Bestfriend!satoru Who Spam Comments Under All Your Posts And Makes Sure To Let Everyone Know That He’s

forever gorgeous. feat. gojo satoru

synopsis: comparison is the thief of joy — in which you feel insecure, but luckily you have the prettiest man to ever exist to comfort you

content: gojo x reader, angst w comfort, face dysmorphia, insecurities, fem!reader, comparisons to others, crying, mental health issues, and self-hatred

a/n: this may be self indulgent...anyways, i just wanted to let you all know that you're fucking beautiful in your own special way. everyone is different and that's what makes us gorgeous. you don't need to compare yourself to other people because you were born with features made just for you. i know it's useless when someone tells you "you're pretty so you don't have to be insecure" because that changes nothing, but it is possible to learn to love yourself for who you are. i love you ❤︎

you stand in front of the mirror, your gaze locked on the reflection staring back at you. every line, every shadow, every imperfection catches your eye. you lean in closer, inspecting the fine lines etched across your forehead, the dark circles haunting your eyes, the uneven texture of your skin. each flaw, no matter how small, feels magnified under the harsh light, glaring at you, accusing you.

your fingers trace the contours of your face, searching for something familiar, something you can still recognize as yourself. but the more you look, the more alien this face becomes. you notice the dullness in your eyes, the way your lips seem to have lost their fullness, how your once-bright complexion has faded to a pallor. you pick at the imperfections, the scars, the blemishes, as if by doing so you could somehow erase them, erase the person you've become, or the person you've always been.

but it never works. the more you scrutinize, the more you find to despise. it's as if the mirror is a portal to another world, a world where you’re distorted and twisted, where every flaw is exaggerated, every imperfection a glaring fault. you feel trapped, caught in an endless loop of self-criticism and loathing. the person in the mirror is a stranger, someone you can’t relate to, someone you’re ashamed of.

you step back, but the image remains imprinted in your mind, haunting you. you don’t recognize yourself anymore, and the thought terrifies you. the person you used to be is slipping away, and all that’s left is this reflection, this version of you that you can’t stand to look at.

it's tearing you apart, this obsession, this constant need to pick yourself apart piece by piece. but you can’t stop. you don’t know how to stop. so you stand there, day after day, searching for the person you once were, and hating the person you’ve become.

you feel the tears welling up, a slow, inevitable tide that you can’t hold back. standing there, staring into the mirror, you’re overwhelmed by a crushing sense of despair. it's not just the reflection that you can’t stand—it’s the thought of anyone else seeing it, of anyone else having to look at you the way you’re forced to now. the idea of their eyes tracing the same flaws that you obsess over, the same imperfections that you magnify in your mind, is too much to bear.

you breath catches in your throat as the first tear slips down your cheek, and then another. the tears blur your vision, but it doesn’t soften the image in the mirror. if anything, the distortion makes it worse, turning your reflection into something even more grotesque in your mind. you press your hands against your face, trying to hide from the world, but mostly from yourself.

it breaks your heart, this self-loathing. because deep down, you know it’s not supposed to be this way. you know it's not something you can change, it's just something you have to learn to live with and that makes it even more unbearable. the thought that this pain is, in some twisted way, your own doing, or at least your own responsibility to fix, weighs on you like a leaden cloak. you know you could learn to love yourself if you wanted to, but the sheer weight of that knowledge only adds to the hurt, making the tears come faster, harder. you don't want to love yourself, not this version of you at least. you don't think you deserve it.

you sob quietly, the sound almost foreign to your ears, like it’s coming from someone else. but it’s you—it’s all you. you're trapped in this body, this mind, this reflection that you can’t escape. and the pain isn’t just in how you look; it’s in how you feel about it, in the heartbreak of knowing that you’ve become someone you don’t want to be, someone you’re afraid to let others see.

the tears keep coming, and you let them, because at least in crying, you can release some of the pressure building inside. but it doesn’t bring relief, only more heartache, as you stand there, unable to face yourself, unable to bear the thought that anyone else might have to as well.

you don’t hear him at first. you're too lost in your thoughts, too caught up in the tears that won’t stop falling. but then, suddenly, you sense him—gojo, walking into the room with that easy smile he always wears, the one that usually makes your heart skip a beat. he's about to say something, maybe a joke or a playful comment, but then he sees you.

his smile falters, replaced by a look of concern so deep it cuts through your haze of self-loathing. “hey, what’s wrong?” he asks, his voice soft and full of worry as he moves closer to you. the sight of him, the sound of his voice, only makes the tears come faster, and you turn away, desperate to hide from him, to keep him from seeing you like this.

but he’s already seen. “what happened, baby?” he asks again, his tone more urgent as he reaches for you. the touch of his hand on your shoulder sends a fresh wave of pain through you, not because it hurts, but because you know he’s looking at you—really looking at you. the thought of him seeing you the way you see yourself, seeing all the flaws you can’t stand, makes your chest tighten with panic.

“please, don’t,” you manage to choke out, trying to pull away from him, but he doesn’t let you go. he's persistent, as he always is, and his arms wrap around you, holding you close despite your attempts to escape. “hey, it’s okay. whatever it is, it’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice steady, soothing, but all it does is make the tears fall harder because nothing about this is okay.

you can’t stand it, the idea of him having to see you like this, broken and falling apart over something you know you shouldn’t let consume you. you struggle weakly against him, but he holds you tighter, refusing to let you go. “i'm here,” he says softly, his voice right next to your ear now, and despite everything, despite how much you hate yourself in this moment, a part of you can’t help but cling to him, needing his strength.

he doesn’t ask again what’s wrong; he just holds you, letting you cry into his chest, his hand gently stroking your hair. you're overwhelmed by the kindness in his touch, the way he’s there for you even when you feel so unworthy of it. It’s almost too much to bear, this tenderness from him, but you let yourself sink into it because there’s nowhere else to go. his arms are a refuge from the storm inside you, and even though you don’t understand how he can still want to be with you after seeing you like this, you’re grateful for his warmth, for the way he loves you even when you can’t love yourself.

a few minutes pass, the silence between you filled only with the sound of your quiet sobs and the steady rhythm of his breathing. gojo doesn’t say anything; he just holds you close, his arms strong and reassuring around you. you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek, steady and calm, a contrast to the turmoil inside you. the warmth of his embrace slowly starts to ease the tension in your body, his presence a balm against the rawness of your emotions.

you can sense his patience, the way he’s waiting for you, not pushing, just being there. it's that patience, that unwavering support, that finally makes you feel safe enough to speak. you pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, and you see the concern in his eyes, the way he’s completely focused on you, ready to listen.

“i just… i don’t know how to explain it,” you begin, your voice shaky, but he nods encouragingly, his thumb gently brushing away the tears still lingering on your cheek. “i hate myself. every day i wake up and i hate myself. i hate the way i look so much that it hurts...it's like i don't even know who i'm looking at and it doesn't help that i have to see it everyday. it's not something i can run from, it's apart of me forever and i hate it.”

he doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t try to correct you or tell you that you’re wrong. he just listens, his blue eyes never leaving yours, his expression so attentive, so full of empathy, that it almost hurts. you take a shaky breath and continue, the words spilling out now, all the fears and insecurities you’ve been bottling up inside. “and i've tried so hard to love myself and find beauty in what i see, but i can't. nothing about me is pretty. i sit in the mirror for hours trying to convince myself that any part of me is worth looking at. there has to be something about me that isn't ugly, but there isn't. and i hate going out because if i see it, then everyone does. i have to go out surrounded by people who are normal, people who are naturally beautiful and i have to spend hours putting on makeup just to feel presentable...even that doesn't work anymore.”

as you talk, his arms tighten around you just a little, as if he’s trying to shield you from the pain of your own words. he doesn’t say anything yet, just lets you keep talking, letting out everything you’ve been holding back. there's a comfort in being able to voice these thoughts, to share them with someone who cares, someone who won’t judge you for them.

“i just don't understand why me,” you finally admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “why do i have to look like this, why are you with me, just why me. and i'm scared...that maybe i'll always feel like this and that maybe you'll see me the way i see myself.”

for a moment, there’s only silence, the weight of your confession hanging in the air between you. but then he tilts your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. his expression is soft, tender, but there’s also a seriousness in his eyes, a depth of emotion that takes you by surprise.

“first, thank you for sharing all of this with me. i know it wasn't easy,” he says quietly, his voice steady but full of feeling. “second, i see you, all of you, and i love every bit. it breaks my heart hearing you talk about yourself like this, my love, because you've always been so damn beautiful to me. i'm sure even if i saw you the way you see yourself, i'd love you the same, if not more. i just wish you could see yourself the way i do.”

he pauses, letting his words sink in, and then he adds, “i know you don't believe me and that's something we'll work on together because i will forever be by your side. but i do want you to know that you are forever gorgeous to me. and not just to me, to anyone with working eyes and everyone who loves you. beauty is never just what you see in the looks of someone, but in what you see when you look deeper beyond the surface. from the inside, out, you are beautiful. every piece of you, i love endlessly and nothing will ever change that. ”

you can see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he’s willing to stand by you, no matter what. it's a comfort you didn’t know you needed, but now that it’s there, it feels like a lifeline, something to hold onto in the darkness. you feel a small sense of relief, a lightness in your chest that wasn’t there before, and you realize that, for the first time in a long while, you’re not carrying this burden alone.

gojo is sure that he’s going to die today.

you’re gonna kill him, tsumiki’s gonna kill him. hell, megumi’s probably gonna kill him too.

once gojo finds him, that is.

the task had been simple: go to the mall and get a picture with the mall santa. easy. fool-proof. but he’d turned his back for thirty seconds to look at a nice shirt in a display, and now the brat’s nowhere to be seen.

he’d always been thankful that the seven year-old was relatively independent. it meant less work for him. but now it’s been fifteen minutes, he hasn’t seen that sea-urchin hair anywhere, and gojo’s now feeling the panic of a single, overworked parent in a mop commercial.

he shouldn’t have let you talk him out of the backpack leash. “it’s impossible to lose him now, he’s seven,” you’d said.

well, it was possible. bet you’re gonna feel real stupid when he says ‘i told you so.’

(stupid, amongst other things. anger might win out if gojo comes home alone, without even the picture with the knock-off santa.)

he slides his shades down every time a group of kids passes by, because maybe megumi’s made a friend and run off with another group of fellow delinquents? he hopes that’s the case.

a quick check to his watch confirms gojo’s now been searching for twenty minutes, and he’s really kinda worried. what if something had happened? he’s ready to call the police, the DA, maybe even nanamin—

“excuse me, sir?”

he whirls around to see a mall cop behind him, an almost laughable attempt of a stern look on his face and powdered sugar caught in his moustache. not exactly who he’d turn to right now, but he has a badge and probably has access to the intercom system.

“yeah?”

“we’ve been getting reports of a tall man with sunglasses staring at children. you’re going to need to come with me,” he says, almost boredly. there’s a pair of handcuffs hanging from his belt that gojo could crumble into pieces with a flick of his wrist.

yet he blinks, brain short-circuiting as he processes rent-a-cop’s words. what?

“staring at children— i’ll have you know i’m a teacher!” kinda. “and that if anyone’s child is in danger, it’s probably mine!”

“sir,” he sighs, “could you just come with me?”

“my kid is missing,” he insists. “could you just help me out before literally everyone i know chews me out and i’m responsible for losing one of the greatest things to come out of his shit family?”

this man looks like he could honestly care less, but heaves a great sigh and turns around, gesturing for him to follow.

gojo trails after him, eyes still roving around for any sign of megumi until they get to what he assumes is a very sad, not very secure mall jail.

and sitting there in a little room with a flimsy lock, is fushiguro megumi.

“holy— holy shit!” he laughs, with relief, with amusement, he doesn’t know. he pounds on the glass, watching the kid’s eyes widen slightly. “that’s my kid! megumi!! what the hell did you do?”

“he got into a fight with the mall santa and kicked an elf in the family jewels,” the cop at the desk answered. “we called his guardian.”

gojo stares at him, brows furrowed. his phone hadn’t rung once! “but i’m his guar—”

“satoru.”

uh oh.

“hey!” he grins, whirling around to greet you with a nervous laugh and a kiss to the lips that you don’t reciprocate. “babe! what are you doing here?”

“i’m here to bail megumi out of mall jail,” you answer flatly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “i asked you to do one thing for tsumiki. you just had to get a cute picture of her brother with santa claus. how are you going to tell her that he’s been banned from the mall until next year?”

the cop opens the door to let the little delinquent out.

megumi digs into his pants pocket, holding a crumpled photo out to you. “i went and got the picture when he left to look at clothes.”

the sorcerer withers under your glare as you take the photo, smoothing it out as best you can to take a look.

“megumi, this is a picture of you punching santa in the face.”

-

“hey, gojo-sensei, what’s this?” itadori asks, fishing a creased piece of paper from his wallet.

“i thought i told you to get my frozen yogurt stamp card,” he chuckles.

“you kept that?” megumi asks, staring at him in the rear view mirror.

“he made copies and sent it out as a christmas card,” you laugh from the passenger seat. “‘merry christmas from the fushigojos’”

“oh my god,” megumi groans. “you guys are so embarrassing.”

“we had to bail you out of jail.”

“fushiguro went to jail?” nobara gasps. “why didn’t you tell us this? you never tell us anything!”

“it was at a mall.”

“you were in a room that locked from the outside,” gojo quips. “sounds like jail to me.”

“let’s not forget the reason why he was there,” you grumble. “negligence.”

“you’re the one who said we didn’t need the backpack leash! i told you so.”

Touching

Feeling another human’s touch.

touching foreheads

running fingers through hair

hiding face in neck

caressing the other’s hand

feeling their pulse

patting the other’s head

holding hands

shielding the other one with their body

listening to the other’s heartbeat

spooning at night

laying their hand on the other’s neck

pushing a strand of hair behind their ear

nudging the other one

putting an arm around the other’s waist

hugging each other

massaging them

holding the other’s chin up

squishing the other’s cheek

high fiving

bandaging/stitching up an injury

kissing the other’s brow

falling asleep on the other’s shoulder

carrying the other one in their arms

whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin

stroking the other’s arm soothingly

kissing the top of their head

pulling the other one towards them

feeling for each other in the dark

tickling the other one

grabbing onto their arm

doing a pinky swear

caressing the other’s back

tasting their smile

washing the other’s body

kissing their bruises and scars

lifting the other one up

putting their head on the other’s chest

stroking their leg

leaning into the other’s side

patting them on the back

sitting close and knees touching

braiding the other’s hair

giving them a piggy-back ride

sitting on the other’s lap

feeling their temperature

linking arms with each other

touching their elbow to get their attention

dancing with each other

holding onto the other’s shoulders for support

putting a hand over the other’s mouth to shut them up

caressing the other’s cheek

gripping thigh

holding the other’s jaw

touching cheek to cheek

tracing the lines on the other’s hand

Hand-holding|Hugs|Kisses

✮⋆˙ when satoru is super excited, or mad he spits when he talks. | satoru gojo

this is a funny thought that crossed my mind when i watched jjk 0 again.

whenever he sees you, he’s literally splashing water in your face when he talks.

“oh my god i missed you so much!” boom there’s spit droplets on your face.

at first you didn’t mind, you thought it was something cute he did but deeper down the road you got agitated.

“satoru! calm down… you’re spitting… again.” and it’s a camera panning to you swiping off spit that plastered across your face.

or when he’s very visibly upset and he’s trying to get his point across and spit is flying everywhere.

“stop! i don’t care anymore… just stop talking!” your face was half covered with saliva and you didn’t want the other side covered so you just let him have it.

this was a discussion several times and he says every-time that he’ll stop but you later realized it’s something he couldn’t control so he stopped trying to control it.

“stay over there… please.” you beg of him, you didn’t feel like the waterworks that day.

even when he sneezes he doesn’t think to cover his mouth, he’s very inconsiderate when it comes to that.

but you just ran with the “he can’t help it.” an adult child to be honest.

side note, he’s one of those people who coughs obnoxiously.

the end times — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo satoru thinks he’s going to die because you’re giving him the silent treatment. (aka your first big fight with gojo).

contents. hurt/comfort, ooc, lovesick!gojo, you give him the silent treatment and he goes crazy, he is so pathetic in this one, tw obsessive behavior (he makes it EVERYONE’S problem), gojo’s pov

notes. loosely inspired by that one scene from yakuza fiance. not proofread whats new

Gojo knows he’s screwed up the second he steps into the common area of Jujutsu Tech’s dormitory. The air feels thick, wrong. And then there’s you, curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your eyes aren’t moving.

His grin falters for half a second before he masks it with his usual bravado. “I always knew you had a little freak in you, but reading your erotic books out in the open? Who knew my girl was such a perv.”

The joke usually earns him a laugh, a shove, maybe even a teasing retort. But tonight, the silence that follows is deafening.

The pit in his stomach grows.

“Sweetheart?” He tries again, waving a hand obnoxiously close to your face.

You finally react, swatting his hand away, but there’s no playfulness in the motion. Your eyes don't even meet his.

“You’re late,” you say flatly, still staring at your book. “Again.”

Gojo scoffs, irritation bubbling. Not at you, never at you, but at the damn book that’s getting more attention than him.

“Ah, you know how it is. Got held up in Kyoto,” he says with a shrug.

The words leave his mouth too easily. He doesn’t realize his mistake until you finally, finally look at him.

And it’s nothing like usual.

There’s no warmth in your gaze, no sparkle of amusement or exasperation. Instead, you pin him with a look so sharp it strips him bare, leaving nothing but the hollow weight in his chest.

“You missed our date.”

His breath catches. His throat goes dry. “I–”

“I’m not mad about that.”

Relief floods him too fast, too soon. His shoulders sag as he leans down, tilting his head for a well-earned kiss. “You’re the best. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.”

You pull away before he can touch you.

Gojo freezes.

“[Name]?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You know, it’s funny.”

There’s nothing funny about this moment.

His pulse thrums as you continue, voice eerily steady. “That your mission was in Kyoto. I mean, we have a whole sister school there, full of sorcerers ready to handle a first-grade threat. So why would they need you, specifically?”

His stomach drops.

He’s never been good at guilt, not when he’s spent his whole life believing he’s untouchable. But now, standing before you, unable to meet your eyes, it sits heavy in his gut.

And you don’t let up.

“Of course, I asked around. Thought maybe I was overthinking it.” A humorless scoff escapes you. “Imagine my surprise when I found out my boyfriend was too busy meeting with his future bride.”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say.

“That’s–” he starts, then stops because, shit, you’re staring at him like he’s a stranger. Like he’s someone you can’t trust. The realization makes his stomach churn.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” you say bitterly, arms crossing as you lean back into the couch. “I mean, I’d love to hear how you were going to explain this one, Gojo Satoru.”

Full name. That’s how he knows he’s really fucked up.

“It’s not–It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, voice unusually hoarse. His usual bravado, his charm, none of it is coming to him. He doesn’t even know where to start. “I wasn’t–I wasn’t hiding it. I just–”

“You just forgot to tell me that your clan is arranging a marriage for you?” you cut in sharply. “That slipped your mind?”

“No! Yes—Fuck, that’s not what I mean,” he groans, pushing a hand through his hair. He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s scrambling for footing on uneven ground. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter, sweetheart. I wasn’t ever going to go through with it. You know that, right?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Do I? I mean, Suguru seemed shocked when I didn’t know that these were recurring dates set by your clan.”

Gojo falters.

“You didn’t even think to tell me, Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, but somehow even more devastating. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

His heart clenches. That’s not–God, that’s not what this is.

“Of course you deserve to know! But I—” he exhales sharply, trying to gather his words. “I just—Fuck, I thought it was stupid. I thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

You shake your head, looking almost tired now. “Right. Because I’m just supposed to assume you’d never go through with it. After your multiple dates with her. Because I’m supposed to read your mind, just like always.”

The weight of your words crashes into him, and Gojo suddenly realizes that this isn’t just about Kyoto. This isn’t just about one lie, one mistake. This is about every time he’s brushed things off, every time he’s let silence speak for him, every time he’s sat through those excruciating meetings, knowing he would never go through with it, but never once thinking about how it would feel for you to find out this way. This is about every time he’s expected you to just get him without him ever having to say a word.

This is about how, even after everything, you still don’t know how much he loves you.

And now, looking at you, Gojo is terrified that he’s already lost his chance to prove it.

“I’m going to sleep,” you stand up from your place on the couch. 

Gojo tries to follow you, “Listen, baby–”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. I need some space.” you turn around to send him a teary glare and that stops him in his tracks. He had never seen you cry. And it tore him apart knowing that he was the cause. 

The sound of your door slamming echoes in Gojo’s mind. 

Gojo Satoru is the first one in class the next day.

He drums his fingers against the desk, restless in a way he can't explain, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that he spent the entire night not sleeping. His mind was too busy replaying the way you had looked at him, no, the way you hadn’t looked at him.

He had left you alone and upset. He had made you feel like you were second to someone else. And worst of all, he hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

“This must be a first.”

Gojo glances up as Suguru enters, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Gojo Satoru, on time? It must be the end times.”

He knows it’s a joke, but it might as well be the end times. Gojo doesn’t respond, just presses his lips into a thin line as he goes back to mentally reciting the apology speech he’s been revising in his head all night.

Then the shoji door slides open again.

You walk in with Shoko, your head tilted slightly as you whisper something to her, something he’ll never get to hear because you don’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead, you take a seat at the farthest desk, as if he isn’t even there.

A part of him withers away.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up.

If words won’t get your attention, he’ll just have to be Gojo Satoru about it. He leans back in his chair and stretches obnoxiously, before loudly exclaiming, “Yaga-sensei! Are those grey hairs from your recent divorce?”

He grins, waiting for the familiar sound of your laugh, for that little shake of your head, for you to scold him like always.

But you don’t even look at him.

Instead, he’s met with Geto and Shoko’s twin expressions of abject horror, and before he has a chance to register what’s happening–

BAM!

Yaga’s palm collides with his head, sending him face-first into his desk.

Even through the throbbing pain, he can only think about one thing.

You didn’t even react.

“And how exactly is she ignoring you?”

Shoko’s grumpy voice echoes through the morgue, where she’s been attempting to practice her technique. She’s clearly unimpressed that Gojo Satoru has decided to spam-call her instead of dealing with his own problems.

“She’s ignoring me, Shoko,” Gojo groans dramatically from the other side of the Jujutsu Tech campus, rubbing the fresh bump on his head as he stands in front of your door. “I’ve been knocking for an hour. She’s in there. I know she’s in there, but she won’t answer.”

“Maybe she finally got tired of your bullshit,” Shoko says dryly. “Honestly, I don’t know why it took her this long to hold you accountable. She’s let your bad behavior slide for way too long.”

“Why are we talking about me like I’m some kind of dog?!”

Shoko ignores him.

“From the sound of it, you really messed up. I mean, who keeps a marriage a secret from their girlfriend?” She pauses, then adds with a smirk in her voice, “Oh, right. You.”

Gojo groans, pressing his forehead against your door. “You and I both know that’s not what happened. But she doesn’t. And she won’t even give me the time of day to explain.”

Shoko sighs. “Give her time to cool down.”

“And what, let her decide she wants to run off and marry some other guy? Move to a cute little beach town in Enoshima, start a family, have three kids, and leave all Jujutsu sorcery behind?”

There’s a long pause before Shoko makes a disgusted sound. “O-oi. Keep your weirdly detailed fantasies to yourself.”

“I’m just being realistic,” he insists, clutching his flip phone dramatically.

Shoko promptly hangs up on him.

Gojo stares at the device for a moment before slowly lowering it, exhaling hard.

Then he rests his head against your door again, defeated.

But Gojo Satoru was never one to admit defeat, so he tries again. He returns to your door the very next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“[Name]!” he chirps. “I bought us some parfait! Let’s talk things over, yeah?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of movement.

But Gojo Satoru is not easily discouraged.

So Gojo Satoru comes again the next morning.

“[Name]!” he knocks again, this time balancing a slice of strawberry cake in one hand. “This is all my fault, so come out and let me apologize properly!”

Nothing.

Gojo sighs, leaning against the doorframe, about to knock again when—

Your phone rings.

His breath catches as he presses his ear to the wood.

“Hi, Suguru?”

His heart stops.

“Yeah, we’re still on for the movie. I’m just about to leave right now.”

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru understands what people mean when they say they feel like they’ve been punched in the gut.

Because you’re going to Suguru.

You’re not just ignoring him, you’re choosing someone else.

His fingers twitch at his sides as a feeling he doesn’t like at all creeps into his chest. It’s something ugly, something unfamiliar. Something that feels a lot like jealousy. Was that how you felt?

He wants to knock again, wants to demand that you open the door, look at him, let him fix this before you walk away from him any further.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line, shoves his hands into his pockets, and forces himself to step away from your door.

Forces himself to give you the space you deserved.

You don’t know why you relent so easily.

You shouldn’t. Not after the way he lied, the way he kept something so important from you.

And yet, when you hear him pacing outside your door, his nervous energy practically seeping through the walls, you feel something crack.

He’s been outside your room for the nth time this week. Every day, like clockwork, he’s knocked. Brought your favorite snacks. Talked to you through the door, filling the silence with his ridiculous banter, even when you refused to answer.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your blanket a little tighter. You should stay angry. But you can't.

You sigh, pressing your forehead to your knee.

Maybe it’s time to stop punishing the both of you.

With a deep breath, you stand, crossing the room to the door. When you open it, Gojo nearly stumbles forward, mid-step in his pacing.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and filled with so much desperate hope it makes your chest ache.

And the way his face lights up like you’ve just handed him the entire world tells you that, maybe, you were never going to be able to stay mad at him forever.

But you’re here, leaning on your door frame with your arms crossed, your nails digging into your skin as you glare at the man who has spent the last ten minutes tripping over his words, looking wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. His hair is messier than usual, lips are parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know where to start.

Finally, you scoff, breaking the silence. “If you don’t have anything to say, I’m going back into my room.”

“No!,” Gojo steps forward instinctively, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. And after everything, he is. “I screwed up.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Oh, really?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, yeah, I really fucked up.”

Silence.

You should say something. You should demand an explanation, yell, maybe even cry, but you’re so tired. You’ve spent days twisting yourself into knots over this, convincing yourself you never meant as much to him as he did to you.

And then Gojo says it.

“I should’ve told you.” His voice is hoarse. “I should have told you after the first meeting. After the first second they brought it up.” He swallows hard. “But I was stupid. I thought if I ignored it, if I went through the motions, if I waited for the right moment… then it wouldn’t matter. That it would be over before you ever had to know.”

You shake your head, letting out a hollow laugh. “Satoru, do you even hear yourself? Do you get what it was like for me to find out from someone else? To hear that the person I–” you cut yourself off, but the damage is done. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you.

“The person you what?” he asks softly, pleading.

You clench your jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

Your shake your head. “You lied to me.”

“I know,” he says, and the sheer brokenness in his voice makes your throat tighten. “I know, sweetheart. And I swear to you that I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt you.” he exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear on everything, I was never going to go through with it. I never even showed up to any of the dates, so they kept ambushing me under the guise of missions! I sat through every single one of those goddamn meetings thinking about how ridiculous it was, how there was only ever one person I wanted.”

He stops himself, inhaling sharply.

And then, quieter, almost afraid:

“How there’s only ever you.”

The words hit you like a fist to the chest.

Gojo watches you carefully, breathless, waiting. Hoping. He’s given you the truth, raw and unfiltered, and now it’s up to you.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in his world that makes you believe him.

For the first time in a week, your lips find his, and Gojo swears he can finally breathe again. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers curl slightly as if grounding yourself in him. It’s enough to make him melt.

"You’re so insufferably cheesy, Satoru," you murmur against his lips, your breath warm, teasing. "It makes me so angry that I love it." A pause, a soft exhale. "But I forgive you."

His grin is instant, smug and shameless. "That was good, huh?" He tilts his head, cerulean eyes twinkling. "I’m willing to bet your heart skipped a beat."

You roll your eyes, but you kiss him again, slower this time, because, damn it, he’s right.

extra!

“I demand some extra loving!” Satoru sprawls dramatically across your bed, limbs hanging off the edge like a defeated king.

You barely spare him a glance, flipping a page in your book as you lie comfortably on your stomach. “And why, exactly, do you deserve that?”

He lifts his head, pouting. “I deserve it after a week’s worth of psychological trauma. Don’t think I forgot that you ditched me for Suguru.”

“Oh… that.”

“Yeah. That.” His voice is thick with exaggerated betrayal.

You finally look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “It was a fake phone call, Satoru. You were just so insufferable camping outside my door that I had to make up an excuse.”

His jaw drops. “Huh?!”

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. two weeks have slipped by since you disappeared from the emperor’s life. the palace whispers of his unraveling, but no one dares to name the madness consuming him.

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. not proofread once again, but at least all 8k words are finally done. until the epilogue!

series masterlist | chapter 2/2

It has been two weeks since your disappearance. 

Nobody knows where you’ve gone to. Or why. 

Synchronously, the palace had fallen into a hush. The kind that stretched beyond walls and courtyards, embedding itself in the bones of the imperial court. Servants whispered behind their sleeves. Nobles watched the throne with cautious eyes. The emperor, Japan’s strongest man, was unraveling. And nobody knew why.

The stench of alcohol clung to Gojo Satoru. Expensive sake pooled in ceramic cups, the scent sharp and sickly, mixing with the musk of sweat and silk. The chamber was a mess, toppled dishes, shattered glass, the remnants of a feast he hadn’t touched. A single candle flickered on the lacquered table, its wax melting into a slow, steady pool. The shadows cast by the flame twisted along the walls, stretching long and jagged, like ghosts reaching for him.

Gojo slumped against his seat, his white hair, usually snowy white, now fell in wild, overgrown tufts, obscuring his vision in uneven strands. His ceremonial robes, woven in silk and embroidered with the insignia of the Gojo Clan, hung loose around his frame. His fingers twitched over the rim of an empty goblet, a silent tremor betraying the rage simmering beneath his skin.

His breath was slow, methodical. 

Himiko entered without announcement, the sound of her embroidered slippers tapping against the floor. Her robes shimmered under the candlelight, crimson and gold, a deliberate echo of the imperial crest. She was the picture of regality: poised, calculating, her scent perfumed with jasmine.

“You’ve been drinking again,” she observed, her voice smooth yet edged with unspoken frustration.

Gojo didn’t bother lifting his head. Instead, he chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. He tipped his goblet back, only to find it empty. A scowl twisted his lips as he tossed it aside. The metal clattered against the floor, rolling to a stop against shattered glass.

“Would you like a prize for your deduction?” His voice was hoarse, his throat burned raw from drink.

She ignored his bitterness and stepped closer, fingers trailing along the lacquered table, grazing over his discarded robes. The action was slow, deliberate.

“Tell me, Satoru…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, as sharp as a blade. “Why do you waste yourself like this?”

His fingers curled into a fist.

Himiko’s eyes flickered, catching the movement. She stepped closer, her presence heavy in the candlelit chamber. “You were born to rule,” she continued, her words laced with honey and venom alike. “And yet, you let yourself fall into ruin over a woman who no longer wants you. A personal servant, much less.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“She has severed all ties with you,” Himiko pressed, her tone almost pitying. “After your stunt in the ceremonial hall she will never bat an eyelash at you again. And now, her clan whispers of rebellion in the capital. The elders demand retribution.”

Gojo’s breath was slow, methodical.

“The Gojo and Zenin clans must unite,” Himiko continued, watching him carefully. “For the first time in history, we will restore order. We will fulfill your destiny.”

She leaned in, her touch featherlight as her fingers trailed down his chest, the brush of her nails just barely felt through his robes.

“And,” she whispered, voice dipping lower, “you will have me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The candle’s flame flickered, the shadows shifting along the walls.

Gojo let out a slow, shaky breath. His head tilted back against the chair, his gaze hooded, unreadable. The weight of something unseen pressed against him, pushing him deeper into his own destruction.

Finally, he spoke.

“Fine.”

A victorious smile curled on Himiko’s lips.

But then, the doors burst open.

The impact sent a gust of air through the chamber, causing the candle to flicker wildly.

A new presence entered, stepping through the threshold like ink spilling across the pristine floors. Dark robes trailed behind him, blending into the shadows. His expression was unreadable, but his golden eyes gleamed with something knowing.

“Your Majesty,” Geto drawled, his voice smooth, stepping forward. “You called.”

Gojo frowned, his gaze shifting. “Suguru.”

Geto gave a short, practiced bow, the movement fluid. 

The Emperor stares at him, “You are my most trusted ally.”

“A honor that I hold dear, yes.” Suguru’s head is still ducked, waiting for permission to be lifted.

A strange tension filled the air. The kind that was razor-thin, ready to snap.

Gojo’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, the sound slow, calculated. Then, his foot lifted, pressing beneath Suguru’s chin, forcing his head up until their gazes met.

A pair of icy cerulean orbs bore into plum ones.

“You would never do anything to betray my trust, no?”

The room turned frigid.

Suguru’s entire body tensed, though his face remained still. The weight of those words pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The deadly tone, Gojo’s battle tone, was one Suguru had only ever heard on the battlefield, when his friend was overtaken with bloodlust.

He felt his blood go cold.

“No, of course not.” His head remained low, eyes staring at the spilled wine pooling along the floor, the blood-red liquid almost taunting him. A warning.

“Then tell me that the rumors are false, dear friend.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered.

Gojo pressed harder with his foot. “Tell me that you did not let my [Name] leave.” His voice trembled, cold and sharp. “Tell me that you did not send her a carriage.”

Silence.

“Tell me that you did not leave her in the hands of another man after I had worked so hard to bring her back.”

Suguru said nothing.

And that was the confirmation Gojo needed.

His hands clenched. His chest heaved.

And then,

“I TRUSTED YOU!”

The chamber shook as Gojo kicked Suguru back, sending him crashing into a wooden table. Artifacts shattered, glass shards scattering across the floor.

Himiko shrieked at the violent display.

Suguru groaned, coughing as the pain tore through his ribs. He barely flinched at the glass buried in his side. Instead, he tilted his head, wiping the blood from his lip.

“She made her choice.” His voice was eerily calm.

Gojo froze.

His breath hitched, stomach twisting

“You don’t know that.” His voice was hoarse, cracking beneath the weight of his own grief. The emperor grabbed a dagger, well hidden in his garments and held it in Suguru’s direction.

Himiko scoffed.

“Why does it matter?” she demanded, stepping between them, fury flashing in her gaze. “She is nothing now! She abandoned you. She left you for another man–”

“Shut your mouth,” Gojo snapped.

Himiko stiffened, stunned by the venom in his voice.

“You chose me!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You made your decision.”

“Because I had no choice!” His roar was thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the palace. His breath was ragged, vision tunneled. “But if I did,” He swallowed hard, the taste of regret thick in his throat.

His voice wavered, quieter now.

“If I did… it would have never been you.”

Silence.

Suguru exhaled, tilting his head. “I told you,” he murmured, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. “You should have let her go when she asked.”

But Gojo Satoru, Emperor of Japan, the strongest man alive, had never known how to let go.

“If you want to live, you will follow my next command carefully.”

The village was quiet in the way only forgotten places could be, tucked away between rolling green fields and a quiet forest.

Unlike the grand palaces and bustling cities, this place moved at its own pace, undisturbed by the heavy weight of politics and war. Here, the air smelled of damn earth and fresh rice paddies, of firewood burning in stone hearths, of crisp morning dew that clung to thatched roofs, mingling with the distant sound of laughter from children playing. The dirt paths were lined with modest homes, their roofs sagging under years of wear. 

It had been two weeks since your disappearance. Two weeks of living as someone else.

Gone were the weight of expectations heavy upon your shoulders. Your hands, once unblemished and soft, now bored faint callouses from work you were never meant to do. And you didn’t mind.

“[Name].”

A familiar voice, steady and unmistakable cut through the quiet morning. You turned, catching sight of Nanami standing near the well, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A basket of vegetables hung from his grasp, the crisp greens contrasting against his neutral-toned kimono. His expression, as always, was measured.

A quiet sigh left your lips, “You’re back early.”

Nanami stepped forward, his glaze flickering down to your hands, observing the red marks on your palms from the rough mortar and pestle. He frowned.

“You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’ll only injure yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced. But instead of arguing, Nanami placed the basket down and gestured for you to follow him back towards the small house you shared. The villagers were already accustomed to seeing the two of you together, and while they didn’t openly question your presence, there was an unspoken distance between you and them.

As you walked beside him, you caught glimpses of their gazes, wary, guarded.

You  adjusted the strap of your bag, “They won’t even look at me in the eye,” you muttered as the other villagers brushed past you without a second thought. “Why?”

Nanami didn’t look at you immediately, instead adjusting his grip on the basket. “They don’t know who you are.”

“That’s exactly why they don’t trust me.” You exhaled sharply. “I don’t blame them.”

A pause.

Then, Nanami glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s not just that.”

You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

His steps slowed as the two of you reached the wooden house, a modest structure, small but well-kept. He set the basket down on the porch, and after a beat of silence, he gestured to you.

“Look at yourself.”

You frowned but obeyed, glancing down at your clothes. “And what of it?” You eyes trail down to the garments. The robes you worn, though simple, were still of a higher quality than the villagers. The stitching, the cut, the deep indigo dye that refused to fade even after days of wear. The silk made you stick out like a sore thumb, but surely it was not envy that caused the entire village avoid you like the plague. These fabrics were a gift from your former mentor Yaga, after all. You couldn’t simply dispose of them.

“The embroidery on your robes, the color… no one other than those of the Imperial Royal Family may be adorned in it.” He exhaled, voice lowering. “It all says one thing: you belong to the emperor.”

A chill ran down your spine.

You swallowed.

Nanami studied your reaction before exhaling, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It was always him,” he murmured.

You looked up. “What?”

“He never let you out of his grasp.” His voice was quiet but weighted. “Even now, when you’re here… Gojo still lingers.”

The name alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers clenched at the fabric of your robes, suddenly feeling suffocated by it. You had spent so long trying to distance yourself from him, from the golden cage he had kept you in. And yet, here you were.

Still marked by him.

“Well then I need to get myself new clothes,” your hands fidgeting with the rich fibers of your clothing.

“No need,” Nanami pauses his ministrations to look at you. “I’ve already talked to the local seamstress and requested a much more appropriate wardrobe for you.”

For the first time in weeks, you feel a smile form on your face, “Just what would I do without you, Nanami?”

“I wonder the same thing,” he mutters, but you can hear the jest in his voice. He turns away to hide the small smile on his lips.

“Oh, you!” You point straight at the curve of his lips, disregarding the dirt on your hands. He tries to wave them away. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you are an eunuch you would make a damn good husband.”

“That’s… highly inappropriate for you to say,” a flush of pink makes its way to his face.

“Loosen up,” you shrug. “We’re not in the palace anymore.”

“There could be listening ears.”

“Here?” You scoff. “No way. They’ll never find us.”

A gust of wind passed through, rustling the trees. The scent of rain hung in the air, thick and heavy.

You followed him onto the porch, sinking down onto the wooden steps. A comfortable silence stretched between you both.

Nanami turned his head slightly. “Did you ever love him?”

The question wasn’t unexpected. But the answer…

Your hands tightened in your lap. Your chest ached.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I did.”

Nanami hummed, as if he already knew.

You bit your lip, gaze distant. “And that’s what makes it so hard.”

Nanami nodded, his usual sharp demeanor softening. “Love is never simple.”

You turned your head, looking at him with something close to curiosity. “Have you ever been in love, Nanami?”

For the first time that morning, you saw the corner of his lips twitch upward in something resembling amusement.

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

You raised a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

Nanami exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. “An unfortunate attachment.”

That made you laugh, genuinely. The sound was warm, familiar, a reminder of a life before everything unraveled.

The tension in your chest eased, just slightly.

The wind blew again, carrying with it the distant laughter of children, the sound of a woman calling her husband home, the rustling of bamboo trees swaying in the breeze.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this could last.

That this small, quiet life could be yours.

The village was peaceful that evening.

The last remnants of sunlight bled into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep amber and violet. The rice paddies stretched far into the distance, their golden stalks swaying gently with the breeze. Smoke curled from the thatched roofs of houses, the scent of simmering miso and fresh grain filling the air. Children ran through the dirt paths, their laughter ringing out like wind chimes, their innocence untouched by the quiet storm that lurked on the horizon.

You stood at the entrance of your small home, eyes trained on the fading sun. A cool wind brushed against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. Something about the stillness of the evening set you on edge, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Behind you, Nanami finished setting the table, his movements practiced and efficient. “Come inside,” he called, his voice steady as ever. “It’s getting cold.”

You hesitated, something in your gut twisting.

You had felt this before. A warning. A shift.

Slowly, you stepped inside, closing the wooden door behind you. The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows against the walls. Nanami had prepared a modest meal, steamed rice, pickled vegetables, miso soup with tofu. You sat across from him, but the unease in your chest remained.

Nanami noticed. He always did.

His gaze flickered up, studying your expression. “You’re unsettled.”

You exhaled, pressing your palms against the warm ceramic of your bowl, seeking comfort in its heat. “It’s… too quiet.”

“The village is always quiet at this hour,” he pointed out.

You shook your head. “Not like this.”

A pause. Then, Nanami set down his chopsticks. “You sense something.”

You swallowed. “Don’t you?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the wooden table in thought. Finally, he spoke.

“There have been whispers.”

Your breath hitched. “What kind of whispers?”

He looked at you then, and something in his gaze was heavier than before.

“The kind that don’t reach villages like this unless they are meant to be heard.”

The food in your mouth suddenly tasted like dust.

Nanami continued, voice even but firm. “Travelers passing through have spoken of movement in the capital. The Zenin and Gojo clans are consolidating their forces after rumors of resistance in this region.”

Your stomach twisted.

The Gojo and Zenin clans consolidating must only mean one thing. 

Your fists clenched beneath the table. “It’s him, isn’t it? He married Himiko—and now they’re coming for us, calling it treason.” No matter how powerful Suguru was, you knew his silver tongue and lofty rank could only shield you for so long.

Nanami studied you for a moment. “There’s no confirmation.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “It doesn’t need confirmation.”

Because of course it would be him.

Who else could unite the two most powerful clans in Japan? Who else had the power to move an entire army without resistance? Who else had enough obsession to still chase you after all this time?

Nanami sighed, his expression unreadable. “If it is him… then this village may not be safe much longer.”

The air around you grew suffocating.

He was coming.

The weight of that realization settled deep into your bones, into the very marrow of your being. The small, fleeting life you had begun to carve out here, the quiet mornings, the warmth of the village, the laughter of children, the routine of simple tasks. It was all temporary.

Because Gojo Satoru was coming.

And he would burn the world to the ground to take you back. Out of cruelty. 

You pushed your bowl aside, suddenly losing your appetite. “We should leave.”

Nanami’s gaze darkened. “Not yet.”

Your brows furrowed. “Nanami–”

“If we leave now, we confirm the suspicions of anyone watching,” he said, voice low, calculated. “We need to be smart. We need time.”

You hated that he was right.

Silence stretched between you both, filled only by the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

Then, Nanami did something unexpected.

He reached across the table, placing a hand over yours.

The touch was brief, steady, grounding. “We will figure this out.”

You stared at him, at the sharp angles of his face, at the unwavering certainty in his gaze. And for the first time since the unease settled into your chest, you believed him.

But still, deep in the back of your mind, you knew this was only the calm before the storm.

The night, you dreamt of him. 

Not the kind of fleeting, disjointed dream that dissolves like mist upon waking, but the kind that wraps around your very soul, warm and golden, refusing to let go. It was the kind of dream that felt real, so heartbreakingly vivid that, for a moment, you were no longer lying in a modest village home with the scent of burning wood creeping in from the outside world, no longer burdened by the weight of the choices you had made. You were home.

Not the home you had made for yourself in exile, but the home of your past, a home gilded with silken screens and quiet whispers, with polished floors that gleamed beneath lantern light, and with delicate tapestries woven with the history of an empire you had once believed could be yours. The place where you had once walked with the quiet assurance of someone who belonged, where your voice had been heard, where your name had been spoken with reverence rather than secrecy.

It was spring. The season of renewal, of beginnings, of hope.

You found yourself beneath the vast expanse of the sky, the air thick with the heady perfume of blooming wisteria and the faint, refreshing scent of the nearby stream that wound through the imperial gardens. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their pale petals drifting lazily through the air like whispered promises, catching in your hair and dusting the ground in a carpet of soft pink. The wind carried the sound of distant laughter, the gentle rustling of leaves.

And above you–

Satoru.

His silhouette was bathed in the afternoon light, the golden hues catching in his white hair, making him look almost otherworldly. He leaned over you, one arm braced against the soft grass, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, the other resting lightly beside your shoulder. His robes, though still of the finest silk, were simple today, stripped of the heavy embroidery and rigid embellishments that marked him as the heir to the most powerful clan in the land. The imperial crest was absent from his attire, and for once, he was just Satoru.

And his eyes.

Brilliant, piercing cerulean, sharp and knowing yet warm in a way that only he could be. You had spent so much of your life searching for the ocean’s reflection in them, for the endless sky in the depths of that unrelenting blue, and now, after all this time, they looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“You’re staring,” he mused, his voice smooth as silk, his amusement evident in the lazy drawl of his words.

You huffed softly, turning onto your side, the grass cool beneath your palms. “I’m admiring,” you corrected, your tone just as light.

Satoru chuckled, his laughter as rich and effortless as it had always been, a sound that made the world feel lighter, that made you feel lighter. “Is there a difference?” he asked, feigning innocence, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him.

You sighed, exasperated but fond. “One makes you sound less arrogant.”

He grinned at that, finally shifting to lie beside you, stretching out as if the entire world belonged to him. And in a way, it did.

But in this moment, he belonged to you.

“Pft,” he blows a raspberry into the air. “Let me bask in it, will you? You never give me this kind of attention.”

The wind stirred the branches above, sending another cascade of petals drifting down around you, a few landing in the silver strands of his hair. Without thinking, you reached out, brushing them away, your fingertips barely skimming the silk of his robes as you did. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched you with that same unwavering gaze, as if he were committing you to memory, as if he were terrified you might disappear before his eyes.

“You know,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter now, as though he, too, did not want to shatter the fragile peace between you, “I wish we could stay like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Because so did you.

More than anything, you wished for a world in which this moment, this feeling, this love could exist without consequence.

But you were not foolish. You had always known the truth.

This was never a love that could be without suffering. You were only a concubine, after all. A spoil of war. Not fit to be made an empress. 

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep your voice steady. “We can’t,” you said, though you hated the way the words tasted on your tongue.

Satoru turned his head to face you more fully, his expression unreadable at first, before something flickered across his features, something softer, something pleading.

“Who says?” he asked, and his tone was so quiet, so unlike the brash, overconfident man you had known, that it made your heart ache. “Tell me who says we can’t, and I’ll destroy them.”

You laughed then, a small, sad sound, because you knew he meant it.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand coming to rest just beside your wrist, close enough that you could feel his warmth but far enough that he wasn’t touching you. “What’s stopping us? The court? The elders? The weight of the empire? Let them have it all. I don’t need any of it.”

You turned to look at him fully now, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in his face, the way he looked at you as if you were his entire world.

And maybe, once upon a time, you had been.

But the world did not belong to you and Satoru alone.

You reached out, letting your fingers trail lightly over his knuckles before pulling away. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered, though a part of you desperately wanted to believe that he did.

Satoru’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grab your hand and never let go. “I do.”

And maybe, for that moment, he truly believed it.

But deep down, you both knew better.

The empire would never let him go.

Just as it would never let you be his.

The breeze picked up again, scattering more petals through the air, the scent of cherry blossoms thick and sweet, overwhelming. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, forever. You wanted to pretend that this could last, that you could stay in his arms and never worry about what came next.

But the moment began to waver, the edges of the dream blurring, the sunlight dimming.

And then, suddenly, the gardens were gone.

The warmth, the laughter, the scent of cherry blossoms… all of it melted away into smoke.

Your dream had shifted to another scene.

It was of the familiar scene of the bustling city just outside of the Outer Palace. The capital city had always been lively, but today it seemed to hum with an extra spark. The streets bustled with merchants peddling fragrant spices and embroidered silks, laughter echoed from the open-air teahouses, and the golden rooftops of the imperial palace gleamed under the afternoon sun like something out of a story.

You had just returned from your weekly errand, fetching a fresh batch of pastries from the emperor’s favorite bakery. The baker’s son had been in high spirits as usual, teasing you for being the only person in the city who could make the imperial kitchens jealous with how often you snuck in outside food.

But it wasn’t just the pastries you carried today.

A tiny, delicate flower rested in the palm of your hand, given to you by a child, a sweet little girl who had tugged on your sleeve just as you were leaving the marketplace.

"For you, miss!" she had chirped, eyes bright with admiration.

You had accepted it with a beaming smile, ruffling her hair before she scurried back to her group of friends, giggling and chattering about how pretty the imperial concubine was.

The city loved you.

Perhaps it was because you were one of them, despite the palace silks and the golden embroidery of the Gojo clan stitched into your robes, you had never let your status turn you into something untouchable.

So there you were, practically glowing, a flower twirling between your fingers as you strolled through the palace gardens, utterly unaware that your mere existence was about to ruin the emperor’s evening.

Because at that very moment, Satoru Gojo was staring at you with the expression of a man moments away from declaring war. He had been waiting at the gates of his own palace unceremoniously, counting down the seconds until you made it back, only for his bright spirits to be crushed.

By a flower.

A single, wretched flower.

In your hand.

And you were smiling.

Satoru didn’t even realize he had stopped in his tracks. His mind, sharp and dangerously quick, was already cycling through the list of punishments he could bestow upon the unfortunate soul who had given it to you.

Banishment? Too lenient. Public humiliation? Getting warmer. Immediate execution? …No, too messy. Forced labor in the outer provinces? Perfect.

His hands flexed at his sides. His jaw ticked. His vision tunneled.

He was going to make an example out of whoever had dared…

And then, you turned, your eyes meeting his.

And you smiled even brighter.

"Your Majesty!" you called, voice light with amusement, as if he weren’t currently five seconds away from storming the dungeons and demanding names.

You all but skipped toward him, the flower still twirling between your fingers, completely unaware of the absolute existential crisis you had just caused.

Gojo’s icy blue gaze flickered between your face and the flower, as if trying to determine which offended him more.

"What," he began, his tone deceptively casual, "is that?"

You blinked. "A flower?"

His eye twitched.

"I can see that," he muttered, before stepping closer—close enough that the sheer heat of his presence sent a shiver down your spine. "I meant, who gave it to you?"

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Why do you assume someone gave it to me? Maybe I plucked it from the fields myself."

Satoru let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Ha." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Try again, sweetheart."

Your lips twitched, but before you could answer, a voice piped up–

"It was me!"

Both of you turned to find a child, the same little girl from earlier, standing at the edge of the gates of the Outer Palace, her face alight with pride.

"I gave her the flower!" she repeated, puffing out her chest. "Because she’s the prettiest lady in the whole city!"

Silence. A long, long silence.

Gojo stared. You suppressed laughter.

His entire body visibly relaxed.

The tension in his jaw disappeared, the storm in his eyes cleared, and for a single, fleeting moment, the Emperor of Japan looked genuinely speechless.

And then, he scoffed.

"Well, I suppose I can’t punish a child," he muttered, crossing his arms with a dramatic sigh. "What a shame."

You finally let out a laugh, shaking your head as you knelt beside the girl. "Thank you, little one," you whispered, tucking the flower into your sleeve.

The girl giggled before scurrying away, leaving just the two of you standing in the palace once more.

Satoru watched you carefully, his arms still crossed, his signature smirk just barely returning to his lips.

"You looked like you were five seconds away from passing a death sentence," you teased, eyeing him with amusement.

His expression didn’t waver.

"Oh, I was."

You rolled your eyes. "And what would you have done if it wasn’t a child?"

Gojo hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "Well…" His smirk sharpened. "Let’s just say the baker’s son would have found himself mysteriously exiled to the coldest province in the empire."

You froze.

Your stomach dropped.

Because oh– oh no.

He knew.

Satoru watched, relishing in the way your posture stiffened, the way your gaze flickered just slightly, as if calculating whether it was worth denying it.

"Your Majesty, I–"

"You what?" He raised a brow, leaning in once more, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet.

"You think I wouldn’t hear about the little romance rumors floating around the palace?" He chuckled, voice laced with something possessive, something undeniably jealous. "You think I wouldn’t know about the way the baker’s son looks at you?"

You swallowed. "It’s just gossip."

"Is it?"

Gojo’s voice was far too amused, far too smug, because he already knew the answer.

And then, just because he could, he lowered his voice even further, leaning in until his lips were barely a breath away from your ear.

"Promise me you won’t leave me."

Your heart stopped.

You turned to him, but the moment you did, he pulled back, flashing you a grin that was far too pleased with itself.

"Don’t look so surprised," he mused, turning on his heel and walking away, hands tucked into his sleeves.

Then, over his shoulder.

"After all, I won’t let anyone take you away."

And then you’re awaken.

Your chest heaved, your skin damp with sweat, your heart pounding so violently against your ribs that for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

The room was dark. Cold.

How cruel your mind was to remind you of such warm times.

The early morning light filtered through the wooden shutters, casting long golden streaks across the small room. Outside, the village was already stirring with women gathering water from the well, the rhythmic pounding of rice in wooden mortars, the occasional laugh of a child running past. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dried herbs that hung from the ceiling.

Inside, you sat on the floor, weaving together dried reeds into a basket, fingers moving deftly despite the lingering morning chill. Across from you, Nanami was sharpening a knife, the slow, deliberate drag of steel against stone filling the quiet space between you.

It was a comfortable silence, one that had settled between you both over the past two weeks, a rhythm that neither of you spoke of, yet understood nonetheless.

“You’re getting better at that,” Nanami remarked, not looking up from his work.

You snorted softly, twisting another reed into place. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

You tossed a loose strand of reed at him. He caught it midair without even glancing, setting it aside with a faint huff of amusement.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, observing you from the corner of his eye. “What?”

You blinked, realizing you had been staring. “Nothing.”

His brow arched slightly, but he let it go, returning to his blade. The light glinted off the edge, sharp and lethal. You watched the way his hands moved steady.

Something in your chest tightened.

“You don’t think this is going to last, do you?” you asked suddenly.

Nanami paused.

The scrape of the whetstone against steel stopped, leaving only the distant sounds of the village outside. Slowly, he set the blade down, his gaze meeting yours, level and unreadable.

“…No.”

A lump formed in your throat. You nodded, looking away. “Neither do I.”

Silence.

Then, a sound.

Distant, almost imperceptible. A strange sort of rumbling.

Your fingers stopped weaving.

Nanami was already rising to his feet, his entire body going rigid. His hand went to the knife on the table. His sharp gaze flickered toward the window, toward the thin slit between the shutters. His breath was slow, measured, but you could feel the shift in his presence, the quiet kind of alertness that came before a storm.

And then a scream erupted.

Distant. But close enough.

Your blood ran cold.

Nanami moved.

He crossed the room in two strides, yanking the shutters open. And what you saw fire.

Distant but spreading.

Smoke rising in thick columns from the edge of the village, black against the early morning sky. The distinct sound of hooves against dirt, of metal clashing, of doors being kicked in. Then, through the haze of rising flames, you saw banners. Not just any banners.

Gojo’s crest.

Your breath hitched.

Nanami didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the back entrance. “We need to move.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, feet stumbling as you let him drag you forward. This was happening.

He had found you.

Gojo had found you.

Days before the raid, the palace pulsed with restless energy. Servants flitted through the corridors, their hurried steps echoing against the lacquered floors as they fastened armor, sharpened blades, and prepared provisions. The campaign was supposed to be routine, a small raid to quell rumors of insurrection in a remote village. Yet, the Emperor himself was leading the charge.

No one questioned it aloud. But the whispers wove through the palace like smoke.

In his private chambers, Gojo stood at the window, watching the courtyard below as soldiers mounted their horses, their banners snapping in the cold wind. His reflection stared back at him in the glass. His grip tightened behind his back.

"You’re awfully tense for such a minor skirmish," Himiko mused, lounging on the divan behind him. The golden silk of her robes pooled around her like a shimmering snare. She lifted a cup to her lips, watching him over the rim, her gaze sharp. "One might think there’s more at stake here than a simple village purge."

Gojo didn’t turn.

"One might."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Himiko hummed, setting her cup down with a delicate clink. "You’ve always been so stubborn. So unwilling to accept the order of things." She rose, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. "It’s a shame, really. You could’ve been content. You could’ve let go."

Her fingers brushed his sleeve. A touch meant to soothe. To remind.

His hand snapped up, catching her wrist before she could go any further.

Himiko stilled, lips parting in the slightest gasp. Not from pain, he wasn’t squeezing hard enough for that. But his grip was firm, unyielding. The weight of it said more than any words could.

A muscle flickered in Gojo’s jaw. "Do you think this is forever?" His voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made the candlelight tremble.

Himiko’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her gaze shifted. "I think," she murmured, tilting her head, "that you’re still bound by the same chains as always. No matter how strong you are, some things can’t be undone."

Gojo released her. The moment stretched, brittle as ice. Then he turned, striding toward the door, his long robes whispering against the floor.

Outside, his men were waiting. His horse was waiting.

And somewhere beyond the mountains, the one thing he had ever truly wanted was waiting.

He had wasted enough time.

The streets were already chaos. Villagers running, shrieking, clutching their children as armed soldiers stormed through the narrow paths. Houses were being torn apart, doors broken down. Soldiers clad in imperial armor barked orders, swords flashing as they cut down those who resisted.

Your breath came short, panic clawing at your throat.

Nanami’s grip on your wrist was firm. “Stay close.”

You barely nodded, your body moving on instinct as he guided you through the chaos. You ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing yourself against the wood as two soldiers passed by. Nanami’s body shielded yours, his presence grounding you even as your hands trembled.

A sharp whistle.

Nanami cursed, shoving you aside just as an arrow embedded itself into the wood where your head had been a moment ago.

You gasped.

Another whistle.

Nanami moved. He spun, his knife flashing, a throw, a sickening thud, a body crumpling.

Blood.

It hit the dirt in a slow, steady stream.

You stared.

Nanami grabbed your face, forcing your gaze back to him. “Focus.”

Your lips parted, breath shuddering. But you nodded.

He pulled you forward, weaving through the panicked masses. The exit. You needed to get to the forest to escape before it was too late.

A tall figure clad in white and blue, standing at the center of the destruction, untouched by the chaos.

Gojo Satoru.

Your feet froze.

His eyes locked onto yours instantly. Even from across the village square, even through the haze of smoke and bodies, you could feel the weight of his gaze. The way his body shifted the moment he saw you.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Nanami saw him at the same time. His entire body went rigid.

Gojo took a slow step forward. His imperial robes billowed slightly with the movement, the embroidery glinting under the firelight, his armor forged from precious metals glistened in the sunlight. His sword hung at his hip, untouched, as if he hadn’t even needed to lift it.

Nanami’s grip on your arm tightened.

Gojo’s expression darkened. His gaze flickered between the two of you visibly irked by the domestic dynamic that had recently developed.

His lips parted, his voice cutting through the carnage like a blade. “Found you.”

Your stomach twisted.

Nanami moved.

But Gojo was faster.

Before either of you could react, a blur of motion, a gust of force, unstoppable. Nanami was on the ground. The blond man coughed out blood.

Your scream barely had time to leave your throat before Gojo was in front of you, too close, too fast. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. Unyielding.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, the distant wails of the ravaged village melding into the wind. Your hands trembled as you clenched them at your sides, willing yourself to remain still. The weight of the past, of every wound he had inflicted upon you, settled deep in your bones.

“Running from me again?” His voice was a whisper of thunder, low and dangerous. “I thought we were past that.”

You had been running for so long, but had you ever truly escaped him? Every step you took away from him, every sleepless night, every whispered prayer for his absence, and yet here he was, a specter that refused to fade.

Your heart leapt to your throat as his fingers clamped around your wrist, tightening as you attempted to yank yourself free. His other hand rose, tracing the curve of your cheek with deceptive gentleness, the callouses rough against your skin.

“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t come for you?”

Your breath came shallow. “Gojo–”

His fingers curled against your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his unrelenting grip told a different story. He had always been relentless, hadn’t he? No matter how much you tried to pull away, he found his way back, like a tide that refused to recede.

“Nanami,” he said coldly. “Do your job. Lead the men back.”

A moment of hesitation, a flicker of something like pity in Nanami’s eyes before he turned away. You were glad he did. Gojo had spared him enough not to strike him down on the spot. 

Soon, only the two of you remained, locked in a battle more ferocious than the ones fought with swords.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your own. Your attempts to struggle were fruitless; his body caged you, muscles honed by years of war making it impossible to flee. The warmth of him, the sheer familiarity of his presence, made something inside you ache against your will.

“Why do you run?” His voice was softer now, coaxing.

Your lips curled in a bitter smile. “Are you nothing more than a brute?”

His grip faltered, a shadow of hurt flashing in his eyes. But you didn’t care. His pain was nothing compared to the agony he had inflicted upon you.

“You claim to care for me,” you spat, voice shaking with fury, “yet you cast me aside like a discarded pawn. You chose another, again and again, and then have the audacity to crawl back to me.”

Your voice cracked, but your anger did not waver.

“You humiliated me. You shattered my world and toyed with my heart like it was nothing more than a trinket. I hate you, Gojo Satoru. I hate you so much it consumes me.”

The tears spilled unchecked, your body trembling as the dam within you finally broke. You were certain you looked wretched, but dignity was a luxury you had long since abandoned.

His silence was unbearable. The weight of his guilt pressed between you, thick and suffocating, but you refused to let it soften you.

“You have hurt me beyond repair,” you whispered. “I always knew our love would bring pain, but I never thought it would be at your hands.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his large hands wiping away each tear as they fell.

“You lied to me,” you murmured, fists weakly beating against his chest. He lets you.

“I did.”

“You banished me.”

“I did.”

“You told me you loved me.”

His grip tightened. “I do.”

Your breath hitched. “I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you insisted, though the conviction was waning. Did you? Did you truly?

His lips brushed against your temple, his hands cradling your face with unbearable tenderness, “Don’t you know that you’re killing me? That your words pierce me like no other blade?”

You exhaled shakily. “Then why aren’t you dead yet?”

A broken sound left his throat as he pulled you impossibly closer, until your bodies were melded together, until his warmth became a prison of its own.

“Take it back,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

But you said nothing, staring past him to the charred ruins beyond. Nanami had rallied the men, but the damage had already been done. And so had the damage to your heart. 

“Your army is leaving,” you said numbly. “Why don’t you go join them, General?”

His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. And yet, as much as you wanted it to, the sight did not disgust you. Instead, a sick sense of satisfaction curled within you at his suffering.

“Not until you come back,” he declared. "Until you let me explain myself."

You laughed, sharp and humorless. It did not deter him.

He continues his plea, “You can humiliate me in the palace. You can strip me of every last shred of dignity. Do whatever you wish."

He pauses.

"Just come back.”

You tried to put distance between you, but his hold remained firm.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Your voice wavered. “I am not yours anymore. I haven’t been yours since you chose her. Since you cast me aside for the sake of your kingdom.”

By now, Satoru’s trembling lips had given way to the relentless shaking of his entire body, “I never touched her. My hand was forced. Nothing happened.” Somewhere amid your onslaught, Satoru had forgotten how to breathe. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of words he couldn’t take back. His fingers curled into fists so tight they trembled, knuckles drained of color. He was unraveling right in front of you.

“Everyone around me speaks of my destiny, as if it were carved into the heavens themselves. They whisper that I was born to rule Japan, to claim a throne, to take a noble wife like Himiko and secure a legacy of power.” Satoru’s voice trembles, raw and desperate, as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply like he’s trying to commit you to memory. His hands clutch you tighter, as if you might slip through his fingers at any moment.

“But none of that means a damn thing to me. My destiny isn’t a kingdom—it’s you. It always has been. My place is by your side, not on a throne. I would spend a thousand lifetimes serving you, worshiping you, loving you. We were made for each other, meant to grow old together, to laugh and fight and dream until the very end. To pass down our love, our story—not to this damn empire, but to our grandchildren.”

His breath is shaky against your skin, his grip unrelenting. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking, “don’t take that from me.”

You wanted to. Wanted to reach for him, to piece him back together, but the raw ache in your chest held you still.

How many times have you stood here, waiting for him to say something, anything, that would make the hurt go away? How many times have you let yourself believe that his silence wasn’t a choice?

You swallowed hard, throat burning. “You don’t get to do this,” you whispered.

His head jerked up, eyes wide, pleading.

“You don’t get to shake and break down and expect me to forget everything,” you continued, voice cracking. “You left me. You let me believe I didn’t matter.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, like the words had physically struck him. “I never–”

“Don’t.” You shook your head, stepping back when he tried to move closer. “Just don’t.”

The silence between them was thick, heavy with unsaid things. Satoru’s breaths came fast and shallow, his entire body vibrating with something between anguish and regret.

Still, you held on to the hurt. Let it press against your ribs, let it remind you that you weren’t just here to be broken all over again. You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. But damn it, you wanted to.

“If it will ease your doubts, I’ll have her head in glass by morning.”

You shuddered. “I don’t want her dead.”

“Then she lives to see another day.”

“And the Zenins?” Your teeth clenched, voice shaking with restrained fury. “I tried to warn you about them, tried to protect you, but you chose to humiliate me instead.”

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, deliberate and lingering, as if etching you into his memory. “I am truly sorry,” he murmured, his voice softer now, edged with regret. “It was a foolish attempt to keep you safe from those damn elders. I may be the ceremonial head of this country, but their power is undeniable. Your banishment was my own foolish doing to protect you after my mistress was forced upon me. I knew I was lost when I couldn’t breathe without your presence in the palace. The days blurred together, and my duties felt like nothing but a slow death. So, I tried to bring you back as my servant. It was safer that way. You were close, within reach, but still out of grasp. At least you were there. But then... I ruined it all. ”

You hadn’t tried to bite his finger off yet. He took it as an unspoken truce, leaning in, his presence overwhelming, his warmth sinking into your skin. “Not that it matters though. I'm going to kill those geezers and have their heads strung in front of the palace.” A flicker of a smirk ghosted his lips, but his eyes held something far more dangerous.

“I may be a fool,” he admitted, his breath brushing against you, “but I am not weak. So don’t waste a single thought on them.” His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward his. “No one, not them, not fate itself, will take you from me.”

A cruel part of you savored the power you held over him. But you wanted him to suffer longer before you gave the satisfaction of knowing that your heart had softened. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

His hands trembled. “We have a lifetime for that.”

"How arrogant of you to assume I’d ever choose to spend a lifetime with you." Your voice was quiet, but the weight of your words struck like a blade.

You shouldn't feel as satisfied as you did when you watched Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive crumpled. His breath hitched, his knees buckling beneath him as if the sheer force of your rejection had stolen the ground from under him.

Still, he reached for you. Desperation bled into his touch, fingers digging into your sleeves as though letting go would mean losing you forever. His voice, usually laced with arrogance and ease, was stripped raw.

“Then I don’t see a point in living.”

The weight of his confession clung to the air, thick and suffocating, and yet he only looked at you, as if the universe itself had been reduced to the space between his hands and your skin.

“And what of your crown?” you finally whispered.

His laugh was hollow, almost broken. “I’d throw it away if it meant keeping you. If it meant you will let me be yours.”

Then, as if surrendering himself entirely, both knees met the dirt. His hands, once accustomed to wielding absolute power, clung to your waist, not as an emperor, not as the strongest, but as a man begging to be allowed to stay.

His eyes burned into yours, pleading, unraveling.

And for the first time, you let him hold you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

A shuddering breath left his lips against your skin, as if he couldn’t believe you were real, as if he feared you might slip away the moment he let go. His grip tightened, not in possession, but in reverence.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of rain, of earth, of something on the verge of breaking.

"I expect you to kneel at my feet and beg for years to come." You murmured, fingers brushing against the strands of his silver hair. A handful of hair is gripped tightly, fingers digging in with purpose. "Perhaps then, I might even consider you once more."

His throat bobbed. "If that is what it takes."

This was not just an apology, nor was it a confession. It was surrender in the purest sense. The weight of his kingdom, his sins, his power. All of it, cast aside for you. It was the justice you deserved after all the pain you endured.

reblogs and comments are appreciated mwah!

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How would the second years react to baby gojo?

Like I need a baby gojo and the second years interactions 😭🙏🏻

second years adore baby son and they’re going to be whole calmer about it compared to the first year. but i have to say, the baby vibes the most with inumaki 💁🏻‍♀️

“tuna tuna,” he’ll point at a potted sunflower on the flowerbed while holding the baby.

baby gojo turns between him and the flower. “waa?”

“salmon.”

“ooh…”

“tuna mayo.”

“they… understand each other?” panda looks at both of them in wonder, before smiling. “good for toge. he has gained another friend.”

“somehow they look similar…” maki muses.

and when baby goes back home, while he is in his papa’s arms, he pokes him and suddenly he blurts:

“tu—na!”

I’d like to give a very big fuck you to anyone who talks badly about janitors, trashmen, maids, house cleaners,ect.

How I learned to write smarter, not harder

(aka, how to write when you're hella ADHD lol)

A reader commented on my current long fic asking how I write so well. I replied with an essay of my honestly pretty non-standard writing advice (that they probably didn't actually want lol) Now I'm gonna share it with you guys and hopefully there's a few of you out there who will benefit from my past mistakes and find some useful advice in here. XD Since I started doing this stuff, which are all pretty easy changes to absorb into your process if you want to try them, I now almost never get writer's block.

The text of the original reply is indented, and I've added some additional commentary to expand upon and clarify some of the concepts.

As for writing well, I usually attribute it to the fact that I spent roughly four years in my late teens/early 20s writing text roleplay with a friend for hours every single day. Aside from the constant practice that provided, having a live audience immediately reacting to everything I wrote made me think a lot about how to make as many sentences as possible have maximum impact so that I could get that kind of fun reaction. (Which is another reason why comments like yours are so valuable to fanfic writers! <3) The other factors that have improved my writing are thus: 1. Writing nonlinearly. I used to write a whole story in order, from the first sentence onward. If there was a part I was excited to write, I slogged through everything to get there, thinking that it would be my reward once I finished everything that led up to that. It never worked. XD It was miserable. By the time I got to the part I wanted to write, I had beaten the scene to death in my head imagining all the ways I could write it, and it a) no longer interested me and b) could not live up to my expectations because I couldn't remember all my ideas I'd had for writing it. The scene came out mediocre and so did everything leading up to it. Since then, I learned through working on VN writing (I co-own a game studio and we have some visual novels that I write for) that I don't have to write linearly. If I'm inspired to write a scene, I just write it immediately. It usually comes out pretty good even in a first draft! But then I also have it for if I get more ideas for that scene later, and I can just edit them in. The scenes come out MUCH stronger because of this. And you know what else I discovered? Those scenes I slogged through before weren't scenes I had no inspiration for, I just didn't have any inspiration for them in that moment! I can't tell you how many times there was a scene I had no interest in writing, and then a week later I'd get struck by the perfect inspiration for it! Those are scenes I would have done a very mediocre job on, and now they can be some of the most powerful scenes because I gave them time to marinate. Inspiration isn't always linear, so writing doesn't have to be either!

Some people are the type that joyfully write linearly. I have a friend like this--she picks up the characters and just continues playing out the next scene. Her story progresses through the entire day-by-day lives of the characters; it never timeskips more than a few hours. She started writing and posting just eight months ago, she's about an eighth of the way through her planned fic timeline, and the content she has so far posted to AO3 for it is already 450,000 words long. But most of us are normal humans. We're not, for the most part, wired to create linearly. We consume linearly, we experience linearly, so we assume we must also create linearly. But actually, a lot of us really suffer from trying to force ourselves to create this way, and we might not even realize it. If you're the kind of person who thinks you need to carrot-on-a-stick yourself into writing by saving the fun part for when you finally write everything that happens before it: Stop. You're probably not a linear writer. You're making yourself suffer for no reason and your writing is probably suffering for it. At least give nonlinear writing a try before you assume you can't write if you're not baiting or forcing yourself into it!! Remember: Writing is fun. You do this because it's fun, because it's your hobby. If you're miserable 80% of the time you're doing it, you're probably doing it wrong!

2. Rereading my own work. I used to hate reading my own work. I wouldn't even edit it usually. I would write it and slap it online and try not to look at it again. XD Writing nonlinearly forced me to start rereading because I needed to make sure scenes connected together naturally and it also made it easier to get into the headspace of the story to keep writing and fill in the blanks and get new inspiration. Doing this built the editing process into my writing process--I would read a scene to get back in the headspace, dislike what I had written, and just clean it up on the fly. I still never ever sit down to 'edit' my work. I just reread it to prep for writing and it ends up editing itself. Many many scenes in this fic I have read probably a dozen times or more! (And now, I can actually reread my own work for enjoyment!) Another thing I found from doing this that it became easy to see patterns and themes in my work and strengthen them. Foreshadowing became easy. Setting up for jokes or plot points became easy. I didn't have to plan out my story in advance or write an outline, because the scenes themselves because a sort of living outline on their own. (Yes, despite all the foreshadowing and recurring thematic elements and secret hidden meanings sprinkled throughout this story, it actually never had an outline or a plan for any of that. It's all a natural byproduct of writing nonlinearly and rereading.)

Unpopular writing opinion time: You don't need to make a detailed outline.

Some people thrive on having an outline and planning out every detail before they sit down to write. But I know for a lot of us, we don't know how to write an outline or how to use it once we've written it. The idea of making one is daunting, and the advice that it's the only way to write or beat writer's block is demoralizing. So let me explain how I approach "outlining" which isn't really outlining at all.

I write in a Notion table, where every scene is a separate table entry and the scene is written in the page inside that entry. I do this because it makes writing nonlinearly VASTLY more intuitive and straightforward than writing in a single document. (If you're familiar with Notion, this probably makes perfect sense to you. If you're not, imagine something a little like a more contained Google Sheets, but every row has a title cell that opens into a unique Google Doc when you click on it. And it's not as slow and clunky as the Google suite lol) (Edit from the future: I answered an ask with more explanation on how I use Notion for non-linear writing here.) When I sit down to begin a new fic idea, I make a quick entry in the table for every scene I already know I'll want or need, with the entries titled with a couple words or a sentence that describes what will be in that scene so I'll remember it later. Basically, it's the most absolute bare-bones skeleton of what I vaguely know will probably happen in the story.

Then I start writing, wherever I want in the list. As I write, ideas for new scenes and new connections and themes will emerge over time, and I'll just slot them in between the original entries wherever they naturally fit, rearranging as necessary, so that I won't forget about them later when I'm ready to write them. As an example, my current long fic started with a list of roughly 35 scenes that I knew I wanted or needed, for a fic that will probably be around 100k words (which I didn't know at the time haha). As of this writing, it has expanded to 129 scenes. And since I write them directly in the page entries for the table, the fic is actually its own outline, without any additional effort on my part. As I said in the comment reply--a living outline!

This also made it easier to let go of the notion that I had to write something exactly right the first time. (People always say you should do this, but how many of us do? It's harder than it sounds! I didn't want to commit to editing later! I didn't want to reread my work! XD) I know I'm going to edit it naturally anyway, so I can feel okay giving myself permission to just write it approximately right and I can fix it later. And what I found from that was that sometimes what I believed was kind of meh when I wrote it was actually totally fine when I read it later! Sometimes the internal critic is actually wrong. 3. Marinating in the headspace of the story. For the first two months I worked on [fic], I did not consume any media other than [fandom the fic is in]. I didn't watch, read, or play anything else. Not even mobile games. (And there wasn't really much fan content for [fandom] to consume either. Still isn't, really. XD) This basically forced me to treat writing my story as my only source of entertainment, and kept me from getting distracted or inspired to write other ideas and abandon this one.

As an aside, I don't think this is a necessary step for writing, but if you really want to be productive in a short burst, I do highly recommend going on a media consumption hiatus. Not forever, obviously! Consuming media is a valuable tool for new inspiration, and reading other's work (both good and bad, as long as you think critically to identify the differences!) is an invaluable resource for improving your writing.

When I write, I usually lay down, close my eyes, and play the scene I'm interested in writing in my head. I even take a ten-minute nap now and then during this process. (I find being in a state of partial drowsiness, but not outright sleepiness, makes writing easier and better. Sleep helps the brain process and make connections!) Then I roll over to the laptop next to me and type up whatever I felt like worked for the scene. This may mean I write half a sentence at a time between intervals of closed-eye-time XD

People always say if you're stuck, you need to outline.

What they actually mean by that (whether they realize it or not) is that if you're stuck, you need to brainstorm. You need to marinate. You don't need to plan what you're doing, you just need to give yourself time to think about it!

What's another framing for brainstorming for your fic? Fantasizing about it! Planning is work, but fantasizing isn't.

You're already fantasizing about it, right? That's why you're writing it. Just direct that effort toward the scenes you're trying to write next! Close your eyes, lay back, and fantasize what the characters do and how they react.

And then quickly note down your inspirations so you don't forget, haha.

And if a scene is so boring to you that even fantasizing about it sucks--it's probably a bad scene.

If it's boring to write, it's going to be boring to read. Ask yourself why you wanted that scene. Is it even necessary? Can you cut it? Can you replace it with a different scene that serves the same purpose but approaches the problem from a different angle? If you can't remove the troublesome scene, what can you change about it that would make it interesting or exciting for you to write?

And I can't write sitting up to save my damn life. It's like my brain just stops working if I have to sit in a chair and stare at a computer screen. I need to be able to lie down, even if I don't use it! Talking walks and swinging in a hammock are also fantastic places to get scene ideas worked out, because the rhythmic motion also helps our brain process. It's just a little harder to work on a laptop in those scenarios. XD

In conclusion: Writing nonlinearly is an amazing tool for kicking writer's block to the curb. There's almost always some scene you'll want to write. If there isn't, you need to re-read or marinate.

Or you need to use the bathroom, eat something, or sleep. XD Seriously, if you're that stuck, assess your current physical condition. You might just be unable to focus because you're uncomfortable and you haven't realized it yet.

Anyway! I hope that was helpful, or at least interesting! XD Sorry again for the text wall. (I think this is the longest comment reply I've ever written!)

And same to you guys on tumblr--I hope this was helpful or at least interesting. XD Reblogs appreciated if so! (Maybe it'll help someone else!)

GOJO SATORU LAYOUTS! | requested by anon

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