Bound In Love's Curse [Gojo Satoru x Female Readers]

125 ~ Hundred And Twenty-Five

[G]ojo stood outside your quarters, lingering for just a moment.

For the first time in a long while, he felt something foreign—hesitation. The strongest jujutsu sorcerer alive, and here he was, nervous. Not because of danger, but because of you.

The idea that he'd ever be taking someone else's emotions into consideration still baffled him. Yet, you had that effect on him, a fact he hadn't entirely wrapped his head around.

It wasn't like he hadn't noticed before—how unpredictable you could be, how your emotions seemed to shift without warning. That part of you made him uneasy. There were times when he wasn't sure what to expect, and Gojo Satoru wasn't used to not being in control.

So when he sensed no movement inside, he cracked open the door, stepping into the quiet space with uncharacteristic caution.

The time was a little past 3 PM. Too early for you to call it a day, but there you were—curled up in his chair by the window, head resting against the cool glass, taking what seemed to be a well-needed nap.

A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

It was a strange sight—one that momentarily threw him off. The strongest sorcerer alive found himself frozen, hands still casually tucked in his pant pockets, as he watched you sleep.

You stirred slightly, as if sensing his presence even in your dream, but didn't wake. He didn't miss that—a part of you always seemed aware of him, even when you pretended not to be.

"Pretty," he murmured, his voice breaking the silence.

You nearly flinched in your semi-conscious state, unused to Gojo of all people complimenting you. It was strange, almost surreal, hearing those words from him.

"You'll be stuck with a back pain if you sleep like that," he teased lightly, his voice softer than usual, a playful edge woven into the concern.

You felt his arms around you next—strong, sturdy, and warm—gently lifting you from the chair.

"Mmm," you whined in protest, eyes still heavy with sleep.

The chair was too comfortable, and despite everything, it felt oddly safe. It smelled like him—a subtle but lingering trace of his scent, maybe from the times he sat there watching over you while you slept.

There was something about that familiarity, something comforting. As much as you didn't want to admit it, you felt close to him here, even though your mind kept reminding you of the hurt, the confusion, the unresolved pain.

You expected him to carry you to bed, but instead, he surprised you.

Gojo sat down in the chair with you still in his arms, settling you in his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His warmth seeped through you, his scent surrounding you even more closely now. His breath was soft against your hair, and despite the internal protest that lingered in your mind, your body relaxed against him.

For a moment, it was as if all the tension in the room dissolved. The world outside, the fears, the uncertainties—they faded, leaving only the steady rhythm of his breathing and the quiet comfort of his arms.

You let yourself drift, lulled by his presence into a peaceful sleep you hadn't realized you needed.

And Gojo? He just held you, quietly, protectively. For once, the strongest jujutsu sorcerer wasn't thinking about the dangers lurking outside or the next step in their mission. His focus was entirely on you.

The white-haired sorcerer let out a soft sigh, one that seemed to resonate from deep within his chest. It was as though he was bracing himself for something he didn't quite know how to approach, until finally, in a low, barely audible tone, he muttered, "I'm sorry."

His voice rumbled through his chest, the vibration making you instinctively snuggle closer, your face pressed against him like it was the most natural place for you to be. Even in your mostly asleep state, the pounding in your chest betrayed the truth—you loved him. More than you cared to admit. And maybe, despite the hurt, you were okay with that.

"For hitting you... for not being clear with you," he murmured, his words quiet, almost as if he were talking to himself rather than you.

A sort of monologue to ease the weight on his conscience. But you heard every word, felt every syllable. No, your 'gift' made sure of that. Whatever Gojo Satoru said, it reached you—seeped into you, embedding itself into your very bones like he was part of you, and you were part of him.

"About Utahime," he continued, and just the mention of her name made your muscles tighten involuntarily. Your arms reflexively wrapped around him, holding on like he might slip away otherwise.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Without hesitation, he raised his hands in mock surrender, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. "Hey, relax. I'm not gonna stop you. You wanna hug me, go ahead. I'm all yours."

Your name rolled off his tongue next, his tone gentler, as if he was fully aware of your semi-conscious state but still wanted you to hear him. "Y/N," he began, his voice almost too quiet, yet there was no missing it. "There was a time when I thought... maybe Utahime and I could've been something. You know? She's fun to mess with, doesn't take any of my crap, and never gives me the attention everyone else does. Always complaining that I don't respect her."

A soft chuckle followed, as if he was reminiscing about old memories—good ones. And in that moment, your heart clenched painfully.

There was a lump in your throat, and you hated it. Every fiber of your being hated how much you loved him, how it suffocated you from the inside out. Because it didn't matter what he did or said, your heart still beat for him.

"I used to think I had a type, you know?" Gojo mused, his hands still raised like he wasn't planning on hugging you. It felt like a statement—like he was indirectly saying he wasn't going to hold you close, not in that way. "And, well... you're not my type."

The blunt honesty cut through you like a knife.

His words were brutal, straightforward, and sincere in a way that stung far more than anything else he could've said. You thought the pain couldn't get any worse after everything, but you were wrong. This hurt deeper than any slap or trauma ever could.

No woman would want to hear that. And you were no exception.

"But..." Gojo hesitated, his hand dropping to the small of your back, resting there lightly, as though he knew the damage his words had caused and was trying—awkwardly—to offer some form of comfort. "I had a talk with Nanamin, and, well... let's just say he wasn't exactly easy on me."

His irritation was barely concealed, the frustration evident in his tone, and you could tell just how difficult this was for him. Gojo Satoru wasn't the kind of man who wore his vulnerabilities on his sleeve, and yet, here he was—trying.

"I realized something," he admitted, pausing again, his breath hitching slightly before he continued. "Maybe... I'm not so into my type anymore."

You weren't sure what he was getting at, and the ambiguity of his words didn't help, but there was something in the way he said it that momentarily soothed the suffocating ache in your chest.

Gojo was a man of shifting interests—his attention span was short, and he never stayed focused on one thing for long. He'd get bored, move on. That was who he was.

So, of course, you weren't his type.

You were nothing special in his eyes, just another person caught in his orbit. But you loved him so much that you would've let the world, your world burn just to stay by his side. The problem was, no one loved someone who was needy. No one loved someone who clung too tightly. And you hated that about yourself—hated how weak it made you feel.

Sensing the tension in your body, Gojo's other hand found its way to your hair, gently running through it in soothing strokes. His touch was almost hypnotic, lulling you into a state of calm, just before he pressed a soft kiss against your forehead, then your eyelids.

The tenderness of the gesture melted whatever resistance you had left, and you hummed in response, a soft, contented sound escaping you.

And then, in typical Gojo fashion, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he teased, "Sleep well, boring person."

It was such a Gojo thing to say—mocking and affectionate all at once. Despite everything, despite the ache in your chest, his words brought a small smile to your lips. Because in his own strange way, Gojo Satoru was telling you that maybe, just maybe, you mattered more than he was willing to admit.

***

The sorcerer shifted beneath you, his legs going numb, but that wasn't the issue.