#anodt tag.

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   you could use me

summary. you're afraid that two weeks in a box is all that it takes to undo all of the progress you've made. series. a night of dark trees. bonus scene ! pairing. gojo satoru x gn!reader. warnings. none. word count. 1930.

Gojo’s different.

Ever since he emerged from the Prison Realm, he has been taciturn, morose, subdued. It’s disconcerting. He’s one of the liveliest people you know. It’s one of the things you love about him.

You’re still not sure how he says those little words so easily. Gojo Satoru’s world was torn asunder years ago, and he’d been dealt the same debilitating, staggering blow that still causes you to panic every time you hear the three syllables ‘I love you.’ Yet, somehow, some way, Gojo finds it in himself to voice that simple declaration to you. And he means it every time, with every fiber of his being.

It’s harder for you to speak it, your vocal cords uncooperative to an almost petulant degree, your subconscious locking the action away even in spite of your visceral protestations. You’re still searching on your hands and knees in the murky depths for the key. Only alcohol makes the search a little easier. But in your heart of hearts, you know it—it is a certainty that you love Gojo Satoru. A fact, as immutable as gravity (unless you were Kenjaku. Then you’d have to come up with another simile).

To that end, his absence hurt you. The moment you allowed yourself to fall for someone else, to finally move on from that one great loss, he was torn away from you. But it’s not his fault.

It must've been infinitely worse to be Gojo himself, stuck in what was essentially a cursed deprivation chamber for any duration of time from eternity to an instant. Not sure if eons had passed or but a second. Not knowing if the world burned his absence and those who remained rued his name, or if it had survived and everyone moved on without him. If anyone even bothered looking for a way to free him. You tried to put yourself in his place, imagining if he had gone and found a third love while you were trapped. You would’ve been happy for him, but you couldn’t deny that the simple idea of it broke your heart.

After he emerged, you stood by his side, your hand in his as he was informed of everything that had happened—everyone that had died—during his imprisonment. With every word, his shoulders sloped more and more, crushed by the weight of the world in each consonant and each vowel.

He won’t talk about it with you. When you kissed his temple and stroked his hair, uncaring of your audience in Shoko and Ino, he’d sighed and leaned a little closer. But he was silent as stone.

You wish you knew what to say to him. The way he and Geto bantered was so instinctual, an easy back-and-forth like a tennis match. You can hold your own with him, no doubt. But you’ve also got a history of deepthroating your foot where he’s concerned, so you can understand why Gojo’s a little hesitant to confide in you. He’s never had to before, why should he start now?

Oh, maybe because you love each other and that’s what supportive partners do—lean on each other? If only he’d stick around long enough for you to just tell him that.

Naturally, he refuses to make anything easy for you. Satoru’s hardly alone these days. You can’t even fault him for spending every waking moment training. If he’s going up against the King of Curses, he’ll need every advantage he can get, no matter how confident he is. You support him where you can in that regard, but you have no choice but to ambush him in between sparring with Okkotsu and sparring with Maki to actually get a word in.

“Hey, dumbass,” you call as you approach. Where it might’ve elicited an equally dry ‘What’s up, shitlips?’ once upon a time, it now earns a tired smile. Not the ideal reaction.

“I didn’t do anything,” protests Satoru, allowing you to soften the insult with a quick kiss. He’s sitting on a bench with his legs wide enough for you to step in the space between, and he wraps his arms loosely around your waist. “Why’re you being such a meanie?”

“Why are you overcompensating?” The verbal suckerpunch gets him in the solar plexus, causing Gojo to stare up at you wide-eyed with his mouth falling open defensively. You press a finger to his lips. Satoru goes a little cross-eyed trying to focus on it, and so you flick him on the nose to retrieve his attention. “I get it, if it’s for the kids. You’re their teacher. You’re everything they want to be when they grow up, they see you as a protector, blah, blah. But you don’t have to be strong with me. I know you. I know you. You don’t have to pretend, okay?”

“Don’t I?”

That stings, probably more than he meant it to. You don’t imagine Satoru ever intends to be cruel, because even at his worst, his sadism is meant for curses. But you’d thought he considered you an equal. Or as close as one could be without being a special grade, at least. It was foolish of you to think that the wall between you had crumbled any, at least as far as your skill level was concerned. It’s been years since anyone ever talked about how you could’ve become the fourth special grade if you ever managed to get a tighter rein on your technique. Okkotsu’s taken your place since then.

Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you move closer to tuck his head into your sternum. “No, you don’t. We’re partners, aren’t we?” you whisper, running your fingers through his hair. Something warm stirs in your chest as his eyes flutter shut and he hums a quiet, pleased purr. You’re a haven to him. “You love me and I—I love you. That means you don’t have to do this alone.”

He says nothing at first, simply nuzzling closer. There’s no sound but your shared breath, steady and even. His arms tighten around you. It’s a little uncomfortable having to crane your neck down to kiss the top of Satoru’s head, but the little sigh he gives is worth it. It’s the little things with Gojo. With such a bombastic person, large and grandiose efforts are commonplace, attention-grabbing gestures all Satoru knows. The strongest must be larger than life. So you end up treasuring the opposite—the way his long, spindly fingers fit in the slits between yours, the way his long lashes tickle your cheek when you kiss, how he loves to rest his elbow on your shoulder when you stand next to each other, the perfect roost. These tiny bits combine to make everything feel grounded, real.

After a moment, he pulls away, and light starts to creep back into his eyes. They look more like the sky again, rather than an iceberg field in the Arctic Circle. Good. “Does that mean I can tap you in during the fight?” Satoru asks cheekily.

You toss your head and give an exaggerated tsk. “I haven’t decayed from my Grade One rank, I’ll have you know! I may not be a spring chicken, but I can still pack a punch!” For emphasis, you smash your fist into your other palm.

“Not a spring chicken?” Satoru repeats incredulously. “We’re the same age! What does that make me?!”

You tug lightly on a few strands of his snowy hair. “A geriatric old man, duh.”

He raises a brow. “Oh yeah? Could an old man do this?”

Satoru’s up on his feet in an instant, one hand sliding up your back and the other wrapping just below your shoulders as he dips you in a kiss. He savors it, plying gently past your lips with his tongue. Satoru moans as you slip your fingers through his locks, a sound that makes your lips and extremities tingle. He steals the breath from your lungs, and you don’t hate it.

“Well.” Your voice is but a rasp when he finally pulls away. The man radiates smugness. Somehow, you find it endearing. “I’m sure Harrison Ford could.”

Satoru’s face breaks open with a full, hearty, genuine laugh. Pulling you upright to use as an anchor, he buries his face into your neck. His entire body vibrates in tandem with his giggles, the warmth of his breath a pleasant sensation on your skin compared to the wintry frost around you. Satoru blinks as you use your index finger to tip his face upwards. “What is it?” he asks, a little breathless.

“I love your smile,” you tell him honestly. “I love you.”

His cheeks grow pink. You doubt it’s because of the cold, your heart fluttering at the thought. You’ve managed to make Gojo shy. In lieu of a verbal response, he gently rests his forehead against yours. You’re aware you’re probably obstructing the walkway, and that if any of the students happened upon you, they would violently gag, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Satoru is here, in the flesh. You thought you’d lost him when he got sealed away, and then again when he emerged sweeping the broken pieces of himself under the rug. That even if you could hold him, it wouldn’t be the Satoru you loved, nor the Satoru who loved you. Who saw something broken in you that was worth cherishing, worth putting back together piece by painstaking piece. Who never faulted you for giving up but encouraged you to try again, whose heartbreak echoed yours and stood as proof that there was a brighter tomorrow. The Satoru who taught you it was okay to be okay again. You’re sick and tired of lost chances, of what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Maybe that’s why the words finally, finally slip so easily from your mouth—so you wouldn’t ever miss the opportunity to tell him again.

Gojo rubs his cheek gently against yours, sharing his heat. He’s always run a little warm. “I promise that I’ll share my burdens with you from now on. Even if I can’t promise you won’t hate me by the end of it.” A solemn vow, the seriousness of his tone unfamiliar to you. But not unpleasant.

“I already knew loving you was going to be rotten work,” you tease. “That’s never bothered me. What you can promise me is that you’ll come back to me. Otherwise, I’ll bring you back as a curse when you die. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Satoru chuckles. “Will you at least make sure I look prettier than Rika?”

“She heard that.” You have no idea how long Okkotsu’s been standing there—what he heard or saw, whether he’s going to blab to any of the other kids. There’s a small bemused grin on his face, but it’s eclipsed by the overall chagrin of his furrowed brows. He’s embarrassed for you. PDA at your old age? His generation probably thinks you look like two skeletons mashing their teeth together.

Breaking out of your frozen shock, you and Satoru share a glance. Then, after a moment, you break the silence with simultaneous cackling. It’s hard to tell whether it’s the situation or the looks on your faces that sparks such an interminable fit. You fall against each other in your laughter, using one another as a column. He’s sturdy and solid and he’s there for you. And that’s what you’ll be for Satoru too. Steady and strong and unmovable. Unbreakable. Everything he’s been for the world, you’ll be for him.

Whatever it takes.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #anodt tag. #jjk fic. #we're pretending 236 doesn't happen #or at least we're believing every rebirth theory we lay our eyes on #hey at least he ended up in fewer pieces than reader's first fiancé!

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   everything but talk it through

summary. it should raise questions, how you’re the first person he chooses to see before a trip abroad. but you’re too distracted by his hand slipping down your waistband. series. a night of dark trees. part one. part two. part three you’re here! pairing. gojo satoru x gn!reader. warnings. heavy ( non-explicit ) mentions of sex. word count. 2521.

Gojo arrives uninvited, unannounced, and at his leisure. Such is the way he arrives at most, if not all, functions. Except this is no function, and you had been hoping to just enjoy a quiet night in before the work week started. You’re so used to Gojo that you don’t even bother yelling at him for the intrusion anymore, instead rolling your eyes at his entirely too cheerful greeting.

“I’m going on a business trip,” he chirps, as though you had asked. “Want me to get you anything?”

He set himself up for this one. “I want you to get away from me.”

“Aw.” You are unmoved by his glossy pout, the protrusion of his lower lip instead making a vein throb in your forehead. “You’re so mean to me.”

But even as he says so, you’re reaching into the cupboard for his favorite purple mug, the kettle already on the stove. He’s hunched over your kitchen counter, legs looped around those of one of your stools like he’s some kind of cephalopod. He’s comfortable here, which flies directly into the face of your supposed inhospitable nature. Murmuring a thanks as he takes the steaming cup from you—”Coaster!” you snap, making him jump—Gojo dumps an inhuman amount of sugar into his tea and props his chin up with his left hand.

“So, not that I care or anything,” you drawl, nursing your own drink, “what exactly is this business trip for and how long will you be gone?”

“Why, you askin’ ‘cause you need to know whether to break the Hitachi out while I’m gone?” Gojo laughs blithely, his Infinity batting away the soggy teabag you lob at him. It lands on the counter with a wet plop, and he gets up to toss it in your wastebin. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks. Just a little something to do with your dear little friend.”

Ah. The less you know about Yuji’s legal status, the better. Your primary concern is the boy himself, and Gojo’s doing you a favor by giving you some level of plausible deniability. Not that it would stick much, given that you had direct contact with the child. The higher-ups may have scoffed at your line of work, but they never considered you disobedient. You’re not sure what the ultimate blowback in this situation will end up being. You appreciate the fact that he’s at least trying to lessen the blow.

“So?” prods Gojo, doing so with his bony elbow as well. “What’ll it be? Baobab seed? Wicker basket? Blood diamond?”

You just barely keep from shooting scalding liquid from your nostrils. The look on your face, bug-eyed as it must be, serves as a source of endless amusement for him. Hacking wetly into the cuff of your sleeve, you wag a disapproving finger at him.

“One, that is so incredibly inappropriate.” You then allow your hand to go limp to flash the ice on your ring finger. “Two, I already have all the diamonds I’ll ever need. And three, knowing how cheap you are, you’d definitely bring me back cubic zirconia and try to dupe me into believing they’re real diamonds.”

“Cheap?! The outfit I’m wearing right now is 800,000 yen! Including my underwear.”

“Sure.”

He scowls. “So mean. You know, just for that, I’m going to get you a voodoo doll.”

“Wouldn’t you be in the wrong part of the world for a voodoo doll if your first offering was a baobab seed?” You snicker at Gojo’s frustrated wail. “You’re just going to steal one from Kugisaki and lie about it, aren’t you? I know you, you damn scam artist!”

“I am feeling so very attacked right now. This is a hate crime against the protected class of attractive young men. You’ll go to jail for this.” Crossing his arms, Gojo harrumphs like a small child and makes a ninety-degree turn on the stool. He shrugs your hand off when you try to apologetically pat him on the shoulder. “No. I’m still mad at you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” You make a show of mockingly bowing at him, and when that proves ineffective, you round the counter to kowtow at his feet. That, at least, earns you a smile. “Ah! There it is, arising in the east, Satoru’s smile is the sun.”

Gojo huffs, unwinding his arms. “That’s not how the line goes.”

“And that’s why you’re the teacher, not me.” You hop up on the stool next to him, mirroring his posture as you prop your elbow on the granite. “But seriously, is that all you came to say? You’re leaving? Are you making the rounds to everyone or could you not have just sent that in an e-mail?”

He leans closer, ankle brushing against yours. His glasses slip just a bit down the tip of his nose as he smirks—leers, really—at you. “Maybe I came here looking for a going away present. Maybe… something like a kiss?”

Ah, and there it is. You tilt your head, brushing the tip of your nose against his. You’re so close you can feel the warm puff of his breath against your lips. It’s like Gojo’s a black hole, slowly reeling you in. “Just a kiss?”

“Something to remember you by.” And then he closes the gap between the two of you.

Gojo’s an amazing kisser, and he knows it—just one of the many reasons that you find it increasingly difficult to say no to him. As self-absorbed as he can be, Satoru’s a generous lover. You have a feeling he gets an ego boost from driving his partners wild with pleasure. Not as unselfish a motive as you would prefer from a lover, but who are you to look a gift horse (or snake, according to his entirely too apt lunar zodiac) in the mouth? Your tongue’s the only thing that should be going in it.

His hands catch at your hips as you part, the sensation of air against your kiss-swollen lips breaking you out of your reverie. He tucks his head into your neck, leaving sharp little nips down the column of your throat as he pulls you against him. You can feel the pitter-patter of his heartbeat. It’s nearly as fast as yours. Winding your fingers through his hair, you tilt your head back with a sigh. He’s hot—a blazing inferno against your body, threatening to consume you whole. Your eyes fly open when he hoists you into the air abruptly. Instinctually, you lock your legs around Satoru’s waist as he lays a palm just above the curve of your ass to support your lower back.

“A little warning would have been nice,” you hiss, batting him lightly on the shoulder.

“We’re way past the time for talking,” says Satoru, his voice a low, hoarse rasp. His glasses have slipped almost all the way down his nose, the all-encompassing blue of his eyes almost invisible with how dilated his pupils are. You did this to him, you think triumphantly. You’re why his breath runs ragged, why his mouth is a ravaged red, why his pulse pounds with want.

Satoru is very familiar with the layout of your apartment, his gaze never leaving yours as he guides you both to your bedroom. You trust him not to walk you into a wall, though the brief weightlessness of being thrown onto your bed punches a startled “Eep!” out of you. “Mattress wasn’t soft enough for that—!”

Satoru tugs his shirt off instead of apologizing out loud. Your hand flies to his exposed chest without permission, fingers tracing squiggly lines down the planes of muscle. The pad of your thumb ghosts above a nipple, making Satoru tremble, and you catch it between your teeth. It—and the flash of tongue against the stiffening peak—draws a cry from Satoru, his back arching. You soothe the sting with gentle laps of your tongue as your free hand toys with the other side of his chest. Your right hand gropes at his ass. When you draw your fingers into his back pocket, you hear the crinkle of foil and tug at the packet—gold, with the English word MAGNUM written across it.

“You smug bastard,” you laugh. “You came here with a plan—’going away present,’ my ass.”

“Your ass is the present,” Satoru snorts. “You got a problem with that?”

“No. Not at all.”

Both of you are left breathless in the end, all thoughts of taking your time flying out the window when the opportunity to rut like animals presents itself. You’ll never get enough of it, the way Satoru groans low in his throat when he presses into you for the first time, or the way he folds himself over you no matter which position you’re in, skin against skin from head to toe.

It’s always amazing with him. That’s why you keep him around, after all. You’re up for another round, or three, if he’s able. Satoru catches his breath next to you, swatting your hand away with a hiss as your fingers crawl over his hip in a spider-like motion.

A laugh bubbles out of you, delirious and just barely more than a wheeze. You’re still breathless and warm, your heartbeat a frenetic rabbit’s pace in your ribcage. “Do you ever get tired?” you ask, itching to brush snowy locks away from his forehead.

“What do you mean?” Satoru props himself up on his elbow, gazing down at you inquisitively.

“Well.” It’s a strange topic to broach; neither of you has ever spoken at length about this… partnership of yours. There’s always been an unspoken rule about preserving its sanctity this way—no need to make it complicated.

You’re both attractive people, and you want each other. Simple, transactional, and way better than therapy (which is funny, coming from you). You’re not foolish enough to believe someone like Satoru would limit himself. Those who know him probably wouldn’t want to touch him with a ten-foot pole, but strangers wouldn’t resist the temptation of his long legs and sculpted torso, his soft lips and brilliant eyes. “If this is how you put out for everyone you’ve ever been with, I don’t know how you do it. I know you’ve got boundless cursed energy, but I didn’t think that extend to regular—”

“I’m…” He looks puzzled. Almost hurt. An uncomfortable weight settles in your gut. “I’m not sleeping with anyone else. Are… are you…?”

“No.” You’re not as embarrassed by the admission as you are at his expression when you speak. Satoru’s cheeks puff slightly as he exhales, his brows drifting upward in what you can only describe as relief. He smiles, and it’s more gentle than predatory. You’re not used to him being this open. You’re not used to him being this nice. “What’s that face for?”

“My face is just my face,” laughs Satoru. He traces a gentle line down your jaw with a knuckle. You think he’s about to kiss you, shutting your eyes in anticipation as you feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. This leaves you wholly unprepared for the actual curve of his mouth, around words rather than a silent gesture.

“I love you.”

Your eyes fly open. It is no comfort to see he’s just as surprised as you are that he’d said it. All you can do is gape at him, a violent stabbing feeling in your chest as the bed seemingly falls away from underneath you. You must be dreaming. You pinch yourself. You’re not. And Satoru—Gojo, God, when did you get so familiar with him?—stares at you in anguish, hurt pouring out of him like a flood.

Not a single part of this situation makes sense to you. Not why he blurted it out. Not why he meant it. Not why he would ever expose his soft underbelly like this, practically holding up a neon sign denoting one of his few weaknesses.

Not why you rush to console him when heartbreak etches itself into the lines of his face. Not how you choose to offer your support with a highly unwelcome and unhelpful, “Thanks.”

You’ve not had to respond to those three words in a long time. You’re out of practice. But even you know that wasn’t the right thing to say.

Gojo doesn’t even call you out on it, instead reeling away from you as though he’s been shot. He stumbles free of the sheets, all ungainly limbs askew. His fringe shields his eyes from you as he hastily dresses himself. Stonily silent, he crams his shades on and he’s lost to you forever.

The situation is unsalvageable, a lost cause. Some could rightfully accuse you of being a pessimist, but there’s really no greater example than this. In the face of Gojo’s hurt, actual heartbreak—something you had never once thought him capable of—you’re powerless. You’re the one who hurt him, after all. How could anything you say be a balm to the pain you’ve caused?

“Wait,” you say weakly, but of course he doesn’t.

“I have to go,” is all Gojo says, punctuated by heavy footfalls and followed by the slamming of your front door. He hadn’t even found it in himself to crack a joke as he fled.

Pulling yourself up into a sitting position, you put your head in your hands. Part of you wants to be angry at him for taking a perfectly good thing and screwing it all up. But that’s not fair. He couldn’t help falling for you any more than you could help falling in love with your only classmate when you were fifteen. No, it’s the guilt that infuriates you—that Gojo’s gone and made you feel bad for hurting his feelings.

(And there’s another secret thing that you refuse to acknowledge.)

You can freely admit that your reaction was poor and hurtful. You will apologize for that, if Gojo will allow you to. He hadn’t said when he would be leaving for his trip, but it would be in poor taste to wait for longer than a week—especially if you want to sleep with him ever again. And you do. But would that be a good idea? And is that the only reason you want to apologize?

Trust Gojo to go and make everything this complicated. You sigh mournfully for the status quo. You’ll give him the rest of the night to lick his wounds. You have some of your own to nurse, a yawning gaping void in your chest that frays at the edges and brings tears unbidden to your eyes. Squeezing them shut, you beg for blissful sleep to take you, so you don’t have to think or feel or do much of anything anymore.

(The truth of it is, when Gojo said it, you felt happy. That was your immediate reaction. And that frightens you. Try as you might to move on, as your long lost beloved—so good and kind and sweet—would have wanted for you, you’re terrified of it actually happening.

It’s deliciously pathetic. Between a mass murderer and… you, Gojo Satoru needs better taste.)

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #anodt tag. #jjk fic. #fun fact the only reason this doesn't include sm.ut is because i got LAZY lmao #anywho HAPPY SEASON 2

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   but we were born to be alone

summary. nanami kento is probably the most reliable man you know. but by god is it hard to talk to him, sometimes. series. a night of dark trees. part one . part two . part three . part four you’re here ! pairings. past nanami kento x gn!reader. mentioned gojo satoru x gn!reader. warnings. none. word count. 1999

This is a massive ethics violation. If one were to look up the definition of ‘conflict of interest,’ a photo collage of every one of your sessions with Nanami Kento would be directly underneath it. You’d known this when you first started dating Kento, shortly after he abandoned the mundane world for this cavalcade of peril known as jujutsu sorcery. When you brought it up to him, he hadn’t cared.

“That makes your dating pool rather small,” he’d commented instead, not unkindly yet neither pitying. He was right. It’s not like you have any other colleagues. Everyone comes to you. You and Shoko have always referred to each other as siblings for this purpose—she’s in charge of the physical, you’re responsible for the mental. Yet, as bad of an idea as it was, your vocation hadn’t come between you. If anything, it was your issues, rather than his own, that had put the kibosh on your relationship.

(Funnily enough, this issue of ethics arises with everyone except Gojo, who had never once made use of your professional services, in spite of the open and persistent invitation.)

You suppose that the rest of the sorcery world wouldn’t care, even if half of them didn’t think you were a hack. They tolerated much—inbreeding and eugenics, passing death sentences onto children, systemic misogyny. The thought that power imbalances would cause any of them to blink is almost laughable. And it seemed Kento’s time among the mortals hadn’t whittled away his sorcerous sensibilities.

The issue of being the only sorcerer therapist throughout all of Tokyo was that you didn’t have anyone to turn to. It’s not like you can off-load on a civilian counterpart. Yeah, so my fiancé was murdered on my wedding day, and the entire ceremony was treated to the sight of his gory remains. I’ve developed commitment issues ever since, and while I’m desperate for love, I don’t know how to open myself up to it. Also there’s this guy, and he’s really cool and powerful and a little stupid and he told me he loves me, but I said ‘Thank you’ like a fucking idiot and now he won’t talk to me—yeah. There’s your dilemma.

“Thank you for your time,” you tell Kento at the end of your session, shorthand for ‘everything we talk about afterward is off the record’ that somehow still lasted even after the two of you had very awkwardly broken up. Worst homemade candlelit dinner ever. At least he hadn’t humiliated you in public. Despite the circumstances, you both recovered well. You can’t quite call Kento a friend more than an occasional drinking buddy, but the care and concern is still there.

He gives you a quick nod and buttons his jacket, though he still remains seated. “You’re curious about Itadori, aren’t you?” asks Kento.

“Perceptive as always,” you smile. “He hasn’t been out in the field since his resurrection. It would be irresponsible to put him on a mission for adults, but the boy, Junpei… well, I suppose it’s irresponsible to involve children in these affairs to begin with.”

“He’s a good kid,” he says simply. There’s something wistful in his voice, a softness in his gaze.

“He is a lot like Yuu, isn’t he?” You prop your chin up on your hand, tossing your legal pad onto your desk to avoid crinkling your notes with the point of your elbow. Truthfully, you didn’t know Kento’s fallen friend very well. But you understand the feeling better than most. Itadori reminds you of someone else, and the band on your finger almost seems to shine brighter when the kid’s in the room. It’s almost like he knows, and he’s amused by the comparison. Not that he’d ever given you signs from beyond the grave since the time that he left you. “I guess we’re both still haunted by the ghosts of our pasts.”

It’s immediately clear that you’ve once again misspoken. Batting two for two, it seems. “Is that your professional opinion?” Nanami’s tone is sharp and the arch of his eyebrow severe. You’re not friends. You barhop together sparingly and the focus on the night has always been the alcohol. You’re not close enough to bring up his dead friend even if the commonality of losing someone deeply important to you is what brought you together in the first place.

“More of a friendly observation,” you wince. “I see that it didn’t land. I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

At that, you release an incredulous laugh. “And you’re so certain about that?”

Nanami blinks. “Nothing to me,” he amends.

“Yes, we’ve long since established you don’t mind an abuse of power if you get hot sex out of it.” Whoa—you did not mean to sound that bitter. “I don’t do that anymore. Cross professional boundaries because I’m lonely, which—wow, I’m really just digging this hole deeper aren’t I? If I keep swallowing my foot and beyond, will I disappear or—”

“I know about you and Gojo,” interrupts Nanami with what you can only describe as bemusement, with a knowing incline of his head. “You’re starting to ramble like him, too.”

You slap a hand over your mouth. “You take that back!”

“Although, I shouldn’t be too surprised at your similarities,” Kento continues with a dry wryness you came to realize is the closest he’ll ever get to playful. “There must, after all, be a reason why you are nine and a half points ahead of me.”

“What?”

His lips twitch. “Never you mind.”

You pout, but all that does make him snort.

“Well, since we’re already on the topic of atrocious breaches of professional etiquette, it appears our mutual acquaintance was… upset before he left on his work trip. That wouldn’t have anything to do with your fuckbuddy arrangement?” He adjusts his spectacles, your office’s LEDs glinting off the lenses and the TAG Heuer on his wrist, impassive as your tea goes down the wrong pipe. “Please don’t mistake me—customarily, I couldn’t care less about his mood. But he’s been even more obnoxious than usual as of late.”

“And you want me to fix it.” Not a question. It’s mortifying enough that he sussed out the fact that you’re boinking—and you thought you’d been hiding it so well, too!—and it’s a whole other realm of shame that he’s asking you to unbreak Gojo Satoru’s heart. You’re not certain how much he knows; Gojo isn’t the type to gossip about his sex life beyond boasting in the vaguest of terms, much prouder of his skill as a sorcerer than anything a regular man might brag about. But on the other hand, you don’t want to chance exposing too much. If Nanami even really cares to begin with. “I already tried, he left me on read.”

“You apologized via text?”

“No, I asked him to meet so I could do it in person,” you snap. “Why’re you so invested, anyway? If he’s being annoying, just get Shoko to smack him upside the head of a couple of times.”

“Can you blame me for being intrigued? You’re probably the only human alive who could best Gojo Satoru without breaking a sweat.” Nanami crosses a leg as he speaks, sporting a pose uncomfortably similar to your own, typically used to balance your notepad on your knee.

“My love life isn’t a sports match!”

“No,” continues Kento evenly, “but Gojo is… not a friend.” He makes an expression like he’s just bitten down on a whole lemon. “But as far as colleagues go, he’s closer than most. He stopped being a symbol to me a long time ago. Can you say the same?”

You open your mouth to protest—and then you stop yourself short.

Gojo Satoru is but a man, flesh and bone that you’ve mapped countless times with your fingers and tongue. But even his name in your phone—pure jest that it is—belies the inhumanity with which you’ve been treating him. The colloqualism for your relationship is ‘friends with benefits.’ How much can you say that you’re actually friends? You’ll deny it any time someone asks, but that’s just how people talk about Gojo. They respect him, some revere him, but those in Tokyo get a closer glimpse at him than most. He’s harmless and friendly, if a little annoying—so long as you aren’t a conservative. No one really hates him in that they want him dead. He’s like an irritating younger sibling, at best. He’s got allies, and that’s as good as friends, right?

Everyone knows the tale of Gojo Satoru. The myth, the legend. But how many can say that they truly know him?

And can you dare to count yourself among them?

“If a punching bag counts as a symbol,” you admit. For the most part, it had been purely transactional between the two of you. At some point, for him, that changed. But you’d used him, under the assumption that he didn’t mind. Because everyone else did. He was someone to aspire to, someone to rely on. Just as easily, he was someone to envy, someone to resent. And you’d done just about enough of that. His good fortune was not your justification—it was his chipper attitude. Someone who suffered as you did had no right to be that happy. Worse, even, as his beloved’s butcher. But that wasn’t right. You were just jealous of his resilience.

And yet, when the supposedly omnipotent Gojo Satoru—however unwittingly—bared his soul to you, you hadn’t crushed it on purpose. You’d done it with the same lack of consideration you’d always given Satoru. Because he could take it, just like he could weather everything. And because you refused to let anyone get too close, no matter how cruel you had to be to keep your distance. 

He’s the strongest. He’s untouchable. When someone needs something done, no matter the cost, they go to him. And, ever cognizant of his responsibility, he took it upon himself so no one else had to needlessly suffer. So when you needed a sexual outlet, you went to him, never once considering that it might mean something to him, that he was a person underneath the heated glances and booty calls. Gojo’s a martyr—and it’s only by the grace of his grating personality that he’s spared the full brunt of the worship that entails. You’re just another arrow piercing Saint Satoru’s side.

“I messed up.” Your voice is hoarse, strained by the lump in your throat.

“I know,” says Nanami helpfully.

It’s the thought that counts, you suppose. “When did you become the therapist, huh?”

“Not certain. I should charge you for this.” Kento’s always had a handsome smile. You’d like to see it more often.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much by way of cash. Can I pay you in rosé instead?”

“You insult me.”

It feels good to laugh with him, a weight lifting off of your chest with each movement of your shoulders. It’s nice. Much better than pushing people away. You wave him off with a hand. “All right, it’s late. You’d better get out of here if you want to catch the last train. Skedaddle, Kento-kun.”

Nanami lingers by the door as you see him out, a coy tilt to his mouth. For a moment, you consider that this turn of conversation hadn’t been random at all. It wasn’t exactly the smoothest of segues, but he’d always been a little stiff. But now, you wonder if he’d been sent as a messenger—either from Gojo or from the big guy upstairs. Or maybe one of the big guy’s citizens, whom you hope you haven’t disappointed too badly. 

But before you get to ask, he huffs out a quiet little chuckle. “You had better make up with Gojo quickly, sensei. Otherwise, I might just steal him right out from under your nose.”

You’re too stunned to properly respond to his cheerful (for Nanami anyway) ‘Goodbye’ as he shuts the door to your office behind him.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #nanami x reader #anodt tag. #jjk fic. #this is the part of the romcom where reader runs to the airport to catch gojo and gets tackled by security for being a public disturbance

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   don’t wanna miss you

summary. if shoko was here, she’d have taken your phone to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. but it’s just you and utahime at this bar, and maybe that’s for the best. series. a night of dark trees. part one . part two . part three . part four . part five you’re here ! pairing. gojo satoru x gn!reader. warnings. alcohol cw. word count. 1889

Hime’s a sloppy drunk, but she’s also a fun one, on top of being your old senior, so you don’t mind going out with her at all. The Exchange Event has always been the perfect excuse to catch up over a pint (or six)—though you tried not to think too hard about your own, considering how thoroughly Tokyo trounced Kyoto, courtesy of Gojo.

Who, coincidentally, is also the reason why Utahime is currently clutching onto your arm.

“I’m… really… sorry,” she slurs, worrying at the damp parts of your sleeve between her index finger and thumb. If you were sober you might’ve realized this was only going to make the stain worse. “I wasn’t thinking, should’ve realized that you were in the splash zone—”

You pat the top of her head. So round. “S’okay. It’s that dickhead who splashed it all over me with his Infinity anyway.” Technically it was you who’d been foolish enough to choose a seat next to a man who definitely hadn’t forgiven you for answering his love confession with a pained ‘thanks.’ in the first place. But manners are manners, he should’ve been the bigger person.

The tea incident had left you jumpy, stuck with the discomfort of wet fabric plastered against your skin. And then the competition started, and everything just went downhill from there. You haven’t been in active combat in ages—you’d been overseas last Christmas and missed all of the hullabaloo—and it was only worse with Old Man Gakuganji nearby. He’s never masked his disdain towards the fact that a cadet branch of the family wound up with the more powerful technique, nor that you’d just been letting this gift go to waste for years.

“I mean,” you continue against your better judgment, “I guess you can only smack a guy around for so long without him snapping back.”

Utahime squints at you. “You smack him around?” Before you have a chance to respond, she rotates her entire body to face you and slides closer. The movement is disturbingly serpentine. “What do you mean? Is he an M? Is this a sex thing?”

She probably means it as a joke. She definitely means it as a joke. But you hesitate. Utahime’s mouth falls open, a Sadako-adjacent rasp of betrayal pouring forth. “It is a sex thing! You’re fucking him!” Suddenly realizing the two of you are in public, she claps a hand over her mouth as the other reaches over your shoulder to pinch the back of your neck between her forefinger and thumb. She ignores your yowl of pain as she hisses, as though you’ve sold her firstborn child into slavery. “How could you?”

“In my defense,” you wheeze, “he’s usually the one fucking meeEOWWW!”

Mercifully, she relases you to bury her face into her arms. “I can’t believe it,” heaves Hime, “one of our best and brightest, the Vice Captain of the Gojackoff Suckstoru Hate Club, seduced by that vile tempter—temptro—whatever the male equivalent of a temptress is!”

“There, there.” You’re petting her again, but this time it’s more or less to keep her hair from soaking in the condensation puddling beneath her beer. “Gojo’s not that bad. In fact, he’s actually quite good—”

“I don’t need to hear how good he is in bed!”

“I was going to say he’s a good person,” you snap.

“Sure.”

You’re not certain what compels you to defend him so vehemently. You highly doubt that Gojo would do the same for you, upset with you as he is. But for years, you’ve been unnecessarily cruel to him. His greatest crime is being mildly (and probably facetiously) self-centered and annoying, no doubt traced back to a childhood of neglect and a young adulthood of idolatry. He’s good to you. He’s good to everyone, to varying degrees.

“He’s actually really nice when he wants to be. He only teases you because he knows it’ll get a rise out of you and he thinks that’s funny.” By now, the bar’s interest has waned from Utahime’s earlier outburst. Only the bartender, who looks torn between cutting you off and serving you more in the interest of eavesdropping, is paying any attention. “And yeah, it’s not great that he’s almost thirty and still desperate for attention. But Satoru is caring and strong and he makes me feel safe in a way that I’ve never felt since—that I…”

There’s a pin drop silence—spiritually, not literally—as the realization settles in  your gut.

“Oh my God,” Utahime breathes. “You’re in love with him.”

Your kneejerk reaction is to deny it. You can’t be in love, because that somehow lessens what you once had, what was torn from you all too soon. But you’d said it yourself—he makes you feel a certain type of way.

The heat of being enveloped in a loving embrace, once upon a time ripped from you and crushed and crushed by so much pressure that it turned into the diamonds sitting on your left hand, now instead the fluttery warmth you feel when Gojo smiles at you. Or when he sits beside you and his hand sits comfortably on your lower back. Or when he laughs at one of your jokes, a throaty chuckle a million times more genuine than his goblin cackle. Or when the two of you lie together in silence—oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen miraculously arranged in a beau ideal of the lovers’ embrace, touch as soft as satin and solace made sublime.

Words are how everything got all messed up. But in the quiet, the vacuum of your touch, it had felt like fate that you would be in each other’s arms. A sense of belonging, a clicking into place. It’s just that you hadn’t understood how to translate it yet. And now you know.

“I’m in love with Gojo.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I have to tell him.”

“What?!” squawks Utahime. She nearly launches herself off of her stool in her mad scramble to snatch your phone from you. “Put that away! I can’t let you do this!”

Her words are partially garbled by where she’s smushed up against your protective barrier (also known as your right shoulder), her hands clawing in the air for your device. Joke’s on her, you’d been staring longingly at your texts the entire night, so all it takes is a tap onto his contact photo—Satoru mid-snore, mouth unflatteringly ajar and a trickle of drool spilling down a corner, with a full view up his nose—and then another tap to call him. You raise your voice to hear yourself over the dial tone. “He hasn’t said more than seven words to me in a couple o’ weeks, okay? I need—I needa tell him I’m sorry for being such a dumbass—”

“Did your voice crack? Are you crying?!”

“Shut up.” You blow your nose on your sopping wet napkin, sending nut casings showering onto your lap and Utahime’s hair. What remains of the rational part of you says you might be getting kicked out pretty soon.

Gojo picks up on the third ring. He sounds half-asleep, and you can almost see him rubbing his eyes. “Hullo…?”

‘Oh, it is pretty late, isn’t it? My bad!’

‘Apologies for disturbing your slumber, my good friend.’

‘This sounds like a bad time. I’ll call back tomorrow.’

All of these are perfectly reasonable things to say to someone you’ve clearly just woken up. Not, “Hey, I’m so in love with you it makes me stupid.”

He’s so quiet for so long that you pull the phone away from your ear to check if he’d hung up on you. You barely manage to put it back in time to hear him ask, “Are you drunk right now?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point.” Leave it to Gojo to get stuck on the little things. “The point is that you make me a better version of myself. A happier version of myself, giddy like I’m fifteen years old and the popular boy at school actually smiled at me and not the pretty girl behind me, overjoyed like my husband of fifty-five years remembers that I like my yakisoba with pickled ginger even though it’s been so long and the dementia’s starting to set in.”

Utahime smacks your cheek, bringing you back on track.

“Except you’re not my husband, because you’re mad at me,” you gasp, taking a second to catch your breath. “And to be honest, I don’t blame you. I was really mean to you both to your face and behind your back. Utahime and Shoko and I have a group chat where we talk shit.”

Utahime smacks you again, harder this time for throwing her under the bus.

“But I love you. I love you and how you make me feel, all warm inside, like I deserve to be loved. I love you and how you know every part of me, from every inch of my skin to every dark crevice of my heart. I love you and I want you to feel the same way about me. I want you to want me, to want my comfort, to want my touch, to want me next to you. I love you, Gojo Satoru.”

There’s silence again, but it’s soon curtailed by a noise that could either be a bemused exhale or just Gojo rolling over. You choose, in all of your inebriated optimism, to believe it’s the former. “That was a nice speech,” Gojo hums. “Think you can give it to me again when you’re sober?”

“In spirit, sure,” you reply. “Probably not in those specific words. Should I have written that down? Shit, Hime, what did I say?”

He laughs, fond and forgiving. A far cry from the careful distance, meticulously tailored to his customary puckishness, that seemed nearly insurmountable just a few hours earlier. “I’m holding you to that,” he says. “So drink some water and go to bed. I don’t want you to miss breakfast tomorrow because you got so plastered you slipped in the shower and cracked your head open.”

“Breakfast tomorrow? It’s a date.” You ignore the violent gagging noises beside you. “I’ll see you soon, handsome.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Even if you had wanted to, you couldn’t wipe the smile off of your face. It’s like your cheeks are superglued to this position, a warm fluttery feeling in your chest and stomach that won’t go away. Perhaps it wasn’t as reciprocal of a response as he could’ve given, but he’d already told you he loved you. It was up to you to return the favor. All you could do is hope that he hadn’t changed his mind, and the fact that he’d wanted to meet seems to lean in your favor.

You might get your happily ever after, for once. For years, you thought it was beyond your reach. But now, with Gojo, there’s a chance.

Gently patting your drinking buddy on the back, you shake your head. “That’s why you don’t fake vom, hon, it’ll make you actually heave.” You give Utahime one last smack, making her body jerk, though it’s really more self-congratulatory than anything else.

“Besides, you should be happy for me. Didn’t you hear? I got the most powerful man in the world to fall in love with me.”

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #anodt tag. #jjk fic. #ding ding ding the dumbass finally figured it out!!!!! #and then shibuya happens LMFAO

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   no x’s and o’s

summary. sweat slick from the summer heat, you’re on the verge of sleep when blindfolded dildo whispers in your ear, “i need a favor.” series. a night of dark trees. part one you’re here ! part two . part three . pairing. gojo satoru x gn!reader. mention of past nanami kento x reader. warnings. heavy ( non-explicit ) mentions of sex. word count. 2370.

07.11.23 / read the updated re-release on ao3!

“I need a favor.” Gojo’s breath is hot on the back of your neck, his lips twisted in a smirk when you look over your shoulder at him. You bet he thinks he looks quite charming. It’s disgusting.

“I thought you said you didn’t like bottoming.”

His mouth forms a perfect ‘o’. His eyes travel along the ceiling above you in contemplation. “Mm. We can try it again next time, no promises. Not what I was asking, though.”

“It’s too late,” you tell him gravely, turning over fully onto your side so that you’re facing him. Getting a second look at his naked form reminds you exactly why you had your back towards him in the first place. You need sleep. You have an early morning tomorrow — fuck, today, if your clock has anything to say about it. “I’m plastering it everywhere. Gojo Satoru likes it up the ass.”

He cracks a smile, then snaps his fingers at you like you’re a misbehaving puppy. It would be demeaning if he wasn’t looking at you with any modicum of seriousness. You don’t like it when he gets like that. It’s much easier to fall into your usual routine — fighting and fucking and pretending the other isn’t there when you get up and get dressed in the morning. There’s a reason why it was Gojo Satoru in your bed and not someone else you’ve already had in it like, say… Kento.

(‘Kento who can barely say hello to you on a good day’ Kento. ‘Kento who blanched when you brought up marriage and never quite looked at you the same way again’ Kento. ‘Kento who dumped you a week after the fact’ Kento.)

“Focus,” Gojo chides. “I meant an actual favor. And I’m letting you in on a secret, so I want you to pay attention to what I’m saying.”

His eyes, crystalline and usually very sharp, turn into azure razors. Oh, so he really means it. It’s a drastic enough change that your whole body drops into work mode. Never mind that you’re not dressed for it, or that if any of your clients had seen you in this state you might just leave the country. You prop your head up, elbow digging into your pillow and fingers curling behind the shell of your ear.

“What is it?” you ask. In the interest of modesty, you tug the blanket up in spite of it being the hottest summer in 72 years.

“Yuji’s not dead.” Gojo says it matter-of-factly enough, without the usual splash of panache you’ve come to expect over the decade-plus that you’ve known him. Momentarily, you think you’ve misheard him. But you remember who he is, and he rarely ever misspeaks. “I had Shoko fake the records. He’s alive and well — as far as we can tell. ‘Well’ is debatable. That’s where you come in.”

You blink. “You mean to tell me I’ve been helping your students through grief counseling for the past month over someone who’s been alive this whole time?”

Three hours a week, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. You’ve been cutting into their training before the Goodwill Event, leading Megumi through the trauma of seeing Sukuna tear Yuji’s heart out of his chest, and it might well be for nothing. It’s always difficult, watching sorcerers recall the worst moments of their lives. The first-years were children who had barely made it out of that mission with their lives, and now he’s gone and made you a liar by omission the next time you were to meet. “You realize telling me this puts me in a difficult position. If either Kugisaki or Fushiguro figure out that I know, it could compromise their trust in me.”

“I do,” says Satoru, shockingly earnest. “But you’re also the only person I trust to help Yuji.”

Seeing as he’s never stopped by your office except to tease you since you set up shop in Tokyo, you highly doubt that’s the case. Gojo Satoru made a big show of being the best, the strongest, so sure in his capabilities and limits (of which there were apparently none) that the idea he’d need to visit a therapist after every assignment to debrief and decompress seemed laughable. He stole candies off of your desk and asked if you wanted to go to his place or yours for the evening. That was the extent of your professional interaction, barring the times he picked up his students from their sessions. Even that was just a wiggle of his eyebrows behind his blindfold.

The jujutsu world didn’t think highly of psychotherapy before you opened your practice. If you’re being honest, it still doesn’t. You don’t disagree that a sorcerer needs to be at least a little crazy to do what they do. But you also don’t see the point in letting people fall apart when they don’t have to — when you and the people around them can help. You pushed for it, and you’re proud to know that others have been following in your footsteps in Kyoto. This doesn’t change the fact that people above and around you (and you had assumed Gojo was one of them) thought your mandated post-mission evaluations were a waste of time.

“He’s just a kid,” he continues. He settles a hand on your ribcage, a more innocent touch than the gesture might suggest. “He puts on a good enough show, but he’s still only fifteen. We have no idea what Sukuna might have said or done to him; he doesn’t remember anything except for the fact that he was dead for one moment and alive for the next. Even I can tell that’d mess anyone up.”

He’s right. You met Yuji not long after his admission to gauge just how much control he had over Sukuna and whether it was linked to his mental state, and even then you knew he was different. For someone who spent most of their day writing psych evals for half the sorcerers in Tokyo, you had to sit and think on what to say about Yuji. He’s a good kid, but that means little when all of the adults around him are asking him to push himself to the brink on a daily basis. To say nothing of the effect he had on the other first-years, whose hurt was palpable whenever they spoke of him.

If Gojo’s telling the truth — and he must be, just look at him — then you’ll be spending much more time with the boy than before. Behind his classmates’ backs, at that. It’s a headache that can wait.

“Are you planning on re-introducing him, or are you locking him up in your basement until he eats all of the fingers?”

“I’m planning this big reveal at the Goodwill Event. Have him pop out of a cake or something.” Of course. You couldn’t have expected him to be serious for that long. “I’m having him work with Nanami, just so he doesn’t get rusty. He’s been training a lot on his own, but he still needs field experience. Something is bound to come up one of these days.”

Considering Yuji’s last mission ended in his death, you wonder if it’s a good idea. But he’ll be with Kento, so you suppose he’ll be in good hands. You hum in affirmation. “You want me to look him over before you send him on his way?”

Gojo nods. “And keep up with him throughout, if you would. I know the event’s not far away, but I didn’t wanna just spring him on you.”

“How thoughtful of you.” He pouts at your caustic tone. Really, he should be used to it by now. The two of you have never been friends. Tacking on the ‘with benefits’ part doesn’t change that fact. “You know my uncle’s going to have your head on a platter when he sees that the kid’s alive.”

“I know,” Gojo says gleefully. “I can’t wait to see his eyebrows hit the floor.” He rolls over so that he’s almost on top of you, but he stops himself at the last moment. He arches a brow, and you realize that you haven’t actually said anything resembling a confirmation yet.

“Fine, I’ll help. Of course.” You slide your hands up his sides and roam across his back, pressing the pads of your fingers into the crescents and grooves your nails left behind not even an hour ago. You feel him tense under your touch, and you dodge an oncoming kiss by pressing a palm against his mouth and pushing him off. “But in order to be in tip-top shape for Yuji, I have to sleep.”

Rolling his eyes, he drops back down with a huff. He lays on his stomach, his left arm heavy over your torso. He refuses to move when you paw at it. It’s too hot for this, but you’re too tired to press the issue and close your eyes instead. He moves enough in his sleep that he’ll be on his back again before your alarm. You’ll be long gone before he wakes up.

Sleeping side by side with Gojo Satoru was something you’d never even dreamed of before six months ago, when it had all started. The moment you met him as a Kyoto second-year, you knew he was nothing but trouble. But that’s why you chose him to be your Super Secret Sex Friend in the first place. There wasn’t any danger of you falling for him. He’s obnoxious and you can’t stand him, but you also had it on good authority that he knew what he was doing when he was… doing. Gojo Satoru is good for one thing, as far as you are concerned — orgasms. He hasn’t proven you wrong yet.

Still, try as you might to let sleep claim you (as it would have, before he had to open his big stupid mouth), a thought lingers at the back of your head. It’s so irritating and difficult to block out that you almost think it’s him talking in his sleep before you realize it isn’t something he’d ever say. You let the thought sit on your tongue for a few minutes before it bursts out of you. “I think this is actually the first time you’ve sought out my… other services. I’m surprised you’d ask someone as weak as me to spend so much time with your brightest pupil.”

Gojo doesn’t respond, and for a brief moment you believe he’d already fallen asleep. “I don’t think you’re weak at all. I think you’re as strong as me.”

You don’t open your eyes. If you do, you’ll never get them to close long enough for you to fall asleep. And you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of getting under your skin with such a blatant lie. “Really? Mister I’m the Best, Heaven Honors Me thinks the washout sorcerer is on his level?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I know you’d be helping a lot more if you were still going on missions,” he drawls. You hear the rustling of fabric close to your ear, likely him turning his head. “But I also know you’re doing good work here. There’s a lot of people who wouldn’t be here without you. We save lives, you save ours.”

You can’t help it. You look at him, fighting back a shudder when you see him looking back at you. His blue eyes glitter in the moonlight. You can’t tell whether it’s the intensity or the sincerity that’s most frightening. You run your fingers over your arms, hoping to suppress the gooseflesh.

It’s easy to forget that he’s a teacher. Every single one of his students that you’ve encountered has at least three complaints about him. But for all his faults, he’s a man that cares. Probably not in the healthiest or most normal of ways, but Gojo Satoru is a man working towards a better future for all. He prattles on and on about his superiority, and yet his end goal is to live in a world full of his equals. Of all the things he could do with his time, he chooses to guide the new generation. That, at least, has to be a little admirable.

The more cynical part of you thinks it’s just his narcissism at work yet again. Your idealistic side has slept dormant for the better part of five years now, coinciding with an event that you often try to forget with firewater. He stepped up when you took a step back. You’re jealous, that’s all there is to it.

Because you’re the same age, and he’s reached the apex of his power and hasn’t shown any signs of slowing down. Because he’s got a special genetic technique that allows him to unlock his potential and you needed someone else to keep yours in check, because that system of checks and balances was jarringly disrupted and now you’re too afraid to let anyone step in for He Who Only Lives In Your Memories. Because when he lost everything, he decided to try harder and you gave up knowing that you simply weren’t strong enough.

(Sometimes, when your mind gets the better of you, in those dark nights sitting in your office alone, you wonder if you’re even qualified to do what you do. How could someone so fucked up possibly be of any help?)

To hear the same man who gloated in your face when Tokyo won the Sister Goodwill Events of ‘06 and ‘07 back to back even after losing their second best student calling you an equal seemed nothing short of fiction. No one would believe you if you’d decided to share this fact, you think. Before you can stop yourself, warmth blossoms in your chest. It feels nothing like the way heat usually rushes through your body when you’re with him.

But not to worry. Gojo Satoru knows how to put you back in your place.

“Besides, you’ve gotta put in the work too. You’re decommissioned, not retired.”

Ah. This is the way things should be. There’s no way he would ever say something genuinely sweet to you. 

That’s just the way you like it.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #anodt tag. #jjk fic. #pretend like i know how a timeline works #and i didn't edit this 2 weeks later bc i realized july and september r not the same month

[kichous]

✧･ﾟ:*   do it ‘til it hurts less

summary. the sight of his long-legged silhouette leaning by your door nearly causes you to leap out of your own skin. series. a night of dark trees. | part one . part two you’re here ! part three . pairings. gojo satoru x gn!reader. past oc x reader. warnings. mentions of body horror. emetophobia cw ( non-graphic ). word count. 3499.

07.11.23 / read the updated re-release on ao3!

[ 22:16 ✉️ ➤ blindfolded dildo ] yuo know i iddint mean it when isd said your penis was liettle [ 22:16 ✉️ ➤ blindfolded dildo ] u hav a fvery nice dikc. very sxexy. good time. [ 22:17 ✉️ ➤ blindfolded dildo ] speking of a good tiem dwould yo u leke to meet me a mny appt later?//?/ [ 22:17 ✉️ ➤ blindfolded dildo ] aww ye at hat was so smooth GOTTEM

Shoko had seen you off at the elevator, waving you off as she stumbled off to her own apartment. It was routine for you two now, and you had waved her off with that same stupid ‘Bye-bye!’ that had caused her to roll on the floor with laughter the first time you said it all those years ago.

(That the words sounded like ‘bwoy-bwoy’ likely had something to do with it.)

You had the good fortune of having an apartment close to the lift, and though you barely had the presence of mind to count, you made it one, two, three doors down to your residence. Whereupon you had promptly screeched, stumbling back at the sight of the figure who leaned against the doorway.

Gojo reaches out to catch you before you fall, unable to hold back his laughter has he places a hand over your mouth. “It’s a school night, y’know,” he snickers. “Don’t wake up your neighbors.”

“The hell are you doing here?” You swat at him until he lets you go. You regret it, as you immediately start swaying again. Moron got you all turned around. You make the mistake of looking down to steady yourself, as your eyes rest on his lower half. A lightbulb of recognition flickers dimly in the back of your head. “Oh, wait. I texted you. Forgot.”

Your hands fly to your pants, and it’s Gojo’s turn to scream as he grabs you by the wrist and starts shouting, “Keys! Where are your keys?!” in your face. After you direct him to the appropriate pocket, he strongarms you into the apartment and quickly locks the door behind him. If he had wanted privacy, all he had to do was ask — though you don’t really remember Gojo Satoru feeling shame, of all things. He stops you from smashing your pelvis into dust on your counter by yanking you back by the collar.

“STOP!” he bellows. “Stop trying to take your pants off. Stop trying to take your pants off.”

You lift your hands in surrender. “You could just say please.”

Gojo rolls his eyes and jerks his thumb to your bedroom. “Get dressed and ready for bed. I’m here to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit.”

“Hold on, do I not take off my pants or do I get changed?”

His scowl makes up for the blindfold, and you can almost see the furrow between his brows. Your eyes are still screaming from when he turned on the light in your living room, but the amusement at his exasperation is a tentative balm. 

More often than not, he was the one annoying you. It’s nice to know that you can get under his skin just as easily. Then again, maybe it’s because August is a bad month for the both of you. “Get naked if you want,” Gojo says finally, “I don’t care. Just get out of those clothes so I can toss them into the wash. You smell like a distillery.” He moves over to your kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it up with tap water.

You fold yourself over the couch (and it’s certainly not because you can’t stand up straight) and peer at him through the corner of your eye. You flop over until you can prop yourself up on one elbow, and Gojo turns to find you wiggling your eyebrows at him. “Aren’t you gonna take these clothes offa me?”

“I’m not here because of your gibberish,” Gojo chides, handing you the glass. Though you’d already chugged an entire bottle of mineral water (mistaking it for spirits) in the cab, you gulp it down and hand it back to him. If your bladder bursts, it’s on him. “Shoko texted me, actually. An hour before you did. Told me to check up on you when you got back.”

You must pull a face, because he snorts. “You?” Gojo Satoru is not the nurturing type. He’s barely a decent enough authority figure for his students as it is. “If you didn’t wanna boink, you could just say so.”

“I do wanna boink, just when you’re sober.” He reaches over to pat the top of your head, and you marvel at just how big his palm is. “She said you seemed off today. You okay?”

You’re still wrapping your mind around it — Gojo actually going out of his way to check on you. It’s something any decent friend would do, you know. But there’s something to the fact that you wake up next to him more often than not, and there’s something to the fact that he’s the first person you text when you don’t. And there’s something to the guilt that constantly gnaws at you whenever you roll into Gojo’s waiting arms after deciding to sleep in. You’re not friends, never have been. But if you’re not friends, then what are you?

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He frowns as you smile at him, his brows drawing together. You stretch a hand up to him, and Gojo leans his cheek into it, kneeling beside you. “It’s my fifth wedding anniversary.”

Gojo hums quietly. “Doesn’t count as an anniversary if the wedding didn’t happen, does it?” To his credit, he doesn’t wince when you slap him. If you were of a sounder mind, you might also pause to consider that he allowed you to make contact with his face in the first place.

But as things are, all you can focus on is your swimming vision — tears, you realize with shock, instead of just a general state of drunkenness — and the stabbing pain in your chest.

The whole point of going out with Shoko was to get so shwasted that you forgot everything to do with August 23, 2013. Apparently, you’re so inept at literally everything that you couldn’t even get blackout drunk right. You went out with her because you knew she could mostly hold her own liquor, and she wouldn’t let you go home with anyone untoward. Little did you know, she’d send someone to your door. Someone your little pea brain associated with sex, no less.

Not this ‘are you okay? how are you feeling?’ bullshit, which didn’t fit your image of Gojo Satoru in the slightest. Regardless of his earlier admission of admiration, it just felt… wrong to have him like this with you. You’re glad you can’t see his eyes, because if they end up being filled with the pity everyone else was sending your way today, you might actually launch him out of the window. But he had cracked a (shitty) joke, so you suppose you can spare him. For now.

“You still wear his ring every day,” Gojo comments absently. You feel him trying to take it off, and you snatch your hand from his cheek. “You could fetch a pretty penny for that, you know.”

And give up the only remaining thing you had of Ryota? You’d sooner drop dead.

Without a doubt, Yabumi Ryota was the love of your life. Still is. He’s not around anymore, but that doesn’t mean that fact is any less true. When he died, there was a part of you that perished with him. A part of you that was chopped up into ten chunks and left in the same garbage bag his killers tossed in front of the church — in front of your family and friends and that poor priest. Had Gojo been there?

It was Ryota’s idea to invite the big three families, so you suppose he must’ve been there. Unless he decided to shirk his duties because who cares about the marriage of a nobody Grade 1 and an even nobody-er Grade 2? If Gojo wasn’t there, joke’s on him. Your wedding became the talk of the town for weeks afterward.

Special Grade 1 Sorcerer Duo Dissolved With Gruesome Murder of a Member.

Top 10 Reasons Why Jujutsu is a Solo Sport: Number 6 Will Shock You!

Just Marry a Civilian — It’ll Save You From a World of Heartbreak.

Never mind that you had been standing at that altar nervously for over an hour, your mother doing everything she could to assure the guests (and you) that the wedding was still on — only for the groom to show up in literal pieces. It’s almost funny, if you think about it, in a dark, macabre way. Who in the world could ever think what was supposed to be the happiest day of their life would end up like that?

Yabumi Ryota was a Kyoto first year the same time you were, and you formed a pitifully tiny class of two. You had initially thought him plain, with shaggy brown hair and cheerful brown eyes. He wasn’t particularly strong or fast, but he was kind. And powerful — though people often didn’t believe it. He’d used his cursed technique in a support role for you, and he never took missions by himself, despite being perfectly capable of it with his rank. The power of probability manipulation was dangerous, but so was your Reverb. So when you put danger and danger together, you come out with a power-couple that netted its own grade, on top of your personal rankings. 

You two were high school sweethearts, and though you got engaged during graduation, you both agreed to wait until you were the best of the best (or as close to ‘the best’ as one could get with Gojo Satoru running around) before marrying. Turns out that was a stupid idea. But you had no clue at the time. You were so in love that you would’ve gone with anything he said. 

He wanted you to marry someone who would ‘make you proud,’ as if you didn’t think he was the best thing to ever happen to you. You had the feeling he wanted to be proud of himself before he called himself your husband, and so you’d given him time.

Kind, gentle, forgiving Ryota. Sweet, friendly, and totally undeserving of his fate. What good was his technique if it couldn’t save him when he needed it most? Even if he used his maximum technique, there was a fifty-fifty chance that he’d die.

Lady Luck was rarely ever on your side. The only time you had ever believed in her was when Ryota stumbled into your life. You didn’t deserve him. You still don’t.

“I just wanted to look,” says Gojo quietly, snapping you out of your reminiscence. His face drifts back into focus, and he pouts at you. “I wasn’t gonna sell your crap, I’m not that much of an asshole. Is that really what you think of me?”

You hold your hand to your chest, covering it with your other one, as though he wasn’t born with the ability to look through it if he so chose.

And anyway, Gojo’s wrong. You don’t wear the rings (Ryota’s and yours) all the time. You don’t when you’re on dates, and back when you were still bringing people back to your apartment, you’d already hidden them somewhere before you and your conquest-of-the-night made it back from the bar. Kento found the boxes once, and that was when you’d blurted, ‘What’s your opinion on marriage?’, ending within seconds what was a pretty okay six-month-old relationship.

(For the record, you were not proposing. But you could see how he took it that way and why he avoids you like the plague these days. ‘Horrified’ couldn’t even begin to describe the way he’d looked at you. It was like you asked him if you could shit on his face the next time you were in bed.)

Gojo stands and taps your cheek, a gentler, more playful affectation of the slap you’d given him earlier. “C’mon, get up. I was serious about getting you into bed.” He points a finger at your nose, and you go cross-eyed trying to look at it. “For sleepytimes, not sexytimes.”

“Boooooring.” You allow him to pull you up, pointedly giving him your right hand and still keeping your left hand close. He huffs, and you squeeze your eyes shut as he flicks on the light to your bedroom. Pure agony, delivered to you by a being of pure evil. You’d think he’d learn his lesson after you had screeched in the living room. “To answer your question, yes. You stick pictures of peepees into the pockets of people you consider friends. I do not put thetty peft above the list of things you’d do to a sexemy.”

“I don’t know what a sexemy is, but I’m pretty sure we’re what most would consider ‘friends with benefits,’ equal emphasis on ‘Friends’ and ‘Benefits.’ Sex is better when you like each other, no? Ours is pretty great.” You turn to look at him so quickly that you give yourself whiplash. “Oh, don’t act so surprised. If I hated you the way you hate me, you’d know it.”

“You sayin’ that irritating people is the only way you know how to show affec— aff—?” You blink. “Affek-shyoon?”

“Close enough.”

He guides you onto your bed in a sitting position, and just to make things harder for him, you lie down instead, your legs below your knees dangling off the edge. Gojo releases a long-suffering sigh and starts unbuttoning your fly. He yanks your pants off roughly, and you rise up on your elbows to glare at him. “Those are work pants, jackass, they’re not for ripping!”

“Take them off yourself, then!” Gojo snaps, even as he gently unbuttons your shirt and pulls it off one arm at a time. He treats your underclothes with similar care and then promptly hucks your pajamas into your face like they’re a volleyball. “You can get dressed by yourself. I’m gonna go shove these in the wash.”

He comes back just in time to corral you into the bathroom before you fall asleep, and he hovers over you while you hurl into the toilet and brush your teeth. He tries to turn the lights on in there too, but you jab two fingers at his eye sockets (stopped by the Infinity, the bastard) and he decides to make his presence known by humming the most obnoxious of mid-2000s hits. You feel like Ass, and his stupid Sean Kingston impression makes you feel like More Ass, and when he guides you under the covers and slips in beside you, you feel too much like Poopy Ass Dicks to kick him out.

He’s placed a trash can on your side of the bed, ‘just in case you feel the need to projectile vom in the middle of the night.’ You hear the telltale rustling of him settling in, and you swing your head around to nominally tell him off — big mistake. You immediately feel the urge to puke your guts out, though it luckily subsides just as quickly as it came. “Get yer own bed.”

“No.”

Well, that just settles that, doesn’t it?

He must have anticipated this, considering he showed up at your doorstep in a comfy t-shirt and sweatpants that left… very little to the imagination. You weren’t really used to sleeping in a bed with Gojo when you were both clothed. The thought is weird enough to keep you up despite the pounding headache (which you know will get exponentially worse in the coming hours). You really don’t know what to make of the situation, and for someone who left active duty because of all of the uncertainty, you hate it.

For the past couple of years, you’d usually be spending the night sleeping on your bathroom floor. You had even rigged a pulley-belt system in 2016 to make sure that you didn’t end up drowning in the toilet water. Just in case you had happened to pass out mid-barf, of course. Hadn’t failed you yet.

Being taken care of was just… weird. Shoko’s gone out with you countless times, and this is the first time that she’s called on Gojo.

She couldn’t possibly think that… Oh, fuck no. She didn’t think — with him? He’s not your b— oof, you can feel a big one coming... Your bo— ... okay. Take a second. Your boyfriend.

(He rubs your back when you make use of the trash can. He tells you that he put a water bottle on your night stand. Just like a boyfriend would.)

The thought that anyone would think you’d moved on with him of all people makes an itch crawl across your skin, only soothed with a thorough amount of self-sabotage. Luckily for you, you were quite adept at it. It’s how you chronicled your life — one foiled relationship-slash-experience-slash-positive-thing at a time. In your defense, you sit there for a while, marinating on it, before you actually do anything. But that doesn’t change the fact that you still open your big, stupid mouth.

“So, who’s winning?”

“What?” Despite the length of your shared silence, Gojo sounds no less awake than he did when he belted the chorus of Beautiful Girls an hour ago, ostensibly to take advantage of your bathroom’s acoustics, more likely to cover up the sound of your upchucking.

You turn your head to look at him — slowly this time, because you’re still dizzy from your last attempt. You end up having to squint through the moonlight, intensifying the throbbing in your temples. “Me or Kento? In your unofficial contest to replace Geto Suguru.” It’s cruel, and you know it, but it’s what you need to feel normal right now. You watch as Gojo goes still, his shoulders tense and his mouth set in a grim line. “I’m just saying, I feel like I should get more points because I — y’know.”

You make a lewd gesture with your hand and poke the inside of your cheek with your tongue.

He crosses his arms. You can’t see his eyes, and you wonder if it’s because they’re closed or if it’s because the moon is feeling generous. You can tell by the silhouette of his hair that he’s taken off the blindfold. Gojo huffs out of his nostrils, and you ponder whether you’ve ever actually seen him upset before.

He was always unflappable, born for the trickster role. He’s much more patient with his students than you’d expect of a savant. And, if you were being honest, you saw him more often in the throes of passion than anything else. So maybe it was only a matter of time before you actually pissed him off.

Only a matter of time before you drove somebody else out of your life.

Somebody that, reluctant as you are to believe it, may be good for you.

“You’re in the lead by nine and a half,” Gojo says after some deliberation. “But only ‘cause of that thing you do with your tongue.” There’s joviality in his tone, but it rings hollow. Your chest pangs with regret, even more when you feel him slide closer to you. The heat of his body is not a comfort.

You decide to match his mirth instead of apologize, as is the cowardly thing to do. “Good. I’ll be sure to rub it in his face next time.”

Gojo chuckles quietly. You feel the tenseness of his body slip away, the conversation over. His earlier half-hearted smirk, which was only barely visible in the sliver of light filtering through your window, shifts into a neutral line. You know that within the hour, it’ll hang open, snores matching a lion’s roar leaving his parted lips. He refuses to believe you whenever you tell him he sounds like a jet taking off.

Ryota used to snore, too. But he was kittenish. Cute. You miss him every day.

Yet, try as you might, you don’t hate the fact that he’s not the one in bed with you right now. Not as much as you used to.

With some difficulty, you roll onto your side, then scoot closer to Gojo. His arm falls over you and you tuck your face into his chest. You feel him nose at the top of your head before he presses a feathery-light kiss to your crown. He’s warm, and you wriggle just a bit more to get comfortable. He squeezes you close. His embrace feels like home.

His breathing evens out not before long, and when you’re certain he’s asleep, you speak. The admission brings out a feeling all too close to guilt. 

“I don’t hate you.”

It is a secret that lives and dies with you.

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #anodt tag. #jjk fic. #man i really hope hakari's 'gambling themed' ct isn't the same as ryota's lmaooo #anyhow i love writing these two they r the 2 most stupidest people alive

[kichous]

❝ i am a forest, and a night of dark trees : but he who is not afraid of my darkness will find banks full of roses under my cypresses. ❜

pairing. gojo satoru & gn!reader. genre. canon. hurt / comfort.

complete !

part one .

part two .

part three . 

part four .

part five . 

bonus tag.

#mini mlist. #anodt tag. #jjk fic.

[kichous]

hey! im the anon who asked about the history lesson series, its been a while but i didnt have my phone and i just read the bonus, it's amazing i really like this series its my fav sukuna fic😭thank you for writing it, but i have a question do sukuna really not care about reader or was he serious in part 2, idk there relationship seems more deep in the bonus(sorry if i am interpreting it wrong i am really not that good with english)

have a nice day!

uhhhhhhh pretend this wasn’t sitting in my inbox for over a month 💀💀💀💀 but anywho, thanks so much for sending in a question and thanks for saying history lesson’s your fav 🥰🥰🥰 and don’t worry about your english babe it’s great !!

anyway, to answer your question, i enjoy having a healthy amount of personal interpretation for my fic, since they’re reader specific so the reader can fill in the gaps themselves and make it feel more personal or tailored to them !

i do admit, however, that i have oc versions of the reader in my head, and if you’re curious about my personal vision, i don’t think sukuna is capable of true affection. i think that he cares for reader more like a pet, and while there is perhaps a deeper connection with her due to the fact that they grew up together, sukuna is a monster who is too far gone to fit our general interpretation of romantic ( or even platonic ) love. their relationship in lost in the moment vs. our proper distance has four years’ worth of development that we haven’t seen, to say nothing of the brief affair they’d been having since before lost in the moment ! at this point, they’re very comfortable with each other as sexual partners, and sukuna enjoys being a source of comfort for reader in spite of everything. but then that begs the question: does he love her ? or does he love what he inspires in her, which is ( some degree of ) devotion, loyalty, and neediness ? for me, sukuna is more obsessed with the feeling of being wanted. he’s lonelier than he lets on, but he’s so far removed from his humanity that it isn’t equal companionship that he seeks.

but is his end going to be explored in depth in history lesson ? probably not ! we don’t get inside sukuna’s head, and 2 of the 3 parts moving forward are more focused on reader’s relationship with yuji ( pt. 4 and 1 of the bonuses follow lady otagi ), so again, it’s totally up to interpretation ! if you want sukuna’s feelings for reader to be real, then they are ! 

#rocky.ask #history lesson tag. #i promise i'm not dead and neither are my series #i've just been buried under a mound of thankless work and im super duper burned out OOF #BUT i am making my triumphant return !! #i'm working on anodt 3 and history lesson 3 so stay tuned <33