive.

playboy!satoru x milf!reader, pt.1.

wc: 2.2k. tags: alternative universe, mentions of choking, spanking, insults, humilations, daddy kink, promiscuous sexual relations, mention of aclohol, satoru comes from mdom to msub, age difference (satoru in the twenties, reader in the thirties), satoru has a secret mommy kink, petting, dirty talks, praise, satoru cums in his pants like a pathetic loser.

playboy!satoru who’s well known around the campus for his charming personality and big dick. from the moment he stepped in the university, he made it clear he’s there for the beautiful girls and wild sex that’d lead to nothing. he isn’t seeking for the stable relationship, he is too good to settle for one person, that’s why he’s living his best life, changing girls like gloves, enjoying his youth and breaking hearts and hopes.

playboy!satoru who has a damn list of his conquers. he uses this to brag about it, and, honestly, his friends can’t stand him because of it. every time someone walks past them, satoru needs to chimes in and says some stupid shit like “yeah, i was with her on november sixteen, she was a virgin, by the way”. he’s cocky and arrogant, but i guess it’s the part of his charm.

playboy!satoru denies that he’s actually a bad boy. everyone knows what he needs. and it’s not his problem that someone has false hopes about their little one-night stand. he doesn’t take responsibility for feelings of others. but he gladly makes sure that his partner will be satisfied because it’s his speciality.

playboy!satoru who knows a thing or two about woman’s body which makes him irresistible lover. he never avoids foreplay, he kisses and caresses every part of his partner’s body, he treats a girl gently, lovingly, but he fucks like a wild animal. he never lets anyone take control. he loves dominating in every field of his life and he takes it especially serious when it comes to intimacy.

playboy!satoru who looks like a typical man who hates being a submissive. for some reason, only a damn thought of being controlled make him feel almost offended. when his friends bring this up, satoru usually rolls back his eyes, gasps dramatically and says something like “i am a man, buddy, i have to be the one who control situation, you know”. it’s like his ego was hurt by the idea of letting the girl sets her tempo while riding his dick.

playboy!satoru who has a common scroll of kinks. first of all, he's a bit cringe. but he likes being called daddy. this fuels his arrogance. and fuels his body with arousal because he can’t resist the way some girl whines this adorable “daddy, harder”. he doesn’t listen to because he wants to make someone beg. beg for his dick, beg for speed, beg for being fucked like a useless slut. again, he just enjoys feeling that sense of power over another person's pleasure.

playboy!satoru who controls orgasms, spanks on the ass, insults, humiliates, deprives of orgasm, chokes… in general, he does everything to prove once again that he is the boss here. and again, he enjoys dominating because he’s the best at this.

playboy!satoru who loves visiting clubs because it’s the easiest way to find someone to spend night. he drinks his whiskey, looking around the dimly lit room and seeking for his next victim, when his eyes land on you. you’re dancing with your friends (he thought so judging by how comfortably you were pressed against each other), your dress was unacceptably short and tight. and you were unacceptably divine and sexy.

playboy!satoru who can feel the way his dick throbs when you bent over, rubbing your ass against your friend, who happily slapped you on the thigh. fuck, why her and not him? he groans in irritation, puts the glass of whiskey on the table and tries to calm his excitement. damn, he’ll fuck you stupid tonight, that’s his decision.

playboy!satoru approaches you during the dance, his hands fall on your hips boldly, you turn your head to look at him with the smile on your face. you didn’t push him away, preferring to press your rear against his groin. and when you feel his erection, you already know why he decided to interfere. and it's not that you're against it.

playboy!satoru thinks you’re an easy target even if you’re not a young girl, but obviously experienced woman. because judging by the way you two were dancing, you were hungry for a man's touch. you let his hands wander all over your body, and you touch him in all the proper and not so proper places. he thinks he's already won.

playboy!satoru who’s ready to cum as soon as you cup his dick through his jeans. bold, he likes that, it’s a pleasure to tame confident girls who loses sanity at the moment playboy!satoru starts kissing them. something in the way you smile and whispers soft “are we coming to your place or to mine?” throws the rest of his control out the window. oh, my, he finally breaks down in front of a woman. but he'll still have time to get even.

playboy!satoru closes the tab for your table and, under the surprised gaze of your friends, leads you out of the club. he wants to continue in a taxi, his palm is already climbing under your dress, fingers touching wet (who would have doubted) underwear, when you grab his wrist.

“who allowed you, boy? be good,” you say in the sweetest tone he’s ever heard.

and he backs down, sitting like a good little boy, when he wants to do nothing but fuck you on the backseat of this damn car. he’s not the one who usually listens to girl’s whims, especially when her underwear is practically soaked, but something in the way you look at him… this glimpse of motherly severity in your gaze.

motherly.

playboy!satoru who shakes his head when he feels a rush of something at your gentle yet scolding tone. he brushes it off, by the way, thinking if he loses this round, he will win the next. he’ll be patient for now, but don’t expect him to be good when you reach your apartment.

playboy!satoru tries not to look too shocked when the taxi pulls up in front of an apartment complex. you live... in an expensive place. he swallows, and the thought that he is next to not a girl from university, but an adult woman, again appears in his head.

playboy!satoru acts as usual when the door of the elevator closes. he pins you against the wall, kisses you senseless, and you kiss him back with the same passion. you bite his lower lip, smirking at the way he whimpers when you cup his dick yet again. damn, his head is spinning, he’s throbbing with desire but your boldness makes him hesitate.

playboy!satoru regains his confidence when you two finally reach in your apartment. you lie beneath him on the silk sheets, and he smirks at the sight of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips. he trails kisses down your neck, making you gasp softly and relax under him. he still knows what to do to make a woman melt. relishing at the feeling of yet another victory, he pulls down the neckline of your dress, pressing his lips to your already hard nipple. he sucks it gently, bites and nearly chokes when you run your fingers through his undercut and grabbed his hair.

playboy!satoru closes his eyes and holds back a pathetic moan that’s threatening to fall from his lips when you caress his scalp. you’re too gentle, you’re too much, damn it. he cups one breast in his palm, continuing to play with the nipple of the other. he spreads your legs with his free hand. he presses his groin against your wet underwear. he is impatient. but you seem to be in no hurry.

“you’re such a good boy, you know that?” you muse softly. and he thrusts his hips forward, his erection rubbing pathetically against your closed pussy.

playboy!satoru makes a mistake when he decides to look you in the eyes. because he doesn't see lust and passion. he sees almost maternal tenderness again, with which no one has ever looked at him before. he freezes, looking at your gentle smile. fuck, is he losing again? how many times this night?

playboy!satoru lets you use his hesitation to your advantages. you flip him on his back, straddle his hips and carefully undo his shirt. his breath hitches in his throat when you scratch his muscular chest lightly and then pinched his nipple between your thumb and index finger. he jolts, fidgets and puts his hands on your hips in attempt to regain some sense of control.

“what the hell do you think you’re doing, baby?” he whispers huskily like it wasn’t him who melted at the way you pinched his nipples a few minutes ago.

“baby?” you repeat, teasingly tracing his collarbone with your finger. “i want to make you feel good. you’ll let mommy take care of you, won’t you?”

playboy!satoru loses his damn mind when you lean down and kisses him. and now you’re the one who dominates, your tongue caresses his lower lip, seeking for entrance, and he opens his mouth obediently, letting you deepen the kiss. he holds your hips to ground himself because the way you call yourself mommy does something with his sanity. and he’s oh so well-known confidence.

playboy!satoru whimpers when you start to grind against his erection. it’s not enough and more than enough at the same time. he wants nothing but slide his dick in to feel your warm walls squeezing him tight, he’s sure he’ll be more than pleased. but at the same time, he’s already on the edge. there’s just something in your attitude that he can’t quiet put his finger on.

“you’re doing great, baby, you’re such a good boy for your mommy,” you whispers in his ear and that’s when he naturally breaks. “tell me, are you my good boy?”

playboy!satoru blushes profusely because of your words. he feels a pleasant warm in his lower abdomen, his confidence is completely ruined. but he’s as stubborn as mule because he doesn’t answer you immediately. he lets you touch him. he lets you grind against his erection, faster and faster, to the point he can feel the wet patch from your mixed juices on his jeans. he lies there, completely undone by your actions, but he’s too prideful to admit that he’s indeed your good boy at this moment.

playboy!satoru who doesn’t expect that you meet his silence (he’s not silent because he actually can’t stop needy sounds that fall from his lips with every move of your hips) with the clicking of your tongue. and he certainly doesn’t expect that your palm cups his neck, squeezing it enough to make him roll back his eyes from pleasure. god, roles has changed, hasn’t they? usually he’s the one who chokes women, but now he gets this type of treatment, and he doesn’t mind if you’re the one who choke him.

“i can’t hear you, baby. don’t you want to cum?” you ask innocently, titling your head and looking at him attentively.

playboy!satoru opens his eyes wide, horrified by the mere thought of it. damn, he could easily flip you on your back and fuck you. but he doesn’t want too. his body feels tense yet numb at the same time. he doesn’t want to take control this time. he wants to be controlled because he can’t fight against the way you treats him so gently yet temptingly.

“i wanna cum,” he protests, making a weak attempt to thrusts his hips because, fuck, did you just start to move slower just to tantalize him?

“say please,” you taunt him, squeezing his neck tighter, but not so tight as to cause pain.

playboy!satoru has never felt so pathetic and aroused at the same time. all he needed to do is open his mouth and say what you’re asking him to say. because judging by the way you squeeze his throat and slow your pace, you’re always ready to stop and leave him unsatisfied. and the worst part is that he won’t do a damn to continue. and it’s not like he actually thinks about it. his thoughts are the mess of desire and lust. he doesn’t listen to his arrogance, he listens to his burning need.

“please, mommy,” he begs, throwing all his dominance out the window. and it’s worth it.

“sucha good boy, cum in your pants for mommy, come on,” you encourage him, speeding up yet again, because you’re more than satisfied with his obedience.

playboy!satoru who does as you say, cumming in his pants like a damn teenager. he’s panting, moaning and begging you to stop because you ride him through his orgasm, making him a little overstimulated. and only when another raspy “mommy” falls from his lips, you get off his hips and sit comfortably next to him, brushing his sweat-dampened bangs from his face and asking him how he was feeling.

playboy!satoru understands what’s going on when excitement leaves his body, he sits up straight, watching you for a few seconds, his cheeks flush with embarrassment because what the hell did just happen? wet patch on his jeans feel uncomfortable, he feels uncomfortable. but before you can say anything else, he jumps off your bed and rushes to the exit of your apartment, hearing you shout something about him being able to come to you if he feels lonely.

playboy!satoru who tries to forget that night, but he can’t deny one thing. he liked calling you mommy.

[sleepyafcapricorn]

from the magazine! I'm crying 😭

[sleepyafcapricorn]

bluey and bingo!

[sleepyafcapricorn]

don't look at me like that — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo can’t live without your affection.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, ooc, teenage gojo is an idiot, lovesick!gojo, in which he calls you clingy and immediately regrets it, slight crack

notes. can you tell seeing men pathetically grovel is one of my favorite things?... also, sorry to suguru stans out there.

“I don’t like that they’ve been sending you on so many missions,” you murmur, threading your fingers through your boyfriend’s silver locs. His hair has grown longer, a piece of evidence of just how little time he’s had to himself. To you. Yaga had been working him and Suguru like weapons instead of people, and it gnawed at you more each day.

Satoru flashes that signature smile of his, his shield of nonchalance. “Yeah, well. We’re the strongest, after all.”

His cerulean eyes meet yours, and you swear you see the whole endless sky inside them. And yet the softness there makes your chest ache. He looks at you like you’re gravity, the only thing tethering him to earth.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his nose. He crinkles it but doesn’t push you away. The faint blush that paints his cheeks makes you laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is simple.

“Alright, lovebirds.” Suguru’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet, pulling you back down. He’s leaning against the lounge doorway, arms folded. “If we want to make it to Sendai by nightfall, we should head out.”

Satoru groans like a petulant child.

You acknowledge Suguru with a hum, then steal one last kiss from Satoru’s lips. This one is slow enough to linger, but quick enough to hurt when you pull away. Sliding off his lap, you try to keep your smile from faltering.

You leave them to their strategy, shutting the door softly behind you.

It’s only when you’re halfway down the hall that you realize Satoru’s sunglasses are still tucked into your uniform pocket. You’d stolen them earlier, teasing him, and forgot to give them back. Smiling faintly at your own carelessness, you turn back toward the lounge.

But the moment your hand touches the doorknob, their voices stop you cold.

“I don’t know how you do it, Satoru.” Suguru’s tone is edged with something mocking. Or curious. Maybe even both.

“Do what?”

“Spend all your time with [Name]. Between missions and her, do you even breathe? I figured the great Gojo Satoru would want freedom. To… explore.”

Satoru laughs under his breath, a tired sound. “I do what I like.”

“Really?” Suguru chuckles. “Couldn’t be me. Dating around is easier. No ties or expectations. You’re not stuck orbiting the same person day after day. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

You wait for Satoru’s defense, for the warmth he always shows you to blaze through the door. For him to say you’re not a weight, but his anchor. For him to fight for you, even in words.

But it never comes.

“I guess she can be clingy,” he admits, voice quieter. “But… I like her that way.”

Clingy. The word slams into you, hollowing your chest. Suddenly you feel small and disposable-- like a burden tolerated. The word echoes, bouncing sharp inside your skull until it’s all you hear.

Your breath stutters. The sunglasses slip from your hand, forgotten.

The silence that follows is heavy. Maybe they know you’re standing there. Maybe they don’t.

It doesn’t matter much anymore.

You turn and run before the dam in your chest breaks.

Gojo notices that something was off the moment he steps back onto campus.

He’s exhausted, having not slept a wink from the mission, but the thought of seeing you is enough to put a spring in his step. Normally, you’d be waiting, practically bouncing on your toes with a smile so wide it knocked the wind out of him more than any curse could. You’d scold him for being reckless, pepper his face with kisses, and then tuck yourself against his chest like you belonged there, because you did.

But today was different.

You’re there waiting in the courtyard, but you don’t move toward him.

Instead, you stand with your hands clasped neatly in front of you, your eyes unreadable. When his gaze lights up at the sight of you, when his arms begin to open as if to gather you in, you don’t take a step.

“Welcome back, Gojo,” you say softly. It is tamed and polite as if you were greeting a colleague and not your boyfriend. Your Satoru.

Gojo. Not Satoru. Not ’Toru. Not even an affectionate idiot. Just Gojo.

And it hits him like a gut punch. His grin falters, confusion flashing across his features.

“...That’s it?” he asks, half-laughing. He tries to brush it off, and hide the sudden weight pressing against his ribs. “No ‘I missed you’? Not even a kiss to make Suguru gag? You’re slipping, sweetheart.”

You offer a small smile, but it looks too brittle to be true. “I’m glad you’re safe. You should get some rest.”

And before he can think of what to say, you turn and leave.

He watches every step you take in confusion. You don’t seem to walk in anger—just a painful silence that gnaws at him.

Yet somehow, that silence is so much worse.

He can’t shake it.

That night, Gojo lies awake, staring at the ceiling with his hands folded behind his head. He can hear Suguru snoring from their shared wall, but sleep refuses to come for him. His mind is stuck on you. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your eyes had slid right past him, flat and unreadable, as though he wasn’t the center of your world anymore.

It’s a look he’s never received from you before—not even when you were annoyed, not even when he’d teased you to the point of snapping. You’ve always burned bright, always given him your fire, whether it was laughter or anger or love. But now that spark was gone and the emptiness you left behind terrified him more than any curse ever had.

The idea of you becoming a stranger digs its claws into him. He pictures it vividly: you walking past him in the halls without stopping, without even brushing his hand. Your voice reduced to polite acknowledgments and your smile given freely to someone else instead of him. He’s never been good at imagining a future, but this seemed to be a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

He swallows hard, throat dry. He’d rather you spit venom at him. He’d rather you look at him with the same disdain you reserve for curses than give him this quiet, suffocating indifference. At least if you were angry, it would mean he still mattered enough to spark that fire in you. Heavens, he even thinks you look hot when you’re furious with him—jaw set, eyes blazing. He’d take that over this hollow nothingness any day.

Gojo presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, teeth gritted, as if he could block out the memory of your cold tone. But of course, it only makes it louder.

And then he remembers. Exactly what he said.

“I suppose [Name] can be clingy, but I quite like her.”

The words replay in his head, mocking him. How casual, how dismissive he’d sounded as he reduced you to some habit he’d grown used to rather than the gravity tethering him to the ground. His stomach twists violently.

“God,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, his voice raw. “I’m such an idiot.”

The words echo in the silence of the room, but they aren’t enough. Not even close.

Because what terrifies him most is the possibility that his charm, his apologies, his desperate little tricks may not be enough to pull you back to him. That you’ll decide you don’t need Gojo Satoru at all. And if that were to happen–

He doesn’t even know who he is without you.

The next morning, he’s already camped outside your door. He’s got food in hand, sunglasses hanging uselessly from his shirt collar, and a grin stretched across his face that hides the fact he hasn’t slept.

The moment you open the door, still rubbing sleep from your eyes, he bursts out, “Good morning! Guess what? I brought breakfast. And—”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I already ate.”

The words cut sharper than a blade. You walk past him without another glance, and for once Gojo is speechless.

But not for long.

He springs after you, long legs easily keeping pace. “Okay, fine, but I also got you the dango you like. Handmade. By me. It took me all night, and I nearly burned down the kitchen. I might’ve cried a little, not gonna lie. Don’t make my suffering meaningless, babe.”

You don’t even look at him.

Gojo staggers back as if struck. Then, ever dramatic, he clutches his chest and staggers forward again. “Cold shoulder, huh? Okay. I deserve that. But please—don’t ignore me. Yell at me, throw something, tell me to shut up. Just… don’t go quiet. I can’t take it.”

You don’t respond and Gojo feels a part of his soul wither away.

The next few days, he turns groveling into an art form.

He leaves flowers on your desk. Little apology notes scrawled in his messy handwriting tucked into your uniform pockets:

“You’re not clingy. You’re everything I have ever dreamed of. I literally can’t function without you.”

“I’m the dumbest genius alive. Please don’t dump me.”

“If I say something stupid again, you have full permission to curse me into oblivion.”

He even tries ambushing you in the common lounge, sprawling dramatically across your lap. “Forgive me already,” he whines loud enough for everyone to hear. “If you don’t, I’ll have no choice but to waste away right here. Imagine it—Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer, killed not by a curse but by his girlfriend’s silence. Imagine the scandal it would cause”

You raise a brow and shift your legs. He yelps as he tumbles to the floor, but when you stand to leave, he just grins up at you from where he’s sprawled.

“Still worth it if I get to be close to you,” he says softly.

And despite yourself, your chest aches.

It finally comes to a head on the training field.

You’re finishing drills when his shadow falls across you. He looks different in the moonlight, you note. The cocky mask stripped away, desperation bleeding through every line of him.

“Please,” he blurts out before you can turn away. His voice cracks, raw and unguarded. “Don’t shut me out like this. I know I hurt you. I know I said something thoughtless and cruel, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But you need to know that you’re not a burden. You’re not clingy. You’re the reason I even want to come back from missions. You’re the only person who makes me feel like I’m not just… a weapon.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You made me feel small,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Like I was just tolerated.”

He flinches like the words physically strike him. “No. God, no. You’re not tolerated. You’re everything. You’re the only thing in this stupid world I don’t want to let go of. If I have to spend every day proving it to you, I will. Just… don’t give up on me. Please.”

And for once, there’s no grin, no bravado. It is not the cocky Gojo Satoru standing in front of you, but just Satoru. The boy who’s terrified of losing the only person who makes him feel human.

Silence hangs heavy. You study him and his clenched fists. You look at his trembling shoulders and the way his eyes are begging you to believe him.

Finally, you sigh. Slowly, you reach out and brush your fingers against his. “You’d better mean every word.”

He catches your hand instantly, like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline. He presses frantic kisses to your knuckles, your wrist, your palm. His voice is hoarse when he speaks between them. “I mean it. I swear it. I’ll never take you for granted again. I can’t lose you.”

And when you finally let him pull you into a kiss. It is deep and desperate. You can feel his relief in the way he trembles, in how tightly he clings, as though you might vanish if he lets go.

This time, when you whisper his name, it isn’t Gojo. It’s Satoru.

And that’s enough to make him believe he still has a chance to be worthy of you.

[sleepyafcapricorn]

real and canon wano reunion

[sleepyafcapricorn]

tricked into the truth — gojo satoru

part of papatoru days

when your daughter asks “who said i love you first?”, the answer depends entirely on who tells the story

f!reader (she/her), girl dad!satoru, satoru tells your little one the story of how you said i love you first (told through a flashback), wc: 2.1k, not proofread

“papa, who said i love you first — you or mama?” your daughter curiously asks one day.

she’s currently in the middle of her very serious hairstylist routine, standing on a tiny chair as she carefully places colorful clips and ties in satoru’s hair who, on the other hand, is patiently perched in her room on another equally tiny chair that is clearly meant for dolls or toddles, and definitely not a grown man built like him.

of course, for the past hour and a half or so, satoru hasn’t actually been sitting — he’s been squatting just above the seat, careful not to crush it under his full weight. but he’s not complaining (even though his legs must be feeling it by now), not when his little girl is this happy playing with his hair.

“you’ll be surprised, my life, but it was your mama!” satoru answers smugly, his eyes gleaming proudly over that little victory.

“…snack time!” your voice reaches from the door as you nudge it open with your foot, stepping into the room with a tray of cookies in hand. “also — that’s not true. your father is lying to you.”

you set the tray down on the tiny table next to them and sit on the floor beside it.

“it is very much true”, satoru says — “need me to jog your memory?” — flashing you a wide grin.

you roll your eyes, preparing yourself to argue back and eventually say no, but your daughter gasps excitedly. “yes! yes! yes! story time!” she cheers and immediately plops down beside you, grabbing a cookie and nibbling at it with tiny bites as she waits for the tale to unfold. she’s always very eager to hear stories from your past before she was born, and with that kind of enthusiasm, you can’t really bring yourself to protest.

“alright then”, satoru says, clearing his throat as he shifts off the tiny chair and sits cross-legged on the floor. all three of you in a circle now. “so”, he continues, “this is the true and honest tale of how your beautiful and lovely mother said i love you first”

you scoff and give him a look. “let me correct the title — this is the story of how your father tricked me into saying i love you”

“my love, please”, satoru lets out a fake and very exaggerated gasp. “don’t be such a sore loser, not in front of our child — you’re setting a bad example”, he adds in a hushed voice, then takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles — partly because he just wants to kiss you, but also to hide that little grin of his.

“i’m just stating the facts”, you reply, slipping your hand free only to reach up again and pinch his nose, quickly earning a dramatic ouch! from him.

“see, my life?” satoru turns to your daughter while holding his nose, pretending to be in pain. “sore losers get violent” — but your little one just giggles at his antics, cookie crumbs clinging to her mouth.

you try to hold a straight face, but a smile tugs at your lips before you can stop it. still, you square your shoulders, determined — “okay then”, you say, crossing your arms. “tell the story and we’ll let her be the judge and decide if it was trickery or not”, you point at your daughter.

“i’ll be the judge! i’ll be the judge!” she exclaims, bouncing in place.

“sounds fair to me”, satoru grins as he reaches for your hand again — and this time, you let your fingers weave naturally through his. “so”, he begins. “two weeks after we started dating, we went to see a movie…”

. . .

you held hands throughout the entire movie — fingers laced, palms pressed so tight and close and for so long that by the time you stepped out of the movie theatre and into the cool night air, both your hands were practically soaked in sweat. they were warm and clammy, probably even pruney from all that time spent wrapped around each other. and yet — neither of you seemed inclined to let go; if anything, your grip only grew firmer.

“wah! it was such a good movie!” you chimed, eyes still sparkling from the final scene. “the ending was so romantic!”

satoru shot you a deadpan look from beside you as you both walked down the street, one brow raised. “they literally died”

“yes but they died together”, you countered and then sighed dreamily. “he was holding her hand the whole time! that was peak romance!”

satoru glanced down at your still intertwined fingers as your hands swung slightly between your steps — just like us right now, he thought to himself, but he didn’t say it out loud. instead, a soft smile crept onto his lips and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze as you continued chattering about the movie. he could listen to you go on and on about it all night, but you suddenly said something that made his soft smile turn sly.

“i really, really loved it!” you gushed and gushed, voice lifting slightly with each word. “like, sooo much! ough! i loved it!”

now, he clearly heard what you said — of course he did — but the street was busy, noisy with the rush of passing cars, distant music coming from cafes and restaurants, the chatter of people nearby… which gave him the perfect cover he needed to cause a little mischief.

he stopped abruptly. your linked hands tugging you back before you turned, blinking up at him. “hm? what?”

“wait, wait”, he said, eyes wide with disbelief — completely fake but surprisingly convincing as you totally fell for it. “did you just say you love me?”

silence

your cheeks instantly heated up. under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t hesitate to correct someone who misheard you, but this very situation right now was a different story.

because, how exactly were you supposed to correct someone who wasn’t entirely wrong in the first place? sure, you didn’t say i love you… but you had thought about it here and there, more than you’d like to admit, in fact; and surely, you might’ve come to the conclusion that, yes, you did love him — but then again, it was too soon to say it out loud… and you didn’t say it… still, denying it now might create a weird tension between you — you spent a good minute silently pondering and spiraling, before you spoke—

“i-i—” you stammered, dropping your gaze to avoid his. “i said i loved the movie”, voice small and flustered, clearly trying to save face, but the damage — as far as satoru was concerned — was delightfully done.

satoru hadn’t actually expected his little bluff to work — normally, you were sharp and quick with a comeback, always ready to put him in his place (one of the many things he adored about you) — but to his surprise, it, in fact, did work like a charm. and now that he was watching you try and fail to talk your way out of it, he had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning like a maniac. he got you good.

“well”, he said all while exaggerating a pout and slumping his shoulders, “so you don’t love me then?”

“i-i— i didn’t say that either!”

“aha. you’d rather love the movie than me, your boyfriend. got it.” — still pouting, but mentally cracking up at your panicked expression.

“damn it! why do you keep putting words in my mouth?”, you let out an exasperated sigh, to which satoru only shrugged — all innocence on the outside but on the inside he was practically doing backflips, because you weren’t exactly denying it. and if he was gojo satoru, then he was going to get that confession out of you tonight.

“i’m just trying to understand”, he tilted his head.

“i loved the movie”, you replied, standing your ground (barely though). “that’s it”

“what about me though?” satoru tilted his head even further, pairing it with a puppy eye look so realistic it was practically causing you chest pain.

“…”

he leaned in a little. “you don’t love me?”

“…”

“oh…” — a (fake) crack in his voice. “i see…”

“…i do”, you said, barely above a whisper, but it was there, and he heard — again — but satoru being satoru, he kept pushing. “you do what?” he asked with an oblivious expression.

“you know…”, you mewled, but didn’t finish.

“i have no idea”, he gave a shrug. “you didn’t say it properly. maybe you really don’t l—”

“i love you, you big idiot!”, you cut him off and basically yelled it at him.

silence

even though satoru had technically forced you to say it, his eyes couldn’t help but widen in surprise. hearing those words from you — even if they were shouted alongside an insult (not very romantic of you) — felt undeniably magical to him. a smile slowly tugged at his lips, and then he broke into laughter — finally dropping the act— all while you stood there fidgeting, anxiously waiting for a response.

“wow”, he managed between bursts of laughter while bouncing on his heels like a toddler, “this actually worked, hahahaha”

…and it finally dawned at you, that you had walked right into his trap.

mouth agape, you stared at him in disbelief. “you’re unbelievable. you tricked me?”

“yeah”, he said, half smug and half emotional, the teasing glint in his eyes still there but somehow softened. his heart was full, finally at ease knowing that your feelings matched his own. “i might be unbelievable or a big idiot — like you said — but you love me, don’t you?”

you huffed, trying to fight the helpless smile tugging at your lips. “i swear i am going to break up with you”

“says the person still holding my hand”, he teased with a grin, looking down at your joined hands. “squeezing it tighter than ever, in fact”, he added.

“that’s out of anger”, you huffed, giving a dramatic tug as if trying to pull away from his grip in protest — but you didn’t actually let go.

“nah”, he whispered, leaning in until your noses touched. “it’s out of love”, he breathed against your lips before adding — “when you want to slap me so hard but choose to hold me instead, it means it’s out of love”. his other hand rose to gently cradle your cheek, “i love you too”

 . . .

“wait, papa!” your daughter suddenly interrupts, eyebrows furrowed. “you totally tricked mama!”

“not my fault she fell for it”, satoru shamelessly shrugs.

“well, that’s… true”, she says thoughtfully, pinching her chin. “technically, even if you tricked her — mama said it first”

“that’s still not true”, you say, leaning in just a little, a smirk on your lips — the kind that says you know you’re about to drop one final twist and win. “your father was the one who said it first”

both satoru and your daughter look at you with their eyebrows raised in perfect sync. “what do you mean?” your little one asks, while satoru’s eyes narrow ever so slightly and you can see the spark of recognition there. you can tell he knows exactly where this is going.

“a few nights prior to that movie date”, you begin, “i stayed over at your father’s place for the first time, and we—” you pause for a second as the memory of your first time flashes in your mind, but you quickly clear your throat and glance at your daughter, obviously deciding to censor that part, “—took a nap together after dinner” — to which satoru snorts in that all too knowing way, but you shoot him a warning glare before you continue,

“and, while he thought i was asleep, he whispered into my ear — and i quote — would you freak out if i told you i love you? … i love you”

“damn”, satoru laughs, “i knew you were awake”, while rubbing the back of his neck. “i had a hunch… after i said that, you suddenly started squeez—” — you shoot him another warning glare — “…breathing all suspiciously”, and he corrects himself quickly.

“papa, you’re a liar!” your daughter gasps, utterly scandalized. “you did say it first! you are a liar!”

“oi, oi”, he frowns, feigning offense. “i don’t need slander from a little girl who doesn’t even know her own mother’s name!”

“i do know mama’s name!” she shoots back. “you say it all the time!”

“oh yea?” satoru raises an eyebrow, already knowing where this is going.

“yea! mama’s name is my love!” she declares it with her full chest, completely confident — after all, that’s what her father calls her mother all the time.

…and maybe it is time you finally teach your daughter your real name, but that can wait a little — at least until you and satoru stop laughing.

[sleepyafcapricorn]

say you don't

today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)

synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?

pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader

wc: 7.3k

content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency

a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3

The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband. 

It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before. 

You weren’t even sure he was human. 

Or if you were still asleep. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.

The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes. 

You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face. 

Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was. 

With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with. 

You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming. 

So he was, for better or worse, real. 

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it. 

“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were. 

“It’s just, whatever this, uh, weird roleplay thing is-” 

He blinked. 

One eye at a time. 

“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too. 

You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was. 

“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place. 

“This is home.” 

You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.

“No,” you muttered. “This-”

You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion. 

“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-

Wait. 

How the hell did you know what his name was? 

Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on? 

He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either. 

“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared. 

You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip. 

“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious. 

“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.” 

He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal. 

And then it clicked. 

It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network. 

“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”

“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him. 

“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.

The only stain on it. 

“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes. 

“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place. 

But nothing stood out.

Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor? 

“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”

He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.

You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page. 

And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself. 

If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it. 

His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.

You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago. 

“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone. 

“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.  

You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.

Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight. 

Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized. 

“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before. 

“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you. 

He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it. 

You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would. 

It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though. 

A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face. 

Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through. 

It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.

Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern. 

When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.

Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you. 

“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you. 

Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen. 

You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant. 

But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did. 

You blinked at him. 

He stared back at you. 

The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first. 

You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?” 

“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.

You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful. 

It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers

That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.  

The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement. 

“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once? 

Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about. 

You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor. 

God, that really did sound fucking insane. 

Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you? 

There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him. 

What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours? 

“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though. 

“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface. 

“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.” 

“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap. 

“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them. 

“Then why are you here today?” 

Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife? 

“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit. 

“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too. 

You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way. 

“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole. 

He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working. 

“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles. 

“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he? 

“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold. 

“Sure,” you returned his fake smile. 

It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway? 

“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”  

Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers. 

Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home. 

You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road? 

It was ridiculous. 

He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him. 

The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat. 

Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer. 

“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded. 

“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car. 

“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.

You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval. 

“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown. 

“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege? 

That the world bent around him because he thought it should? 

You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.

Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.  

He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save. 

Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker. 

Maybe both. 

When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date. 

“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch. 

You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face. 

“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours? 

“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?” 

You didn't really believe anything he said. 

Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.

But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going. 

“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them. 

Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away. 

“You don’t work,” he casually replied. 

“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.” 

He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust. 

The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it. 

Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food. 

“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps. 

You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills. 

He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.

“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.  

You swallowed. 

And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more. 

But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed. 

And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car. 

The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on. 

His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time. 

You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.

“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.

“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world. 

He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped. 

People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.

As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.

Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship. 

You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually. 

It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him. 

It was the worst in the mornings.

Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.

And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching. 

His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.

Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity. 

You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late. 

The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it. 

You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here. 

He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either. 

Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.

But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.

“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.

You tried to sleep it off. 

But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all. 

And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be. 

On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him. 

You used to think you could get used to anything. 

But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head? 

“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was. 

“Fine,” you lied. 

You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.

“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would. 

You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.” 

“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?” 

Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about. 

“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side. 

Satoru had been listening in. 

But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up. 

Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.

You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted? 

In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning. 

Something was seriously wrong with him and you.  

You were both bad at pretending to be normal. 

Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap. 

Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.  

If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it. 

“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking. 

You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock. 

Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd. 

Even more than the situation itself was.

Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago. 

“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall. 

Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs. 

But you never drowned. 

You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?

Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you. 

Here there had to be at least two hundred. 

All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared. 

Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same. 

And you didn’t resist. 

Didn’t want to. 

When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out. 

It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat. 

Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.

Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you. 

You could've lived in it. 

But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy. 

The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick. 

“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe. 

You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many. 

In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react. 

And you saw it. 

Not just a glimpse. Not a flash. 

But a full second where there was an extra arm attached. 

It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again. 

“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been. 

“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it. 

“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling. 

“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband. 

He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr. 

How easy would it be for him to do the same to you? 

“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident. 

Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love. 

There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of. 

Something had to snap - and it was you. 

And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor. 

Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk. 

And you tapped your nails against your leg. 

“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”

“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

“I know,” you nodded. 

You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock. 

“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom. 

He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out. 

Your file was left on his desk. 

It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered. 

Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too. 

His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach. 

Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them. 

“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.” 

“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway. 

“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him. 

“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”

“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted. 

You felt like you were going to pass out.

“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-” 

You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.

“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet. 

A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.

A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could. 

“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening. 

“Your husband.” 

You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one. 

What vows had he sworn? 

For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not? 

“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded. 

Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his. 

“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect. 

You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset. 

“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”

Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop. 

“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.” 

You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one. 

“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light. 

“You,” he easily answered. 

“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window. 

“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out. 

“I want to go home,” you murmured. 

The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his. 

And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you. 

Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off. 

“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted. 

But being scared was exhausting. 

So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom. 

You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward. 

“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure. 

“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed. 

Literally. 

A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?” 

“You're all I have left.”

[sleepyafcapricorn]

Gojo + cinammoroll 💙💙

[sleepyafcapricorn]

A cute lil Satoru :>

[sleepyafcapricorn]

It’s canon he makes doing everyday things look like shooting a commercial

[sleepyafcapricorn]

Unpopular opinion,

Too many men are written as “dom daddy” types in fics.

Like be for real, that man would be honored to be your floor mat.

He’s not giving orders, he’s taking them.

Stop being afraid, put on your big boots, and step on that man.

[sleepyafcapricorn]

mischivous cat

[sleepyafcapricorn]

Zoro & Choppa

[sleepyafcapricorn]

i have been thinking about single dad satoru who falls in love with his little daughter’s kindergarten teacher (you) and how mornings suddenly become his favorite part of the day just because he gets to see you during drop-offs.

pick-ups too. sometimes he “accidentally” arrives early (by an hour or two) and his excuse? well, he was just in the area. but the truth is, he just wants to be near you more — and the only time he gets to do so is during drop-offs and pick-ups, so naturally he’s not above stretching those moments however he can.

at home, he asks his daughter about her day. casually at first, like — what did you do today? what songs did you sing? what games did you play? did you learn something new? — but then, somehow, slowly, the questions always find their way back to you. he even starts using his little one as a tiny spy, making her ask you question he’s curious about. can you ask your teacher if she has a boyfriend? but don’t tell her papa told you to, alright?

you don’t really think much of it when all those very personal questions keep coming one after another. in fact, you don’t suspect a thing at all — kids are curious, after all. they have zero filter and whatever’s on their mind usually comes straight out of their mouth too.

but little do you know that the real curious one isn’t the child asking the questions — it’s her handsome single dad who is hopelessly smitten with you since day one and who’s already imagining what it might be like if his little girl’s teacher became something more . . . and that he’s very much set on finding out.

[sleepyafcapricorn]

‧ 𝄞 Toji just fuckin' loves the way your pussy squelches every time he has you trapped under him—hips lilting—bed creaking, everything obscene. he's groaning and growling like an animal in heat, while you're a sobbing and whining mess under him.

-

“Heh," he chuckles through a cocky grin and clenched teeth. Sweat drips down onto the crumpled bedsheets, dissolving with the plethora of your other juices escaping the cavern of your plugged hole.

"Check her out, pussy got some crazy ass moves.” He continues while he pulls your hips rough against his own. Sappy and loaded balls hitting your clit while pressing his nails into the plush skin of your hips.

"Tooojiii—Tojiii, deeper.. a bit more— just a bit more.." Eyes rolling and tongue lolling, breasts jiggling up and down, you certainly had no perception of what deeper meant—especially to someone like Toji.

No response. Only the melody of his hips meeting yours and that heavenly squelch of his member thrusting in and out of your wet heat.

"Tojii-! mhmphh!!" You squeal as he clasps a hand around your wet and puffy lips, ensuring you kept quiet. You writhed around as he spared you a single glance before he cackled and continued his thrusts, groaning as you got tighter— indicating your high.

"Listen ma—listen." His azure eyes stuck to the bridge where his cock and your pussy intertwined—bound in a creamy, sticky and beautiful mess. He didn't even bother looking at you, he seemed too entranced in that beautiful view.

His movements grew harsher— less rhythmatic, not like he could give a single shit. The bed and his groans simultaneously syncing as he felt white hot pleasure course through him.

“S’ like she can’t get enough, heh.” His remark was followed by a deep cackle as he repositioned himself to get even deeper.

His hand still ghosted over your plump, bitten lips, relishing in the way your eyes went white. A ring of white foamed at the loop of his cock, he groaned with you while you started screaming against his mouth.

Sneering at the way your load of cum never stopped and still beautifully decorated his cock, he slammed his hips at a certain angle— an angle he was sure would make those pretty squelch!!

“C’nt get enough ‘f this pretty cunt. Jus’ singing for me.”

-

wrote this because i felt like it and also because i dreamt about writing this fic last wednesday. 🙏

[sleepyafcapricorn]

toji’s got this sick obsession with that little bulge in your tummy every time he fucks you into oblivion. sprawled across his sagging mattress in that grimy apartment, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and raw, animalistic lust, he’s got you splayed wide, legs hooked over his broad shoulders, your thighs quaking like they’re about to give out.

his cock—fuck, it’s a goddamn monster.

thick as your wrist, veined and heavy, with a fat, flushed tip that’s already drooling precum, slicking up your soaked pussy with every brutal thrust. the way it curves just right, it’s like a battering ram against your insides, stretching you so wide it burns, the obscene wet slap of his balls against your ass echoing in the room.

your cunt is a mess, dripping down your thighs. and toji’s grinning like a bastard, of course. all teeth and hunger, as he watches that faint swell in your lower belly rise and fall with each punishing drive of his hips.

the bedframe’s screaming, wood splintering under the force, and your gasps are swallowed by the filthy, filthy symphony of skin on skin.

“fuuuuck, ma, you see that shit?” toji snarls, his voice all gravel and venom, one hand pressing down on that bulge, feeling the outline of his cock buried deep.

“that’s me rearrangin’ your fuckin’ guts, doll. takin’ every goddamn inch like a good girl.”

his eyes are wild, locked on the way your tits bounce and your body jolts, pussy clenching so tight it’s like you’re trying to snap his dick off. he slows his thrusts, dragging it out, grinding his hips so the pressure’s unbearable, making you whimper and squirm.

“poor thing, you cryin’ already? can’t handle this fat cock splittin’ you open?” he leans in close, breath hot and teeth grazing your jaw as he growls, “tough shit, sweetheart. i’m gonna wreck this pretty pussy till you’re beggin’ me to stop.”

he doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. toji yanks out, leaving your hole gaping and pulsing, and you let out a desperate whine that makes him chuckle, dark and nasty.

“mmm, would you look at that?” he mutters, sliding down until his face is level with your dripping cunt. “this pretty little thing is just beggin’ for me.”

his rough fingers spread you wide, exposing your swollen clit, slick and glistening. he dives in like a man starved—tongue lashing with no mercy—slurping up the mess of your arousal.

“shit— you taste like fuckin’ heaven,” he groans, voice muffled as he sucks your clit into his mouth, hard enough to make your hips buck.

your hands claw at his hair, tugging, but he’s unmovable, his grip on your thighs bruising, tongue plunging into your hole, fucking you with wet, sloppy strokes until you’re screaming.

“toji—fuck, please, i can’t—!” you sob, but he just laughs, the vibration sending shocks through your core.

“can’t? uh-uh, you’re gonna squirt all over my fuckin’ face, baby,” he growls, fingers rubbing tight, ruthless circles on your clit until you’re gushing, a hot, wet flood soaking his mouth, dripping down his chin as he laps it up like a dog.

“that’s my fuckin’ girl,” he says, pulling back to admire the mess, your slick coating his lips, his chin glistening. “tch, look at that. fuckin’ drowned me, and i’m still thirsty.”

he’s back on you before you can blink, crawling up, cock bobbing heavy and dripping, the veins pulsing as he lines up and slams back in, no warning, no gentleness. the stretch is obscene, your walls fluttering, struggling to take him, and he’s laughing again, low and cruel.

“this cunt’s so tight, she’s suckin’ me dry,” he grunts, hips snapping so hard the bed groans in protest.

that bulge is back, and he’s fixated, pressing his palm down, groaning at how deep he’s buried. “feel that, doll? gonna carve my name in this pussy.”

his thrusts are relentless, each one driving deeper, the tip smashing against your cervix, sending white-hot pain and pleasure spiking through you.

“toji, baby—slow down, i’m gonna—!” you’re cut off by your own scream as he angles his hips, hitting that sweet spot that makes your vision go black.

“slow down? fuck that,” he snaps, voice dripping with mockery. “you’re gonna take it how i give it, and you’re gonna fuckin’ love it, got it?”

his thrusts turn erratic, cock throbbing thicker, the wet squelch of your pussy mixing with his cum-heavy balls slapping your ass.

“gonna fill this pussy up, ma,” he pants, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest. “gonna make sure you’ll feel it for days.”

one last brutal thrust and he’s spilling, hot, thick ropes flooding your insides. cock pulsing as he grinds deep, forcing every drop to stay buried. you’re convulsing, another gush of slick soaking the sheets, your pussy milking him so hard he groans—loud and raw—collapsing against you.

“fuck— you’re a goddamn mess,” toji mutters, voice hoarse but smug, still buried deep as he watches his cum leak out around his shaft. he pulls back slow, admiring the creamy mess, then slaps your thigh, making you jump.

“don’t get comfy, doll. i’m fuckin’ you again soon as i catch my breath. this pussy ain’t goin’ nowhere.” he says with a slap to your puffy folds.

your weak moan is all the answer he needs, his lips curling into a predatory smirk as he licks his lips, already hard again.

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

a/n: was feeling toji lately, abandoned this one sukuna fic for another, brain is everywhere but enjoy this

this is also self indulgent, ahem due to…recent experiences..

taglist: @raveszn @1stqueenofhell @ha1lstorm @lisafrankgojo @bistrocatxx @desirehorizon @besidesjustmyamour @satorupi

[sleepyafcapricorn]

lego time