interlude

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Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M, M/M
Fandom: 呪術廻戦 | Jujutsu Kaisen (Manga)
Relationship: Gojo Satoru/Reader, Getou Suguru/Gojo Satoru/Reader
Character: Gojo Satoru, Ieiri Shoko, Getou Suguru
Additional Tags: Pining, Obsessive Behavior, Yandere Gojo Satoru, not outright gojo's
just...a lot, gojo's (not so normal) thoughts/pov, hs gojo is Feral, Sexual
Fantasy, a bonafide menace, Masturbation, Food as a Metaphor for
Love, oh god he's in love, Gojo Satoru is His Own Warning, Jealous
Gojo Satoru
Language: English
Series: Part 8 of ripverse
Stats: Published: 2023-02-01 Words: 3410

interlude
by seoafin

Summary

three quick glimpses into satoru's life and you.

You are as polite and understanding as a feral, unsocialized creature, and he

He just can’t leave you alone.

Notes

IM STRESS WRITING DON'T LOOK AT ME

See the end of the work for more notes

The first time Satoru sets his gaze upon you, you are not even an extra in the story he has
envisioned for his grand highschool life, you are barely even a footnote.
You’re thirty minutes late, you wear the wrong uniform, and you fall back asleep not even ten
minutes into class. You’re quiet and airheaded, speak only when spoken to, and you are more
unassuming than you are anything else.

You also irritate him.

Or at least, that's what he assumes it is. It’s completely irrational. It’s not the same irritation he
feels when Suguru intentionally goads him on. That feeling burns bright and quick. It’s playful. It’s
fun. The two of them usually end up working it out with their fists until they lay splayed about on
the grass, chests heaving.

It’s a piercing annoyance, sparked by your presence, a twinge of something sharp in his abdomen.
Like the feeling of being stabbed. At first he thought it was the way he'd follow Suguru's gaze,
only to find you at the end of it. And then it was everything.

Gojo-san, you’re not very used to people saying no to you, are you? There was no ill will in your
voice. Just a calm, logical certainty that rubbed him in all the wrong ways.

And what about it? Satoru had snapped back, teeth bared, annoyed that nothing had gone
according to plan that day. He didn’t need a nobody like you to rub his shortcomings in his face.
Suguru already did that enough for both of them.

You simply looked right at him without a hint of sympathy, and walked away.

And thus, after the spectacular failure of your first shared mission, he had been completely content
to ignore your already insignificant presence. Until you started smiling. First at Ieiri, and then at
Suguru. Apathy lifting away from your face like the sun parting stormy clouds in those few
seconds. He couldn’t look away.

Ieiri-san had become Shoko, and Geto-san had become Suguru, and he was still Gojo-san.

He doesn’t care. If he’s irritated, it’s because he hates that blank look on your face when you
regard him more than anything. It makes him want to take your face, wrap his fingers around your
chin, and make you acknowledge him. And then maybe this infuriating feeling running him ragged
would finally disperse. He wants to see you fall apart, taste the salt of your tears on his tongue, dig
his fingers into the flesh of your arms and thighs and leave his mark, just to make sure you actually
exist.

A living, breathing human being. Not just a specter conjured up to drive him to insanity. You are
alive, but you don’t act like it.

He doesn’t like it.

It takes him a little longer (just until you smile at him and offer him the rest of your baked goods as
a silent peace offering) for him to realize, it’s not you he doesn’t like. It’s never been you he
dislikes.

….
The man rattles off next to him about alliances, clan security, heirs, duty, and too many other
things Satoru could give less of a shit about, and all he can think about is whether or not you’ve
eaten.

Something new has been occupying your attention (or, a much more accurate term might be
obsession ), and paired with your tendency to forgo basic bodily functions such as eating at times,
it’s a recipe for disaster.

This time, from what he’s gathered from your sparse, uncontextualized texts, it’s ancient scrolls
dating back to the Nara period detailing some area in what is now Hakodate and some ancient
curse that had terrorized the villagers who had eventually ended up calling on some second-rate
Kamo sorcerer to seal it in the mountains. From the last text you had sent (SKI RESORT? 2:42 ) he
wouldn’t be surprised to hear there are construction plans to build a ski resort atop of the sealed
area which spells more work for him and more time away from you.

Satoru wonders whether or not you’ve eaten.

If you continue at the rate he expects you to be at, by now the fatigue should be hindering your
sight. If you’re in the library, you’ll wait it out until the last possible moment to grab a granola bar
or maybe something from the vending machines. Not real food. If Shoko were at the school, she’d
drag you out on her lunch break and force you to eat something somewhat decent. But she isn’t.
One of the rare times she’s been called away on an emergency, an important higherup who can’t
make the journey to the school.

So you’re at the college. No supervision or oversight, wasting away, fascinated by some odd
obscure detail like the type of paper used during that period that most people wouldn’t give a
second thought to.

If you would just answer his texts—

The woman seated across from him, whose demure gaze had been lowered to the table for the
entirety of the conversation, peeks up, as if the curiosity has won out. He catches her eyes through
the darkness of his sunglasses, and he stills the fingers that had been impatiently drumming on the
wooden table.

You’re being disrespectful.

Even after all this time, he stills hears the light, chiding, exasperation of Suguru’s voice like it was
just yesterday that the two of them were together, shoulders bumping, jostling, brushing. Talk
properly. No slang. Proper honorifics. Wipe that look off your face. Stop slouching.

Satoru smiles, despite his burning need to be on the closest bullet train back to Tokyo. She blushes.
Re-lowers her gaze, a timid, pleased smile touching her lips. He doesn’t even know her name.
She’s dressed in an intricate furisode reminiscent of the sea, deep indigo tinged with overlapping
colors of blue, and the obi that ties it all together is shaped like seashell. He supposes it’s a nod to
the clan’s long standing association to the sea and its prized inherited cursed technique. It’s cute.
It’s been too long since he’s seen you in a yukata or kimono.

He’ll buy you an assortment of them, all the colors that would compliment you, silks and fabrics
that you have no use for other than to please him. Everything he wants to see you in. You’ll wear
them, albeit in confusion, but you’ll do it.

For him, you’ll do it.

This would’ve never happened if he had been a little quicker to leave despite the ensuing cries of
propriety and rude behavior. You’re the one always telling him he could stand to be a little
more gracious , more understanding of how others perceive him, and he wants to snort. You are
one of the most audacious people he knows, and you don't even realize it. Brazen at times, in ways
that has people stunned into silence before you absentmindedly walk off. You are as polite and
understanding as a feral, unsocialized creature, and he would keep you tucked away in the palm of
his hand if he could.

He just can’t leave you alone.

Satoru decides to take you out tonight. That new michelin star that opened up recently, a molecular
gastronomy restaurant in the heart of Akasaka that’ll have you fascinated by how the food is
prepared. That ought to keep you busy for hours, and Satoru could stare at you, listen to you,
rambling about one thing or another for hours. Everytime he looks at you, he discovers something
new.

The man licks his lips eagerly, in anticipation. “She’s the pride of our family. Her cursed technique
is first rate. I’m sure you’ve heard of it? It’ll complement the Gojo heir’s Six Eyes and Infinity
better than any other prospects. We might not be as powerful a clan as the Kamo’s or Zenin’s, but
we’ve already received offers for her hand from several other distinguished families.” He pauses,
under the impression that Satoru is actually listening. “Any heirs the two of you have will be sure
to be blessed with—”

Satoru pretends to be surprised, mock shock filling his features. “Is that what this is?”

The man stares at him, composure temporarily failing. The woman across from him lifts her head,
doe-like blinks.

“And here I thought you were introducing me to your heir,” Satoru replies. “Y’know, the one
inheriting your clan when you kick the bucket!”

Probably not the best choice of words. The man’s eyes nearly bulge out of their socket in horror or
shock, but Satoru is already standing up and crossing the room, all pretenses of politely listening
thrown out the door in his haste to make his way to you. The woman who had previously been
unable to look at him stares at him, as if the idea never occurred to her.

“You said it yourself,” he says, halfway out the door. He looks over his shoulder. “Isn’t she the
only one who inherited your clan’s inherited technique? Seems a bit of a waste, if you ask me.”

Then he’s navigating the twists and turns of the Kamo compound, whistling as servants quickly
side step him, averting his gaze and path like he’s a missile on a path of destruction. He steps
outside into the fading orange of the sunset, the air brisk with autumn, and he inhales and exhales,
oddly happy.

It is a waste, he decides. It’s a useful cursed technique, strong and versatile. Instead of honing her
skills and training, her days are spent being paraded like a prize horse, for the possibility that lies
in her womb, all while he fields the never-ending complaints about the shortages in manpower.

He’s about to call a cab when a voice stops him.

“Excuse me!”

He turns. The man is a bit shorter than him. Black hair, dark eyes, dressed in a typical traditional
dark yukata. There’s a katana in his hand. The man notices his staring, and In one smooth
movement the katana is sheathed. The movement is familiar, recognizable.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “We haven’t met. Hideo Kamo.”

Satoru’s interest is piqued when the man raises his hand to shake his. He takes it. He doesn’t have
to introduce himself, but he does it anyway.

“Gojo Satoru, at your service!”

A sheepish grin overtakes Hideo’s face. “This might be a little forward…but I heard you attended
Tokyo Jujutsu Tech. There’s…someone I used to know that also attended. I believe she would’ve
been in your class.”

An acquaintance of Shoko’s? This might be worthwhile—

When Hideo says your name, Satoru blinks.

He knows you spent time in the Kamo compound a little after your father died. The Kamo clan had
offered to take you in for an unspecified period, to get you acquainted with the jujutsu world. Self-
benefit disguised as goodwill. They had been temporarily interested in your cursed technique.

You don’t speak of it much, goodnaturedly shrugging off all his attempts to pry with a bland, “It
was just a couple of months.” A year and three months. “They taught me how to use the katana.”
And your cursed technique. “Nobody really bothered with me other than that.” You worth had
been gauged. You weren’t good enough for a first son, or even a fourth. They lost interest.

He can imagine you, barely eight, heartbroken and devastated by the loss of your parents. Almost
mute, and obedient. To the world, uninterested. Just another expendable child.

There is someone who knows the person you were before him. There is someone privy to your past
in a way he isn’t. You were something, someone, even more smaller and miserable than you had
been the first time he met you, before him.

Before him.

It—

It irks him. Like the buzzing of a mosquito hovering too close to his ear, one good slap away from
being flattened to death by his hand.

He idly runs his thumb over the ridges of his nails, bored.

“I—ah,” Hideo looks faintly embarrassed. “I would love to reconnect, if possible, so if you
could…” There’s a piece of paper between his thumb and index.

Satoru smiles. It comes with teeth. Menacing. There’s some satisfaction when Hideo falters. Then
Satoru plucks the number out of his hand.

“I’ll be sure to give it to her,” Satoru promises reassuringly, and he’s met with a relieved smile.

“That would be greatly appreciated, Gojo-sama.” Hideo says. “If you could tell her—” he hesitates,
before firmly meeting his gaze. “I remember her.”
…

The strip of paper stays crumbled in his pocket. It never sees the light of day again.

Later, he takes you to dinner and you talk about all the different types of era-specific curse sealing
methods and you smile. At him, at the beautiful restaurant, at the waiter. He was right. The food
fascinates you more than it does to taste it. How it’s made. The science behind the foam, and the
gel-like flavorful bead substances that pop in your mouth, and the apples that taste like grapes. You
want to know everything about it. Take it apart. Reconstruct it.

He listens to you talk to the waiter, eager to put his knowledge to the test, while he chimes in here
and there with some questions and statements about molecules and atoms and the philosophical
nature of taste and hunger. You are mesmerized. A lesser man would feel ignored, he supposes.
Unable to understand the fluid nature of your attention, the same as it was in high school when he
was a hotheaded teenager who didn’t understand the way your mind worked. Exceedingly simple
things turned twisted and complicated in your head.

You haven’t forgotten about him, not for one second. You look at him and there is love in your
eyes, and it is all for him. He won’t share it with anyone else.

The person that you are now belongs to him. Your future, too. Your smiles and your laughter. Your
misery and contempt. He’ll take it all into him. The softness of your gaze when you look at him.
The nights you lie on his chest, and he finds himself undone and remade, all by your touch.

I remember her.

What a joke.

If Hideo saw you — the you you are now, that has shaped him as much as he has shaped you— he
wouldn’t remember a thing.

You sleep like the dead.

That hasn’t changed since high school. If the earthquake ripped through Tokyo while you were
asleep, you’d wake up miles beneath the ground, hours after. You sleep, body slightly curled, face
buried into your comforter, eyes closed, breathing so light some might panic listening to it. You
sleep in the same manner that reflects the person you used to be: silent and small, scared to take up
the same space others don’t think twice about occupying.

Satoru is too restless to join you in slumber. He also finds himself needing it less and less. Sleep. A
byproduct of constantly running the reverse cursed technique. As long as he’s not doing anything
too mind numbingly strenuous, his brain is locked in a constant cycle of renewal. It’s also a fact
that he isn’t keen on letting become public knowledge. His nights are already spoken for.
So he strips and takes a shower, changing into the sweats he hadn’t bothered to take back to his
apartment. At this point, your room is filled with more of his items than yours. Perfunctory bed,
desk, dresser, bookshelf. You have pictures, old polaroids of him and Shoko. No Suguru. He
wonders where those photographs have gone. A bouquet of orchids he had bought you the day after
graduation, touched by your cursed technique. Your clothes. His clothes. Spare sunglasses on the
top of your drawer. One in your bathroom. Another on the table in the living room.

He’s warm and still wet from his shower as he sits on the side of your bed, watching you sleep. He
reaches out, and pokes your cheek. Not hard enough to wake you up, but hard enough to make an
indent. Your slumber continues, undisturbed.

Maybe he’s feeling a little mean, like he had been in high school when he wanted nothing more
than to make you see him. That Satoru probably would’ve shaken you awake. Look at me. Satoru
wanted you to be awake. He wanted to hear your voice. But now he thinks it’s not so bad to be the
first thing you see when you wake up.

He pinches your cheek, pulls at it, slightly squeezing it. Then chuckles under his breath at how it
makes you look like a chipmunk. Your brows furrow and he lets go, thumb reverently smoothing
over the flesh. You breathe into his hand, and his fingers twitch, curling around empty air as if he
could capture your very essence.

You shift away, and the strap of the tank top that barely covers your abdomen slips off your
shoulder. It exposes more than he can take. He takes in the steady rise and fall of your chest, the
hardening of your nipples through the slip of fabric, the low rise of your shorts, and his sweats are
uncomfortably tight. It’s a reminder, a throwback to the youth he had been.

If he was in high school, he’d stalk back to his room, hard, furiously rubbing himself to the image
of those stupid cotton panties of yours he had accidentally caught a flash of because of an ill timed
breeze of wind when you bent over. Or the wet dress shirt you had been wearing caught in the rain,
revealing a plain white bra that had soaked through. Then he’d think about Suguru. And then you
and Suguru, overlapping fantasies and perverted angles and the pressure would build in his gut
while he nearly choked on his moans, on his desire, the need of it all. Then he’d spill into his hand,
hips frantically bucking into empty air, at the thought of sticking his cum stained fingers in your
mouth, down your throat. Of you letting him. Letting him do whatever he wanted.

He’s still not ready to join you in bed, so he snoops through your room.

He looks through your photographs, your books, your clothes. Nothing’s changed much from high
school room other than a splash of color. You’re still a work in progress.

He opens the dresser. Utilitarian underwear. Of course. Plain cotton and—

Lace.

Multiple pairs. Black, white, blue—

He stares, finger catching on one specific pair as he tugs it up into his hand. Sky blue, with lace
lining the edges and a small bow in the middle. Shoko’s doing no doubt. The thought of you
wearing lace panties underneath your usual manner of dress sends heat racing through his body.
It’s not as if he had ever not wondered if you’d let him tug up your school skirt to expose the
panties you had been wearing that day.

A rush of unbidden desire travels straight to his cock and he’s already half hard, wondering when
you deem it appropriate to wear lace panties instead of your usual cotton ones, if you’ve ever worn
 them when with him—

He’s no stranger to sexual desire and attention. The way men and women look at him. If he’s
feeling it, he entertains the flirtations, the draw of their lips, and if he’s in a rarer, sparser mood, the
touch of their body. But even that pales in comparison to the time he spends with you alone, in this
space the two of you have carved out away from the duties and tasks daylight demands.

Satoru would give you anything and everything, if you wanted it. He always wants you, in every
way, in any way you’ll take him. He wants you so badly he can’t breathe at times. He would lay
himself down at your side, at your feet, and take, take, take anything you have to offer. (You
would offer everything.)

And he knows he won’t be able to stop once he starts, so he waits. Until the day he can’t.

He takes another shower. Cold water. And when he’s done, he slides into the space next to you.
You nuzzle into him, and he rearranges himself to bring you closer. Feels the soft beat of your
heart pressed against him. The two of you, together.

End Notes

yes i think he has the potential to be a yandere yes i think he's obssessive in all the worst
aways yes i think he's a bit (a lot) unbearable and his hs self even more. is he rude? is he
irritable? is he probably a horrible person to be in a relationship with? yes. yes. yes. no i
will not answer any questions. but as stated on my tumblr i do have a bit of a fond spot for
hs gojo more than current manga gojo. he's just keeping it real AND he's a tsundere. i know
this. not to mention he's hilariously horrible.

i just realized upon posting this i haven't posted any nsfw to this account when i have...quite
a bit of up on my tumblr. so. i'll probably work on transferring reposting that on here soon.
probably. haha. there's also probably a second part coming.....maybe. haha.

if you liked please consider leaving a review. they give me more sustenance than
food!!!!!!!!

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