Yandere Satoru Gojo

It’s been a whole year since Gojo Satoru crashed into your life like a walking blindfolded headache. Tall, loud, powerful—and admittedly charming. You got used to seeing him around campus or during your cursed energy rotations. You got used to the jokes, the teasing, the “Hey! You look tired—have you been dreaming about me again?” and the easygoing grin that followed.

At first, he was just a nuisance. A harmless one. He made people laugh. He made you laugh. You didn’t even register he was a man at all. Just Gojo.

But slowly—very slowly—something changed.

The first time was subtle. You had bent over to help him gather the documents he dropped (again—he was always messy), and when you glanced up, you caught him staring. Not glancing. Not peeking. Staring.

Right at your ass.

The blindfold didn’t hide it. The cocky little upturn of his lips said it all.

You told yourself it didn’t happen.

Then it happened again. And again. And again.

His gaze lingered a little too long on your chest when you wore something even mildly fitted. He always stood just a little too close. You’d find him already waiting when you entered a room—like he knew your schedule. Knew when you’d show up. Like he was always watching.

Still, he never said anything outright. Just smiled. Joked. Played the fool.

But it’s been months now. And you’re noticing things.

His footsteps in the hallway outside your room, long after midnight.

Your locker sometimes smells faintly like his cologne—too faint, like it had been there hours ago.

He always seems to know things you’ve never told him.

You still try to pretend nothing’s wrong. You pretend he’s just…being weird. Gojo’s like that. Everyone says so.

But you’ve felt it—that shift in his presence. That weight. The way he looks at you now isn’t funny. Isn’t charming.

It’s hungry.

And even if he keeps laughing, there’s something in his smile that’s no longer sane.

Because Gojo Satoru may be the strongest man alive—but around you?

He’s the weakest he’s ever been.

Obsessed. Possessive. Unhinged.

---

It started small.

First, a missing pair. Then another. You didn’t think much of it—maybe stuck in the washing machine, maybe lost in your drawer. Life at Jujutsu High was chaotic. Little things got misplaced all the time.

But then… they started reappearing.

Folded sloppily in your gym bag. Crammed behind your books. One pair stuffed in your coat pocket.

You only realized something was really wrong when you touched them. Sticky. Cold. With patches dried stiff.

You frowned. Picked one up by the hem.

It smelled weird. Salty. Slightly metallic. You thought maybe laundry detergent? Maybe some weird plumbing issue in your dorm?

You were still innocent enough that “cum” wasn’t your first thought.

But you didn’t connect the dots. You couldn’t. You were thinking: detergent leak? Mold? Weird sewer smell? Definitely not cum.

So you brought it up casually.

You were sitting in the faculty lounge with a friend, sipping tea, flipping through your planner.

You mentioned the disappearances with a half-laugh, brushing it off as some weird prank. The sticky texture, the strange smell—it hadn’t clicked yet.

Your friend’s eyes widened slightly. “Sticky? Like…what kind of sticky?”

You tilted your head, explaining it the best you could to your friend. You mentioned how the fabric had felt strangely cold, how the smell was a little sour—but not like food. It was hard to describe. You admitted, almost sheepishly, that you were starting to wonder if something was leaking near your closet. That seemed more likely than anything else.

Before your friend could respond, there was a violent clatter behind you.

Crash.

A ceramic mug hit the floor and shattered, hot tea splashing across tile.

You both whipped around.

Standing near the kitchenette was Gojo Satoru—frozen, mouth slightly open, pupils tiny, a nervous smile half-stuck on his face.

You weren’t even talking to him. You didn’t even know he was there.

But now he was staring at you like you’d just uncovered a body.

“Wh-what?” he stammered. “W-who’s missing…panties?”

You blinked.

He stepped forward. “Like—you said—underwear, right? Who’s—uh—whose underwear?”

You tilted your head, confused and rudely saying you were NOT talking to him.

“I KNOW,” he said too fast. “I know. I was just…passing through. Didn’t hear anything. Just—wait, sticky? Did you say sticky?! What kind of sticky? Like…bad sticky? Or—like—WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

Your friend was staring at him. So were you.

He was sweating. Visibly. His hand was still shaking from dropping the cup.

He laughed—loudly. “Sounds like someone’s got a creep on their hands!” he barked. “Ugh! Who would do that? Like—steal someone’s panties, wear them around, rub up on them or—*ejaculate in them or something—*GROSS!!!”

Silence.

*Your friend blinked, “No one said anything about—ejaculating.”

Gojo froze. Eyes wide. Then shrank in real time.

“I—I mean, theoretically! I’m just saying, hypothetically! If someone did do that, they’d have to be a real sick bastard, right? I mean—COME ON! Who does that? You’d have to be some weird, perverted, insanely obsessed freak, like, out of your damn mind to get off sniffing someone’s panties!”

You and your friend just sat there, staring at him.

He slowly backed toward the door.

“I gotta go,” he whispered. “I just—I forgot—I have a very important meeting—.”

Then he ran.

---

You didn’t think too hard about it. Gojo was just being… Gojo. Awkward, twitchy, acting weirder than usual, but still harmless—probably. It wasn’t worth the energy to overanalyze. He stared too long, laughed at things no one else said, and always seemed to be around, hovering like a stray thought. But that was just Gojo.

And your panties kept going missing.

That part wasn’t harmless. They’d vanish, turn up days later—crumpled behind furniture, stuffed into bags you hadn’t used in weeks. Sometimes sticky, sometimes stiff. You still told yourself it had to be a prank. Or a cursed object. Maybe you were sleepwalking? Something dumb. Something easy.

Then your drinks started tasting weird.

You’d buy a coffee, a soda—something sweet from the vending machine—and leave it on your desk. Or toss it in the freezer for later. When you came back, the seal would be cracked. Sometimes barely noticeable, but just enough to raise a question in your head. And when you took a sip…

It was off. Just slightly. Like it had been opened. Like it had been touched…?

Metallic. Faintly bitter. Not spoiled—but wrong. Like it had sat somewhere warm and been chilled again. Like something had been added. Not that you’d assume anything. You figured the vending machines were just old. Or that someone in the break room kept mixing up drinks.

You certainly didn’t think anything vulgar. Definitely not Gojo’s cum.

You sat alone on the stone bench just outside the main building, basking in the late afternoon sun. Your legs were crossed, clipboard balanced on your knee, and in one hand—casually, thoughtlessly—you sipped from a small vending machine juice box.

It tasted off. As always.

But by now, you were used to it. You didn’t even wince anymore. You just swirled the juice with the straw, the same faintly warm, too-thick texture coating the roof of your mouth. Something between sweet and salty, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

You thought the brand had changed. Or that it had expired. Maybe the machine’s cooling unit was broken.

Whatever it was, you’d gotten used to it.

And then he showed up.

Satoru Gojo—looming suddenly at your side like he had no concept of personal space, hands in his pockets, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose. He was grinning. Too wide.

You didn’t look up. You just kept sipping. The juice squelched faintly as you pushed the straw in deeper.

He let out a breath—sharp and low, like he was trying not to shake.

“Is that good?” he asked. His voice was casual, too casual, almost sing-song, but strained underneath. Tight around the edges.

You glanced at him. Just nodding.

He nodded, still smiling. His eyes—though hidden—were locked on your mouth, laser-focused on the way your lips wrapped around the straw again. You sipped. Slowly. Absentminded.

You gave a small shrug, barely glancing up from your clipboard as you took another sip. The flavor hit your tongue—familiar now, strange but no longer surprising. You muttered that it was fine, just a little weird. Probably the recipe had changed, you told him absently, or maybe the vending machine was faulty. You didn’t sound concerned. Just used to it.

He let out a soft laugh. One of those too sharp, too breathy ones. His hand twitched inside his pocket.

“Yeah? But you still drink it, huh?” he asked, voice dropping low. Almost a whisper. Like it was a secret between you and him alone.

You raised an eyebrow, but didn’t answer.

Because you were distracted. His body was oddly tense—his breath short, uneven. He was bouncing slightly on his heels like he needed to move. And there was something… wrong about the way he kept staring at you.

Juice.

You took another sip, expecting that same off-sweet flavor you’d gotten used to. But this time, something thick slid up the straw—a fat, white glob that hit your tongue like it didn’t belong there. Your lips froze around the straw, and instinctively, you almost gagged.

It was warm. Not room-temperature warm—body warm. Slick, too dense to be pulp, and it coated your tongue with a sticky, mucous-like film that clung no matter how fast you swallowed.

He was sweating again.

You frowned slightly. Getting irritated with his weird behavior and proceeded to ask if he was okay.

Gojo flinched.

“Me? Yeah! Yeah, of course. Just… hot out, right?” He tugged at his collar, glancing up toward the sky. “You—you drink that really slow.”

You blinked.

He proceeds. “Right, right. It’s… a good technique. The way you suck—uh, sip—yeah, sip. Good. Great. I mean, you’re hydrating.”