what you need, girl?

you felt that there was a sense of freedom associated with the idea of flying. as though the very act could release you from your mind, which caged you inside of its deprecations far earlier than you'd like to recall. something about the carelessness, the ease, the way birds would leap from branches and glide through the sky, flapping their feathered wings to carry themselves overhead seemed as though it would provide the answers to all of your problems.

you longed for such lightness, such liberty, the lack of fruitless responsibility, the very cycle of life serving as your only worldly concern.

but instead, you were grounded. damned for eternity to live within the body you possess, forced to serve a sentence out on earth with no means of escape.

you'd prayed for such mutations, for god to grant you grace after having planted you in a world, in a home which always subjected you to far too much cruelty. you were only seven when the first thought of ridding yourself from the world planted itself into your hardly developed mind, for the stinging buzz of your cheekbone and the orange circle of fire that sizzled into your arms left you very little reason to want to stick around much longer, to stay within such conditions.

you remember trembling hands clasping tight with your elbows digging into your bed as you whispered frantically under your breath, tilting your head up to the ceiling where you believed the ruler of all life, of the universe resided. you prayed for peace. you prayed for a chance. you prayed for flight.

at first, you had merely believed that your prayers had been delayed. that there was a long line of similar wishes stretching out before yours, and that the provider would eventually find the time to handle your mess, to unweave your sorrows, to gift you life.

put time went by. cigarettes burned brighter, hands swung down harder, lips busted, eyes swelled, and your hands locked tighter as your prayers grew more desperate.

you elected to take matters into your own hands a few times, to attempt to help god speed up the process by slipping away in the middle of the night, attempting to flee. but every time, police reports feigning devastation and worry always brought you back, back to captivity, clipping your wings that hadn't even begun to grow.

the years went by, and you eventually gave up on sprituality. religion. god.

mercy.

scars inflicted by those meant to care, to love faded into darker marks, past memories of savagery that even the heavens could not salvage. by ten years old, the light had drained from your eyes. the world no longer held the possibility of something new, something better. your mind could no longer trick itself into conjuring lies about a brighter future, where your skin was smooth and your heart was full, where your innocent words were not maliciously twisted in order to inflict some kind of rash punishment, some excuse to belittle, abuse, dehumanize before your brain had even started to differentiate right from wrong, weak from strong.

and no one ever helped you. you'd go to school with full eyes and bruises beating beneath your uniform like a million heartbeats. you'd fall mute in class, during lunch, at recess, subjecting you to further negative attention. kids picked on you until you developed the habit of retaliating.

what you'd learned from home swiftly transferred to your place of academics, and your little fist would fly into a snotty girl's jaw before you let the mockery slip from her mouth again.

it was the only semblance of control you had. the only way you could release the monstronsity building up inside you. the only way you could seek justice for yourself, if god refused to do it for you.

a blur of meetings with the principal, with guidance counselors, with security officers and police who never truly saw you, never truly heard you flashed through your childhood. the bloodier your nose became behind closed doors, the bloodier your fist became in public. you had become a bully, transitioning from the victim of circumstance to the aggravator inflicting it.

until you were expelled at thirteen, and life was consequently almost torn away from you by your abuser.

you lay awake that night on your carpet in a pool of blood, crimson dripping from your mouth, drenching your squished cheek to the floor. you didn't bother moving as you stared up at the ceiling. eyes lidded. lips parted and smushed. lashes fluttering.

and that stain on the ceiling you'd always stared at morphed into the odd shape of something living. no longer a smudge, but a bird with crooked wings, still flapping relentlessly, flying away.

you shuddered a breath that tickled the strands of the spattered carpet beneath you.

the curses manifested pretty early. the monsters that trailed behind you as you trudged your way to school, their slippery claws ripping at your skin, whispering absurdities into your ear, willing the worse thoughts to become somehow darker, somehow heavier.

no one talked to you much as you as you grew older, as the air about you grew thicker with distain and malice and sorrow. they could always sense something off, some energy about you not quite vibrating at the same frequency as theirs. something scary, and impossible to name.

you transferred between schools rather frequently, never quite setting roots anywhere. the only thing that was home to you was the pain that constantly circled through your body and mind, conjuring up masses of cursed energy that flared and swarmed like diseased flies, like sicknesses you could not seem to shake. your yearning for animal life, for flight manifested in the curses you subconsciously brought to life, and you merely thought you were losing your mind as you watched their shadows dance across the walls in the middle of the night as your comforter tugged over your mouth.

nothing quite fazed you much after that. your mind had gone long ago, therefore anything strange, anything new that was gruesome and foul just sank deeper into you like it belonged.

you wanted to die. you'd wanted to die since the moment you could conjure up a thought. since the moment the world reared its ugly head to you before you lost your first tooth. life had nothing for you if it was only going to remind you of your misfortune, rip you away from pleasant dreams where the ghost of you quietly slipped away into the clouds, past the stars.

your feet hurt with every step you took over the ground, for every step that was not lifted by flight. you hardly noticed that the curses you'd left in your wake slowly began to mutilate those who wronged you, every classmate who whispered, every counselor who overstepped, and with time, your abuser. your aunt.

it wasn't until then, when you were sixteen years old, when you finally lowered your gaze from the sky to meet another one before you. in the shape of pools beneath snowy lashes, a terror so wrecked in them that you could not look away.

you stared at him over your shoulder, and gradually, your eyes grew wide. his hand was thrusted into the direction of the now flayed monster that you had only believed yourself to be able to see. the body of your aunt lay just before the exterminated curse, blood splatter mixed with some kind of alien purple decorating the kitchen oven

a boy with moonlight hair stood amidst your mess, and the gurgling chatter of your monsters had suddenly gone silent under the pressure of his presence, of his destruction.

but what you'd first thought to be terror and disgust in what he'd stumble upon turned into steely grief for you instead, his eyes as tired and dull as yours as he lowered his hand and scanned the area solemnly.

then his gaze is back on you, and the two of you could only stare. for you don't recall anyone ever having looked at you the way he did then, ever quite piercing you with his gaze like he had, ever quite seeing you so clearly before.

like you were raw and exposed before him. all your monsters he crushed. all the thorny misery that inspired them. blood stained your clothes, but he looked only at you and not at what you did... like you were a person. like you were just as real as the sorrow you felt. like he was exhausted to see such a thing happen again.

and you never did forget the frown the tugged his lips downward, and what felt like a hundred miles separating you before you collapsed to your knees with a thud, hoping for some final relief, hoping that the boy strong enough to erradicate your curses could do the same to you.

you closed your eyes when you felt footsteps approaching after a moment of silence, his cursed energy warping the very air that surrounded you. tears dribbled down your cheeks as you began to think that this was it, that the end of your life had finally come, that wings to flutter you away were just around the corner, gifted by the angel with eyes that match the neverending sky.

instead of his wrath, however, you are met with a hand extended once you peel your eyes back open upon not feeling any pain. you stare up at him, eyes blown and watery, and his brows drag together as he looks at you, something weighted and torn behind those sapphire irises.

you'd never touched a softer hand when you dared to reach.

the higher ups wanted you dead, especially since your appearance and the death caused by your negative energy transpired mere months after another boy's defection. though every sign pointed toward a likely evil nature, satoru didn't give up on you.

he always says that when he looked you in the eye, he knew that you just needed a chance at grace.

the white haired seventeen year old roped yaga into his argument when he brought you back from the mission as asked, pleading, begging him to look - to really look at you for one second and decide whether you deserved penatly or not, whether you had asked for what befell you.

you became satoru's indirect responsibility after that, so yaga enrolled you into the strange school, the very last school you would ever transfer to again.

you noticed that the higher ups often pulled satoru away from you at the best of times, using him to their advantage, as a weapon for humanity by sending him on mission after mission, leaving you to the hands of your professors, yaga, and the principal who always eyed you suspiciously when he walked by.

and while the urge to fixate on the old man's hostility toward you was strong, you found that his and the other higher ups' were the only hostility you'd come to know in this place.

for students didn't run away from you when they saw you coming. they didn't glare, or murmur, or wish you dead. no, they offered their hand to you just as satoru did that day, introducing themselves, welcoming you into their lives.

and satoru had become your closest friend, always rushing to your dorm the second he'd return from a mission to check in and see how you were doing, to flood your darkness with what you'd come to call his corny jokes and demanding presence, his obsessive need for your attention as though you'd known each other all of your lives.

it didn't take long for you to grow attached. though he paraded about as the jolliest boy in the world, you always saw the soul past his bright eyes, the pain he burrowed deep that touched yours. you'd catch him gazing off into the distance sometimes thoughtfully, or watching you close from the corner of your bed as you did homework. a million words hid behind his mouth that he never spoke, but his stare always told a deeper story.

and you, a former alien to kindness, gained light as you gained trust and control over your cursed energy. that resentment toward the world still lingered, but morphed into heavy guilt along the way, as you witnessed the horrors that curses inflicted upon human society.

satoru has always known you to be depressed. he thinks of the day he first saw you more than he is willing to admit, how easily you dropped to the ground before him, hoping that he'd take away your pain with the snap of his fingers.

it haunts him.

you don't smile with your eyes, and you spend more time staring at the clouds than you do on planet earth. he feels your anxiety buzzing through your body every day, and while you've grown into yourself as a sorcerer, as a person with time and age and friendship and love, your heartbeat still skips along like it's trying to kick its way out of your body, like you're trying to break through.

your cirumstance is strange, unlike suguru geto's. you didn't ask for the curses you bred. you didn't ask for the abuse that you endured. you didn't ask for this natural, unbridled, dangerous power that you harnessed the best you could for good.

but with age and time also came further strength, and just like satoru, you posed a threat to the jujutsu world in the higher ups' eyes, leading them to place further restraints on you as a graduate, and eventually as a young teacher.

for no matter how much control you gained, your trauma still remains. your depression still lives. and at any given moment, you could snap.

the guilt swallows you whole in your young adulthood. you wake up in the night from the cold slap of a woman you accidentally killed, your chest heaving up and down as you stare into the darkness. you think of all those missing classmates. of those who suffered at the hand of your subconscious anger, even without the manifestation of those curses.

the scars on your knuckles remind you of your cruelty.

and now that you are tasked with the protection of humanity, now that people like gakuganji are there to remind you of who you really are apart from satoru's affections and your friends' empathy, you stew in your responsibility. in all the bad that you've done. in the cycle that you've repeated, and are likely to repeat again.

you hate yourself. you always have.

you feel like an imposter when you first notice the soft way satoru looks at you in the lamp light of your dorm desk when you're kids, his head resting in your lap, his knees to the floor and his arms around your waist as you read. your shared privacy became a treasured thing as you grew together, your internal anguish molding into something warmer in the other's presence, for you acknowledged one another's independent struggle.

and satoru sees what suguru could have been in you. the kindness. the authenticity. the shared depression.

he finds that he doesn't want to lose you the way he did suguru. not in any way, for that matter.

and you consistently find it difficult to believe that satoru truly cares about you. you expect him to disappear one day, to turn on you, to walk away and antagonize you like every body else you've ever allowed yourself to be vulnerable around has.

you tense around him, because that softness, that gentle quality he gains in the empty spaces of your silence and company frightens you. you don't allow yourself to think it's real. for who could ever truly care about someone like you? someone beaten and tormented all of her life, hardly seen as a human at all? ignored, shamed, broken.

someone like satoru could never love you, someone so needed and desired by the world. what could he possibly do with the woman he ended up stuck with? with the woman who further complicates his already complicated life?

he's the strongest, and for the honored one to pledge such loyalty to you, to nothing, doesn't make sense. you can't think of yourself as any more than a burden.

so when his hands come down to rub your back as he intrudes on your studies in the libary, the teasing lilt in his tone hardly matching the way his fingers tenderly linger, you go rigid. has another person's touch always been so gentle? have hands always had the ability to ease such grievances?

you feel like an imposter to experience so, staring skeptically and shyly when he flashes you warm smiles, or offers to try to (horribly) paint your nails when he notices that the polish has chipped, are drops his head into your chest when he's tired after a mission, murmuring a weak request for your hands to slip through his hair and stroke his scalp to sleep.

you never understood how easily he touched you, despite your history with having hurt so many before.

you felt like an imposter when you realized you'd fallen in love with him in your early twenties, when he proved to stick around and wrap himself tighter around your finger in spite of your darkness, and even more so when he grabbed your cheeks in the rain and pulled you into longing kiss some time after.

you remember the way the rain soaked your clothes, and the way his drenched strands of ivory hair stuck to your skin. you remember your body feeling cold, yet your heart warm in a way you'd never quite felt, in a way you didn't know was possible for someone like you.

you feel like an imposter now, at twenty five years old, by the strongest sorcerer's side as his girlfriend. while the higher ups continue to seethe. and you continue to doubt. and satoru continues to love, with everything inside of him.

it only makes you feel worse. and after a while of peace, the noise gets loud again, reminding you of your origins, of who you are and not who you are currently trying to be.

you think satoru doesn't see right through you, but he knows. he always knows just exactly what you're feeling. he's seen you at your worst. he knows your tells from the inside out. he knows your depression like it's his own, recalls how it can eat one alive from the inside and chemically alter the makeup of their brain.

satoru worries for you every day that he is alive. he worries for your safety, for you pose as a danger to yourself. he notices the way you avert your gaze whenever he smiles lovingly at you, as though you feel as though you aren't deserving of the happiness he provides. he notices the way your cursed energy warbles and twitches like a trapped bird, how it constantly battles against your own psyche as you try to prevent yourself from posing as a bigger threat than you already are.

he knows that your obsession with birdwatching stems from something deeper. that the way your eyes longingly gaze at their flight speaks volumes that you will never amplify.

he notices how when he tells you that he loves you, your eyes glaze over and go distant, for this love you share is the first and only authentic connection that you have approached. he knows that. and he strives to show you how much he loves you all the more.

but he knows you don't believe him. and god, it scares him. it scares him that you could one day choose to do something to yourself under his nose, thinking that you'd be ridding him of a burden when in actuality, you'd be taking away the best thing that ever happened to him.

so satoru watches you like a hawk 24/7, keeping a sharp eye out for you, for your heart's patterns, and the messages behind your beautiful eyes. he kisses you softer each day, holds you tighter every morning, preserving that precious intimacy between you to keep your head steady, to show you that he would sooner see the entire world face extinction before you.

he thinks it works for a while.

everything changes one day, however, when the higher ups send him overseas for a few weeks, leaving you alone with the school and the rest of your peers. satoru hates when he is sent away for any period time, for abandoning you stresses and ails him like no other. he knows how you feel about being separated from him in such an environment, and he believes that gakuganji and his goons are starting to pull him away more and more again on purpose.

he creates a fuss, but inevitably leaves with no choice.

"i'll be back as soon as i can, pretty," he tells you gently as he holds your cheeks in his hands, tilting your face up for him to see your solemn expression clearly. his heart aches at your permanently sad eyes, and he curses every old giezer that pulls him away from you. his sweet girl. he dots a kiss to your forehead and smiles when he pulls back. "i promise."

you nod quietly with a light exhale. your hand holds over his as he holds you. "just be safe, please."

"safe is my middle name," he beams.

you crack a weak laugh, and satoru grins. "no it's not."

"for you, it is," he kisses your nose. "will you be okay while i'm gone?"

your expression slightly dampens again, your smile fading as you nod once more. "of course," you say swiftly, too swiftly. "i'm fine, satoru. you don't have to keep worrying about me. i'm a grown woman. i can handle you being away."

the blue eyed sorcerer's jaw clenches. he senses the tension in your words, but attempts to lighten it with a dramatic pout. "you won't miss me?"

you scoff and roll your eyes with that hint of a smile. "of course i'll miss you," you retort. "...i'll miss you a lot."

the strings of satoru's heart tug as he tilts his head, his eyes softening. he ducks down to peck your lips, and your lashes flutter. "i'll miss you too, baby. more than anything," he murmurs. "i'll drop in to check in, yeah?"

"you don't need to do that, toru. you'll get in trouble."

"i know. but i want to," he shows all pearly whites again, and you can't help but smile once more. you never can help it when satoru is around, showering you with sunshine.

he kisses you once more, long and sweet this time, before pulling back to peck your cheek. "answer the phone when i call," he whispers.

"i always do. i should be telling you that."

"you know i will. i'll drop anything for you."

you don't like the tight feeling his statement leaves in your chest.

it takes a while for satoru to finally pry himself off of you and leave, but the second he does, he steals all the light with him. and your classroom is suddenly empty, the silence blaring. you stare off, face and arms dropping slowly, and you ache.

and just as you suspected, a week or so after satoru left, the higher ups call you in for a meeting.

you tremble with anxiety as you approach, standing in the middle of the room with candle light circling you, distant, ancient voices laced with anger ringing out to shame you. to reprimand you for a recent report nanami filed on a mission you were sent on with him the previous week. how you can not cling to satoru as an excuse for your presence here, how the restrictions they have put on your cursed technique are not to be tampered with, as they almost were during that mission. when your emotions almost spiraled.

"you are a liability!" gakuganji huffs. "if i am to hear about one more incident where you almost will yourself to slip away from all the work we've done to keep you in check, then we will have no choice but to suspend you and re-evalute your execution!"

such words would only be uttered in the absence of satoru gojo.

you feel the world shrinking in around you, seeing the faces of your aunt and classmates surrounding you in the closed shutters of the higher ups' private offices. you hear the words that your aunt used to hiss at you before hands came flying. and what was once rage at such memories and treatment has dampened into sorrow, for you leave that meeting with shuddering breaths hiccuping from your throat and eyes glossing over with tears.

you don't notice the way the laterns sway as you stomp down the corridors. you don't notice that way your shadow trembles and splits in two. you don't notice anything but the pit in your gut, and the voices in your head telling you that this is all you will ever be.

someone the world wishes to be rid of.

you don't remember how you got here.

the sun sets behind the skyline, the wind viciously tossing your hair and clothes to and fro from this height. your feet are bare as they grip for footing along the cement ledge , your tight shoes discarded somewhere behind you.

the city's distanct cries almost sound quiet from here as you look down at the ants dotting the sidewalk and the tiny blinking lights lining the road. your cheeks are stained with drying tears, your eyes red. you can feel the rumble of curses behind you, rampant along the rooftop, but you don't hear them. not fully.

your mind is numb, your ears are ringing, and a strange sense of lightness overtakes you as you regard the world from above, wondering if this is the same view that birds have when they are soaring high above. you wobble slightly along the ledge, peering down over the bridge of your nose. the wind attempts to toss you, but you remain balanced. in control.

it's a long way down. the drop will certainly bring death quick.

your mind replays the sound of your body smacking the ground, as it has for many years over, but you don't flinch upon the imaginary impact. instead, you picture how the flight down must feel. how the gravity will grip you and pull you through the air as you go limp, nothing more connecting you to the earth but the deadly contact with the pavement that awaits.

a huff of amused air shoots through your nose, your lips twitching slightly at the thought. for you will no longer have to worry anymore. you will no longer have to be mindful of your technique, of your emotions, of how satoru will look at you when he comes back, how he makes everything in his life about you when he should be worrying about himself.

your heart lurches. you never believed yourself to be capable of love before, whether receiving or giving. therefore, you convince yourself that it was all a brief fantasy, that satoru felt pity toward you and all that you are not able to do. but now, you can no longer tell yourself that you deserve this. that this is your life. that satoru wouldn't have been better off never meeting you.

for what are you, truly, but a pestilence? but another ant beneath someone's feet? a monster the world must destroy?

you're a sorcerer. your job is to protect and to fight of imposing danger. you have never been anything different from what you have sworn your lift to erradicate.

you don't have the strength any longer. to live with the scars of your past. to perform as a fraud in a school that once protected you. as far as you are concerned, the higher ups have every right to want you dead.

for you want yourself dead just as much, if not more.

so here you stand atop this tall building, ready to serve one last duty to this unforgiving world. ready to free yourself.

ready to fly.

you close your eyes, and everything goes mute save for a bird's imaginary melody floating through your ears. you see the vision of that smudge on the ceiling flapping its wings, then satoru smiling with pinched dimples and rosy cheeks, hair fluffy and glowing in the crack of early morning sun.

you could hear the birds then, singing through the window, just as you do now.

your foot raises. curses hiss and croak louder. the air tightens, your body wobbles.

and you step off.

you plummet, your body twirling about until you shoot down head first. your fingers twitch, and you savor what it finally feels like to be airbone. the wind is harsh against your body, unforgiving in a way that only nature could be. you give yourself completely to the feeling, awaiting the harsh pound of death.

instead, the sound of the atmosphere warping cuts through just miliseconds before something familiar and compact collides with you, rocketing by and swopping you up just before you can hit the ground.

something guttural and shocked flocks from you as reality shifts, that same sound coming and going quick, and you fall to the ground under the weight of what hit you.

but the ground isn't hard or painful. it's soft like carpet as you lay flat against it. your own heaving breaths are matched by another's, and you blink your eyes open to see those white strands peaking out as the owner's face shields itself in the crook of your shoulder, breaths hard against your skin.

you stare upward in your stupor, your mind slowly registering what happened. are you still alive? are you dead? dreaming?

satoru's scent and the pressure of his body overtop of yours leaves you confused, for you think that you'd only experience such a thing in the mercy of the afterlife, knowing that satoru is away at the moment... or at least, should be.

but no, you know it is real, that you are still alive, when you feel the sharp tremors of the honored one's firm body pressing into yours, his abdomen tightening with each shake, and something dampening on your neck.

your heart drops, and your eyes shoot wide.

you're alive. satoru saved you.

you don't have any words. your mind is still trapped elsewhere, with the sky and the clouds and the air and the birds. satoru's interruption is jarring, and even more so is the way his heavy breaths shudder into stifled sobs. you feel him fighting it, choking against the cries as he presses himself to you tighter, all of his weight snug and heavy and safe over your body.

you remain limp with your arms sprawled out and yours eyes to the ceiling, and soon, guilt shakes you again.

satoru had to stop what he was doing because of the duty he feels toward your every move. he couldn't even allow you to do this one thing for him, for everyone.

i'll drop anything for you, his voice echoes, and your chin wrinkles with the drage of your brows tightly together.

tears blur your vision once more as it all hits you. the pain. the desire to rid yourself and the world of it. the higher ups. satoru's responsibility to you.

you wanted it all to just go away. but now, under satoru's warmth, you are reminded of his warm gaze, and the possible weight that he declarations of love always carried.

you know now, especially, as he falls apart over you, either of you too stunned to speak.

what is there to say? that you couldn't take it anymore? that death is the one thing you've longed for all your life, though you've battled against it ferociously for the sake of those around you? that satoru's love for you never once made sense in all the years of him sticking by your side, that the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he treats you has never once aligned with what you believe the world to have destined you for?

that the only way you thought to repay him for all the good that he has been in your life for nearly the past decade was to leave?

you feel his arms tuck under you and you jolt. he snivels, keeping his face to the crook of your shoulder as he shifts, wrapping up your waist, holding you flush to him. he rubs his head back and forth against your skin.

tears drop like the rain that fell when he first kissed you, and you let him hold you, crying, marveling over why - why you would do this.

but he knows why. it's the same reason why suguru lost his mind all those years ago. the same reason why you often avoid his eyes, and still hesitate to return his kiss when he closes in. the reason why your cursed energy is so unstable.

why those scars line up your arms and legs. why there's a chip in one of your big teeth. why your eye is a little lazy every time you wake up.

why you don't believe yourself worthy of anything but hurt.

it tears satoru apart, for he can not imagine what you see in yourself when all he sees in you is beauty, strength, a determination to fight back and overcome in the face of adversity. he sees you, and what he sees is perfect.

and he almost lost you because of how fiercely you think otherwise. because of what the world did to you before you met.

the moment he hears the soft, shaky inhale from you that mirrors his own, satoru plants a hand to the carpet and lifts himself slowly from you.

a frown is so deeply etched into his face that you see his pretty dimples poke. his blindfold is still on, but he reaches up to pull it back, pushing his hair from his forehead, revealing his eyes, crescents of devastation and bloodshot.

but your face kills him.

you look tormented by yourself, unsure of where you are, where you stand in his life and your own.

it’s raw on your expression. tears dribble and your chest heaves, and all you can see are the eyes that once saved you staring down like you’ve committed the ultimate betrayal.

you hiccup, beyond yourself. “i-i’m sorry…”

the apology has barely made it out of your mouth when satoru brings his hand to your cheek like he always does, his large palm shaking as he swipes away tears from your heated cheeks.

as if to dismiss your apology. as if to tell you to forget it.

you want to ask him how he knew, but he beats you to it.

“i got a call,” he croaks out into the emptiness which you’ve come to realize is the floor of your own room. “yaga saw you leave the higher ups. he saw you upset.”

his voice is shaky and quiet, hardly above a whisper, afraid that speaking any louder will ruin him. his lips tremble.

“he saw your energy. he said it didn’t look good… worse than it - it ever has. i had a horrible feeling, but i...”

“satoru, i’m sorry,” you wheeze again, hoping it will erase everything, but his nose wrinkles at your apology.

“don’t,” he whispers. “please. please don’t. please. i don’t want your apology, (y/n). i have to know what they said to you.”

you tremble. "...who?"

"the higher ups, (y/n). what the hell did they say to you to make you - " gojo can't even bring himself to finish his sentence before a lump cuts his words. his snowflake lashes flutter as his lips press together tight. you don't think you've ever seen your boyfriend so broken, so openly distressed.

he keeps his hand to your skin as if afraid to let go, to pull back and realize that you are already gone to him. his eyes scatter about your face and figure, searching for any further physical damage, counting every detail he notes that remains in place, that he could have lost had he not swooped in at the right moment.

his jaw clenches hard, a tear straying down the curve of his nose as he takes in another sharp breath. "what did they say to you, baby? what did they say to my precious girl?”

you feel your chest tighten as the air leaves you. your nose flares as you struggle to inhale, overwhelmed by the world that satoru holds in his gaze just by looking at you. how can you deserve his care? how can you deserve his love, when all you continue to do is hurt him?

you thought that you'd be doing him a service, but laying beneath him now as he fights unraveling completely before you, you realize your mistake. that you had almost traumatized the man who never knew love before you.

you think back to gakuganji's coarse words, how he's always regarded you and treated you from the moment you set foot in the jujutsu society. you think of the scars on your body, the healed cuts on your knuckles, that empty pit in your soul that carried you to such drastic actions.

and that momentary feeling of flight.

you break. "nothing that isn't true," you whimper. "i'm a monster, satoru, i don't belong here. i never belonged here, or anywhere."

an unexpected sob floods past your lips as the tears run, chasing after one another. you sink into an overwhelming sadness and awareness regarding what just happened.

satoru's brows curl upward, and he moves quick, shuffling over to sit close beside you and carefully pull you upward, into his chest. your cheek slumps against his shoulder as you cry. his large palms sprawl over your back, sliding up to your hair, rubbing all over to soothe you, to keep you close, to show you that you're safe.

that you aren't alone, and he is here for you. just as he always will be.

his chest aches at the feeling of your body jerking so violently against his. he winces hard, pressing you closer, turning his lips to your ear as he strokes your hair.

"you're not a monster, baby," he murmurs through breaks of shuddered breaths and cries. his throat is tight as his breath fans against your earth, and you focus on the sensation to balance out the indescribable agony you feel. "i'm sorry. you're not a monster. of course you belong here. you deserve to be here. on this planet. with me. with your friends. i love you. i love you, princess, you're not a monster. you never have been. please don't say that. i'm so sorry."

you give into your weakness - your boyfriend, and lift your shaking arms to grip the back of satoru's dark uniform, fingers digging into the fabric as you cling tight, turning your nose into the curve of his muscular shoulder.

he's so warm. you just felt so cold, and he's so warm.

satoru snivels, hands pressing tighter into you. "you deserve life."

you always thought life was a bad thing. a prison. but the way the word flutters from satoru's mouth makes a shiver roll down your spine, for it encpasulates a gift, a way of living that was foreign to your upbringing.

but is possible with love. with love for yourself.

"oh, god, you scared me so much," satoru grumbles under his breath, pressing a frantic kiss to your neck. "i'm so glad i got to you. i shouldv've never left."

"no," you whimper. "i hate that i'm your responsibility. it's too much for you, satoru. you're... you're better off-"

"don't say that," he interjects sternly, holding you tighter. "don't you dare."

you stare hard at the floor as your tears soak the satoru's sleeve. "but-"

"i've spent almost ten - ten years trying to show you how much i love you. do you have any idea what i'd do without you? what i'd do to those stupid fucking higher ups? to the world?"

you still slightly as you mull over the severity of his words, your heart pounding in your ears. "that's not good for you," you whisper.

"you're good for me," he hisses. "you always have been. i'm not anything without you. not the strongest. not a man. nothing. i love you so much. you're my other half. i can't lose you. anyone but you."

satoru catches wind of your silence, and he pulls back. you keep your eyes down, ashamed, but satoru's hand finds your cheek again and tilts your head up so that you meet his eyes. such a familiar action he's done a million times over, but it feels different now. his eyes are sharp, almost angry, but not at you. at your mind, at all the horrible things anyone has ever said and done to you to make you feel this way.

"when will you realize that you're not a burden?" he frowns. "you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. that's why i stick around. that's why i worry. i love you. and i'm here for you. i'm here, so please - please don't - please just wait for me. don't do this again. god, don't. you're so much more than - you're everything. i want you so badly to see that you're everything."

you twist your lips as you look up at your boyfriend sadly. he curves a finger delicately across your brow, down along your cheekbone.

"and more than what you are to me, you're you," he continues gently. "powerful, smart, and kind. you don't think you are, but i see it. everyone does. how mindful you are. how you always put the needs of others before your own even when you shouldn't."

you start to shake your head and look away, but satoru's hand finds your chin and keeps your gaze.

"you're thoughtful. you're beautiful. you're a force. you're perfect, and you are on this planet for a reason."

he catches another tear on his knuckle, and cranes his head slightly to look up into your eyes.

"you have to stay."

"i wish i could see all those nice things you see, satoru," you croak, shrugging. "but i can't. i just can't."

"that's why i'm here to help you. to tell you. these aren't just words, pretty, they're the truth. and i don't care how long it takes. i'll help you see."

he presses a kiss to the center of your forehead and you squeeze your eyes shut. "i'm sorry," you blubber.

"i told you not to apologize, (y/n), it's not your fault. don't blame yourself. i beg you, don't." he pulls you back into his embrace with a heavy sigh. "my girl," he mumbles.

"i love you," you say into his chest. "you mean the world to me too. i just don't know what to do. i don't know how to feel different. i can't stop thinking about just going to sleep. i didn't mean to scare you. i didn't think - i thought i was -"

"shhh. it's okay, baby," he murmurs soothingly, eager to prevent you from working yourself up again. you need to rest. your mind needs a break. "you don't have to talk about it anymore. it's okay. i'm here."

you finally melt into him, sinking into his solid comfort with exhaustion. you keep your eyes closed as he soothes your cries away, caressing your skin. the silence envelopes you as you gradually resort to sparadic sniffles.

and in the safety of satoru's arms, grounded peacefully, your heart soars as your dream of flight fades for just a moment.

you drift away into lethargic sleep as satoru counts every star above for keeping you alive, and plots his confrontation with gakuganji the moment he sets foot in that school.

but for now, you need him. so with you, he'll stay.

────────────────────────

suguru geto:

somehow, suguru feels like your attempt is his fault.

like he has corrupted you with his own illness, and made you feel like doing such a thing to yourself would ever be okay.

but it's not. it's far from okay. because you aren't him. you're better. you always have been.

suguru knew that you suffered from the same illness as him long before this attempt. you stopped eating regularly after the riko incident, just like he did. you grew thin. and you always seemed to be thinking about something else, always asking people to repeat themselves after they spoke, as though nothing but water flooded your ears.

but to have found you in your garage with the car running and all doors shut years later, having had rainbow dragon burst through the garage door to get to you from the outside, still astounded him. while his depression took a turn to insanity, yours took a trun toward self mutilation and torment, and suguru was terrified.

the dark haired man can not lie to himself. he knew that something like this was coming. you've been a shell of yourself for years. further drifting into a darkness that suguru has attempted to cushion, but he knows that nothing can truly battle the hell that is your mind when it reaches to a certain point. he knows all too well.

still, for you to try to kill yourself? and in such a way? the cult leader can't begin to name all the emotions that overtake him at the memory.

the gas clouded through the space, and you lay there in the driver's seat on the brink of unconsciousness. his curses smashed through your car window without a second thought, but that look in your eyes haunts him.

half lidded. empty. (e/c) voids staring ahead, waiting for death to melt over you.

it makes the hazel eyed man nauseous, for he has seen men die and killed others in far more gruesome ways, but having beared witness to you in such a state ruined him.

he thinks of the way your limp body felt in his strong arms when he pulled you out of that car and out into the driveway. he thinks of how your head rolled back, and coughs spewed from you endlessly while suguru knowingly, sadly stroked your hair, pearly tears welling in his eyes that he refused to let fall as he observed you.

the sun beat down hot. the pavement burned beneath his buddhist robes. and you whimpered with disappointment, when your mind finally pieced together that suguru kept you planted on this earth and prevented you from leaving.

even now as he sits with you on the sand, he feels your anger and frustration.

he had taken you away after the incident. after you'd regathered your bearings and taken the time to properly recover. he stole you away from the cult. from your job. from the pressure of society's expectations, and brought you to the closest vacant beach, where you could simply exist. where you didn't have to speak, or work, or interact with anyone but him if you so desired, and the water washing up against the soaked sand before you.

the sun sits lower in the sky, casting the sand in a glittering orange hue. the water sparkles before you, and you stare out emptily as you listen to the sound of waves crashing, watching as fragments of rock wash up mere inches away from your bare foot.

your lashes flutter as salty air tickles your face, and you think you know why suguru brought you here. the air is open and free, unlike the garage you attempted to give your life to.

he wants you to take a moment and breathe.

suguru's reputation is built on composure. he ridicules non-sorcerers when they are out of earshot, long after they have paid him handsomely, or right before he prepares to slaughter them with the same cool poise. he presents himself as a wise, thoughtful leader, though his patience is string thin and his temper is rather short.

but still, for his followers, he keeps himself together. only allowing them to see the pieces of himself that he wants him to see.

with his family, he is far less tightly wound. but suguru does not really yell. he doesn't burst into fits of rage or emotion unless provoked to that point perhaps in battle. and even when confronted with emotional circumstances by his girls or you, he keeps calm, serving as the stability, the rock for those he loves.

but in the simplicity of this scene, and the memory of your recent actions, suguru significantly struggles to hold it together. on the outside, he appears stiff, his face blank as he looks out at the sea beside you, but inside a war wages. his throat is tight and it feels like an elephant is sitting on his chest. he doesn't think he's felt this way since high school. since riko.

and how could he not? what you need right now is his listening ear, his understanding, his support, but how can he feel anything but pure rage and agony at what has transpired? how can he be expected to move on, to think of anything else now that he's witnessed you try to take your life away? how can he feel as though he has done you any service in life if this is where you stand today, in pieces, searching to put yourself together by reaching the afterlife far too soon.

suguru inhales and exhales slowly, trying his best to remain calm, but his mind is roaring. the stench of carbon monoxide still stains the inside of his nostrils, and the way your eyes rolled into the back of your head still torments his thoughts.

you tried to kill yourself. you certainly would have if suguru hadn't gotten to you in time.

his jaw clenches.

he tries to focus on the sand beneath him. he tries to focus on the sound of the water crashing. but he can't. he can't think of anything but you.

everyone knows how fiercely and proudly suguru loves you. everyone sees it. he goes out of his way to watch over you, to protect you, to cherish you, to hold you dear, as he does with all the members of his tight knit family. the two of you have always been close, having only grown closer over the years and after a heartfelt confession that brought the two of you into one another's arms as lovers somewhere along the way. for as long as you can remember, no one has ever seen one of you without the other.

you're a pair. a team. a unit.

you sought after the protection of the weak together, spiraled into depression together, defected together.

and yet, somewhere along the way, as suguru fed into his hatred for mankind, you fed into your hatred for yourself.

you know it started after riko too. you didn't understand how everyone recovered so quickly, for the second you heard that the young girl had been killed after having spent so much time with her during that mission, you felt all hope for the future, for yourself, drain from your body.

you started moving throughout the earth like it physically ailed you to do so, and if no one else was, suguru was right beside you. sharing your pain. sharing your helplessness.

but suguru has always been a bit more arrogant than you. he fell into his narcissistic ideals and tendencies, and you fell into a cycle of self deprecation, constantly asking yourself what the purpose of it all was if you couldn't even save a little girl from an ordinary human being? if everyone you ever knew, including haibara, would eventually float away and succumb to the horrors of jujutsu, anyway?

but what bothered you more than anything was how weak you felt in comparison to someone as strong as suguru, and satoru - though you know he's on a completely different playing field. if someone like suguru could come close to death as you were all trying to find your footing in this world as developing sorcerers in training, then what hope did you have?

your self image has always been poor. but under the weight of expectation and grief and hell, it worsened. you couldn't see the value of your life any longer, as long as the higher ups would use you all as pawns to rid the world of diseases that humans themselves caused.

none of it made sense anymore. the sun's warmth. the leaves' bright green. the sky's blue. the laughter of children as they played. the taste of food when it touched your tongue.

everyone melded into grey when you discovered your lack of importance, and while you love suguru with everything in you, you can't tell whether that love is real anymore. for how can you love him properly when you have so much hatred for yourself? for your talents? for what you do?

you couldn't take it anymore when you'd done it. suguru had smiled at you so warm and lovingly that morning, and it killed you, for he shows more feeling toward you than you've ever felt for yourself, and you can no longer believe the authenticity of his affections when you yourself have absolutely none. not for you.

you couldn't take another moment of the world mocking you with it's sounds. a car's horn, the wind's blow, a snapped twig on the ground, a dog's bark - it all makes you feel sick, as though they are elements of a strange simulation that you have been damned to explore for eternity.

you couldn't handle the cruelty of existence. so you elected to cut yours short.

yet, suguru could not even allow you that luxury.

you know that you're awful. you know that you've done something to suguru that you can't reverse. you know that you've forced him to relive his darkest moments, that you've troubled him beyond repair, but you know all the same that suguru understands you. he knows because he's been in your shoes. perhaps not your exact ones, as he has never tried to kill himself before, but he's thought about it. he's fantasized.

but that was long ago. he'd almost forgotten until now.

and you, of all people, shouldn't have been the one to live out that distant dream.

so you sit in silence with the waves, a foot separating the two of you.

until he finally speaks.

"how are you feeling?"

you sigh. "fine. you don't need to keep asking me."

"are you angry with me?" he asks, his voice mellower than how he truly feels.

you don't respond right away. you're a bit spaced out as you gaze at the horizon, your tongue darting out to run over your lips. you don't even quite register his question until a few seconds later, and suguru hangs onto every second of emptiness that you provide.

"yes," you finally say.

suguru knows, chest growing even tighter. the air whips through his long strands, brushing a few out of place as they swipe over his face. "tell me why."

"you know why." this time you answer rather instantly, and suguru furrows his brows slightly.

"i wasn't letting you die. that's not an option, nor will it ever be."

"yeah. figured you'd think that."

the hazel eyed cult leader finally turns to look at you, a cool fire blazing in his eyes, his expression poorly masking his hurt. "you understand that i would never let you die, (y/n). right? i don't care how. it's not happening."

"like i said. i figured. made that very clear."

"so why are you angry with me? because i didn't let you kill yourself?"

"don't fucking say it like you've never thought of it," you throw in his face, and suguru's frown deepens.

"i've thought of it, but i didn't try to execute it like you did."

"congratulations."

suguru feels himself getting worked up, but he tries to fight it. this is about you. not about him. not about how he feels. he has to get through, he has to understand where your head is and has been for you to do something like that.

"don't mock me. this is serious."

"do we have to talk?"

"yes, (y/n). we can't just pretend like it didn't happen."

"why not?"

"because what if it happens again? are you going to try to hurt yourself again?"

you bite down on the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes forward. "don't ask me that, suguru."

"how could i not? especially when that leads me to believe that you will."

"stop," you hiss, closing your eyes. "just stop asking me questions. stop talking."

suguru watches you closely, his heart hammering in his chest. he knows he's not good at this. he can feel this beginning to take a turn south, for his composure slipped the second he spoke - the second he found you the way he did.

but what do you want from him? he wants to respect your boundaries, your space, your time, but how can he when you speak like this? when you're so far gone, that you hardly even care about what you've done, other than the fact that it was interrupted?

he stares at you intensely. you feel it. you always do. but you try to ignore it. you try to fight the way his words eat you up inside and try to make you truly think about what happened.

"you know i love you right?"

you blink your eyes open and look down upon hearing his soft words. you feel something inside of you start to crack, and you bite down harder on the inside of your cheek. "i know, suguru," you say quietly.

"do you really?" he asks, and you don't answer this time. "i love you more than anything on this earth. i love you like i've never loved anyone. or anything."

"i know," you say harshly. "i already know that, you don't need to keep telling me."

"but you don't truly understand. not if this is what you're willing to do to yourself when i'm not around," he shifts slightly to face you better, sand dusting across his clothes. "you don't understand how it felt to see you like that."

"i don't want to hear-"

"but you have to hear it. alright?" he interjects. "you have to, or else you'll go on thinking that your life is nothing and that's not the case."

"you don't think that this isn't already hard enough?"

"then talk to me, (y/n)," suguru urges, "you have to talk to me. all you've done is shut me out, and i can't take that anymore."

"as if you've never shut me out before," you finally rip your head to face him, glaring hard. "you did it back in high school. you do it all the time when you're with the cult, like you're so high and mighty-"

suguru squints. "what does the cult have to do with-"

"- and you always look at me so judgmentally. like you're above anyone and everything. like you've never been depressed in your life, when that's all you were for the longest time before you changed and left me to feel like a fucking alien."

"(y/n), what the hell are you saying?"

"you want me to talk, so i'm talking! what, you don't like what you hear now?"

"you're attacking me instead of telling me how you feel."

"why would i want to tell you how i feel?!"

"because i just pulled your half dead body from the garage!"

"you should have fucking left me there!"

"do you even hear yourself right now?!"

"i didn't ask for you to swoop in to save me."

"if i hadn't, you'd be dead!"

"good!" you explode.

the dread expands inside of suguru's body as his face scrunches with the severity of your words. you stare hard, stubborn, though your eyes are glossing over and your lips are set in a firm line.

suguru shakes his head, beside himself. "i don't want you to die."

"it's not about what you want, suguru."

"but why would you - " he pauses, turning away to rub his hand over his face. his fingers slide to pinch the bridge of his nose as he struggles to keep himself together. his shoulders tense then fall, and you watch with steely eyes, fighting the way his reaction kills you inside. "why would you want that for yourself? why are you talking like this? i love you, (y/n), don't you understand how this is eating me alive? to hear how you belittle yourself? to hear you wish for death more than..."

suguru trails off, growing quiet as he keeps his fingers pinched over his nose.

your defensive cruelity slowly starts to chip away. as you watch suguru, you see what your words are doing to him. you see what your attempt has done. ever the composed man, suguru rarely lets his mask slip unless around you. and even then, he doesn't quite talk about his depression anymore. you know it's still there. you know it's just morphed into something... else, but for so long, he's kept that side hidden as though he does not want it to exist.

but such suppression can only make things explode.

and you don't think you've seen suguru on the verge of tears since... well, you can't remember.

so as he freezes in his position, keeping his eyes closed, his body tense as he manually focuses on his breathing, you slightly relent. for this is a side so rare that it almost feels foreign.

and you realize that what happened this morning is in fact a big deal. though you've dreamt of it every day for as long as you can remember, you recall that this is new for suguru. that anyone would react this way if they were to stumble upon the person they love in such a condition enforced by their own hand.

and suguru does love you. you know he does. just as much as he says, and then some.

your nose twitches, your teeth sinking deeper into the inside of your cheek. you watch him for a long time, feeling the dread you've been narrowly escaping for the past twenty hours creep over you. you blink hard, settling back, and turning your head back to the ocean.

you feel the familiar sting of oncoming tears and curse yourself. you can't stand how weak you are. "i love you too," you say shyly, voice trying to be firm despite itself. the corner of your lips tug to the side for a second as you swallow thickly. "i really do. more than... more than life."

suguru looks up with wounded hazel eyes that catch the gleam of the sun. you keep looking ahead. "more than your own life?" he reorganizes your words.

your brows raise as you stare off. "yeah. i mean... that's a common saying."

"no, but it's different when you say it," suguru speaks lowly. "because you don't want your life. you don't like it. so of course you'd love me more than it."

you grimace slightly, turning back to look at your boyfriend's face. "that's not why i said that. that's not what i mean. i do love you suguru, you know that."

"i do know that," he says gently, his voice pillowy soft, a stark contrast from a few minutes ago. "i do," he repeats, truly pondering your connection now, and how much it means to him. "but you think so lowly of yourself, it makes me worry so much. more than i let on, and i'm sorry if i haven't shown you that enough."

"...no, you have," you say quietly. "you always have."

"and after today, i don't... know what to do. i don't know how to make it better. i wanted to intervene properly before something happened, but it did," he laments. "and i know how you feel about yourself. i know how long you've thought about doing this. i always have. so trust and hear me when i say that i won't let it happen. i won't ever let you die. you have far too much value alive, and that's what i'll keep you until you can see that for yourself."

you roll your eyes through the blurriness of tears, looking away to hide them out of embarrassment as two drops rocket from your lashes without warning.

suguru immediately melts, his emotions surging to his sleeves as he moves to shuffle closer to you. his arms open as you bring your knees to your chest and rub away at your eyes with your forearm.

"my angel, please come here," he requests with glassy eyes and that tender, honeyed voice you adore.

he knows you won't voluntarily scoot toward him, so he presses himself to you as you subconsciously fall into his arms. your head rests against his shoulder as his arms encircle you. he rocks you slightly, kissing your temple, letting his lips linger.

oh, how grateful he is to still have you here, to still be able to hold your soft body to his, to feel you.

"i'm sorry. i know this is hard for you. i'm so sorry," he mutters. "i just don't want to lose you, beautiful."

"i'm tired, suguru," you murmur tightly into his chest.

suguru closes his eyes, tears bringing his lashes as he holds you closer. "i know, baby. i know," he sighs into you sadly. "i'm sorry. i know you are."

"i'm - i'm sorry for making you worry. for snapping."

"you don't have anything to apologize for, i shouldn't have gotten angry with you."

"you have every right to be angry after what i did."

"this isn't about me," he kisses your temple again. "i understand you, angel. i really do. it kills me that you feel this way and i'm sorry. just please. let me in a little bit. let me remind you of how loved you are."

the notion almost brings you discomfort, as you that part of you tells you that you couldn't possibly be worth this. but the other part of you aches, for you feel suguru geto's passion through his touch, through his voice, in his gaze. and you marvel at such graciousness, continuing to question it.

but suguru will be there to rectify each doubt. each fear. each negative thought that blinds you from how wonderful you are. inside and out. flaws, and perfections, and everything in between woven into a knot in his heart.

────────────────────────

choso kamo:

what is the value of a human life?

how do human beings view their mortality? how do they go about living by it?

choso has always found himself pondering such notions in his mind, but the moment he met you, he determined the answer to the former: the value of your life triples that of many others. at least, in choso's eyes. your life is precious. you are the only one of you to exist in this world, just as choso is, and his brother, and everyone else.

but you are irreplacable. the way you pick at your nails is irreplacable. the way you use a fork and bring your food to your mouth is irreplacable. the way you walk is irreplacable. the way you you say his name is irreplacable.

every part of you is our own, and choso does not know what he did to deserve your unique, beautiful quality of life and company, but he cherishes it. your love included.

so he struggles to understand, to rip through his mind for the answer as to whether human beings view their lives differently from those who care for them.

for he can't comprehend how you view yourself as so much less than he does, and therefore, believe that your life has such little value. little enough for you to attempt to toss it away. more times than choso was previously aware.

the news was broken to him on a tuesday morning. choso remembers how the clouds slightly covered the sun in the sky to warn the inhabitants below about the incoming rain. you hadn't been answering your phone, and when choso left you to head to work that morning, you claimed to be sick and stayed in bed under the covers.

choso remembers the look in your eyes when he kissed you and told you that he loved you, that he'd be back as soon as he possibly could to help take care of you. your eyes grew distant somehow then, as though you were harboring a secret that burned you to keep.

choso now knows that it was because you hadn't planned on still being around when he got back.

something sat heavy on the brunette's chest that entire morning, but he could not put his finger on exactly what. he was a ball of nerves and anxiety, constantly checking his phone to see if you had responded to any of the texts he sent to check in. his notifications remained empty, only leading him to further spiral. to begin thinking the worst.

he tried a few times to slip away to go check on you after having clocked in, but yuki and yaga insisted that you were fine, that he could not just up and leave in the middle of a work day while there were tasks that needed tending to. choso subconsciously fell silent after that, internalizing his concerns that everyone always claimed were outlandish.

choso knows he is dramatic. he cares too much. more than the average being, but the violet eyed half curse never believed this to be a bad thing about himself. especially when he was surrounded by those he cared for. when his brother looks up to him in spite of his strange countenance, and his girlfriend reciprocates the intensity of his love.

he has every right to be as passionate as he is, and every right to stress over your wellbeing when you're home allegedly sick and failing to answer his messages.

choso was so sure that he knew you so well, before the news. he knows when you're lying, when something is on your mind that you are afraid to voice, and he knows that was the case this morning. perhaps that is why he is so frantically stressed about you, about what it is that you have going on, whether you are just really sick or if something worse is a foot.

and lately, you've been a little off. your head has seemed to be in the clouds, your mind elsewhere as you daydream and disassociate for brief periods of time. you're a bit spacey, disconnected from your present circumstances, and choso has eyed it up until today. the only explanation you provide is that you haven't been feeling well, that those moments were all just symptoms of an oncoming fever or cold or something.

choso always trusts you. always takes your words into deep consideration. always first determines that you are honest and open before the opposite, for choso does not know you to be a dishonest person, but he does know you to be withholding at times. as though you are afraid to burden him or overstep, as though your very presence and voice are invasive and must come with a warning in order to be forgiven.

that trait about you almost reminds choso of himself, and it uneases him a bit. you've always been better than him, after all. at many things. at least, that is what he believes. that is how he views you. to think that you could harbor such insecurity toward yourself confuses and frightens him, especially so since you never voice it. you always tiptoe around your worries, your true feelings exposing themselves through your actions. your flickering eyes and your frequent apologies that mirror choso's own.

but you don't have anything to apologize for. you aren't the half curse stumbling through life, trying to figure out whether he's good enough for your love. what he needs to do to keep you, to tell the world that he's not a bad thing.

no, you're far better. breathtaking and sweet. conscious of all life. unbiased toward any. understanding and soft. you're perfect.

but you have these moments of sadness where you dip, where your cursed energy wavers into something melancholy, and you fight it with weak smiles and tired eyes. and choso only hugs you more, kisses you more, holds your hand tighter to address the physical discomfort you never name in those particular instances.

his gut churns when he recalls those times. he knows something is off, and he should have just stayed with you instead of going to work like you'd insisted. even so, he prays that you're just sleeping. that his nerves are all out of whack for some silly reason, and that you are too busy catching up on rest to notice that he is blowing up your phone every ten to fifteen minutes.

but then he gets the call.

it's an unknown number.

and something tells the brunette to pick up on the first ring when he feels his phone finally buzzing. he doesn't check the caller id. he simply answers, turning away as his coworkers enter the conference room for a meeting.

he stops in his tracks when the gentle voice of an unfamiliar woman speaks rigidly into the speaker. "hello, may i speak to a choso kamo?"

"that's me," he gulps, voice low, grip tight around his phone. "who is this?"

"hi, mr. kamo. i'm calling from the jr tokyo general hospital on behalf of (y/n) (l/n). are you her partner as listed in her emergency contact form?"

"yes."

choso's ears immediately ring, his eyes blown wide, and he stumbles slightly as he turns around, back facing the doorway as yuki stands in it, curious, waiting for him.

"she's supposed to be at home. she's sick. is she there at the hospital? what's wrong with her?"

he hears the woman sigh slowly as he holds his breath, shoulders hunched as he stares harshly at the ground, waiting for an answer. but what comes is nothing at all what he expected.

"sir, ms. (l/n) has been in an accident. we ask that you come to the hospital right away."

he's already marching down the corridor before she can finish her sentence, ignoring the blonde calling after him as he departs hastily. "what kind of accident? what's wrong with her?"

"a car accident," she clarifies sympathetically. "we'll explain more when you arrive."

"what?" he snaps, heart racing. "she was driving?!"

"yes sir."

"why was she driving? she told me she was staying home sick! is she okay? where is she now? is she okay?!"

"she's in... critical condition. our doctors are working to save her now. we are still trying to figure out exactly what happened, but the eye witness who called 911 reports that she was seen speeding off the road into the woods. we believe this was an intentional act."

choso thinks that all the oxygen in the world has been sucked away. he can hardly breathe as his footsteps hault and he stands frozen in shock. his pupils shrink as he stares into nothing, the woman's voice on the other line asking if he is still there.

but all choso can hear is the screech of imaginary tires and the lie you told to keep him away from you today.

he doesn't want to believe it. he doesn't believe it at first, that you would intentionally put yourself in harm's way. that you would drive your car off the road at ninety miles an hour. that you weren't actually sick at all, but suffering a far worse disease that choso should have noticed, should have understood.

critical condition. that means you are hardly hanging onto life. that someone else found you on the brink of death while choso continued to message an abandoned phone. that he was nowhere nearby when you faced such a traumatic, life altering event... and at your own hand?

no. he refuses to believe it until he sees you. until he can speak to you, look you in the eye, greet you face to face, because you will survive. you will beat this. you'll be fine.

for if this is something you have done on your own accord to yourself, then that would have to mean that you were actively seeking out death. such an accident would be nearly impossible to walk away from unscathed, and to the degree that the woman from the hospital is telling him, damn near impossible to survive.

but... why?

choso has always felt death rather intimately throughout his life. he was born of death. when his brothers passed, he felt their loss pang away at his insides. he's seen death all around him. especially so in this line of work that he's been roped into.

but there has never been anything appealing about it. death brings grief and misery and pain. it separates, creates irreparable shifts, toys with the mind and heart until there is nothing left to think and feel.

human beings know this more than anything, for their lives are limited. death awaits at the end of every cycle, and while it is natural, it is still feared. it still brings great sadness. it is still desperately avoided until it can no longer be evaded, but that time only comes with age and experience and fulfillment, and you are only twenty three years old.

there's much more more life for you to live. so many more experiences for you to have, to share with the man you love, with the friends you love.

so why?

what could drive a person, what could have driven you, to jump ahead of the natural life cycle? what could have driven you to do something as drastic as attempting to take your own life? life is precious. you are precious, and to imagine a world without you, a world where you were able to rid yourself from existence, makes choso sick. it makes him want to drop to the floor and wail his heart out.

are you so unhappy? so unfulfilled? has choso failed to give you what you need, to properly see all that you have been suffering through? has he been so selfish?

the brunette feels something thorny and tight wrap around his throat as his eyes well with instantaneous tears. your face appears in his head, graceful and gorgeous, your smile so beautiful that it sends painful pangs to his chest, and he shivers with grief.

this can't be happening. you have to be okay. you have to.

"mr. kamo? are you still there?" he tunes back into the woman's voice on the other line, and he sucks in a shaky breath, angling his brows.

"i'm coming right now," he heaves.

choso remains in a state of shock after he has rushed off to the hospital without any explanation, and as doctors approach him in the waiting room to tell him exactly what happened.

the brunette can do nothing but stare wide eyed with teary eyes and curled brows, a helpless look of oblivious devastation on his face, when he is told that you made it through but you are still not conscious. when you veered off the road, you crashed down a slant and head on into a tree. you truthfully should not have survived, but the air bag employed in time to cushion just enough of your fall, knocking you out as your legs crushed and a branch pierced through the windshield and the side of your abdomen.

they say that you won't be able to walk for the foreseeable future. that you're paralyzed from the waist down. that you will need a wheelchair and severe rehabilitation tests. the life you once lived is over indefinitely.

and the doctors confirm, or at least highly suspect with further exploration, that this was indeed an unsuccessful attempt on your life.

you were looking to die.

everything changed so fast after that.

choso feels cold when he is finally able to enter your room post operation, ignoring the way his phone blows up about inquiries over your health, the hospital likely having found a way to reach out to your disguised place of work to inform them of the accident as well.

but choso doesn't care about any of them. not when they wanted to keep him away from you. when he could have somehow prevented this by staying home, or at least returning to check on your sooner. perhaps he could have discovered your plans prior to you executing them, or caught you just moments before it happened.

the sun has long set. the hospital buzzes with a nauseating anticipation, a thick blanket of sadness that suffocates his lungs. the door to your room clicks gently when he turns the knob, and his eyes immediately fly to your unconscious figured splayed out on that thin bed.

he chokes over a gasp upon seeing you.

your legs are in casts, slung up above you by a sling connected to the ceiling. more gauze is tightly wound around your abdomen, which peaks out from the slit in your baby blue hospital gown. your lashes flutter restlessly, as if you are still fighting something inside of your mind, while a supply of air is pumped through you, a rhythmic, mechanical push and pull of air filling the otherwise empty space.

all of choso's time with you flashes before his eyes as he walks up to the side of your bed. your pretty face is covered with tiny red lines of scratches, and when his eyes trail to your knuckles, he sees how they blemish into a nasty purplish yellow. your skin is paler, and you look more like a ghost balancing between life and death than the girl choso knows and loves.

but it is you. the love of his life lay before him, and all choso can do is stare as his brain struggles to process, as the doctors' words overlap with your gentle voice promising him that you'd be okay when he left you that morning in his head.

the half curse's hands shake at his sides, and his knees give out before he can even think. he drops harshly to the ground, the cool hospital floor digging against his knee caps, and glittering violet hues regard you up close. his hands inch to hover above you, hesitant, horrified to break what has already been broken, before he settles a hand soft over your own.

the cold that greets him is enough to make him break down.

the brunette is nothing but stifled breaths and tears as he observes you, takes in all the signs of pain that you must have endured. seeing you now after having waited so long answers no further questions, for he still doesn't understand what would push you to do such a thing. how could you try to kill yourself when you mean so much to those in your life, to choso, who you know has struggled to heal from the deaths of the brothers he lost?

tears drip onto the sheet you lay on as his chin tucks against the bed. he peers up at you through damp lashes and squinted eyes, a sharp crease between his curved brows as he studies your face, still so beautiful in the flickering flourescents.

choso thinks of the first time he saw you. how instantly he fell in love with you. he always knew you to harbor some intrigue, some mystery, some gloominess that he could never quite decipher, but he didn't think that it was this bad. he didn't think that what he noticed would have ever pushed you to such lengths.

why didn't you tell him? how couldn't you tell him about something like this? he would have helped you. he would have dropped absolutely everything to stick by your side, to hold your hand through the negative thoughts, to be there to ground you so that your thoughts could not push you to harm yourself like this.

choso cries endlessly, for the paralysis you will endure, for the normalcy that you stole from yourself, for the fact that had these doctors not been successful, he would have lost you.

the pale skinned man doesn't think he could take that. he could barely handle the deaths of his brothers, but losing you would certainly have pushed him to the brink of insanity. it would have completely and utterly dismantled him.

so why? his love? his soulmate? why didn't he know? why didn't he see? why didn't you speak?

he holds your hand as tight as he thinks he can without hurting you, his salty tears dropping over the back of his hand. he sniffs thickly, snot and tears dribbling down his chin, and he stares at you, tormented, speechless.

when the doctors return that morning to discuss your history with suicidal attempts, choso finds that all the words have completely fluttered from his brain. he has no more energy, nothing to say as his head rests against your arm, tilted slightly to stare with empty eyes as he pulls up a chair and recites your past.

"ten years ago, her mother admitted her for self harm. in the ward, she attempted to take her life with an open soda can. a few years after that, she attemped again. this time with a razor blade to her wrists. after that, she was re-admitted...."

choso can't stand to hear any of it. he feels like his chest will close in on itself the more he hears.

"i suggest that she should be admitted again, but long term this time. we have a recovery center that will target both physical therapy and mental recovery."

he presents a pamphlet. choso doesn't lift his hand to take it. he doesn't even look at it. he simply stares, dark circles under his red eyes, his cheek smashed against your arm. the doctor clears his throat and sets it on your bedside table.

"i'll leave it here for you to think about."

the doctor moves to leave when choso's hoarse voice croaks out. "why would she try so many times?" he asks weakly, slowly. the doctor turns over his shoulder with a blank face as another tear strays down choso's face.

the doctor exhales, sensing the lingering denial and shock. "depression is a monstrous thing. it poisons the minds of many innocent people."

"...will she ever stop?"

"i can't say, mr. kamo," the doctor says, voice stale. "if she received the proper long term treatment, then it is possible. but from her medical records, she appears to be a very troubled individual."

troubled... never once has choso looked at you and decied that you were troubled. complex, yes. but not troubled. not in that souring way that captures the word when the doctor utters it. you just need a little support, that's all.

"why wouldn't she tell me?" choso whispers unsure of whether the doctor will truly have any answers. but he has nowhere else to go with these questions, with this harsh, cruel uncertainty and confusion.

the doctor is quiet for a moment as he ponders, for emotional responses are always outside of his realm when his job is to do the saving. "don't take it personally. i've seen many patients like your girlfriend. victims with suicidal tendencies are often ashamed, and don't want the people who care to see those negative sides of them. she likely didn't want to scare you or hurt you."

choso's brows knit. "this scares me and hurts me more than anything she could have ever told me."

"...yes, i'm sure. i - i know," the doctor clears his throat again. "if i were you, when she wakes up, i wouldn't ask those questions. as hard as this is for you, it's much harder on the mind of the person who makes the attempt. try to just be there for her. comfort her. she'll be waking to a jarring reality."

choso's eyes drag to your casted legs, and his chin wrinkles. he nods stiffly and falls silent once more, giving the doctor the chance to exit and leave him alone with you again.

he ponders over the doctor's words in the empitness of your unconciousness. the tv above plays some stupid old black and white film that has been playing on repeat for the past eighteen hours.

though choso isn't a fan of the doctor's easiness, he may be right. choso has no idea what its like inside of your brain, what your mind must have looked like for all these years to push you to commit such acts against yourself not once, not twice, but three times. choso isn't familiar with this side of humanity. with depression, and suicide, and an aching desire to leave the planet.

he's not familiar with this side of you. and while he is tormented by the fact that he didn't know how deeply this ran, he should extend you grace and understanding. he should be there for you in your time of need.

he lifts his head from you slowly, hair matted against his skin, to look back at that pamphlet. he looks up at your face, then back down at the paper before reaching for it.

he reads up on depression. the symptoms. how it lingers. how it is a disease. he reads up on possible triggers and causes, and how one with depression may interact with the world. how many hide it away expertly for the sake of those around them.

he reads up on this particular facility that the doctor recommended. the pictures look nice. the place seems cozy. expensive. but promising.

choso frowns. you shouldn't even have to go to a place like this. he wishes you didn't need to. that your mind was kinder, that whatever must have happened to you to make you feel this way never happened in the first place. you don't deserve it. of all people on this planet, you deserve it the least.

choso prepares to flip the next pages numbly when he hears a pitched, drowsy groan.

his head shoots up, hands freezing. your eyes and brows scrunch, your lips curling, and another groan floods from you, longer this time.

the pamphlet instantly drops from choso's hands as he scootches himself closer to you, holding a hand over yours as you writhe and eventually come to.

your eyes take a moment to peel open as though they were stuck together. choso eyes your heart monitor as your heart rate gradually quickens. and with tears in his eyes as he hovers, he watches as you blink past crustiness to adjust your gaze on the ceiling.

you inhale sharply, lifting a hand shakily to paw at your oxygen mask. you groan again, turning your head and prying it off.

"(y/n)? you're awake!" choso announces. his hands move to help you with the mask, guiding you carefully as you tamper with it. "it's okay. be careful. let me help you."

you let your arms fall limp to your sides as choso sets the mask down, and you inhale oddly, squinted eyes looking around. "...where...?"

you are very clearly discombobulated. you struggle to make out your environment, but then your eyes land on your legs. they immediately go wide, and you take in a breath that shoots pain through your abdomen. you wince with a gasp, your fingers reaching only to feel bandages.

you freeze.

you can't feel your legs either.

your heart rate quickens as you adjust, and choso keeps his hands over yours. your eyes dart around frantically, finding choso's face in a haze. a million emotions flicker through your gaze when you realize what has happened, and that your boyfriend is sitting beside you in the aftermath of your attempt.

you realize that you survived. again.

"no, no, it's okay. it's okay," choso starts, bringing your hand to his lips as he kisses your bruised knuckles. your nose flares and your eyes flutter, your brows knitting together. choso aches. "it's okay, love. you're okay, right? you're okay."

he kisses your cold knuckles again, and you whimper. "...choso, where am i? what happened?" your voice is scratchy, and choso feels a lump build in his throat once more upon hearing it again. he was almost afraid that he would never get the chance to. you look back over at your strung, casted legs, and breathe in raggedly. "i can't feel - my legs. i can't feel them."

"don't look," choso releases your hand to cautiously wrap his arms around your shoulders. your breathing quickens in an instant, transitioning into panicked gasps. you may be on the verge of a panic attack as cruel life strikes you again, only this time, with a price.

choso pulls you into his chest as you stumble over breaths and cries, rubbing the side of your head as he presses kisses to the crown of it.

"you're awake. i'm so relieved," he shivers. "i'm with you. don't cry. don't - don't think about it. it'll be okay. you're alright."

"why can't i feel my legs...?" you croak into him, and choso presses his lips together to prevent his building sobs from bursting. "am i dead?"

"no. no you're not dead," he growls, squeezing his eyes shut as he holds you. "don't think about it, (y/n). just breathe. i'm right here, i promise. i'm not going anywhere. it's okay."

you shake your head as best as you can, your neck slightly stiff. "i did this."

"it's okay-" choso whimpers.

"i'm sorry, oh fuck. i'm sorry, choso. i didn't think i'd survive. i didn't want you to see me like this," you whine. "i can't feel my legs. i can't feel them," you repeat through blubbers.

choso doesn't think he's ever experienced a pain quite like this. so raw as it tranfers between the two of you. he weeps into your hair, holding you snug, for how can he respond to you when you say that you didn't expect yourself to live long enough for him to witness the aftermath?

what is he supposed to do?

he tries to think of the doctor's advice, but it's hard. he's suddenly angry, overwhelmed, full of sorrow, and relief that you're at least breathing. that you're living. but are you relieved?

how is he to help you if you're not?

not only did your attempt fail, but you've awakened to a numbness in your lower body, to your life completely changed. what if you try to kill yourself again? what if this stunt births a new kind of depression in you? what if choso can't save you?

you still smell like you. your skin still feels like your own. your voice still the same.

choso's terrified and overjoyed all at once.

so, instead of undertaining your guilt, your panic, choso presses closer. "i didn't know," he whispers into you. "i never know anything. i had no idea. i've been so stupid."

"no, choso," you sniff. "it's not your fault. it's mine. it's all mine. i lied to you. i've been lying to you. i kept this from you."

"it's not your fault," he argues. "i should've seen. i knew something was wrong but i didn't know what. i'm your boyfriend. i love you so much, and i should have paid more attention. you were always right there. i've been blind. i made you think that you were alone. i'm so sorry."

you don't know how to respond to him taking responsibilty for something that you know to be your fault. you feel... naked. like choso has just seen the very worst parts of you and is disgusted. you feel as though he shouldn't love you anymore. you feel as though he never should have. how could you do this to him? someone so sweet, and loving, and understanding? why do you ruin everything you touch?

"don't think about it," he says again, hushed with an urgency as he holds you. as though he can suddenly read your mind. "i'll fix it all. i'll help it all go away. i promise."

"you can't do that, cho," you murmur, eyes blurred. "i've been fucked up all my life. you can't fix me. i'm unfixable."

"you're the love of my life," he corrects. "i'll do anything for you. even if i can't fix it... i-i'll help make it better."

"how?"

"...i don't know," he breathes honestly. "i don't - i don't know much about this stuff, but i'll learn. i'll help you through rehab. i'll love you every second of every day like i already do. i won't leave you again."

the thought of choso sticking beside you in such a way only makes you feel more guilty, and you prepare to tell him that he shouldn't, but he beats you to it.

"i don't know what happened to you before... i don't know how long you've - you've been this way, but i want to learn. i want to help you, if you let me. please, i - i don't want to come this close to losing you ever again."

you suddenly fall silent, your head knocking limp against choso as he holds you. you've been incredibly distant, or at least the real parts of you have. you allowed your negative thoughts to stew again, to push you to the brink, and you prayed that choso wouldn't know, but how could you? choso has proven himself to be incredibly proactive when it comes to you. he always says he's obsessed, after all. you shouldn't do him such a disservice.

but how can you explain all that plagues you to him? would he understand? would he ever look at you the same?

the fears ail you. you're a mess. your legs are numb. you're battered, and you sit stupidly in the aftermath of yet another failed attempt. you feel useless.

but choso holds you and kisses your head as if the opposite is true. as if you did not severely traumatize him.

how could he even think to stay with you?

"i'm not a good person, choso," you murmur as he kisses you again. "i never have been."

"that's not true. i don't know who told you that, but it's not true," he says swiftly. "you're the most incredible person i've ever met."

"you're only saying that because-"

"because you are. because it's the truth. and i won't let you think anything different from this point forward. i'm going to help you. i swear it."

you don't say anything. there's nothing more for you to say. you're devastated. and yet, choso holds you.

you let yourself sink into the comfort that you'd always thought to push away. letting his scent and safety overpower the truth you must face for just a bit.

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The sun soaked palace is not how he remembered it all those years ago. The orientation of these stone walls are the same, it takes the same amount of steps to lead from the main hall to your guarded chambers. The lingering scent of the sea still drafts in through the cracks in the walls. The same chill that shocks his body when his knuckles brush the cool bronze plates lining his... crowded dining tables.

A spark of rage strikes his brow, forcing it to twitch at the very thought of those suitors clanging his challises loudly at dusk, feasting over his food, lusting over his wife in his absence. To think of how loyalty has soured with him gone, to think that men from across the Mediterranean have damned his glory, his respect, his very name for the chance to steal you away as their wife, to become king of his castle.

He will see to it that they will pay. They will all pay.

Satoru allows himself to peak upward when he hears the familiar rustle of your gowns as you rise, your sweet smell drifting through the intricate grating of your sliding walls soon following. His nose twitches, his heart lurches at the scent, the distant memory that springs to life in mere miliseconds.

The ivory haired warrior has conquered Troy, escaped the clutches of a wailing Cyclops, wrecked his ears and very soul with the screech of a siren's delicious song, watched his man love him, hate him, turn on him, and die just as Tyresius promised him before the gates of hell, where all of Satoru's mistakes stood before him in a crowd of soiled men hungry for vengeance, hungry for answers that death did not provide. Satoru has lived a thousand years within his mind, allowing the fruits of the earth to tear the memory of you, sweet you, from his head, along with the sting of a million miles separating you from him.

Satoru has looked into the very eyes of the gods' wrath, of death itself, and yet, his heart has never beat with such brutality the way it does now, when he allows himself a sliver of light to catch a glimpse of you as you stand before your barrier with your hands clasped polited before you. Satoru lets out a strained sigh, ducking his head once more, tearing his eyes away from your beauty, for he knows you too well. If he allows you even just a peak of his face, you'll know. You'd know your husband anywhere.

But even the slightest glance at you without being able to throw himself against your gates, ripping them open, and pulling you into his arms, smashing his lips against yours to make up for the two decades he spent away, he spent making you wait, chips away at Satoru's heart. He never thought himself to be much of a patient man before the gods forced him to know it up close, forced him to trust in fate rather than his own control.

You're encased in emerald that flutters around your ankles, gold necklaces stacked up the expanse of your lovely neck, flittering earrings shining in the firelight crackling behind you. You're a vision of grace, one that keeps these crumbling walls hardly intact. Raw beauty that spites the likes of Aphrodite, that lures men of ill intent to your doors like vermin.

But Satoru did not see your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look into them, for he'd see the years of heartache he inspired, the grief that you have yet to accept, the life lost in your gaze.

He settles down to sit slowly, back pressing to the gate. He listens intently to every step you make. The way your sandled feet grace the floor, the way the flutter of your gown cuts through the air as you sit just inches away.

Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and his throat runs dry when you speak. “Hello, traveler,” you greet kindly despite the thick blanket of sorrow that lingers in your once airy tone.

Satoru gulps. His heart flips. Whispers of his name on your breath, that very same voice, flutter through his mind from a past long cherished, long abandoned, and he aches with anticipation. Fighting against his own will to remain disguised.

“Please, make yourself welcome. My maid will return to wash your feet so that you may rest in comfort.”

Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he presses his lips together to maintain strength. After twenty years, he’s finally made it home to you, but you still feel so far away. He attempts to evade the sting of your amiability, so distant and unfamiliar, driven by duty and generosity rather than love. Rather than knowledge.

He clears his throat. “You’re too kind, but that’s unnecessary. Please don’t waste your water on someone like me.” When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, worn, and hoarse with age and nerves and exhaustion and anger and desperation. All of which he keeps burrowed just at the surface, blanketed by the croak of exaggerated starvation.

He tenses slightly when you take a moment to respond, registering the sound of his weathered voice, toying with it in your mind. He prays you do not recognize him. He prays you’ve at least forgotten the sound of his weariness. “Someone like you?” you repeat slowly. “In Ithaca, we welcome all. We treat the needy and hungry as family. You would not impose. I insist.”

Still, so kind. So thoughtlessly, beautifully generous. It's that very generosity which pulled those men to your door, which allow them to trample over your grace.

At that moment, your elderly servant returns with a basin of water and cloth. Satoru recognizes her, sees the definition of wrinkles worn over her skin. He remembers her careful, maternal touch. How she always mended his split flesh after foolish accidents. If the ocean eyed warrior were less distracted by your warmth radiating just behind his back, he would have remembered the chunk of flesh that was torn away from his shin long ago during a hunting accident with a boar which she patched up herself. He would have been more cognizant of the way her cautious, trembling hands gently unwind the tassles of his sandles, removing the footwear from his person slowly.

"You are... too kind," he mumbles in response to you, as well as to the servant before him.

She moves to bring a soaked cloth to his scarred shin, but when her hand drags his leg forward by the back of his ankle, the strangely familiar callous of his heel brushing her palms, she jumps when her eyes land on the brutish, healed wound, the battered flesh she sewed all those years ago.

She jumps. The water topples over and splatters down the stairs. Satoru's son jolts at the sight, and Satoru's eyes jerk up in slow panic at the commotion.

His eyes go wide when they meet hers accidentally, and he watches as stun gradually morphs her expression, the light catching emotionally in her glistening gaze. Satoru acts quickly, his scarred hand shooting forward to knowingly graze her chin, an urgent fire in his crystal hues.

She shudders a breath of disbelief, awed smile catching her lips. Satoru shakes his head, the corners of his lips curving with nostalgia, and she blinks in her stupor before nodding slowly in understanding, scrambling to get more water.

"It is not kindness. Just humanity. Acknowledgement," you argue softly, and Satoru ducks his head once more as an amused, warm smile tugs at his lips, for you always deny your goodness even when it is presented before you. Satoru hums, allowing his cloak to shield his face once more, tugging the fabric forward. "What is your name?"

"...Senon," he lies.

"Senon," you try the name on your tongue warmly, scooching slightly forward. "Where are you from, Senon?"

"...I am a veteran of the Trojan war. I've... traveled very far."

He hears you pause, feels you tense behind him.

You bring yourself closer to the gate, eyes glittering with mourning as your brows pull together in a hopeful tug. You have been wearing your grief on your sleeve for twenty years now, the very mention of the war that stole your love away bringing a lump to your throat and making something hard and hot and unforgiving settle in your chest. Your breath hitches as you inhale, and he hears you swallow, feels the ghost of your breath.

Gods, he's missed you. He misses the breath warm against his lips. He misses your sighs against his heated, balmy skin.

He's so close, but still not quite home.

"A veteran...?" you whisper. "Then... you knew my - my husband?"

Your voice falters under the mere word, shattering into something momenterily fragile and week. Satoru clenches his jaw. He wants to assure you of his safety so badly. He wants to tell you that he is here. That you have to wait no longer, but he would be lying. The fight is not yet won, and his home - you, his son - are not yet saved.

He must wait. Play his cards correctly.

Satoru angles his head slightly to the left, into your direction. "I did," he says. "Very well."

You lick your lips, failing to hide your hope. Not even trying to. "And? What of him...? Do you... is there any word of..."

"He's alive."

You gasp out.

"And he will return. He swears it." He swears it.

"Then where is he?" you urge, abandoning your poise, voice dipping into something heated and desperate and drastic, yet achingly quiet, as though you are afraid to let your hope ring out too loudly for the fear that it will be crushed. "How is it that you were able to return before him? Do you know where he is?"

"He's close," he says.

"Close?" you almost laugh, eyes wide. "How close? It's been years. I've waited - how close?"

Oh, you are so sweet. You are still the same, after all those years. So fiercely loyal. So unapologetically in love. Satoru was truly blessed in this life to have been able to take you as his wife, to know that you have waited so long knowing, praying that he would one day fight his way back to you against all odds, against all unfavorable winds.

"I don't know," he elects to say. He feels you sink. "But I know that he will return."

"How," you shake. "How do you know? When was the last time you saw him, last spoke to him? How could you know that he is coming, that he is close, if he is still not here?" you ask.

He is here, he wants to say. He's here for you. He's come home to you. He will fight for you.

"The Satoru Gojo I know would have fought with all his life to make it back to me," you shudder out, and Satoru aches, for if only you knew. If only he could show you.

"He still is," Satoru says. "Fighting his way back."

"Then where. Is he," you ask once more.

Satoru sighs softly, looking down at his crooked, scarred hands, a reminder of the years away, of the war that waged within the walls of Troy and against his mind for years to come. “He’ll be here when you need him most,” he answers.

You scoff a sound that Satoru knows so well, your irritation bleeding through the devastation over word of your husband always being just out of reach. You attempt to fight the tears that have come so easily in his absence. You look away for a moment as your eyes sting, your nose scrunching and brows curling.

You catch sight of your son sitting afar in the corner, the eyes of his father shining brightly throughout the room, eying your interaction with this stranger. You assume that he was startled by the commotion of your maid fumbling the bowl of water, your mind too clouded by this stranger’s apparent closeness to your husband to see the knowing tension in your boy’s eyes.

Twenty years. Twenty years have dragged by with no word of your husband but a cloaked stranger’s distance promise. Twenty years since you’ve gazed into the sapphire ocean in Satoru’s eyes. Twenty years since you’ve felt those warm hands caress over your own, traveling teasingly up your arms and over your skin, bringing you close, his voice whispering declarations of passion in your ear. Twenty years since you’ve heard his laugh, since you’ve seen his pretty smile wrinkle his eyes and cheeks, since his humor has poured through the halls in thunderous echoes.

Twenty years without his prideful performances, without the familiar bend of a bow that only he can mold to his will, with his muscles tensing with focus and concentration as he strings his weapon, finishing with the triumphant pluck of a taut string for show.

Twenty years without his sound reign. His wisdom. His control. His heart.

Twenty years not knowing whether your husband is alive or dead. If he’ll ever come back to you.

“Promise me,” you recall him pleading with you in the intimacy of your bedroom all those years ago, before he left for the war.

His large hands had clutched your face, his eyes holding your gaze assertively as your chin wrinkles and your lip trembles. Ocean pools attempt to ease you as he looks into your (e/c) eyes, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek.

“Promise me that if I don’t come back, you’ll remarry.”

The sentiment offended you then just as it offends you now. You frown, nose flaring as your hand instinctively raises to slap him. It’s a swift clap against his jaw that startles him, wide eyes blinking before something soft and tender melts over his gaze despite the subtle sting buzzing over his cheek. So stubborn.

“How dare you ask me to do that, Satoru?” you growl, eyes glistening over. Satoru smiles sadly, with all the world’s knowledge brewing behind his eyes. You shake your head, raising your own hands to hold his face in turn. Snowy lashes flutter, his pupils expanding as you bring yourself closer. “You promise me you will come back.”

Ever the ordinarily sure man, Satoru hesitates. He brings his forehead to yours, and you whimper out something broken, your nose brushing, your hands keeping one another connected. You’ve seen your husband overcome the impossible. You’ve seen his wonderful strength. You’ve seen his power.

But here, before you, with uncertainty lying ahead, he is just a man. Unsure.

“What if I can’t, baby?” he murmurs as though it pains him to say, but it is the reality. Many men die overseas at war. Even more die trying to get back home. “I’ll fight with everything I can to come back to you, but what if I can’t?”

“I won’t remarry,” you hiss. “I’ll never remarry.”

“This home will need a king of I’m gone too long.”

“It will already have one. You.”

“(Y/n)…”

“I won’t.”

He smiled again, full of love and despair. “You’re stubborn.”

“You’re worse,” you bite, and Satoru huffs a weak laugh, closing his eyes, feeling you close against him. “Toru, what if we just run away?”

His eyes peel open, meeting yours as he lifts his forehead from you slightly. A desperate craze holds your gaze as you speak.

“You wouldn’t have to fight in this silly war. We could take Telemachus and go. Get a ship. Take the loyal. Chase the escaping sun on the horizon.”

Satoru clenches his jaw, allowing himself to imagine your fantasy. He feels the imaginary salten wind toss through his white strands as he holds you to his chest, your head tucked under his chin as you watch the sun set behind the line of the sea.

“You know it’s not possible,” he tells you longingly. “I’d rather be killed in war, or trying to return to you than for mutiny. I won't soil my legacy or yours, or my son’s for a dream. I have to go, my love. It’s my responsibility.”

You, of course, know this is true. That does not prevent you from trembling with sadness as you stare into your husband’s eyes, knowing from just a glance that he will be gone for a very, very long time.

“I’d rather you not be killed at all,” you say in a hushed voice. He frowns.

"(Y/n), I'll do everything I can," he promises urgently. "We'll win the war, and I will rage against the gods to return to you."

"Gods do not want your rage, Satoru. Rage is what will anger them in turn. Trust them as you trust me," you say. You catch the hesitant look in Satoru's eye. You release him to fumble with your nightgown, unpinning the golden brooch that frequents your sleeve. He keeps his hands on you, touching, tracing, watching tenderly.

You bring the brooch to his eye level, holding it tight in your grip. He glances down at it: a brooch of the goddess Athena shimmering in the firelight.

“Take this with you. Keep it on your person. Wear it always. Athena will look after you as I long to. I’ll be with you throughout your journey, and so will she.”

Your words are whispered against the bow of his pink lips as his hands pull you back in closer, eyes lidded as your skin brushes. He nods slowly against you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

Your mind plays that night on repeat as you listen to this stranger's broken words. You replay the way Satory climbed over you in a haze of dizzy kisses, a long night of passion following that still could not account for how long he would be away.

You miss him terribly.

"I've needed him for twenty years," you tell the beggar who you do not know is your husband. "What is keeping him from me now, if you are here and not him?"

...What could Satoru tell you?

That on the night of Agamemnon's infiltration of Troy, he watched a city light ablaze at the hand of him and his men? That he watched women's knees drop to the dirt as his comrades held swords to their throats? Their pitched screams haunting him to this day, before the merciless slice of a blade cut their cries short?

What could he tell his grievihg wife, desperate for answers, that Satoru Gojo's conscience could not bear the weight of what he'd done to those people - so much so that he allowed the tides to pull himself and his men further away from you while he thought that he was bringing them back home by his own accord? Untethered to Agamemnon's curse of glory?

He feels the blister of fear hot against his skin. Sees the shadows of the dead marching in the back of his mind when he is ripped from his sleep. Remembers the face of that young girl as his men dragged her to the top of a temple's stairs, hands firmly outstretching her arms as she begged for her life at Satoru's feet. And he could do nothing but watch as her head was sliced from her body, and could do nothing but fear as the very same face came to him in the guise of Athena, haunting him, forcing him to remember the blood that stains his hands.

How could he have brought himself back to you, knowing that he had done to the Trojans what he would slaughter millions for if the very same had been done to Ithaca, to you?

Your breaths grow shaky as you listen to the stranger's weathered, intimate tale of your husband's perspective of the war, of all that he and his men did in the sake of Helen's name. Anger bubbles beneath you as you envision the tolls this violence has taken on your husband, who never shied away from battle, but always wore his heart on his sleeve like armor.

The tears come as easily as they have for the past twenty years. You pinch your lips together, fighting sobs as you listen, such familiarity in the beggar's voice that reminds you so much of him, so much of the fact that he is still not here with you.

And if he isn't now, he never will be.

You tear yourself away from the stranger with finality, bidding him a bitter good night as you retreat to wail. As you retreat to succumb to the reality that you know your husband wanted you to live, to the reality that Satoru has manipulated you into fulfilling.

You will seek a new husband.

And your husband will come. He will make sure of it.

"Just a little longer, baby," he murmurs to himself, to the space you just left. "I promise. I'm here."

ׂ╰┈➤

Suitors crowd the very room that Satoru occupied the previous night. He sits on a stump of stone stairs in the very back, cloak shading his figure as he eyes the monsters who seek to take you for their own. His brows angle, a potent rage simmering in the silent stun of your presentation.

There you are, at the front of the room, looking like a vision the very gods sculpted themselves. Your pain is raw on your expression as you stare resentfully out at the sea of suitors before you with your husband's bow gripped tight in your hands.

Before the suitors, in the middle of the room, lies a row of bound pairs of axes, one before the other, lined up in front of a wooden board. Those who were around to witness Satoru Gojo's old performances of strength and accuracy recognize this set up, for it is the very same party trick that the old king used to showcase during warm nights after filling dinners, when the wine has numbed his cares and the bashful look in his wife's eye encouraged him to parade his strength about.

Telemachus, his son, lingers in the corner beside an old, blind friend, his jaw set as he ruminates over the last twenty years. Satoru, having mistakenly unveiled his identity to his son when he approached his old, weak hunting dog, and the very animal relinquished life the moment his master returned to him with the touch of his warm hand against his fur, keeps his eyes elsewhere to preserve himself from others. Telemachus knew instantly then, recalling that his father's pet was waiting for his master to return home before giving into death.

Satoru had ordered for all the weapons to be stored away by entrusted servants, and for the room to be boarded shut when all the suitors gathered. He knew what was coming. He knew by the determination of his wife's depart from his conversation with her.

And he is ready. Finally ready to reclaim what is his, to return home rightfully.

"I will marry any one of you in this room," your voice booms out, ringing against the stone. "If you are able to complete my challenge."

You hold out your husband's bow, attempting not to break away at the feel of its weathered wood in your hands, the memory of the man you love before those who wish to wipe him away.

The room is still, hanging onto your every word, and Satoru’s eyes gleam at the sight of his prized possession in your dainty palms.

“Whoever can string this bow,” you begin. “And shoot an arrow through these six pairs of axes, hitting the wood behind them, is the man I will take as my husband… and the new king of Ithaca.”

Murmurs rise. Chuckles of the unknowing ring out confidently. The silence of those who are knowing is steady.

Satoru grins.

“Who’s first?” you ask.

The low rumble of voices eventually evens out into hesitant silence before the first suitor steps up arrogantly.

“I’ll go,” he grits. You nod, pressing your lips together, before handing the bow off to your son, who passes it to the eager man.

Tension fills the room as he props the bow upright, pinching the string between his fingers, and stretching it up, up, up.

He grunts, hand trembling, string hovering inches away from the tip of the bow. He remains struggling that way for a moment, bent on one knee, before giving in with a huff, the string snapping back to the floor.

A rumble of laughter erupts and you roll your eyes. “Not enough protein in the diet, huh?” some man shouts out, further encouraging guffaws and chuckles.

The suitor scoffs and turns away with the flick of a dismissive hand, pride wounded. Then comes the next suitor, believing he can show the previous up.

He takes the bow. Kneels down. Brings the string up, up, up. It stretches, he grits his teeth and trembles, cheeks flushing, before stumbling with the snap of the string back to the ground.

More laughter.

“It’s impossible!” he hisses. “No one could do it!”

“My husband could,” you cut in, and the room goes silent once more with resentment and a sudden urge to prove you wrong, to prove that any one of them could take Satoru Gojo’s place. "Who's next?" you raise your brows challengingly.

Satoru swoons. Oh, how he loves you. How he will make up for all the time spent away once he proves himself worthy again, once he rids his home of the plague that is these stupid men.

One by one, suitor after suitor lines up to try and fail miserably at stringing the bow that only Satoru is known to be capable of stringing. The laughter soon dips into gradual panic, and the realization that the task truly is impossible settles in, the challenge unbeatable for all those who are not the very owner of the weapon himself.

"My queen, we get it," one suitor speaks up bravely, wearing a mask of vulnerability and sympathy that Satoru assumes is meant to gain your good graces. The ivory haired warrior scowls and your eyes turn to the man talking.

Dark hair and eyes. A handsome smile. Something snaky behind his eyes that he attempts to soften for you. He steps forward.

"We know what this means. Nearly all of us have attempted to beat this challenge that none of us could ever overcome. We understand what you are trying to say, that we will never fill Satoru Gojo's shoes. But if I may offer myself up as a man who will try, knowing the great shadow that looms over me. Knowing that I will fail. I will do all that I can to please you, to mend this kingdom. I may not be able to win your challenge, but I am eager to win your heart."

No one says a word. Telemachus' eyes fly around the hardened faces of the suitors, discouraged by their own failure, and the mischief of the man who just spoke up. He swallows, and you merely look the man in the eye, doing all you can to remain polite. To stand tall. To give him a chance, when what you truly wish to do is lock the doors behind you and set the entire room ablaze.

Satoru has had enough.

Slowly, he rises, his cloak fluttering around his figure. He is cautious to keep his posture slightly slumped, his head bowd, and his voice low. As if unsure.

"I haven't tried yet."

All heads turn to the back of the room where the former king stands as a beggar. The silence is piercing before it is interrupted by an outburst of laughter, laughter that makes the suitors' inadequacy feel much lighter.

The suitor who had just spoken freely to you chortles particularly loud. "You? A beggar?!" he sputters. "What could possibly make you think that you would succeed if none of us could? You're nothing," he spits.

You watch the beggar slowly step past the man taunting him, his footsteps echoing throughout the space. Your brows knit with curiousity, and something you don't quite allow yourself to acknowledge gnaws at the back of your mind.

The dark haired suitor scoffs as the beggar stands before him, throwing his arm out in disdain. "Your majesty, you can't possibly-"

You raise your hand, and the man immediately cuts himself off. You keep your eyes on the cloaked face before you, the way this stranger approaches so humbly, so surprisingly willing to try after watching everyone fall short of what your husband was - is.

Something is... off here. You can't quite name it, but your heart knows.

The beggar stands still, presenting only himself before you. No titles. No land. No pride. Merely his own hands, a veteran's status, and a face you have yet to see.

You inhale slowly, something scratching at the back of your throat as you lower your hand. You nod toward Telemachus, who holds the bow toward his father.

"Please. By all means," you encourage him. "Good luck."

Satoru reaches his hand out and wraps his worn fingers around the wood soundly. He expels a long, gentle breath as he reunites with the weapon, taking it carefully out of his son's hands, who slowly backs away to stand at the far end of the room, knowing what is to come.

You notice. You notice every movement that occurs from this moment forward.

Sunkissed hands trace over the intricate detailing, following the curve of the bow as he sinks slowly down to his knee. Memories of hunts, of teaching children archery, of battle come to his mind as he methodically fiddles with the bow, then soon comes the memory of his performances in the banquet hall. The roar of triumph. The raise of his bow in the air. Your proud grin and flushed cheeks.

Satoru breathes in. Taking his time. You hang onto each second, brows coming together as you watch this stranger touch your husband's bow just as he would, pinching that string between all thick digits.

Suddenly, arms curve inward and biceps puff. Veins bulge in the strangers muscular forearms and hands as he clutches the top of the bow with one and the string with the other, arching his body inward as the weapon curves and stretches under his force.

Your heart drops.

The beggar gives way for a moment, releasing the string due to misuse, and takes a breath. A rumble of further laughter comes once more as the suitors prepare to throw more doubt at the man, but the room goes silent again when the beggar repeats the action. Only this time, he twists the bow backwards.

He stretches the string. He curves the bow inward. His muscles flex, and his shoulders round. The bow folds, the room freezes, the string catches, and connects.

The bow is strung.

The breath leaves you as your knees suddenly go weak. Your mind spins, dizziness overcoming you, and before you can allow your emotions to get the best of your senses, he does it.

He grips the wooden arch in one hand and plucks the string with the other, a resounding single, daunting note ringing out into the space.

A predator warning its prey for what is to come.

And with the force of his pluck, you almost faint. For you know this motion. You know this presentation. You know those hands, those veins and the way that body curves to match his weapon's mold.

Your husband has returned.

You gasp out a shuddering sigh before retreating back to your chambers. You have no time to think, to process, for you know what is coming the second that bow is strung.

The room is heavy with shock as Satoru rises to his feet, taking the arrow, hooking it, and shooting it through the axes. The arrow flies with a sharp whistle and hits the target in one shot.

Telemachus, who has only heard stories of such demonstrations, lets a grin slip onto his face. The room remains eerily still in the man's victory, and his shoulders gradually ease back, his posture straightening to reveal his true height.

You make it to your doors, hand on either one as you watch from the top of the steps. Your world goes quiet. The beggar you spoke to the previous night stands suddenly tall, and his cloak slips away from his face with such stature.

Sapphire pools. The same ones that have haunted you every night for two decades meet your gaze.

Tears stray past your lashes, dribbling down your cheeks like shooting stars as you take in his face, your heartbeat and his steady breath the only things your ears can catch.

Skin tanned and aged by the merciless beat of the sun. Snowy hair bright and graceful, slipping down to his ears, swiping across his forehead in ivory tendrils. Sharp cheekbones, facial stucture matured, hardened, a beard that garaces his once clean shaven face, and his heart on his sleeve.

Your love incarnate. Disguised as a beggar. Nothing but a man before you, once more seeking your hand the only way he knows how.

He's come back to you.

"You're..." a suitor begins. "You're him. You're Satoru Gojo-"

An arrow pierces his neck before he can finish his sentence, and when everyone focuses, they see the stance for battle that Satoru has taken. Ocean eyes ablaze, arrows hidden under his cloak, teeth grinding.

One down. The rest to go.

A breathless grin breaks across your face, your teary eyes blurring your vision as you close the doors shut before you, granting your husband complete free reign. To kill every last one of them.

Satoru's focus is the sharpest it has every been as his arrows fly and strike through the flesh of one man after another. Chaos breaks out as suitors attempt to search for weapons that were hidden from them. Servants fly to the boarded doors, banging helplessly, pleading for escape as Satoru lays waste to every man he sees.

His hair flies about his face as he whips his head around, locating each incoming attack and stopping it before it could reach him. His pupils are shrunken, face straight and seemingly calm, eyes edged with a hint of insanity and anger.

These men think they can walk into his home? Make themselves cozy within his walls? Drink his wine? Kick his son and dog around? Pursue his wife, the very love of his life, the greatest thing to ever happen to him, and walk away without punishment? Without paying?

Satoru's teeth bear as he reaches forward to grab one pair of the bound axes from the challenge, swinging it around to thrust into an attacking suitors face, the blades chopping away at his flesh, knocking him dead and backward onto the ground. He uses the hilt of the axes to thrust backward, plowing into another suitor's gut blindly, sending him rocketing back into the stone walls.

Satoru huffs. Not a fucking chance.

Droplets of blood splatter as the suitor who spoke freely to you orders for someone to find and retrieve the weapons. One disloyal servant manages to thrust himself out of the wooden barred doors and run for the storage room, a tip having been provided by another servant. Telemachus pursues, engaging in a brawl with the bald headed man as punches are thrown. The servant manages to send Telemachus flying across the room and to the floor with a bloody nose as he thrusts a hole into the wooden floor below, leading into the room where Satoru's murder spree transpires.

He throws spears through the hole, equipping some suitors with weapons to corner the King of Itchaca. Satoru persists, rocketing arrows left and right, when he feels sharp blades pierce his shoulder blades from behind, the long weapons trapping him inside a small circle at a distance.

Telemachus, eager to assist his war hero father, scrambles to his feet and tackles the servant once more. He plunges his fist into his face, pinning him against the wall of weapons. The blue eyed boy stretches his arm to reach for another spear, which he hastily grabs and tosses through the hole for his father to catch. The servant finds an opening, reaching behind him for a dagger, and thrusting it into Telemachus' side. The boy hisses and stumbles back, and the war between the loyal and disloyal persists.

Satoru catches the spear tossed overhead to him and slices it through the air, knocking the other spears into a strayed direction, allowing him the freedom to use his bow once more before thrusting the spear into the hearts of other men.

Above, Telemachus scrambles beneath the weight of the servant pinning him down. His eyes shoot up to the table next to him, spotting a sword dangling off the edge of the wood. Just as the servant raises the dagger high above the boy's face, he narrowly dodges, mustering up all the strength he can find to flip himself over, rolling over to the side as the dagger comes down to split the wood. Telemachus jumps for the sword on the table as the servant rises to his feet, and in a flash, he pulls a swift move, sweeping the blade under the servant's neck stealthily, watching as blood sprays and the body falls limp at his feet.

Beneath him, broken spears impale Satoru's back, but he moves on, three weapons wielded in his hands, alternating between each like a monster as men continue to follow around him. A spear thrusts for your honor. An arrow flies for his son's safety. Two axes slice for his home.

And as blood trickles through the crevices and cracks of stone, heaps of bodies scatter the ground. Those who no longer wish to fight, who no longer desire to risk their lives for an unbeatable battle against and unbeatable foe, drop to their knees and the weapons they happened upon, ducking their heads in homage.

It is not over until Satoru finally corners the dark haired suitor who was mouthy enough to present himself to you in isolation, using the hilt of the axes to thrust against his chest and pin him down to the floor. He stares up in horror as blazing sapphire eyes glare down at him wide, disconnected, furious.

The king's chest rises and falls slowly, his cloth now half ripped from his exposed body. His skin is bare, pectorals swelling and falling with his heavy breaths, lines of blood trickling down his well defined abdominals from the wounds that pierce his flesh. His foot raises to press down into the suitor's shoulder, all of Ithaca's might and Troy's victory hovering over the man who thought he could stand a chance, who spoke far more than he could ever take action. A pitiful coward who Satoru recognizes from youth, who once wanted to follow his footsteps into battle at such a young age.

He grew into a pathetic excuse for a man.

Satoru bends over, leaning in close as the suitor watches with frightened, blown eyes. "My wife," he grits out huskily. "would sooner see you in Hades than by her side. And I'll be sure to fulfill her wishes."

With that, Satoru raises his spear gripped in his right hand and thrusts it down into the man's chest with a strained rumble in his throat.

With the leading suitor dead, all other contendors go mute and drop their weapons in defeat. The ivory haired man slowly lifts his foot from the corpse before him, lowering his arms at his sides to turn around. Before him, the sight of all those who attempted to kill him moments ago now kneeling in a crescent around the room greets him.

The hilts of spears thud into the ground, the rhythm of victory, the beat of recognition for the king's homecoming. Satoru stumbles slightly, muscles stinging under to pierce of spears. He looks around, and finally drops his weapons to the ground with a resounding clang.

He won. The King has finally come home.

But Satoru cares not for the men who kneel at his feet. He cares not for the walls he has reclaimed, for the title he has settled back into, for the fame that his name brings.

What he cares for now lies behind those deep, wooden doors just at the other side of the room.

He shuffles, slightly dazed from bloodlust and domination. The remainders of his cloak drop softly to the ground, revealing him in all of his six foot three mass, all of his rippling, sweat drenched, blood smeared muscles. The very sight of him speaks volumes, exudes power, and strength unbridled.

But he does not care for such things as he trudges toward your doors, limping in a trance. He can hardly feel the little blades sheathed into his skin as he walks, for his mind is fuzzy with adrenaline and the image of you that he can now savor, hold, treasure.

Telemachus rushes back through the busted doors in search of his father, finding that he has already won, and that he is already making his way toward his mother.

Satoru stops before the few steps leading up to your doors. They slide open cautiously, revealing you standing there, awe scribbled over your gorgeous features.

You're as beautiful as the day he left you behind.

You shiver, tears staining your (s/c) cheeks as you stare into your husband's eyes. You ask yourself if this is a trick of the gods, of the light, or of your mind, but as your eyes momentarily sweep over the damage he has done, taking into the kneeled stances of the surviving suitors, you finally breathe.

Your husband came back to you after all those years.

You tremble with soft cries as Satoru stares at you with all the love and relief the world has to afar. His eyes have softened, his pupils growing in your presence, and he carefully reaches back into his pants, lifting his hand to reveal the golden brooch that he promised he'd bring back to you after keeping it on his person at all times.

You blubber out a laugh, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and you rush to your husband. The moment your arms reach out to him longingly, he submits to the exhastion and collapses to his knees with a warm grin and creased eyes. You follow him instantly, dropping to your knees in turn and gathering his body, bringing him close to you. You lay him over your knee as you cry gently, droplets of your tears dotting onto his skin as he looks up at you like you've hung the moon and the stars. His hands grip your waist and upper arm as you prop him up to meet your gaze.

"Satoru," you whisper tenderly, his name no longer a hush that torments your dreams at night. Your shaky fingers trace over his skin as his always did yours, experimentally stroking over his white beard, tracing the lines beside his eyes, his sharp nose, his pink bowed lips. Your heart races, your skin flushed, your mind at ease.

"Hi, baby," he beams despite himself and his wounds, all sap and softness in your embrace, a stark contrast to the raging monster he was moments before. "I'm home."

You laugh, or sob - you aren't sure, disbelievingly. "My love. My Toru," you coo, stroking his lengthened hair. "You came back to me."

"Of course I did," he mumbles, reaching a bloody hand to your cheek. "I'm sorry I took so long."

You shake your head, uncaring of the time anymore. Your husband is here, after so very long, and that's all that matters. "I thought you were never coming back,” you croak.

"I know, pretty. I know," he soothes, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. "But I'm here now. It's been a long journey, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere ever again."

"You better not," you sniff. "I won't let you. Twenty years, Satoru. I spent twenty years without you."

"I know," his eyes crinkle with happiness, a weight surging from his chest now that he has made it back into your embrace. "I know. It was torture. I know I left you waiting so long. I'm so sorry," he apologizes again. "I carried you with me the whole time. I couldn't rest until I made it back to you. I'm yours. Here. Always."

You don't wait any longer. You've waited long enough.

Your heads both move in unison, your hands hold his face as your lips meet in a hungry, desperate lock. Your body slumps, and Satoru lifts himself higher to chase the taste of your salty lips, years of anguish slipping away at the very contact.

Satoru almost forgot your sweetness. The sugary taste that always lingers in your mouth as though you were made of pomegranate and sugar, as if his tongue was made to taste you. His fingers curl into your hair, eyes lashes fluttering blissfully against his cheek, brow arching as your lips glide together like the sway of a perfect wave.

You cry into the kiss, and Satoru presses in deeper.

Telemachus smiles warmly from afar, clutching his side, forgetting his wounds. The suitors turn their gazes away shamefully, and Satoru shamelessly marks his territory, kisses you as though it is the last time to make up for all the damage he's caused you. Your kiss so addicting, more addicting than the Lotus Calypso fed him and the insatiable song of the sirens, that he has no plans to part from you any time soon.

The two of you are nothing but heated breaths and smacks of lips, sniffles and gentle chuckles.

A string of saliva connects you when Satoru mistakenly parts, the curve of his shoulder shooting lightning up his back from the arrows still embedded there. He hisses with a wince, and you watch him with concerned eyes, looking over his state.

He catches the worry in your expression, and smiles warm again, only ecstatic to see your face before him and not in his tormented nightmares of failing to reach you. You frown as his thumb slides down your cheek and over your chin, light shimmering in his gaze.

"Do you like the rugged look or should I shave?"

You laugh loud, unrestrained, free, for you have longed to here such stupid jokes told at the most inappropriate times for as long as you can remember. You duck back down to kiss Satoru's lips as his head falls back against your knee.

"You're perfect," you whisper against him.

ׂ╰┈➤

You can't put words to the way Satoru looks at you as you finish cleaning the cut on his neck, the wounds on his back having been patched by the servant who washed his feet the previous night.

A thick film of heat occupies your once vacant bedroom, firelight crackling against the distant walls. Celebrations have long concluded, the night's recognition of the king's return and all his accomplishments cut short by your urgency to disinfect Satoru's wounds.

He lay with his back against the wall of your bed, eyes watching every movement you make as you dab cloth over his soothed gash, his face clean shaven and fresh thanks to your steady hand. You sit upon his lap, warm thighs straddling him, your night gown spilling over the exposed spaces of your skin, barefeet tickling the silk comforters.

Satoru feels as though stuck in a dream, watching your calmed face as you bring the cloth away from his skin, placing it back into the water on the side table beside you. You feel your husband's eyes following you, his warm palm soothing over the skin of your bare thigh, his gaze hazy, his body warm under yours.

He is still adjusting to his return, not fulling trusting that he is finally safe and sound within well earned royalty, and renewed by his lovely wife's touch. His son, once a baby, is now over twenty years old, and when he looked in his eyes earlier that day, he saw himself. Brave. Responsible. Noble.

His family has grown up without him.

The king can't quite name what he feels right now, but he knows that a good chunk of it is love as his eyes graze over the signals of beautiful age on your face. How you've managed to keep everything together in his absence continues to baffle him, but he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he's never met a woman quite like you.

Gods, he loves you. He loves the way your lashes curl and the way your teeth sink into your soft lips. He loves the way your hair falls and the way your skin melts in the orange hue of fire. He loves the way your thighs squeeze over him as if he never left, as he if he will never leave again, and he's sure that he won't. After twenty years away, Satoru plans to stay buried beneath your body for his long as he possibly can, unmoving. Sound.

"I'm sorry."

You look up at the sound of his gentle voice, his soft tone ringing out like a whisper in the dark. You tilt your head slightly, abandoning the cloth to turn your attention to your long awaited husband and king.

"Honey, you've apologized so many times," you sigh, smoothing a hand over his chest. You feel Satoru jolt beneath you, feel the way he still reacclimates to your touch, afraid that it isn't real. "It's not your fault that you were away so long. The gods were angry. So were you."

"It is my fault," he denies. "I made them angry. I let my pride get in the way. I let it ruin me. I let it kill my men, and steal away my life with you... with our son..."

"Satoru," you say his name tenderly, yet assertively. He looks you in the eye, brow curving pensively. "You can't take back all those years. What happened is in the past. I don't care about any of that anymore now that you're here."

"You should," he argues. "Look at what I left you to deal with."

"I never gave up hope," you counter. "I always knew you were coming back. Everyone told me you were dead. I didn't believe them."

You reach for his hand, pulling it from your thigh to press to your chest. His palm flattens over your heart, the precious thump pounding against his touch. You see the way he sinks into the feeling, jaw tight.

"I felt you in my heart. All these years."

His eyes flicker back up to you, darker now. "Baby, I'm so sorry I left you alone."

"Satoru, you have to stop apologizing. I'm not angry anymore. I'm happy. I'm relieved," you urge, holding his hand to you soundly. "My husband is back. That's all I care about now."

"You should care about more," he says solemnly.

You furrow your brows. "Did you find someone else out there while you were gone?"

Your husband's eyes go wide at the sentiment, disgust crossing his features momentarily. "What?"

"Well, did you?" you raise a brow.

"Baby," Satoru starts. "There's no one else across the oceans for me but you. I only ever thought of you when I allowed myself to remember. When I didn't block out the pain of being away. How could you even as me that?"

You know there's weight to the things Satoru says, but you don't press it any further. You'd rather not discuss all that happened to him when he wasn't with you. "Then why do you keep talking like I shouldn't forgive you?"

"...Because..."

"Because you haven't forgiven yourself for everything that happened."

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. You know him well.

"My love," you shift, bringing his hand from your chest to clutch between your palms as you look at him. "You've crossed the sea. You've watched your comrades fall. You've burdened the weight of thousands on your shoulders. You almost lost yourself and you found your way back. To your mind. To your home. To your son. To me," you speak passionately. Satoru watches you with great emotion, his nose flaring as you keep his gaze. "You must extend yourself grace. If you can't forgive yourself for everything, or believe that I could forgive you, then what of all that you've been through? What of me?"

Satoru's lips curve downward. "What of you?" he repeats.

You gulp. "I don't want to think about what we lost any more than we have, Toru. I don't want you to look at me and be sad... I want to start building our life again from where we've just picked up. What of me if you can't look past your own guilt to see that all I care about is having you with me again?"

Somehow, even as Satoru torments himself for his sins, you still look at him and see the man you love instead of all his mistakes. You don't blame him for what he took from you. You don't resent him for all his time spent so far away.

He does not understand how, except for the fact that he loves you so very dearly, and you love him in turn. He refuses to argue with you on his first night back, especially if you insist on leaving it all behind when the two of you are in each other's company the way you used to be.

Satoru's other hand slide up to your chin, caresses just beneath your bottom lip. Dark pupils observe you sweetly, his heart aching with want as he watches the way your plush lip drags beneath the pad of his thumb when he touches you. "What of you?" he says again. "You're everything, (Y/n). You're all that's been keeping me together. Just because I'm burrowed in self deprocation doesn't mean you're any less of the woman you have always been to me," he tells you earnestly.

You feel his hand shift in yours to clutch tightly in return, your other hand still holding over his.

"I love you," he says for the first time in twenty years. You fall apart. "You have been and always will be my perfect girl. My queen. Don't ever question where you stand in my mind. Our separation has tormented me for decades. I haven't been able to sleep. My soul ached to be away from you, baby. I love you. You're everything right about this world, about me. Don't forget that."

You breathe in sharp, thighs squeezing, heart lurching for more closeness, for your husband's praise, for his love. You are nothing but sap at his hands as his fingers graze your lips, trailing down to your neck slowly, past your clavicle, over your exposed collarbone. Satoru watches, mesmorized, as goosebumps sprout over your skin. And you feel that familiar tension, the way he hardens beneath you, the way his body presses firm and sound to yours, needing more. For just one touch isn't enough.

He's spent too long away from you. It's been too long since he has been able to savor you in the intimacy of your bed, in the privacy of your chambers, where no one exists but your intertwined souls as he makes love to you in a way that has you seeing stars and planets in orbit, that ruins you for any other man.

And how could you ever want any other man, when you have Satoru?

His hair is messy in that well loved way, from your hands gripping into them during messy kisses, and the freshness of a bath. He looks so much older, much more mature, but still as breathtakingly handsome as ever with lines of stubble tracing his face, white lashes blinking slowly, and dark pupils shrinking the outter ring of blue orbs. His chest is exposed to you, shirtless, and your hands trickle down his heated skin, exploring every scar that you do not recognize, every bump and ridge that you've missed in time.

His exterior has somehow physically hardened, his shape having been beaten into perfection by the gods' brutality. You wince as the pads of your fingers follow every unsaid story of his faded wounds, and you hear his heavy breath grow more weighted under your feather light touch.

Satoru brings you in closer by your chin, lids low, eyes hungry and desperate to make you happy again. To feel you again. "Do you still love me, pretty?"

He knows the answer, and you know he knows as well, but you do not hesitate to give him what he wants. "Of course I do," you murmur, "I've wanted you to come back and kill every last one of those suitors the second they arrived. I have and only will ever love you."

"Yeah?" he hums. You nod, entranced. He smiles. "That's my girl. I'd do it all over for you again in a heartbeat. No one touches my wife."

"I missed you so much, Satoru," you exhale as your noses brush, your eyes falling closed as his scent invades you.

"I missed you too. So much. You don't even know," he says, wrecked.

"I missed your hands. Missed the way they touch me."

"Mhm?" his hand slips from yours to slide back up your thigh. Your lips part as his touch creeps higher and higher, sending vibrations shooting through your body. His fingers reach past the silk that adorns you, creeping between your legs lovingly as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "What else did you miss, my love? Tell me. Tell your king."

"Missed the way you talk to me," you moan softly. "Missed your voice."

"And I missed those pretty sounds you make," he groans, slipping his hand lower. His thick fingers brush your thinly clothed core, dragging lightly against the ball of nerves that swells knowingly, needily at his slightest presence. You gasp softly against him, leaning further into him, and he hums lovingly. "Just like that," he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "You always sound so beautiful when I touch you. Gods, it's a crime to have been pulled away from this."

"Toru," you whine, your hips grinding desperately down against him. Satoru's breath hitches, something low and unsteady rumbling out against you as you grip his shoulders. "Please don't make me wait any longer."

He wastes no time, hastily tugging your undergarments aside, but doing so with care. "Oh, baby, I won't. I won't torture you anymore. You've been so strong. So good. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll make up for everything. I'm here."

You let his hands grab your waist and carefully flip you over. Your head sinks into the silk sheets and your undergarments are completely discarded, a string of your arousal stretching along with their removal. Satoru hovers over you, soft, primal, and curves down to unite your lips.

You whimper softly, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you. His warm chest presses to yours, your gown hiking up over your hips, your bottom half bare to the man you love as his fingers slip down your stomach and curve over your swollen clit.

Your soft moans spill into Satoru's lips as his tongue slants past, plunging eagerly into your mouth. The muscle swirls around your own, your tongues tangling in a desperate, greedy dance, the smack of lips rising into the air as Satoru begins to work little circles over your clit.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I'd never forget," he breaks away to grumble against your mouth as you whine, your thighs curving outward to grant him more access. He swoons, taking the opportunity to drag out his touch, slowing his circular motion with two, fat fingers, collecting your sweet juices over his fingertips. He ducks to kiss your jaw. "I'd never forget what makes you whine like that."

"Satoru."

You call his name out like a prayer, and the said man can not help but answer. He's longed for this. Starved for this.

"I'm here," he assures you again, his pace dizzying, his lips gliding down to the sensitive space of your neck. "I'm here. I promise. I'll take care of you."

The squelch of your fruit eases the tension of years when he inserts two of his fingers. Their sheer width stretch you out from years of lack of use, and you groan out something throaty, clinging tight to Satoru as he lavs warm kisses over your skin. His teeth graze your neck as he sucks hot kisses over it, feeling you squirm with delight and hold him tighter, mindful of his wounds.

"Fuck, still so wet for me," he marvels, burying his face in your neck as he sheathes his fingers slowly in and out of your slippery folds, his lashes fluttering with ecstacy. "Oh baby, you have no idea much I've thought of this."

Your thighs tremble around his hand, your body too weak for his dominance and touch. You know you won't last long, for the strength of his fingers ache so deliciously that you can't even think straight. All you can think of is your husband, and how such things were a far off fantasy merely two nights ago.

But now, he hugs you close, marking your skin, fingering your warm pussy like it was made for him, splitting you apart with just the power of his index and middle digits, undoing you in order to mend you both again. "Talk to me, (Y/n)," he huffs into you. "Tell me what else you missed. Please baby, I need to know."

"Mmmm, missed - missed your fingers so fucking much," you mewl, head tossing back as he peppers kissed across your chest.

"I know, honey, you have them now, don't you?" he teases slightly. "What else? What else can your husband do for you?"

You moan at his title, at what he is to you, at the way his fingers curl against that spongey spot inside and hit just a little bit deeper as they plunge into your walls, gliding in and out eagerly. You leak over his palm freely, soaked. The sound lands raw on your ears, and Satoru releases a muffled groand, addicted to the sensation he feared he would never experience again.

"Oh gods, Toru, missed your - hah - missed your mouth," you whine as his lips trail lower, his other hand curving around the hem of your gown to expose your breasts. They spill free, and Satoru lifts his head to gaze down at you. Your head slightly tossed back, your mouth agape, your eyes barely open, brows pinched with pleasure, and your chest bare before him.

"You're ethereal," he breathes, ducking back down to lick a long strip from your nipple to the bottom of your chin. You whine, hips bucking, walls squeezing. "Oh, honey, do that again. Please. Need to feel you. Squeeze me like you love it."

His pace goes faster, his fingers transitioning from a slow and steady rock to a fastened rocket into your core. You squelch loudly around him, moaning out, and Satoru moans in turn.

He ducks back down to you, taking your nipple between his lips and sucking softly. His tongue rolls around the bud as his cheeks hollow, slurping greedily at the plush fat, toying you gently between his teeth. Your back arches, and his free hand follows to hold the position, fingering you swiftly as he sucks at your pretty tits.

You're a piece of art. A masterpiece. Satoru thinks so when he looks up to watch the way your face pinches in that familiar pleasure, the way the breath floats from your chest, and your pussy clamps hard down on his fingers before you gush around them, spilling syrupy release over your bed and onto his palm. He moans freely, marking your breasts as you writhe and squirm beneath him, his hand keeping your back arched against him.

Is this the afterlife? Is the Elysium? Has he achieved immortal bliss?

He believes so as his wife's perfect pussy cums all over his hand for the first time in decades, and his length aches to cum after, unable to stand the pressure of your intimate reunion.

He breaks away from your tit to smash his lips against yours again, fumbling blindly with his pants, grinding his lower half against you as you prolong your high.

"What else did you miss?" he breathes raggedly against you as you see stars and cling to his neck.

There is not much for you to say when the night drags on, and his pants are discarded to free his massive length. You'd almost forgotten the sheer size of it, how it curves at just the right angle, how his tip shines an angry pink, glistening with pre cum as it twitches against your thigh, his lips leaving marks over every patch of skin they can find.

Satoru, ordinarily the talkative type in bed with you, can hardly find the words when his dick presses into you, past your slimy folds, and eases into your tight, hot cavern. You cry out with the sting of his long awaited intrusion, and he kisses away the pain, your lips slick with spit and your own cum from when your husband licked your cunt clean after fingering you over and over.

You're stuffed full when he finally, eventually bottoms out. Tears brim your eyes from both the penetration and the reality of your connection, for it's been so long since you've had sex with your husband. Since he's been home to ease your needs. Since he's filled you up, made you take him all with his starry eyes holding yours.

"I'm here," he says continuously, as though he needs the words to engrain themselves in your mind, so you don't have to worry about him disappearing anymore.

Tears trickle down your cheeks as he pushes in deeper, brushing your cervix, your walls snug around him. He kisses you again, repeatedly, gripping your hips tight, knocking his forehead against yours. You feel the expansion of his girth inside you. You feel every beloved ridge and curve. You feel him throbbing as you tighten, refusing to release him, holding on to the unimagineable pleasure of his intrusion.

You're already spilling around his length, wetting him down to his balls and upper thighs, and Satoru loves every second. Savors it. Treasures it.

"Satoru!" you bellow, throat raw as he pistons in and out of you, thrusting deep and heavy, keeping a slow, agonizing pace. He wants to feel every second, every drop of your release, every snug squeeze of your beautiful walls, every drag of his cock against your pillowy pussy, which went so long without his attention.

Well, no more. He's here to make it better. To love you. To hold you. To make you feel good. To rip that sadness away indefinitely.

"That's it, baby," he praises hot against your ear, voice thick with tension and pleasure. He groans, jaw slack, brows scrunched, eyes heavy as his nose tucks against your pulse. "That's it. Let me make you feel good. Missed this pussy so much, honey. Missed you so much. Let your husband take that pain away."

And he does.

The night drags on in a haze of sweat and fluid and pleasure. Your fingers graze his scars as he makes powerful love to you, acknowledging all that he's done to make it back, all that he's done to be the man that hovers over you, pieced together by your touch.

And as you lay wrapped up in his limbs as the sun peaks over the horizon, the thick scent of sex and Satoru lingering in the air, you thank Athena for bringing your husband back to you.

the world is noisy, wild, chaotic, and unforgiving. in the field that kento's responsibility dragged him to, relief is not something that he can easily come by. he finds himself working overtime most days, narrowly escaping the clutches of grief or death at the hands of some insidious curse that he is burdened with erradicating.

his job is to save lives, and he does. he is good at what he does, too. precise, timely, always keeping an eye out for the next threat, whether it is gojo imposing on his reading time during lunch or the threat of the memory of haibara ressurecting in another poor, innocent student's soul, unfit for the brutish nature of their education.

nanami is practical and prepared, therefore when the noise comes during the day, he is ready for it. he has practiced his life around it long enough to let it become a dull murmur in the back of his head, one that does not overpower him the way it used to in his youth, when jujutsu took his best friend away.

and while he is accostumed to it, noise is still noise. the tension it always used to bring in the back of his neck still remains each time he steps across that threshhold and into his place of work. the memory of a curse's hiss still haunts the confines of his mind, and the nagging knowledge that one day his very breath could be stripped away by the insanity of what he devoted his life to claws at the back of his head like a sickness he can't quite shake.

noise is still noise, and it leaves kento eerily silent most days as his coworkers (gojo) invade the space with their voices, their numbness to the cruelty, their pinches of insanity that they shield behind hazes of smoke, stupid incessant jokes, and the bright youth of their students. students who could be lost to them at any second, at any moment's time.

kento often feels as though his perfectly organized world is slightly tilted on an axis, his practiced stability the only thing keeping it from completely flipping upside down. the task of a sorcerer is to live with the burden of fear, the crushing reminders of temporary life, and that noise that just never seems to go away, and nanami keeps a straight face. remains poised. focuses on time and neatness and maturity to keep him upright rather than the blaring red that bangs against his brain.

the blonde is tired most days. every day. every day of his life, actually, since as long as he could remember. tireless missions across sea, the shadows of miserable curses rising high above the vision of his fifteen year old self, the call he received when the school thought that satoru was dead, the call he received when haibara died a year later instead. when his mortality, as well as everyone else's, was thrown in his face brutally by the realization that the only being who could ever overcome such confines of life was satoru gojo. the world's savior, the honored one. spoiled. bratty. practically immortal.

the exhaustion of such knowledge, of such tireless pain weighs heavy, and kento finds himself pretending most days that he doesn't wish he had stayed away, that he could have lived a normal, boring life had it not been for the tug of his conscience, the sorcerer's responsibility that never quite leaves you after you get a taste of what the world is truly like behind an ordinary human's eyes.

and his brain is always running, chugging behind the shield of his opaqe goggles, the noise of yuji urging to assist him and make a big name of himself by saving people, swearing his future to the curse of this livelihood. and nanami tries his damndest not to see that boy with brown hair and brown eyes reflective in yuji's youthful air, the optimism that will slowly be poisoned either by death or the inability to escape it. time and time again, kento will attempt to scream out over the noise and challenge it by reiterating how young his students are, how young yuji is, how young he was, how young haibara was when he was killed, and how young satoru was when the world decided to completely lean on him.

but the world doesn't care. jujutsu turns a blind eye to mercy, to suffering, to the hope of youth. it takes and takes and takes, and nanami finds himself going quiet to the noise once more when he listens to people like mei mei ramble on about stipend increases during meetings where all his mind can go back to is the fact that everyone in this room will likely die one day. and there is nothing that any of them can do about it but fight until their time is up.

save for satoru gojo of course, who will stand by as everyone continues to fall away. and what can the white haired sorcerer do but poke at nanami's shoulder while he hides his grimace behind the wall of a newspaper, death's reminder of his weakness teasing him at his very side.

heavy sighs filter from nanami's chest when the days finally come to their end. he piles onto public transport, gripping the rails tight overhead inside the stuffy train, watching wearily as little curses trample about the cabin, squirming around shoulders, creeping into briefcases. nanami looks at his watch. he's off.

the public's murmur overlaps the noise already roaring inside nanami's mind, children crying, men and women arguing over the phone with their places of work, the restless squeak of the train's wheels when it screeches to a stop, and the bodies that bump into his broad one as herds rush to spill from the train doors.

voices blabber inside his head as he walks calmly along the route home. he keeps his eyes straight, heavy and puffy behind his glasses, the sun's late glare practically blinding his sight. but he keeps going, knowing the path by heart, letting the automatic pull of his familiarity drag his aching feet.

with each step his loafers click across the concrete, he hears the echoes of his life, the past that his restlessness has brought him in the blare of the sun. another weighted sigh spills past his lips as he tells himself he only has one more block to go.

and then he arrives at the door, his key turning into the lock, the heavy door giving way as he pushes himself inside.

and suddenly, like an off switch, the scent of you intermingled with whatever has been cooking on the stove overcomes nanami's senses, numbing him. the second he closes the door behind him, he hears your voice from the kitchen and the cut of the running faucet turning off.

"ken?"

the blonde lets his briefcase slip from his fingers and land onto the floor as he goes to remove his shoes silently, your voice, the house's warmth, his sanctuary finally rendering him unable to speak quite yet as he adjusts to the stark contrast between in here and out there.

and there you are, emerging from around the corner, having just dried your hands with a towel. you take in your husband's figure at the door as he removes his goggles and finds your eyes, and you light up, moving to greet him.

"hi baby," you coo. the second your body meets his, your arms wrapping smoothly around his neck, the noise that kento could never quite escape completely goes mute, and all that he can think of is the way you smell of miso and a hint of something sweet as your warmth melts against him.

the mask of composure kento wears every day to keep himself from breaking, to keep his occupation from breaking him, withers away, his body sinks into you like molasses slipping slowly from a bottle, and a final heavy sigh leaves his body, pulling all the burrowed fear, stress, and exhaustion from his being.

helpless to you, his heavy arms curl around your midsection slowly, as if every movement he makes is an act of testing whether his mind will truly allow him this peace. and when no further noise comes, he slumps into you, melting, falling apart.

you feel the stiffness sink away as you hold him, and you smile, closing your eyes as his presses himself into you, his forehead falling to the crook of your neck, rubbing softly against your skin. brows knit with relief, and quiet comes sweet and soft like a wordless lullaby.

your boyfriend speaks a thousand words without opening his mouth, his body answering the silent questions that do not leave yours. your fingers slip into his hair, gliding over his cropped undercut, soothing the space where you know the most tension balls up in a little knot. kento hums something weak and broken and free, holding you closer, savoring this moment for all its worth, and the infinite silence that you magically bring.

you don't ask him about his day. you already know.

instead, as dinner finishes cooking in the oven, you retreat to your sofa, where kento always slips quietly onto his side, long legs oustretched horizontally over the furniture, his head sinking down to your lap just before your hands settle over his head.

he closes his eyes, veiny hand reaching to loosen his tie, tugging it resentfully from around his neck. a temporary pinch in his brow results, but you smooth it away with the soothing glide of your fingers through once neatly slicked blonde strands. you study his face as the anguish melts away from his handsome expression, a rhythmic stroke settling as you caress through his hair, your other hand cradling around his jaw.

blonde lashes flutter, and what noises and thoughts seemed to come so easily during the day are nowhere to be found. his mind finds blankness, calm in the way your fingertips stop every now and then to scratch at his scalp, the way the side of your palm presses to his skin as he recovers from the day's burdens. silence filters through the house comfortably, the occasional tick from the oven echoing out.

a safety nanami has only felt in your arms tackles him soundly. his head angles slightly toward your stomach, nose brushing against the sweater you stole from him. your body always responds to his movements, hugging closer, stroking softer.

kento remembers the first time it happened, the first time you touched him and the noise suddenly wiped clean from his mind like he was born that day all over again with a blank slate. he stiffened slightly at first, your hand in his, and he looked at you like you'd solved the riddle for all life's misery. like you'd singlehandedly resurrected him from the dead with nothing but your hand squeezing in his.

you've always had this serene quality about you, one that makes kento want to rot in your company for as long as he possibly can. it takes one look at your face, one sniff of your perfume, one chirp of your voice for every horror that plagues nanami's head to dissipate like it never existed, and nanami was not foolish enough to question it any further. his body told him that you were his sanctuary, therefore, he siezed you, courted you, held onto you, cherished you so that you'd never go away.

and every day, when he wonders why he forced this livelihood on himself, he remembers your soft touch and easy smiles, and the urgency to protect, to protect this life, reinstills itself in him. and he remembers that if the responsibility should fall onto anyone to preserve the sanctity of your kiss, it should fall to him.

something peachy and bright swipes through the darkness of nanami's closed lids as he lay in your lap like a child, raw, vulnerable, tired. warm colors filter into his subconscious, the sweetness he imagines the sun would taste like on your lips swirling around his head. he often swears it's some kind of trick, for it awes him how you take what is dark and gloomy and drab and strict and bend it into something easy and light and whimsical and tender.

his heart trembles like a bird who has not yet learned to fly, and everything he once thought he knew is laid bare at his feet for him to attempt to piece back together, to reconfigure as though it is his first day on this planet. something heavy aches inside his being, and he knows what it is. he thinks deep down he's always known, but in the warmth of your embrace this day, with your fingers in his hair and your silent attentiveness and care keeping him breathing, he thinks he knows for sure.

kento's eyes peel back open to reveal honeyed pools of (e/c) gazing down at him softly. your gentle lips are smiling, the gold of your first initial dangling from the expensive chain around your neck as you watch him with eyes so sweet that kento's surprised he hasn't rotted away right there.

and instead of thoughts of his and his students' mortality, his mind gets fuzzy and blurry. he can't conjure up a thought on anything but you. his eyes are lidded, blinking slow as he stares up at you, letting your beauty overpower him, letting it render him a speechless, weakened vessel at your will.

something emotional overcomes him, something that claws at his chest warmly, sacredly. he knows what it is when your gazes speak for the words you do not say, when your touch grows somehow softer, and the corners of kento's lips finally pull upward now that he knows this isn't a dream and some curse isn't pulling him in for a brutal, gruesome, vile death, using you as a pawn.

chocolate eyes catch the light pouring in from the window behind you past hooked, wrinkled curtains. you see all the world's passion soaking up into those circles of brown, like a sponge absorbing water, or the muffled hum of a pressed piano key floating off into dragged, eventual silence. your finger shifts to trace along his jaw, along the sculpt of his cheekbone, then to the corners of his mouth that you pull slightly to lift higher. kento's eyes shimmer, the day’s first hints of humor catching him as his eyes wrinkle and a laugh, soft and breathless, flutters from his chest as he obeys your silent plea for further relief, for a little more of a smile.

he can't help it. he can't help but smile when he looks at you. when he thinks about everything you are and continue to be, when he thinks of the great impact you have on what he always thought would be a dull, inevitable future of broken hope.

kento's hand reaches up slowly, catching your cheek. you smile warm, letting him guide you down to his lips. they meet in a gentle peck, sweet and lingering like the aftertaste of a sugary treat. the warmth spreads at the moment of contact, and when your eyes close, kento sees an entire life spent in your arms, in your steady silence.

his heart aches again, and he pulls away to hover just centimeters from your breath. slivers of eyes hold one another's, and kento smoothes a hand over your hair, smile dwindling with something serious.

it isn't just this moment, this day. it's all the others that have lead up to this one. how easily you slip into his life, how you always seem to read his mind and know exactly what he needs, how silence seems to speak louder than your words, and in between those spaces of muteness, you see him and he sees you. every day he leaves the house, he counts down the seconds to get back to you as war wages in his thoughts, like there's some blanket over his senses when he's with you that is ripped away the second he steps outside.

it's the times you have spent patching up the deep wounds that no one but you can see, the wounds he hardly knew he had before meeting you, as he'd been so accostamed to their rooted, soulful ache.

he wonders sometimes where you came from. he wonders how he managed to stumble across this glittering pool after years of wandering through drought. how you make everything feel ten tons lighter just by existing, just by standing by his side, just by waiting for him to get home and wrapping him up in an embrace that solves all the world's problems in a second.

kento thinks back to when he didn't have you. to when he was young, and tormented, and distraught, and angry at a world he could never change but could help. he thinks back to what it felt like for the noise to circle through his mind twenty four hours, seven days a week, and he wonders how he survived. he wonders how he pushed through without you, for now that you are here, now that he's found safety in your arms, he at least has something to protect, to look forward to, to keep him alive.

he doesn't know what he'd do without you. without moments like these, where nothing exists but the melt of your lips against his and the weight your glittering eyes carry.

his lips press together with a bit more pressure, eyes taking in every detail of your face. the little strands of your brow curving out into an angle of your eyes. the little scar on your chin left behind from an accident when you were a child. the round of your nose, the gloss of your waterline that always intensifies when he's looking at you like this. he feels the trace of your fingers and swears to preserve their softness. he feels the warmth of your thighs against his head and promises to kiss over them beneath the privacy of your comforter. he feels you, your soul, your essence, molding into his, holding him close, and thinks that no feeling he has ever experienced in his life has ever come quite close to this one.

he knows it now, when you come down to kiss him again, and his hand finds the back of your head, his watch glittering under the lowering sun. that there is no better feeling than this, than your lips to his as your hum vibrates against his mouth, and travels all the way down to the tips of his toes. no better feeling than you.

"i love you."

it comes in a solid murmer in the space of your breaths when you part, and you freeze where you hover. kento watches almost sadly, as though he knows this can't last forever, but he will claw his way out of hell in order to make it last as long as it possibly can. he gives you another sweet smile as his thumb caresses over the back of his head, watching as your brows curl slowly with the processing of his soft declaration.

your breath hitches, then releases with a shudder. you search his eyes, and he lets you, enjoying your closeness, preserving it, vowing to shield it with his life.

when it finally settles in your brain, a thin film slides over your eyes, your lips parting, brows curving with a happiness you can't express in words. you've known. the both of you have had an inkling for some time, but to hear it voiced for the first time, to see it clear in his soft expression before you makes you want to weep.

slowly, kento rises, turning to sit upright beside you, holding your hands over his lap. his knees touch yours, his eyes staring into you, and he says it again, confident. "i love you."

you could die happily, full of joy and content you've never known, that nanami has singlehandedly shown you. his confession is simple, but the weight of it simmers beneath, and all that comes with it. you smile, bright and big and toothy.

"i love you too, kento. i always have."

and it's silent as he tugs you back in by your chin and melts into your kiss, intoxicated off of you and your mute peace.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

toji fushiguro: megs' teacher!

megumi knows his father. indusputably.

he knows that he hates the sound of morning alarms, and would sleep through all ten he sets for himself if he wanted to, for the man sleeps like a log and could likely sleep through a hurricane if it swept through his neighborhood.

he knows that when his dad disappears late enough, long after he and his sister have been fed and done their homework, that he's off to feed his stupid gambling addiction again, and will likely come home early in the morning to call up shiu and ask for an extra job because he lost all the money from the last one to his lack of self control.

megumi knows that his father can't cook for shit, and always elects to either recruit satoru to make something for them or order takeout for the tenth night in a row, ordering him and his sister not to complain about having chinese again.

and he knows that if you, his ninth grade geometry teacher, were not attending this field trip to the museum, then his father certainly would have been no where to be found. but instead, the spiky haired teen watches with disdain as his father signs the pink chaperone slip on the kitchen counter with an urgency, eager for the opportunity to harrass you about giving him the time of day.

toji fushiguro is not an easy man, against popular belief. he'll flirt, rather incessantly, with a woman at a bar, or with the lady who bags his groceries, or even with the waitress at a family restaurant, but he hardly has any desire to pursue anything outside of keeping his life a little entertaining. sometimes, he really just likes to talk and get on his kids' nerves, or pester someone for a discount that he insists he'll get any time he goes anywhere, but outside of convenience, flirting has no real appeal to him.

that is, until megumi starts high school, and toji is forced to attend parent teacher night in order to meet all of his son's teachers and acclimate himself with the kid's schedule. megumi had to practically drag his father to the door to attend it, for tsumiki had an equally hard time trying to make her father leave the house to go to hers when she started high school. toji hates large gatherings of snobby parents and annoying teachers, for he always insists that his kids are practically adults, and they don't need him breathing down the school's neck just to see what block he has lunch in and who's teaching him the language he already knows.

besides, he's seen all the teachers' faces before. he knows who will teach megumi what subject because his daughter went through the same thing the year prior, so why the hell is it so important for him to go again? he thought at least going for one kid would have been enough.

but megumi insisted as he pushed at the immovable brick wall that toji calls his back. "we have a new teacher there, remember? she doesn't know how fucking shitty you are yet. you need to introduce yourself to her so she knows what she's getting into."

toji yawns at the front door, quirking a brow down at his teenager. "shitty?"

"yes. you never answer emails or sign anything when teachers send stuff home. i got in trouble once for forging your signature, and you still didn't bother to show up to the meeting."

"because, it ain't forgin' a signature if i told ya to do it."

"it doesn't matter if you told me to - forgery is still forgery."

"i squeezed you outta my balls, you know. i don't gotta stand for this shit."

"just go, dad!" megumi barks.

grumbling curses under his breath, toji obliges, because internally he admits that he does need to show up as the brat's only parent. and he expects two hours of a snooze fest until he steps into your classroom.

his bored expression falls slightly when his ivy eyes land on you as you turn and greet the parents with a warm smile and reading glasses propped over your head. you wear a simple white blouse and dark jeans that hug your curves, stacked necklaces hanging around your neck, and nails painted ruby red. your eyes are like stars, and you speak with a gentle, smooth confidence, a well-rounded maturity toji can't help but to notice.

he stands against the whiteboard with his hands tucked in his pockets, looking all around at the arrangement of your classroom. surrounding your projector are warm paper lanterns that hang from ceiling, giving the room a soft, non-nauseating glow. formulas, numbers, and symbols line the walls above the boards in laminated strips, and a blue hue takes your room from the soft navy rug on the floor to the gentle light of the projected screen at the very front. a few plants line the window sills on the far left, nurtured by the space where sunlight would pour in during the day. encouraging posters, as well as band tees and show references are plastered over the walls. little trinkets and stuffed animals line your organized desk clutter, and the hominess and your structured room screams that you are the new teacher that megumi was talking about.

after all, your classroom feels less like a stuffy place kids go to learn and more like a soothing nook, with beanbags in the corner by your desk and calculaters lined up in a cute little tray labeled take one :)!

he's never seen you before, after all. he'd remember a face and a voice like yours.

so when you turn to toji with a knowing smile, and something calm and lazy in your eyes, he does not quite know what he will say or how he will speak to you. his instinct to flirt is a bit blurred, for there's nothing he necessarily wants from you... maybe for you to give megumi straight a's, or, more accurately, straight b's all year, but even so, trying to sweeten you up does not seem right upon first glance.

upon first glance, as he said. he at least wants to feel out what he'll be dealing with for the rest of tsumiki and megumi's high school years first.

"you must be mr. fushiguro," you greet with an air of amusement about you, cool, airy. you stretch your hand out, and toji listens to the clink of your bracelets as you do so. a waft of cinnamon sugar stretches from your arm and into toji's face, and the navy haired man has to find some strength deep within him in order to keep an unfazed composure. how are these kids gonna be able to learn a damn thing if you look, sound, and smell like that? toji certainly wouldn't be able to if he were in your class.

the corner of toji's scarred lips twitch upward mischievously as he claps his hand into yours firmly, shaking boldly. you chuckle lightly, brows lifting as toji squints subtly at you. "how'd ya know that?"

you release his hand to prop your own on your hip. "you and megumi share a face," you joke. "it'd be impossible to mistake you for anyone else."

toji snorts, crossing his arms. his muscles bulge with the action, tensing against the tight shirt he always frequents. "megumi's that memorable, huh? don't you got a shit ton of students comin' in and out of your classes?"

"i remember all of my students, mr. fushiguro. it's my job," you say. "i also brushed over the roster before you all got here."

toji's shoulders jerk with a little chuckle, and he eyes you closely as you smile. "so my kid ain't been givin' ya trouble, then?"

"trouble?" you tilt your head. "no, why do you say so?"

"just thought you'd remember his face for some other reason."

"megumi's been doing great in my class so far. it's only the beginning of the school year, but i can tell he'll be just fine. he seems like a really sweet kid."

"so he ain't get in a fight yet?"

"a fight?” you repeat wildly. "no, i'd hope not. not that i've heard of, anyway."

"good. 'cause it's comin'. don't say i ain't warn you."

your brow wrinkles slightly. "he got in fights a lot in middle school?"

"damn near every day."

"i see... and what influences are making megumi so prone to fighting, if this is a real issue?"

toji falls silent for a minute, caught by your inquisition. "you callin' me a bad influence?"

"no, mr. fushiguro. i'm just asking a question. after all, i'm only just meeting you."

toji hums, a smirk curling his lips as your raise a brow.

"he can't fight at school, much less in my classroom. i don't tolerate that kind of thing," you add.

"aren't you a great teacher, then," toji grins playfully. “i’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

you sense his playful tone and sigh, shaking your head. "i'm gonna have my hands full this year, won't i?"

"like i said. don't say i ain't warn ya."

"not with megumi," you lift your chin, smiling gently. "with you."

toji pauses, taken aback for a split second, then he laughs. "if you'll have me."

the said man leaves that night a bit thrown off, for he hadn't expected megumi's new math teacher to be so... down to earth? funny? sexy?

but it's something more than your looks. it's your ability to joke around, the gentle way you carry yourself, like you're gliding through the air, like math could never be a difficult subject as long as you're the one teaching it.

you’re pretty for a math teacher, and after a while, toji just can’t seem to leave you alone whenever you’re around.

so he shows up at things his kids know he would never bother to otherwise. he slips in to speak with you whenever he catches you heading to your car long after pick up has ended and the buses have left. he answers your emails unprofessionally and plainly, trying to weasel his way closer. trying to understand what this allure you possess is all about. trying to feel more of it, letting you pull him closer, letting your sweetness dizzy him just a little bit.

Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Good afternoon, Mr. Fushiguro,

I hope this email finds you well. I am reaching out pertaining to the midterm reports that were issued out last Friday. The students were informed that they should return them to school with a signatue from a parent or guardian by this morning, after the weekend, and I have yet to receive Megumi's form. When I asked him about it in class, he said that he did try to get you to sign it, but you refused, hoping to "wait for an email from me instead." Let it be known that I am emailing you now, as you prefer, and would greatly appreciate it if you could return Megumi's signed report no later than tomorrow. I will accept an electronic copy if that is easier for you.

Thank you very much in advance.

Sincerely,

Ms. (L/n)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

do you always talk so fancy when you reach out to parents doll, or is it just me?

-toji (not mr. fushiguro)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Mr. Fushiguro,

Please keep this line of communication appropriate and strictly about Megumi's report, which you still have not told me how you will send. I need to transfer signed forms to the principal no later than tomorrow morning.

Regards,

Ms. (L/n) (not doll)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

relax, i'll make him bring it in tomorrow don't worry. for the record, i told him not to tell you that last part about the email thing. little prick. you sure he aint givin you a hard time over there? cause he's always givn me one.

is that a teacher thing by the way? someone gonna monitor the way you talk in emails? should i say something more interesting then? 😏

-TOJI***

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Good evening,

Thank you. Please do not forget! I will send you a reminder tomorrow morning before Megumi comes to school, as well.

And yes, remaining appropriate on a school mandated email is a "teacher thing." It would be nice if you would respect that by also refraining from using such language to refer to your son. He is a good student. No trouble at all.

Please enjoy the remainder of your evening!

Regards,

Ms. (L/n)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

guess that just means i should get your number then? so no other eyes are watchin

(my son the "good student" has called me worse things for your info)

-Toji

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Seeing as I just reminded you about the expectations of a school monitored email and you chose to ignore them within no less than five minutes, I will wish you a good night once again. Look out for my reminder tomorrow morning. I will be sending an extra one to Megumi as well so that he can force your hand if you pretend not to see my email.

Ms. (L/n)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

i'd be stupid to pretend not to see an email from you

i'll get that number sometime

-toji

for toji, it isn't a matter of discovering whether he has a thing for you or not. he knows he does. every time he speaks to you, watches your eyes twinkle with an ominous lumiscence that reflects an orange moon's gloomy kiss, his heart patters to a weird rhythm. he knows he's got a thing for you and that it's not just because of your looks when he begins to associate the thought of you with the sweetness of a starry night, an inky, soothing, midnight's blue encapturing your energy every time you approach, every time you sweep an area.

megumi's grades in your class are stellar, for toji knows that he's always been a smart kid overshadowed by his short temper and quickness to violence - which the boy could have only inherited from toji himself. nevertheless, you speak highly of the fifteen year old nearing sixteen, claiming that he always pays attention, and always maintains a collected air about him when performing in your classroom.

and ever the easily agitated boy, toji finds that it makes sense that megumi finds solace within your space. math is something that always made sense to the blue eyed boy, something that always slips into certain conversations when megumi is detailing something he is working on, or trying to verbally piece together how certain things work. how much tsumiki should budget after she makes another online order, and how meals should be split and prepared throughout the week to leave some money leftover for anything else. with a gambling addict for a father, he thinks such precautions are necessary.

having seen your room, toji gets it. it's a safe space with low lighting and all that megumi's ever really known. and geometry, of course, proves way to easy for him, easy enough for you to bump him up to a higher math level.

toji thinks that what tugs at him the most about you is the way you always praise his son amidst your playful tones and your forced rejection of toji's advanaces for the sake of your job. you have a true passion for what you do, for how you teach, and who you are teaching. you talk of megumi's intelligence like it is something toji should be proud of, something right he has done throughout his life that he overshadows with jokes about his kid being mean to him and talk of his past.

toji's only ever heard teachers complain about his son. how violent he is. how standoffish he is. how quick he is to snap at a moment's inconvenience, or at someone pestering him or bothering someone who doesn't deserve it. middle school was hell, which is why toji backs away from interacting with most teachers now. sure, his kid gets into fights, but he wins every one of them. teaches those little shits a lesson. while fighting isn't "good", if the only thing anyone will ever see is megumi's anger, then toji won't bother trying to prove otherwise. trying to serve as the perfect parent to fit into their close minded ideas of his family. they don't deserve that effort if it's not already seen.

toji isn't going to change his son. he and his daughter are fine just the way they are. if the former gets in trouble, toji will deal with it, but who is he to care if megumi roughs up some necks and proves his place in the world as he grows older? he knows how to stand up for what's right. and he's smart all on his own without school, anyway.

but even after toji almost testingly told you about megumi's past in middle school to see how you'd react, brushing over the gory details, you don't hyperfixate on it. toji knows that notes on megs' previous behavior are tucked somewhere on a record in the principal's office, but you doesn't bother to further investigate, not unless it actively becomes a problem on your hands, and it doesn't. it never does.

instead, you see megumi for who he is. a good kid with a bright future. peaceful when treated as a human being, and silent in his genius. and if your beauty or your impressive teaching skills or your passion hadn't been enough for your toji to get hooked, your inherent recognition of his son's talent certainly does the trick.

but you won't cross that line. you won't let him come any further than jokes here and there and those dangerous looks he flashes you when you should be talking about megumi's behavior throughout the first quarter of the year instead. you always shake your head with a soft laugh, always roll your eyes with a pretty smile before redirecting the conversation, turning to your computer, clicking and sneaking a glance up from your monitor to see that he's still looking at you from where he lounges shamelessly in his seat.

toji continues to try his luck, however, hoping one day to get your personal number. hoping one day to know you beyond his kid's academics. hoping one day that you'll allow yourself to look at him as a man and not as one of your student's parents. hoping one day that you'll damn the rules and give in to the attraction that he knows you have for him. that he knows you hide away for the sake of your job. for the sake of your student.

you're not surprised when toji chaperones for the field trip. a father who once didn't give a damn whether he sent megumi's midterm report in signed or not suddenly hopping up at the chance to help monitor three buses full of high school kids could only have one goal in mind, and you know it when he sits next to you at the front of the bus.

you're in the window seat, almost pressed to the glass by the sheer mass of his frame, his legs spread out as wide as possible, leaving just enough room for his knee to knock against yours with every bump in the road and rock in the bus.

he smells of some woodsy cologne, rugged and warm, and you try to busy yourself with writing something down on a clipboard, but toji cuts through your concentration.

he leans over slightly, voice low. the chaos of the bus is loud enough for your conversation to be unheard. "y'look real pretty today."

you shoot your head up to look at him with a glare, countenance strict though toji sees the way you tense. "toji," you warn softly, eying him.

the ebony haired man's eyes light, smirk dragging over his sharp features. "good to hear ya got used to usin' my name."

"how could i not, when you're always pulling stuff like this?" you hiss. he smiles. "please, please don't flirt with me during this entire trip," you beg, exasperated.

"who says i'm flirtin'?" he teases, well aware that he is. "i'm just sayin. you look nice. i can't compliment a woman who looks good anymore?"

"don't try me. you know what you're doing," you murmur. toji chuckles.

"is it working?"

"no," you lie with a hint of a smile.

toji grins. "gotta try harder then."

"look, you signed up to be responsible for group a, okay? remember why you're here. for the kids."

"you and i both know i ain't here for these damn kids."

"well, you're gonna have to act like it. i don't need one of our parent chaperones being less responsible than a hundred high school freshmen. and i sure as hell don't need him breathing down my back all day."

"i'm always responsible."

"okay," you say, unconvinced.

"i won't breathe down your back," he adds. "i just wanna see you work."

"all you do is see me work. i'm your son's teacher."

"i wanna see you in action."

you roll your eyes, though your little grin counters your words. "do the job you signed up for."

"yes ma'am, i will," he swears. you look up to meet his eyes for a moment. he winks. and you groan.

throughout the day, toji keeps his promise, letting the kids do what they want as he keeps an eye out, monitoring. the whole thing is a chore, so much so that he starts making bets with some of the kids on the basketball team that they can't hump high enough to touch the ceiling of one of the exhibits, promising two bucks for the photo machine to whoever can do it first.

in the middle of the day's haze, toji catches sight of you from afar with one of your students at your side. his gaze softens as you walk through the exhibit with her, pointing out interesting facts, engaging in her nerdy talk of physics in relation to the screen before you.

and you're smiling wide, like this science museum could be the most exciting place you've ever stepped your foot into. like every word your student speaks to you holds weight that you will cling to forever. like your world surrounds you in your students' enjoyment and the intriguing little nerdy sanctuary that this place has to offer you.

toji loses a kid or two for a second while staring at you from afar, and he doesn't notice when megumi walks by him, his nose wrinkled in disgust when he follows his father's gaze. poor you. you should run while you still can.

toji sighs, figuring he is in to deep with no way to make you his, stuck with this weird, nostalgic feeling that tears away at his chest and makes him weak.

and when he isn't looking, when he realizes he's gotta track down the couple that disappeared, your attention goes to him, and your mind races with the images of his attentiveness, the way he casually handles the kids like it's nothing but a tiring exercise. you shouldn't be surprised, after all. he's a single father to two teenagers. he's good at this.

you chew on the inside of your lip, heart fluttering, and you exhale with a frown, knowing your dilemma. knowing that you like him just as much as he seems to like you. that despite his nuisance, you enjoy his company. you enjoy him being around.

at lunch, he sits with you. megumi pretends not to know him, and sits with his friend yuji. in the tense silence of your proximity, you look at him gently.

"you're actually really good at this," you say.

toji perks up, mouth full, burger clenched tight in large hands. he blinks at you, confused, for this is the first time he's ever heard you compliment him so freely. he could have choked on his food.

shoving down the lightness that takes him, toji swallows, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, eyes still glued to you. "y'think?"

you smile, un-teasing for a moment. "yeah. thank you for your help."

toji's jaw clenches, and he nods eventually after staring at you in stillness for a moment longer. "sure," he grumbles. "y're good at this too."

you giggle. "well, i'd hope so."

"nah, but... you really are. you're a good teacher," he reiterates. you soften, cheeks warming slightly against your best wishes.

"thank you," you say sincerely.

the two of you turn away, looking elsewhere, and toji keeps eating, unable to stand the heat.

the ride back is silent, something having shifted between the two of you. toji watches the road ahead as the bus jerks and the kids yammer on behind him, when he suddenly feels a light weight plop to his shoulder.

he freezes, and turns to find that you've dozed off, your head knocked against his arm as gentle breaths leave your parted lips.

toji's eyes go momentarily wide as he registers the feeling of you against him, of your warm head resting on him like your subconscious told you that you could trust the figure next to you, that you could take a second to breathe and rest after a hectic day.

toji watches you tenderly without a word, heart clenching. he doesn't move a muscle for the rest of the ride.

and at the end of the day, when you all part, a crumpled receipt is slipped into toji's hand with a quickness as you murmur something about nonexistent compensation. you disappear into the school before he can ask any questions, and when toji unfolds the silky piece of paper in his hand, he sees your number scribbled on the back of it.

he grins.

a step closer to making you his.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

ryomen sukuna: your hatred!

sukuna is... confused.

perhaps confusion is not the proper word to decribe the complexity that is racing through his ancient mind, but it is certainly a part of it, though he attempts to shield so with his ordinary, demanding air.

he snatched you up, stole you away as prisoner. his initial plans for you were to force you to work, however, when he saw how much of a fuss the neighboring palace was making about having stolen you away, he decided to use you as a pawn to his advantage.

uraume later informed him that you are, in fact, closely related to the emporer across the mountains, who has had complications with sukuna's temple for quite sometime, but has kept to himself in order to preserve his respect and his... well, his life. the foolish emporer had believed that he and the beast far north had come to some kind of agreement, and sukuna laughs at the sentiment, for why would he dare to make peace with such false royalty, with such puny, idiotic reign? he's lucky sukuna got bored of rampaging and devouring his people about a decade ago. he had turned his sights elsewhere... until you, of course.

you shouldn't have been wandering off on your own, shouldn't have gone on such a fool's errand for the sake of an environment which hardly cared whether you lived or died.

you'd traveled far, across the mountains, wrapped in furs up to your neck, your eyes dull with lethargy, your teeth chattering from the cold. how you survived such a trip alone, sukuna hardly knows, but he decides that you were did not leave alone by the haunted look in your eyes when he stands over you while you kneel before him in chains.

you were hauled in from outside, having been seen standing idly by the gates to his grand temple, torch fire blistering in your gaze as arms seized you and dragged you through the double doors. sukuna was prepared to kill you when you were dropped to his feet at the foot of his throne, the expanse of his polished throne room floors singling you out in the center of the room as you crumpled against them in cold and fear.

but when you lifted your head to him on command, his earth shattering boom of a voice ordering you to do so, the four armed curse did not see fear in your eyes. he saw anger.

you shiver out something about your home having been deprived of essential resources for weeks, waste having befallen your livelihoods as a result of sukuna's neighboring brutality on the wildlife, the roaring fires he sets across valleys for fun, the livestock he's either killed or sent running south, the merchants and travelers and traders who no longer pass through, keen to avoid sukuna's cruel forms of hellish entertainment. you mention that you live past the mountains, under that damned emporer's rule, and the conviction holds you together as you tremble and cough, very clearly ill and battered from your journey.

you're desperate. you risked your life to visit his temple with no plan but to beg, to merely ask for mercy, for food, for anything. no aces up your sleeve. no weapons meant to idiotically charge into his direction out of spite. nothing but the pitiful arch in your brow and the grind of your chattering teeth as you glare up at him with a distant resentment only someone who has heard of sukuna and experienced his impact from afar would know.

there's hatred in your steely eyes.

when uraume asks what they should do with you, he takes a moment to ponder. his instinct at first is to merely kill you, his sharp fingers lifting calmly as crimson eyes peer down at you over the bridge of his nose. it would be easy. like squashing a bug. he's done so enough times for it to be over and done with in miliseconds, but strangely, he pauses. for someone like you, who crossed the mountains those who live beyond them swear never to trek past - for if the cold doesn't get to them first, the monster that lies beyond them is sure to serve as a stubborn traveler's end - who lost your supplies, your men, and your means of travel somewhere along the way, can't be unimportant. can't simply be... useless.

so he sends you to the dungeon below, wrists chained to the wall behind spidery metal bars. and he learns from his right hand as you rot under his feet that you aren't just closely related to the emporer... you're a well favored concubine. in fact, the most desired.

the beast shakes the walls with the burly laugh that rips through his chest when he hears the news that you are, in fact, not important at all. not truly. beyond the pampered palace life of a tool used for the emporer's pleasure, you do not exist beyond such usefulness. and looking at you now, a starved, thirsty shell on the brink of death, hardly able to keep her eyes open behind those bars, sukuna can't say that he sees such a reality in your eyes.

you're far too gritty, and perhaps it is at the fault of the journey you've taken, but you're covered in filth and furs as though they are a part of you. as though you've only clung to them to survive.

a concubine, huh? how is that possible, when you've come so far and survived, with nothing to carry you on but that fierce hatred bubbling in your eyes, a hatred that a woman who has lived a cushy life of sex and comfort could never quite muster?

is the state of your palace so bad? was life as a concubine horrible enough for you to tear away and run off to death itself, stare it in the eye, and overcome it?

the beast is... intrigued.

the letter that arrives to him days later is enough for him to know that you at least served your duties as a concubine well, that you indeed are a favorite, a prized possession for a reason, as the emporer makes quite the fuss about your whereabouts, clearly knowing that you had run off to his temple for help.

sukuna decides that he will test how far the emporer's loyalty to you runs, and demands control over the other side of the mountains in exchange for your return. both the emporer, himself, and you know that he is bluffing. that if he returns you safely, sukuna will still rampage your home. that you will likely die either way, as well as everyone you've ever known or dared to love, and soon they will become prisoner or fodder to him and his hungry appetite, just as you have.

after all, what fool in his right mind would risk his future for someone so meaningless?

word of war spreads, and within the coming month, having survived off of the meals that uraume brings down to you to keep you alive, you hear word of your home's final collapse under sukuna's hellish, pointless seige. he brings back to you the head of the empire who tossed his life away for you.

foolish.

you refuse to eat anything after that as you wither away in his dungeon, wondering why sukuna hasn't just killed you. why he elects to make you suffer so heavily. you stew for days on end in your regret over your stubbornness, your desperate urge to find help, to do something about the sorry state that the pile of ashes that was once your home was in.

they told you not to slip away. told you not to do anything rash. to play your part and be happy, but you looked around at the scraps for dinner each night and you couldn't sit still. you couldn't be the perfect doll that the empire made you. you couldn't toss aside the weight of responsibility that sank over you, for if no one else was going to face the reality, someone had to.

and at the rate your home was moving, everyone was bound to die sooner or later anyway.

ryomen asks himself the same question of why he just hasn't brought himself to kill you. he's had his fun torturing you, bringing your world to dust, stealing that fire from your soul, but each time he treks down to see you, to mock you, and your steely eyes glare at him past those bars, he can't find the incessant desire in him to wipe you clean from this earth and move on, despite how easily he does so with everything and everyone else that crosses his path.

and then you say it, sharp words, hoarse and dry from misuse that you spit into his direction each time he stands tall before you, watching as you crouch limp in the corner.

"i abhor you," you growl.

sukuna can only grin proudly each time you express your intense, raw hatred for him.

he continues to make uraume bring you meals, only as time goes by and you continue to refuse the food, they become more elaborate. scraps of bread turn into generous loaves. limbs of elk, pheasant, and boar swarm the plate, and chipped glass full of water become challises of wine over gold and glittering plates, with prestine silverware.

yet each night, your food goes untouched, no matter how lavish, no matter how grand, no matter the temptation of the savory aroma that wafts from the plate and into your skeleton decorated cellar. you refuse to become his pet. you refuse to feed into the scraps of humanity he leaves like a dog's bowl at your door. you refuse to give him what he wants, and it makes sukuna angry with time.

for it's not that you want to die. sukuna sees it in your face. you haven't given up hope for life yet, but still you do not eat. you do not give in, and sukuna's gears grind, his frustration growing with every second you do not bend to his will.

"perhaps it's time to get rid of her," uraume suggests as he paces down the hall with thudding steps. "she is only taking up space. and if she refuses to eat much longer, she will not last the rest of the month anyway."

he should just kill you. he should, but he can't - he doesn't want to. your eyes, glossy and heavy with hatred, haunt him when you are not around, and he would prefer to look into them to see if such animosity has shifted rather than toss you away completely.

"i will not kill her," he grumbles heavily. "she could still be of use to me."

"...my lord, may i ask how? her home has been destroyed. there is nothing left for her. she is alone. and weak. do you wish her to become a servant?"

he doesn't answer. they are right. you are weak and isolated. keeping you here is pointless.

the ancient sorcerer's mind troubles himself as he attempts to conjure up what he could use you for, how he could keep you around, before he suddenly ponders why he wants to keep you around. why your hatred is so enticing.

the salmon haired king of curses approaches your cellar with a frown, a desolate glint in his crimson eyes. they scatter about the dark space, locking onto you in your miserable corner. your knees are to your chest, your mouth shielded by them, but your eyes pierce the veil to sukuna's innermost workings, like an arrow splintering through skin.

the silence stretches between you, long and heavy, as water drips from the ceiling, splattering in rhythmic taps against the stone of your holding cell. you fight the trembles, the pangs of hunger, and stare hard into the beast's eyes. just as you always do. unafraid. angry with nothing to show for it.

and while sukuna should truly be considering what on earth to do with you next, his mind can't help but wander to how you are the first prisoner he has captured in all of his existence, trampling this earth, who has dared to glare back into his four eyes. who has dared to keep his hard gaze. who has dared not to look away.

first prisoner. first human being.

and your eyes always tell a strange, twisted story. one that fails to align with that of a well loved concubine time and time again, each second he stares back at you. perhaps you were a prisoner in another life. perhaps the life you lived before finding temporary sanctuary as the former emporer's most favored concubine tells a better story than the life sukuna stole you from ever could.

even so, beneath all the grime and dirt that's caked over your skin, he can see the physical appeal. he sees the distant whispers of a beautiful woman, one cherished and yearned for and wanted so desperately that an entire kingdom collapsed for it. though, it is truly your fault that things had to end this way. that your home had to be destroyed. you left your home. you went searching for trouble at the hands of the most horrific being to ever roam the earth, and you got it.

perhaps that is why such anger rages in your eyes, for a bulk of it is misdirected, once harbored toward yourself and now pointed back into sukuna's direction.

he merely watches you like you are some odd piece of art he can't quite understand, hoping to find the answer in your eyes that you never give. you are far too interesting for him to discard of, your eyes and all their caked hatred too enticing for him to tear away from.

and your words, always venemous, soaked in poison when he asks you a question.

"why do you refuse food?"

"because i will not be your slave," you'd hiss.

"you will die."

"then i will finally be free from you."

"you do not wish to die. i see it in your eyes."

"death is a better fate than wasting away under your oppression. i hate you."

your conversations always end the same, with little answers, and the emphasis of your detestation. it's alluring, how fiercely you continue to hate with such little energy, with nothing to return to.

still, despite the circles he continues to run in with you, he proceeds with a new question after your prolonged silence. "how long were you a concubine?" he questions. "you will answer, or i will force your consumption."

your nose curls in disgust, but knowing that you have no choice, no true reason to hold back your truth without some form of gruelish punishment, you answer stiffly. "two years."

"only two?"

"are you hard of hearing?"

sukuna smirks. "then what of you before then?"

"nothing."

"there must have been something."

"i was no one."

"an orphan? a slave?"

you fall quiet, your face hardening, and sukuna decides he has got some kind of idea of you now. you happened upon that status of a concubine completely by luck, after years of wasting away, and now you return to your once sorry fate.

sukuna's eyes slim, and something preposterous leaves his lips. "i will release you."

you pause. "what?"

"on the condition that you become my favored concubine. so long as you prove yourself worthy."

your face morphs with something wicked, and your hatred glowers like a roaring flame in your hues. you lift your head from your knees with trembling lips, nose flaring.

you stumble, chains swinging and clanking as you rise to your feet slowly. you trip slightly over your bare feet, metal dragging as you step toward the bars. you press your forehead to them, your pupils small and tormented, a crazed pinch in your brow as sukuna hovers just before you, the closest you've ever allowed him to be with this barrier standing between you.

"i would rather die," you whisper, seething with rage.

and for some strange reason, sukuna's chest tightens. he brings his head down to you as you breathe heavily, wrath overtaking you as your eyes meet his at your height. his inhumanely large hands grip the bars and he leans in, grinning. "you may very well soon reach that fate" he sneers.

and up close, despite your filth, wrapped up in such inescapable anguish, you are quite... beautiful.

in a swift motion, he snatches your cheeks up in one hand, gripping tight, pulling you taut against the bars. you hiss, eyes wide as you struggle, attempting to pull away, but you can do nothing with your hands bound.

sukuna's grin goes dark. "you will change your mind," he threatens.

and for that brief moment he holds you close, and his sharp canines bear with the wave of his breath over your cheek, something snaps in the back of sukuna's mind as he looks into your eyes.

his smile drops, he grunts, and he snatches his hand away from you, forcing you to fall back with the force onto the floor. you gulp in a breath of air, chest heaving wildly as you glare up at him, stunned, elbows scraped against the stone.

ruby pools promise hell as they stare down at you, before he turns away and leaves without another word.

sukuna is confused, for the light feeling ripping in his ordinarily hardened chest ails him for the rest of the day. your eyes plague him like some damned curse that has befallen him, your hatred sweeping him up in the strange desire to keep pushing, to make you bend at his will whether you like it or not.

though, he wants you to like it. he wants you to turn against yourself, against every instinct in your body, against everything you've ever known to succumb to him willingly. to win your stubbornness. to reign over you, body, mind, and soul indefinitely.

sukuna groans that night as he tends to his garden in the back, finding your eyes in the piercing red of the spider lilies that litter the grass. why is it that you roam about his every waking thought? why is it that his foul, stubborn, disrespectful human prisoner is twisting his ambitions, stealing away his desire to kill, and greedily gathering all of his attention?

you hate him. you despise him. he's come across many humans under his capture, those who beg for their life like sniveling swine, those who offer to service him in exchange for his mercy, those who merely tremble in fear, unable to speak, unable to move.

and each and every one of those pitiful, disgusting creatures has met death at his hand one way or another, joy deriving from the sound their screams make when he hears their bones crack, watching the blood splatter, the red all consuming.

but it is not blood that comes to sukuna's mind when he thinks if you. it is your eyes, and the way they regard him unapologetically. it is the manner in which you hold your ground and remain firm in your beliefs, unlike many others who become a stranger to themselves when such ferocity stands before them. you merely wait, watch, brew, hate, and he does not quite understand yet where your grit comes from.

for this is how you survived that trip through the mountains, and how you continue to survive sukuna's captivity. you are strong. you are... odd. and you make sukuna's head ache and split like no other, for you should have no place within his mind in the first place.

sukuna tramples around his temple angrier and angrier each day, that you haven't given in, that you have not left his mind. is it witchcraft? sorcerery? some trick you have mastered under his nose?

he does not like it, how off kilter he feels, though he’d never let it show. how strangely you have made him feel ever since you first looked at him as he peered down at you in his throne room.

he finds himself venting to uraume one night about the nuisance you pose, how you have yet to change your mind about his offer, when the right hand's eyes slowly go wide, and they stop mid action entirely.

sukuna catches the look and glares. "what is that deplorable look for?"

"my lord, you offered to make her a concubine?" they repeat slowly.

"yes, what of it? she was a concubine before. this way, she would be useful should she not choose to starve first."

uraume's eyes slim, and their lips tug downward. "you prefer this over killing her?"

"i already told you, killing her is not an option. do not make me repeat myself."

uraume regards him silently, praying that what they think is ailing their lord is not reality. sukuna glares back, pretrubed. "what have you to say? spit it out."

uraume sighs. "you would like my honesty, yes?"

"always."

"...i fear you have taken a liking to our prisoner, my lord."

"a liking?! how preposterous! what on earth would make you fix your mouth to say such a thing."

uraume looks up at him boredly. "is it not you who often says no mortal who has crossed you can escape a death at your hands by any means?"

"…yes," he growls.

"well, hasn't she? escaped death?" sukuna pauses. "what means are there that serve as an exception outside of... any?"

the room falls silent as the two stare at one another. sukuna's brow twitches as he thinks back to the disrespect he's allowed you to throw at him. the disrespect he's come to enjoy. the picture of your eyes so sharply engrained in his mind that he can no longer close any four of his own without seeing yours.

you should be dead. but you are not. and that lightness, that strange pull toward you, suddenly becomes grotesque, as it starts to make an inkling of tormented sense.

the king of curses lurches up and flips his futon over, roaring loudly with anger as he trashes the room. uraume watches him with a sigh, proceeding to polish the vase that is left standing before their lord picks it up and smashes it against the wall beside their face.

uraume's lips fall into a flat line as they stand calmly. "i will retrieve the staff to rearrange your chambers when you are done."

they leave sukuna to his tantrum as he fights the reality that uraume may be right, as they often are.