CRYING DURING SEX; CHAPTER VI

synopsis: blue haunts you everywhere. in the ocean. in his favorite shirt. in the awful bright sky. you realize you can’t cage birds meant to roam free but satoru doesn’t want to be free

word count:

content: gojo satoru x fem!reader, MDNI (18+ ONLY), TW! SA, TW! scide ideations, college au, friends with benefits, s3x worker gojo satoru, miscommunication, ANGST, trauma, alcoholic gojo, addictions, YEARNING, insecurities, casual sex

notes: do not read if u have sxual trauma, explicit mentions of sa. mentions of scuidal ideation. MY IDIOTS IN LOVE.

MASTERLIST - MOODBOARD - CHAPTER I, CHAPTER II, CHAPTER III, CHAPTER IV ,CHAPTER V, CHAPTER VII

I.

Summer passed quickly.

You didn't see Satoru nor did you hear from him. The silence was its own kind of violence, loud and consuming and everywhere.

You told yourself it was better this way.

Told yourself you were moving on.

Told yourself a lot of things that tasted like lies.

Fall semester started with new classes and the illusion of fresh starts.

That's when you met him, Kaito.

Sits two rows ahead in your sociology lecture. Nice smile, normal, the kind of guy who asks if you want to get coffee after class, who actually means coffee, who doesn't come with sharp edges and self-destruction.

You said yes because why not? Because Satoru had made his choice and it wasn't you and you were tired of cold sheets and unanswered texts and loving someone who couldn't love themselves.

Kaito is nice, that’s the word that keeps coming up.

Nice.

He pays for dates without making it a thing, send you goodnight texts and kisses you like he means it but not like he's trying to prove something.

The sex is okay. Fine.

Good, even, if you don't think too hard about it which you try not to.

You try not to think about how it's different, how Kaito touches you like you're precious and how he makes you cum but it doesn't feel like falling apart.

Sometimes you close your eyes and see white hair and blue eyes.

You feel guilty after.

Wash your hands like you've done something wrong, like thinking about Satoru while Kaito is inside you is a betrayal even though technically you and Satoru were never—

You were never anything, that's what you tell yourself.

But the blue follows you, haunts you.

In the ocean when Kaito takes you to the beach that one weekend.

In his favorite t-shirt that he leaves at your place.

In the awful bright autumn sky that makes you squint and remember standing in the cold outside school watching Satoru disappear.

You realize something in October when the leaves are turning and Kaito holds your hand walking across campus: you can't cage birds that were meant to roam free.

Some people aren't built for staying, some people are all flight and no landing.

You think you've made peace with it.

You haven't.

II.

Satoru doesn't want to be free.

He wants a cage, he wants walls.

Wants something to hold him together because he's coming apart at the seams and there's no one watching and nothing stopping him.

Everything is wrong.

It has been wrong since that night outside your door when you held his hand and he had to let go.

Since summer started and he realized you weren't calling anymore, weren’t texting and had finally given up on him like everyone else.

He gets meaner.

Girls approach him at parties and he tells them to fuck off.

Things he's never done before because being wanted was currency and you don't turn down currency but he can't anymore.

He can’t pretend,can’t perform.

The mask is cracking and underneath there's nothing but static.

He takes more jobs, more strangers.

Different beds but same emptiness.

He goes through the motions—undresses, gets on his knees, closes his eyes and goes somewhere else.

It happens on a Monday.

Some guy's apartment. Older. Businessman type.

"On your knees," the guy says.

Satoru's knees hit the floor, he’s done this before, done this a hundred times.

But today something's different, today when the guy unzips his pants, Satoru's stomach turns.

"I don't—" He stops then tries again. "Can we do something else?"

"What?"

"Just.. not this. Anything else."

The guy's face changes. "The fuck you mean not this? You think I'm paying you to be picky?"

"I'm not… I just—"

The punch comes fast, catches him on the nose. Pain explodes white-hot and immediate.

Blood tastes like copper on his tongue.

"You'll do what I paid for," the guy says.

His hand is in Satoru's hair, pulling. "Open your mouth."

Satoru opens his mouth.

He's somewhere else.

Not here. Not in this apartment with blood running down his face and a stranger's cock in his throat. He's—

He's thinking about you, your hands in his hair, gentle, your voice saying his name.

He's thinking about death.

He's been thinking about death a lot lately.

About the bottle of pills in his bathroom cabinet. About how many it would take mixed with the vodka under his bed.

About the bridge he walks across every day to get to class.

About how tall it is.

About how quick it would be.

About whether anyone would notice, whether anyone would care.

Whether you would care.

The guy finishes and pulls out.

Satoru coughs, gags, tastes blood and semen and self-hatred.

Money on the counter.

The door closing.

Silence.

Satoru sits on the bathroom floor.

His nose is probably broken,deserves to be broken.

He looks at himself in the mirror: blood on his face, bruise already forming, eyes that look like his mother's—and thinks: 

This is what you're worth, this is all you'll ever be.

He thinks about the bridge, about how the water would feel.

Cold.

Peaceful, maybe, in a way nothing else has been.

He thinks about you, wonders if you ever think about him, wonders if you've moved on.

Wonders if you're better off.

Knows you are.

III.

Shoko invites you to a party in November.

It’s a house party, off-campus.

Its the kind with too many people and not enough ventilation.

You almost say no but Kaito wants to go and you're trying, trying to be normal, to be the kind of person who goes to parties and has fun and doesn't spend every quiet moment thinking about blue.

The house is packed, bodies everywhere.

Music too loud.

Someone's already thrown up in the front yard.

Kaito holds your hand and navigates through the crowd and you follow because that's what you do now.

Follow. Be followed. Be with someone who stays.

You're getting a drink in the kitchen when you feel it, the hair on the back of your neck standing up.

You turn and:

Satoru.

He’s across the room, leaning against a wall with a red cup in his hand.

He looks different, thinner.

There's a bruise on his face that looks old, fading yellow-green and his eyes are hollow.

He's staring at you.

The room goes quiet even though the music is still playing.

Everyone else disappears and it’s just him, just those eyes.

Kaito says something but don't hear it.

Can't hear anything except the blood rushing in your ears.

Satoru's eyes move and land on Kaito, on his arm around your waist, on the way you're standing close. Couple close, together close.

Something crosses Satoru's face like you've reached into his chest and torn something vital out.

Then he's moving, pushing through the crowd and heading for the door.

"I'll be right back," you tell Kaito.

Don't wait for a response, you’re already following.

Already running. Always running after him.

Outside.

Cold November air that burns your lungs.

You see him halfway down the walkway.

"Satoru!"

He stops but doesn’t turn around.

"Satoru, wait—"

"Don't, just don't."

"Don't what? Don't talk to you? Don't care about you?"

You're moving closer, can see your breath in the air between you.

“You disappeared, you left, I waited and you never—"

"I know."

He turns, his eyes are red.

“I know, okay? I know I fucked up. I know I'm a piece of shit. You don't have to tell me."

"Then why did you leave like that?"

"Because that's what I do."

He laughs.

"You're better off. Look at you, you moved on, got yourself a nice normal boyfriend who probably doesn't—" He stops. "Who's good for you."

"You don't know what's good for me."

"I know I'm not." He takes a step back, creating distance.

"Go back inside, go back to your boyfriend... just be happy and forget about me."

The cold is seeping through your jacket.

Your nose is going numb.

Your lips feel chapped.

You watch Satoru watching you and think about birds.

"Is that what you want?" Your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to. "For me to forget about you?"

"Yeah," he says. "That's what I want."

"You're lying."

"Does it matter?" He's backing away,already leaving.

“You got what you wanted. Someone who stays, who's not—" He gestures at himself. "This."

"Satoru—"

"I'm happy for you," he says. "Really, you deserve someone good."

Then he's walking away, down the sidewalk and into the dark.

You stand there on the porch, frozen.

Your boyfriend is inside waiting.

Your life is inside waiting, normal and safe and exactly what you thought you wanted.

But all you can see is Satoru disappearing.

Again.

Always disappearing.

The cold settles into your bones.

You think about summer, autumn, three months of trying to move on, how you can't cage something that doesn't want to be caught.

You think maybe you don't want to be caught either.

You go back inside.

Kaito asks if you're okay and you say yes.

You're getting good at lying, getting good at pretending.

Later that night, he kisses you goodnight at your door. Hes sweet, gentle, everything Satoru never was.

You go inside. Lie in bed in the dark.

You close your eyes and see blue.

Some birds aren't meant to be caged and some people aren't meant to be saved.

You just wish you'd figured that out before you fell in love with one.

Keep reading

CRYING DURING SEX; CHAPTER V

synopsis: alone in separate rooms, you both touch yourselves thinking of each other. his name on your lips and your name caught in his throat. want and hate tangled so tight you can't tell the difference.

word count: 2600 (me thinks)

content: gojo satoru x fem!reader, MDNI (18+ ONLY), college au, friends with benefits, s3x worker gojo satoru, miscommunication, ANGST, trauma, alcoholic gojo, addictions, YEARNING, insecurities, casual sex

notes: bit of a short chapter again, WARNING mentions of sxual harassment. we r almost at 80 followers thank u sm gives u big kisss mwaaaahhhh

MASTERLIST - MOODBOARD - CHAPTER I, CHAPTER II, CHAPTER III, CHAPTER IV, CHAPTER VI

I.

You catch him outside school on a gray Tuesday afternoon.

He's walking fast, head down, earbuds in even though you know they're not connected to anything.

"Satoru."

For a second you think he might run anyway then he turns, but his eyes land somewhere past your left shoulder, focused on the middle distance like you're not even there.

"Hey."

"Hey." You shove your hands in your pockets because you don't know what else to do with them. "You've been avoiding me."

"Been busy."

"Right, busy."

A girl walks past, does a double-take at Satoru the way they all do. He doesn't notice or pretends not to.

The silence stretches.

You're supposed to say something: ask how he is, pretend this is normal, that your chest doesn't feel like someone's wringing it out like a wet towel.

"How are you?" It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

"Fine."

"Satoru--"

"I gotta go."

"We need to talk about what happened—"

"There's nothing to talk about." His empty eyes finally land on you. "It was a mistake. I was drunk. It's fine."

"You weren't drunk."

"Well, I was fucked up on something." He shrugs. "Doesn't matter anyway, it's done."

It's like talking to a stranger wearing Satoru's face. Worse—it's like talking to the normal version of him, the one he shows everyone else, and realizing you don't get the real thing anymore. You lost that privilege when he cried in your arms.

"I miss you."

Something flickers across his face then it's gone and he's looking past you again. "Yeah. Well."

A car pulls up to the curb.

Black sedan, windows tinted dark enough that you can't see inside until the passenger window rolls down.

There's a man. Older—forties, maybe fifties.

Trimmed beard going gray. Nice watch.

"You coming or what?" The man's voice is casual.

Satoru glances at you then back at the car.

You watch him make the decision in real time.

"Yeah. One sec."

"Satoru—"

"I gotta go."

Three steps toward the car and he might as well be on another planet.

"Wait"

But he's opening the door, sliding into the passenger seat.

The man's hand lands on his thigh immediately, possessive, and Satoru just lets him.

The door closes and just like that the car pulls away from the curb. Satoru stares straight ahead and doesn't look back.

You stand there on the sidewalk, the cold seeping through your jacket.

Watching taillights get smaller and smaller until they turn a corner and disappear completely.

Your chest is doing something painful. Contracting. Like your lungs forgot how to work.

I hate him.

Please. Please come back.

II.

The bar has sticky floors that grab at your shoes.

Neon beer signs buzzing in the windows, half the letters burned out. You're pretty sure they didn't check your ID or maybe they did but everything's already blurring at the edges.

You order something cheap that burns going down. Drink it fast enough that the bartender raises an eyebrow but pours you another without comment.

You're three drinks deep when the guy slides onto the stool next to you.

Thirties, maybe.

Flannel shirt. Smile that doesn't reach anywhere near his eyes.

"You look lonely."

"I'm not." Your words are starting to slur.

"Could've fooled me." He leans closer and you can smell him—cheap cologne trying to cover stale beer and cigarettes. "Let me buy you a drink."

"I'm good."

"Come on. Just one." His hand lands on your knee. "Don't be like that."

The touch makes your skin crawl. You stand too fast and the room tilts sideways. "I'm leaving."

"Hey—"

But you're already grabbing your jacket, your bag, fumbling for the door.

The street is empty, street lights casting these orange pools on the pavement that you have to step through

You walk for a while with no real destination.

Your footsteps echo off empty storefronts and then:

Other footsteps behind you, matching your pace.

Your heart kicks into something faster.

You walk quicker. The footsteps speed up. You're about to run when—

"Hey—wait—"

You know that voice before you turn around, would know it anywhere.

In the dark. In a crowd. In your sleep.

Satoru stands teen feet back, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

"What the fuck?" Your voice comes out too loud. "Are you following me?"

"I was—" He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up worse. "I saw you leave the bar. You were drunk and I just...I wanted to make sure you got home okay."

"Make sure I got home okay?" You laugh. "Since when do you care about that? Since when do you care about anything?"

"I always—" He stops. Tries again. "You shouldn't be walking alone."

"I'm fine."

"You're not, you can barely walk straight."

"And whose fault is that?"

He doesn't have a response to that.

Just stands there looking at you like he doesn't know what to do, like someone put him together wrong and he's only just noticing.

The anger drains out of you all at once.

You're so tired. Tired of being angry. Tired of wanting him. Tired of the way your chest hurts every time you think about his face.

"Just—" Your voice cracks. "Just walk me home."

He nods and loses the distance between you but keeps this careful space.

The walk to your place is fifteen minutes but it feels much longer. Eons passing in silence.

You're drunk enough that the distance between you bothers you more than it should.

Drunk enough that when you reach for his hand, you don't think about it first.

He freezes and stares at your hand.

"Sorry," you say. You don't let go.

He doesn't either.

His hand is cold. Always cold.

You walk like that the rest of the way, connected by this one point of contact that feels more intimate than any of the times he's been inside you.

Your building. Your floor. Your door. You fumble with your keys and he takes them, unlocks the door, hands them back without a word.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine," you lie.

He nods, already backing away.

"Satoru—"

"Get some sleep." He's moving toward the stairs. "And drink water, you'll feel like shit tomorrow."

Then he's gone.

The sound of his footsteps fading and then nothing.

Just you in the fluorescent hallway with your keys in your hand and the ghost of his cold fingers still wrapped around yours.

III.

You lie in bed still fully dressed because taking off your clothes feels like too much effort.

Your jeans are digging into your waist. Your shirt smells like the bar but moving seems impossible.

Your limbs are heavy. Your head is spinning.

And under all of it, that familiar ache.

Your hand finds your waistband, slips underneath without permission from your brain.

This is pathetic. You know this is pathetic.

But you're already thinking about him, about the cold of his hand in yours, about the way he'd looked at you, about his voice, rough and wrecked when he used to whisper filth in your ear.

My pretty little whore. Taking my cock so fucking well.

You're wet already, since you felt his skin against yours for the first time in weeks and remembered what it was like to touch him and be touched by him.

Your fingers move faster.

You think about him pinning you down, hand wrapped around your throat, that look in his eyes like he was trying to fuck the need out of both of you.

The way he'd said your name when he came.

Cum for me. Do it. Cum for me.

And you do, because your body still responds to his voice even when he's not there, even when he's gone and even when you hate him. Your back arches off the bed and his name falls out of your mouth before you can stop it, proof that you're still his even though he's not yours.

After, you lie there, hand still between your legs.

Wet and empty and so fucking pathetic.

You close your eyes. The room spins.

I hate him I hate him I hate him.

Please come back.

IV.

Satoru makes it three blocks before he has to stop, lean against a brick wall in an alley that smells like piss and rotting garbage.

His lungs aren't working right, like someone's wrapped wire around his ribs.

His hand still feels warm where you'd held it.

He flexes his fingers and the feeling doesn't go away.

He shouldn't have followed you, definitely shouldn't have let you take his hand like that, like touching him wasn't a mistake.

But he'd seen you stumbling out of that bar and the thought of something happening to you, someone hurting you made his chest weird.

And he'd followed because apparently he's incapable of making good decisions where you're concerned.

He's still thinking about it when he gets home.

When he locks the door behind him.

When he collapses on his bed without bothering to take off his shoes or his jacket or anything.

His phone is on his chest.

He could text you.

Should say...what? Sorry? For what specifically? For all of it? For being exactly what you always knew he was: broken and used up and fundamentally incapable of being what you need?

His hand moves to his jeans. He's half-hard already, has been since he stood in your doorway and watched you look at him like you still wanted him despite everything.

He unzips his jeans and pulls himself out.

He's already leaking, pathetic how easy it is.

How just the memory of your hand in his is enough.

He thinks about you, about your mouth, your hands.

He thinks about fucking you, about your body under his.

The sounds you'd made. How you'd pulled his hair hard enough to hurt and he'd loved it, craved it, needed the pain.

Satoru

Your voice in his memory, the way you said his name when you came, like it meant something.

He strokes himself faster, rough, the way he likes it when no one's watching.

Pain and pleasure bleeding together until he can't tell the difference. Until it all just feels like punishment for wanting things he doesn't deserve.

He thinks about your hand in his, the first soft thing he's touched in weeks that didn't come with a price tag attached.

He comes hard, sudden, your name caught in his throat.

He swallows it and bites down on his lip to keep it in.

After, he lies in the mess of it, cum cooling on his stomach and staring at his ceiling

His phone is still on his chest, your message still open on the screen.

I miss you.

He wants to tell you the truth, say I miss you too and I'm sorry and I don't know how to stop running and Please don't give up on me even though you should.

Instead he pulls his blanket over his head like he's five years old and afraid of monsters.

Except the monster is him, it's always been him.

Keep reading

CRYING DURING SEX; CHAPTER IV

synopsis: satoru stops going to class. he cried in your arms and now he can't look at you because pathetic boys who need their mothers don't deserve soft things.
at a party you meet nanami on the porch and you wake up in his dorm, the next morning.
what you don't know: satoru saw. jealousy sits in him even though he's the one in someone else's bed wishing she was you.

word count: 2,198

content: gojo satoru x fem!reader, MDNI (18+ ONLY), platonic!nanami, college au, friends with benefits, s3x worker gojo satoru, miscommunication, ANGST, trauma, alcoholic gojo, addictions, YEARNING, insecurities, casual sex

notes: bit of a short chapter, dumb satoru with issues... anyways ENJOY

MASTERLIST - MOODBOARD- CHAPTER I, CHAPTER II, CHAPTER III,

Satoru stops going to psych class.

Or he goes but sits in the back, far corner. 

Arrives late, leaves early, doesn't look at your seat, doesn't look at the coffee you still leave there on Tuesdays because you're an idiot who doesn't know when to stop trying.

He stopped answering your texts three days after he cried in your arms. Read receipts on. 

You'd sent: you okay? 

Then: satoru? 

Then nothing because what else is there to say?

He knows it's pathetic, he knows he's being a coward but the alternative—showing up and pretending he didn't completely fall apart in your lap like some needy fucking child—that's worse.

How fucking pathetic. He thinks this at 3 AM when he can't sleep. 

Cried in front of the girl you—

He doesn't finish the thought, doesn't let himself.

Like? Did he like you? That's not—this isn't—

Whatever, it doesn't matter, it’s pathetic either way. 

How is she supposed to like him now? I mean, not like she liked him before but there was a chance, maybe, a small one, and now? Now she's seen the worst parts. 

The sad, the desperate, the mommy mommy mommy that lives in his chest.

Now she'll never—

He stops that thought too and goes to a party instead.

Terrified you'll bite the hand that needs you and right now he needs you which is exactly why he has to stay away.

So he drinks and he makes out with Yuki from his econ class. 

He lets her pull him into a bathroom and he touches him like she owns him and maybe that's better, no feelings to fuck up.

He has sex in someone's bedroom, gets paid by a guy he met on an app. Two hundred dollars.

Everyone thinks he's cool, hot and strong: the guy who has it all figured out. 

The guy who fucks who he wants and doesn't catch feelings and definitely doesn't cry, definitely not whatever pathetic version of himself he showed you that night.

He's fine. He's good. This is who he is.

—

You can't even be mad, not really, because you know Satoru. 

Know him better than he knows himself at this point, know that he's doing this because he's scared, because vulnerability is a wound and he's spent his whole life learning not to bleed in front of people.

But knowing why doesn't make it hurt less.

You see him in class and he leaves before you can catch him, your coffee goes cold on his empty seat.

You text him once more, just: I miss you

Read. No response.

You delete the message from your side, like that makes it less embarrassing, like he didn't already see.

Friday night. Someone's house party. 

You weren't going to go but your roommate insisted and sitting alone in your room thinking about Satoru felt worse than pretending to have a social life.

The house is packed, too many bodies. 

Music too loud. 

You nurse a beer in the kitchen trying to look like you belong here and that's when you see him.

Satoru. In the living room. He's—

He's making out with the hottest girl in psych, the one with perfect everything—tits, ass, hair, face, life. 

His hand is in her hair, her hand is under his shirt and they're practically fucking against the wall.

Your stomach drops, just falls straight through the floor.

Of course this is where he belongs.

You're not particularly hot or amazing at anything, you don't even have the guts to tell him what he's doing—avoiding you, running away, being a coward—is wrong.

Someone like her would have told him he's a dickhead, would have called him out and made him cry.

But not you, you can't because you've never liked anybody before and it's funny how Satoru is the first.

You chug the rest of your beer then grab another. 

The room is too warm. Too small. 

Satoru's tongue is down the girl’s throat and you need air, you need to not see this, to not exist for a while.

Outside. The porch. Cold air that doesn't help.

"You okay?"

You turn and there's a blonde guy with a serious face. 

You've seen him in class Nanami Kento, that's his name. 

He sits three rows ahead, always takes notes in neat handwriting and never talks to anyone.

"I'm fine," you say. You're not fine, you're drunk and your chest hurts and Satoru is inside kissing someone else.

"You don't look fine."

"Wow. Thanks."

He almost smiles. "I meant you look like you might throw up."

"I'm not—" You stop because you might actually throw up. "Okay. Maybe."

He hands you his water and you take it. 

The bottle is cold, condensation on your palm. You drink and it helps, a little.

"You're in my psych class," he says.

"Yeah."

"I've seen you, you sit next to Gojo."

Your throat tightens. “Yeah.”

Nanami doesn't ask, he just nods like he understands and maybe he does. 

Maybe everyone can see how pathetic you are.

You talk, well or he talks and you listen. 

He's the opposite of Satoru, he’s reserved, serious, few words but soft-spoken. 

He’s careful, like he thinks before he speaks.

It's nice. It's—

The world tilts.

Just slightly, then more.

"Whoa—" Nanami catches your arm. "How much have you had?"

"Not that much." Too much, two beers and the earlier shots and the one you did in the kitchen to stop thinking about Satoru's hands on someone else.

"Maybe you should sit down."

You sit on the porch steps, cold concrete. 

Nanami sits next to you, not too close and you wish he was Satoru, you wish Satoru gave a shit.

"I'm fine," you say again.

You don't remember closing your eyes and don't remember the world going dark.

—

You wake up in a bed that isn't yours.

The panic is immediate and you sit up too fast, the room spins.

"You're awake."

Nanami’s sitting in a desk chair across the room, book in his lap. 

He looks tired and concerned.

"What—where—"

"My dorm, you passed out. I didn't know where you lived and you were too drunk to tell me and I couldn't just leave you there."

Your heart is hammering, you look down but you're fully clothed. 

Shoes off but everything else is on, the blanket is tucked around you. Nanami is across the room and hasn't moved from that chair.

"Did we—"

"No." He looks almost offended. "You were unconscious. Jesus, no.”

"Sorry. I just—"

"It's fine. I get it." He closes his book. "How are you feeling?"

Like shit. "I'm okay."

"There's water on the nightstand, and Advil."

"Thanks,” you say. "For not—well, for being decent I guess.”

"The bar is that low?"

"You'd be surprised."

He almost smiles again, you notice he does that.

"You should probably go back to your room. Get some real sleep."

"Yeah, okay." You stand and your legs work, mostly. 

"Thanks again. Really."

"It's fine."

You leave. Walk back to your dorm in the early morning gray. The campus is empty. Quiet. You feel scraped hollow.

You don't know that Satoru saw.

—

Satoru saw.

He saw you on the porch with Nanami, saw you talking, laughing and saw the way Nanami looked at you.

He saw you lean against him, saw him catch you, saw you leave together.

Went home together, obviously. 

To fuck, obviously.

It sits in him like battery acid, burning through his stomach lining, eating him from the inside.

Jealousy.

He has no right, he’s the one who left, he’s the one who ran away. 

He's the one currently in bed with Yuki who is objectively perfect and definitely doesn't have feelings for him which makes her safe.

But all he can think about is you, your hands, your laugh and how you looked at him.

And tonight you were looking at Nanami like that. 

Fucking Nanami.

His phone is on his nightstand and your text is still there. 

I miss you.

He should delete it and block your number and should just fuck that girl again and pretend he doesn't care.

But he can’t, he lies there staring at his ceiling. 

The water stain that looks like a dog.

His chest hurts.

Yuki is asleep next to him, she's pretty, she doesn't ask for anything except the orgasm he gave her before she passed out.

He wishes she was you and he hates himself for wishing it.

Yuki’s makeup is smeared on his pillow.

She'll leave soon, go back to her life and forget his name by Monday.

You're probably in Nanami's bed right now, probably being held the way Satoru held you, except Nanami wouldn't leave.

Nanami wouldn't run, he is good and decent and everything Satoru isn't.

The jealousy burns, eats through and leaves holes.

Satoru closes his eyes, waiting for morning to be over so he can start pretending again.

Keep reading

Does anyone else feel really maternal for Teen Satoru?

ㅤㅤthe last time

heavy angst, hurt no comfort, satoru mourning, reader is dead, a vague implication of suicidal ideation

ㅤ

he didn't know.

no, he had no idea that he'd seen the last smile on your lips that day.

he thought so little of the small moments, because in his mind they were as promised as the sunrise every morning. satoru never thought that for a moment, he wouldn't be able to hear your voice ever again.

now the pale boy sheds tears on his pillows, fists at the edge of the fabric until his knuckles turn white—as he quakes, he quakes, so softly yet brutally like the next sob could break his ribs into a million pieces.

the pain fractals on his shivering chest, as he misses you, deeply... he misses you from the void of his aching soul, with the lonely awareness that all he can do is remember,

because all you are is a memory now. one that will only further fade, one that is only crisp in his mind now while it's still a fresh gash.

no, he didn't know.

he didn't know that your days were numbered, that he'd outgrow you, that he'd turn eighteen, then nineteen, then twenty, then twenty one, then twenty two... without you, without you, without you—forever getting older, living life, without you.

how could he have known?

there was no hint, no forewarning, that he'd never see you again. no signal from the universe that your body would be claimed by the earth, so he ought to enjoy holding it one last time.

on nights where the moon peers into his empty bedroom with a wicked smile plastered across its soulless face, satoru begs the cold sky to take him, too; take him to that far away place where you are, so that the two of you can reunite in rapturous warmth once again. so that he can see your smile just one more time. so that he can continue that conversation that went cold along with your body. so he can hold your hand one more time, god, steal just a few more kisses from your warm lips.

but he can't wish on the stars to crush him out of existence; he has people depending on him. people who still want to see his smile. people who still want to get to know him, love him, grow old at his side.

so he will continue on, as he must. besides, who will remember you if not him? it seems others tend to forget, or pretend that you never existed at all just so they can live painlessly. he can't even blame them.

but satoru will always allow himself to feel the pain of you not being here for him.

it's the least he can do.

it's a rebellious reminder to the cold, cruel universe that although it robbed him of his light, he won't forget its warm glow, and how your presence felt on his skin.

i'm sorry, baby, that i didn't know. i would have kissed you harder, loved you louder, held you closer.

ㅤ

ㅤan—i cried quite a bit while writing this, because it's based on something i experienced. i've always been too scared to write things like this but i promised myself that this year, i would come to terms with my pain and put it into words. i'm sorry that i never got to finish that conversation with you.

──── 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎 :: 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 ₎ა ˙˖

˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓑.𝐔𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ finds out you developed a nasty little kink after your last encounter

⤿ ꒰ he's always seen you as nothing but a stupid, pretty girl, but now he can't get you out of his head :: college au :: slight angst :: smut :: mean!satoru :: degradation :: fingering :: heavy dumbification :: overstimulation :: semi-public sex :: lovesick reader ꒱

˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ couldn't get you out of his head after you whimpered those three, devastating words. I love you. he'd always paged you as the stupid type— but that has got to be the most idiotic thing that has ever left your mouth. you? falling in love with the man who used to snicker beside you whenever you were both handed out your test papers in highschool maths class? the guy who used to tell professors that you were a lost cause? the same fucking boy who told you to your face at least once a week that you were just some bimbo trying to make it through your astrophysics course on daddy's money and a ditsy mind? you really were an idiot.

. . . but why couldn't he stop thinking about it?

˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ was so agitated at himself. whenever he'd close his eyes he'd see your glossy ones blinking up at him and your quivering lips whispering that stupid confession while you bounced on his dick all pitifully. you were cockdrunk, he tells himself. so fucking stuffed with him that it drained whatever little coherent thought you had. you were too focused on the way he smooched your cervix. how he thumbed on your clit. how you clenched and squirted and messed his desk chair.

he finds himself looking back at it. the stain you left behind. he cleaned off what he could but your evidence remained. another thing that pissed him off. until it became the perfect site to relive memories when his cock ached hard in his pants.

strike three to the frustration game. that. every time he let his mind drift off, you'd occupy that space. what a pesky lump of atoms. just invading the free space and making it yours. making him think about how soft your tits felt up against him. how much softer your thighs were quivering on his hips. that sweet, sweet taste of your pussy. how it spilled and fluttered for his tongue.

he found himself thinking. were you a virgin? or just inexperienced? had no one tonguefucked that pretty little cunt like he did? did no one stuff that gorgeous—

˖ ࣪꒰ BULLY NERDJO ꒱ ˙˖ groans out loud and slumps back into his chair. shoving his foggy glasses up into his hair with one hand and throwing his textbook across the table with the other. he can't do this. can't focus like this. not when you're running laps in his head like you're trying to rewrite the theory of relativity.

“why can't I get that stupid girl out of my fucking heaaadddd. . .” he groaned. almost whined as he rubbed a hand down his blotched face roughly.

he grumbled. looked down at the bulge rising up to greet him. mock him. for fucks sakes. just calling you a stupid girl had him all hard and throbbing. fuck. guess there's no helping it huh?

Keep reading

☀︎ YOU CANNOT DISHONOUR THE WORTHY ☀︎

From the depths of need, change is spurred. The Taiyō clan is built upon one vital component. Love. The system is broken, so why fight to keep it alive? Chaos, individuality, expression- unpredictability lives in the arms of safety and the backing of their kin.

Taiyō Etiquette and Tradition

"Everyone is entitled to opinion, title does not suddenly increase IQ."

The greatest honour goes to selflessness, but rights include autonomy. Should a member manage to convince the clan, one belief can become the preaching of many. Alliance cannot be earned without connection, and multiple swords are better than one.

"Separated, we are undone. Together, we bow to none."

From birth, golden jewelry is granted to those bearing techniques (Identified by a single golden eye). Curse imbued, it functions as both a symbol and a safety net. When surrounded by darkness, the gifts act as a small light, a reminder of those who stand beside in the darkest moments.

"Your life is your decision, not ours."

Due to the clan's stance on autonomy, diversity leaks into every corner. The only clan to be globally diverse, the heart remains in Japan. The first lady was Egyptian, then married and moved to Japan to start a family, birthing the clan. Leaving is an option (though sorcerers are highly encouraged to stay), and over the masses of time, members are spread far and wide, whether for sorcery or personal motive. Contact still remains with the heart, and due to the gossiping nature of the clan, every connected soul is an unshakable force when rallied, no matter how distant.

Members of the Clan

☀︎ Hikaru Taiyō ☀︎

Who lives in metaphors and beauty

ꫂ᭪݁ Ren Taiyō ꫂ᭪݁

Who lives in the punctuation, fluid and final

☀︎ Asahi Taiyō ☀︎

Who lives in-between the lines, unspoken

ꫂ᭪݁ Kanami Taiyō ꫂ᭪݁

Who lives in conjunction, glue between halves

☀︎ Yuka Taiyō ☀︎

Who lives bolded on the page

Innate Techniques

❝𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 I 𝗮𝗺 𝗹𝗶𝗺𝗶𝘁𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘀❞

Golden Hour ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ~ Users of this technique are granted the ability to manipulate beams of light to cause illusion and disorientation within targets. While it is mainly a disruption of sight, when honed enough, the user may trick other senses (like smell, hearing etc) into believing the lie. As this technique is drawn from light, darkness is a fatal weakness for bearers, hence the birth-right jewelry. Those with this technique, if applied correctly, can have second grade to first grade potential as sorcerers.

Disillusion ꫂ᭪݁ ~ Those born with this technique are known as the turning points in the history of the clan. It allows the user to disrupt one natural law of their choosing for a time of their choosing. The bigger the law, the more cursed energy is expended to maintain it. For example, eliminating gravity in a small field for a few seconds, reversing someone's blood flow, ageing them in reverse or prohibiting the purpose of the frontal lobe. Combined with combat skills and intelligence, potential for the bearer will always be special grade.

all gold div creds to @uzmacchiato

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