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GOJO satoru is a whore.
at least that’s what people say.
that he’s a notorious playboy or fuckboy — or some other term people would call him every week or whatever — known for incredible and mind-blowing one night stands. his eyes are so damn captivating people go crazy over it the moment he bats it.
people fawn over him. they love him — people practically offer themselves to him willingly, just one look from his ocean eyes and yup, hearts around him remember to beat just to break, burst, collapse.
he’s a heartbreaker, a damn good one at that.
at least that’s what people say.
GOJO satoru is an arrogant asshole who doesn’t give a fuck because he has everything. those cold piercing eyes are just portals of his own apathy.
that he’s a snob, a power tripper; loud and annoying. that since he knows he’s good looking and rich he just takes advantage of the people around him. he’s a know-it-all. boastful. insensitive and apathetic. people say he doesn’t even have a heart that’s why stepping over people is so easy for him.
that GOJO satoru is devoid of emotions — cold hearted.
his eyes reflect hollowness.
at least that’s why people say.
he doesn’t bat an eye when someone offers him chocolates and flowers, how everyday he receives tons of love letters; he doesn’t even show any remorse when he rejects someone that lays bare their heart on their hands, stripped raw just palpitating his name, willingly devout at the mercy of his affection that just doesn’t seem to exist.
it just fucking doesn’t — he’s cold hearted.
not the one to commit. reckless beyond reparation. just another conceited and affluent man who grew up always, always getting what he wants. just another insufferable, maddeningly beautiful man with beautiful eyes that feels entitled to everything around him because, for some reason it does.
that’s what people say.
and he thinks it’s true. hard cold fact burning bright red on his skin full of scratch marks. the curses that rivets off the lips of the people he’d been with, tears full of disdain and hatred; lockers and mailboxes overflowing with love letters. maybe he really doesn’t care. maybe he does.
he’s just there… like a mere bystander of what people say about him that each time feels and becomes real. maybe it is.
like a water that takes up the shape of any container it’s in.
the audience of his own mind; the passenger of his own car — never entirely present nor complete. drifting over his hazy waking days full of indulgence and reckless youth. why not?
he’s just there to experience and for so long; he just became desensitized by everything people threw at him.
people want him.
they either want him or want to be him.
but fuck does it also fucking sting so bad, like his skin ripped apart from part by part, nerves from the veins from the tendons from the bones until he’s messily undone by everyone that surrounds him.
a masked vulnerability. they gave him the tools, the cutting edges, ‘you shape it,’ and maybe that’s what love is — to be guided..? but does it actually involve shedding your flesh for the people’s satisfaction?
because deep down he knows the difference between being wanted and being loved and he knew damn well none of it was love at all but over time, over his measly life decisions, over his sins and broken lineage, maybe it is. maybe to be loved is be broken.
condemned.
offered and tainted.
GOJO satoru is a unreal. a divine being. too damn ethereal that most people think he’s carved and molded by the gods themselves and sent him as a touch of blessing and grace in this unruly world; that the closest you could ever get to heaven is through his vastly deep, striking blue eyes.
at least that’s what people say.
more and more years that piles up on his being; he felt much more of a concept rather than a human. he’s smart enough to see the patterns, recognize the botched notions, but what does it change?
awareness doesn’t equate to freedom when you weren’t given a chance to be free in the first place.
so damn untethered. hazy. he’s everywhere but home.
hollowed blue. he’s a concept of damnation and salvation based from what they say. his eyes — always his fucking eyes — that looks like the exact replica of his parents, his father mainly and he’d laugh — his laugh sometimes scares him; its mechanical, a practiced response rather than a genuine reaction — “i know.”
his parents doesn’t know how to raise a child but they’re that damn good at raising hell.
and maybe that’s what he’ll ever be. irredeemable.
never home.
revered as divine by many, abhorred down to his guts by the world, all while he burns skin deep, superficial marrows all dented. fractured. sticking out.
until he met you.
maybe it’s a cruel punishment waiting to strike him down to ashes again. you looked at him in a way that nobody ever did; him as a human not as a concept or rumor or narrative people plastered everywhere.
to you, he’s satoru. just satoru and good-fucking-god that unraveled something within him. something rustic. decaying and withered nursed back to life. slowly.
for so long, he felt like he’s just constantly drowning from everything that his lungs just blown blue and purple until you.
for the longest time, he finally learned how to breathe without suffocating.
not from the contact of air in his nostrils. in his lungs. just... breathing. he noticed how his shoulders drop whenever you’re around, with him. how his tense and monitored breathing becomes even and comes down with a long, freeing sigh.
your presence feels warm. dangerously and tenderly warm sometimes the voices and fatigue from his cracked bones tell him to pull away; its dangerous, until you’d reach out to him and brush his hair away from his face and everything just falls into the most perfect places.
apparently this is what it feels like to be loved. not just wanted. not as a flesh to be used, a vessel to be trained, a figure to blame and hate - just human. humane. loved dearly so, he could feel the adoration for him just from the feather light brush of your fingertips. that was enough.
his eyes that he grew to hate, most times devoid of emotions, peels its sclera and holds the most venerating love that he wish he can say but sometimes the letters couldn’t really trace the complexity of his affection that swells not just within his heart and chest but in his whole being. it runs deeper than his existence.
funny how most of his life he felt like a bystander of his own being, his own lifeline, just drifting but now that he has you…
he feels tethered. grounded. like a body one with the mud and ground and grass, all yours to nurture.
he never learned how it feels to come home for he never was home, but to you it felt somatic. like everything about him just knows your existence like a familiar path to gravitate towards to — path to safety. as if his atoms and cells knew you before he could ever know your name and existence.
he’s already imprinted himself unto you and yours to him.
he’s not cold-hearted. maybe his heart just doesn’t know how to warm itself up. it was a defense mechanism from the piercing criticisms because back then if he let himself feel, he’ll erode. too much of a burden and responsibilities placed on his shoulders. he'll disintegrate.
he’s not a heartbreaker. he was the one who stood before all the people who cursed him with broken an already broken heart. he just happened to bleed all over others too. and believe me when i say he's utterly sorry for that.
and most of all? maybe he is a whore. all the body counts? yeah fuck he can’t ever undo that. he knows that well enough.
he’s just looking for a home maybe he can carve himself unto. even if it was definitely temporal. to be skin to skin with someone was the closest thing to what feels like home back then.
because maybe if he did it enough it’ll fill the gaping void within him. if he did it enough someone’ll crave him for who he really is rather than just a concept or a flesh.
just him.
he’s not what people say. you reassured him enough for him to believe it… most times. he tries his best because sometimes your love terrifies him — how can such a sinner like him deserve a love so fucking genuine it washes away his dubious doubts and fears?
how?
why?
he knows he’ll never ever be kind enough to himself. just doesn’t seem right. he’ll push you away once the burns that were embedded on his soul sears again. he just doesn’t want you to get caught in the crossfire of his wrongdoings. sins. damnations. he’ll never ever be the angel people make him out to be.
irredeemable.
at least that’s what people say.
but you taught him that to love isn’t to burn. that it doesn’t have to shout. it’s not turbulent and just blue. that to love is to hold space and hold his hand in the process of you understanding things.
that to love is to finally let yourself be seen. held. loved. even with the edges he thinks is too unlovable. it's not. never will be, because if someone loves you?
they'll witness. they'll hold you, see you for who you are — flesh and imperfections, wrong decisions and just you. already enough, always has been. just made forgotten by the cruel voices outside. you taught him all that and god, it always takes his breath away whenever he knows he's loved. he can't believe he has you. too damn lucky.
he’s undone, but he’s yours. that may be all he ever needs to hear.
or know.
for him to finally be a human and be humane with a home.
to just be satoru.
and that’s the greatest divinity of redemption he'll forever be grateful for.
──★ ˙