Cactus Craps @cactuscraps - Tumblr Blog

Stars in her Eyes

Synopsis: Stardust and constellations etched into skin, not something Gojo sees often when looking at someone walk by. It's even rarer for him to become infatuated with the way the stars seem to shimmer just beneath the skin of that same person. Who knew he would use those stars as a guidance home, the same way sailors did back in the day.

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x coworker!reader

Tags/Content Warnings: Fluff fluff fluff, romance, mentions of kidnapping stars, themes of day and night, reader has a cursed technique, first kisses

Word Count: 10.6k

A/N: I think I may have gone a little overboard with the whole "star" theme... I've seen the words star and starlight enough to last me the rest of the year. Also the eyes are inspired by Halsey's song Darling— specifically the lyrics: "I'll kidnap all the stars and I will keep them in your eyes."

Gojo Satoru has seen a lot of strange Cursed techniques in his life; some that pooled like shadows at feet, and others that ran like blood through veins. But he’s never seen cursed energy flow like that before—like stardust. Like constellations dragged down from the heavens and etched into human skin.

You, the new teacher that started here today. Pretty, like the stars he can see swimming just beneath your skin. If the constellations you left in your wake weren’t enough to pique his interest, then the shades would be.

They’re round, slightly oversized, and more importantly, completely unnecessary. It’s January—snow blankets the campus in thick powdery substance. There’s no sun to speak of, just grey skies, heavy with cold.

So why are you wearing sunglasses during times like these?

He watches you walk toward the main building, a slight scowl on your face as you glare at the white ground, shoulders tight. Maybe it’s the cold, or maybe it’s something else completely, but he just knows he’ll keep an eye on you.

Just like your eyes are practically glued to the ground. Everything feels too bright. Snow blankets the ground in white, endless as far as the eye can see—not that you can see much right now, your vision slightly blurry.

It reflects like a mirror, and it’s enough to make you wince. Shoulders pulling even tighter, as your eyes ache even worse than usual. The migraine started before you even left your home, but you ignored it. Just like you always do.

You took too many of them again, you know that. Releasing some would help, you know that as well. But gods, they were so beautiful this morning, or technically last night.

Most stars drift alone; scattered singletons, untethered to any shape or name. But this morning you saw a constellation form. Vulpecula. The constellation itself didn’t mean much, just a minor constellation, a fox, a trickster. But even so… it felt like a message.

Sometimes you wonder if the heavens are angry with you for taking what was never yours to begin with. Touching that which you shouldn’t even be able to touch. For pulling down the stars one by one, storing them in your eyes.

You never take many at once. It certainly doesn’t help that Tokyo itself doesn’t offer much to begin with. The light pollution smothers the sky, making it difficult for stars to be seen. The few that do peek through feel too delicate to touch.

But last night, one dared to appear. You were crouched by a pond, hands skimming the surface, rippling the still water, disrupting it. Just like you do the sky. And there it was reflected in the surface, pale and flickering.

You activated your technique, just enough for you to take it when your fingers skimmed over the reflection of the celestial being. The star blinked out, gone from the sky, gone from its reflection.

If someone were watching, they’d simply blame the clouds, or the pollution, or even their own eyes. No one—ordinary nor sorcerers—would suspect you to be the culprit. No one knows someone is kidnapping the stars.

Now they shimmer behind your irises. A galaxy, barely contained, floating around on earth, rather than where they belong. And you’re paying for it.

Snow shouldn’t feel like knives behind your eyes, little pinpricks that have them water slightly, just enough that if you blink, tears would roll down the apples of your cheeks. But it does.

Adjusting your shades, you tug them higher, trying to get rid of the glare of the snow, but it doesn’t help much. If you were smart, you would have cancelled, told the principal that you couldn’t come to campus like this, but it’s your first day, and you know that would not go over well.

So for now you’re just pretending that the pain isn’t pulsing just behind your brow in a steady, rhythmic pulse that almost acts like a second heartbeat.

You keep walking, feet slightly sinking into the powder, snow crunching under your feet with each step. But you’re walking faster now—or at least trying, with the way the stone underneath the snow is slippery as fuck—toward the principal’s office.

There’s a slight frown between your brows, an almost permanent wrinkle; a downturn to your mouth that’s starting to get colder by the minute. Most people would assume you just hate the cold—and you honestly do—but Gojo watches you pass, and thinks there’s something else behind that expression, something more. Something almost celestial.

The moment you step through the doors of the principal’s office, you note how dark it is inside. It’s lit only by candlelight, the space being illuminate in a soft amber, shadowed at the edges. There’s a small sigh of relief that falls from your lips.

At the far end of the room sits principal Yaga. Broad shoulders, slightly hunched. A strip of fabric in one hand, a needle in the other. He’s working on another doll from the looks of it. Tens of others—newer and old—are laid out around him.

He looks up when you knock. “Ah,” he says, voice like stone, almost unmovable. “The new teacher.”

His gaze lands on you, weighted and measured. Like he’s taking inventory—no doubt clocking the fact that you’re wearing shades, even though you’re inside and it’s almost dark anyway. You just hope he doesn’t see what’s happening behind the glasses.

You resist the urge to shift where you stand, feet moving just slightly in place. Instead, you bow. A full ninety degrees, bent at the waist as your knees lock in place. Straightening up, you tilt your chin, hands folding neatly behind your back.

“That would be me,” you say, voice steady, faintly airy. And it’s almost star-lit. You wonder if he can hear it as well, if he does, he doesn’t say anything about it.

You nudge your shades up the bridge of your nose with your middle and ring finger, having slid down when you bowed for him a few seconds ago. The gesture feels practiced now, ritualistic, but there was a time it wasn’t like that.

The silence stretches a moment longer than is comfortable, and once again you shift on your spot. Then, Yaga speaks again, voice like a stone dropped into a still pond, disrupting the quiet with his words that are heavy enough to leave ripples. “I’ll show you your office.”

He rises, hand braced on his knee. Beside him, you can see one of his dolls hop to life, and without further ado it trails after him without even a word from the man. It’s honestly cute, almost like a duckling following its mother.

It’s then that you remember you’re supposed to follow them both, instead of staring and comparing a doll and your superior to a duckling and its mother. Shaking your head, you quickly follow them.

The hallway itself is beyond sterile—something you wouldn’t think if you were just looking from the outside in. Every building here had the traditional Japanese styling, but apparently the inside was more modern than that. The place is lit by overhead fluorescents. Too bright for your liking.

You flinch slightly as the light hits you, a small twitch in your fingers as you refrain yourself from nudging your shades up your nose again—not that it would help, anyway. Pain blooms behind your brows again, sharp and familiar.

Keeping your face even, you try to breathe slowly through your nose. inhale, hold it for four seconds, exhale slowly, again and again. Luckily—or unluckily, really—you’re used to hiding this part, the part where you’re almost always in pain.

If Yaga saw anything, he doesn’t comment on it, just walks ahead in silence. The dolls felt feet are slapping against the ground as it marches beside his creator.

After what seems like five minutes, he finally stops in front of a door, nearly at the end of the corridor. Fucking great, do you have to walk this long ass hallway every time you need to go to your office? Yaga doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat and opens the door.

Peering inside you note how spacious the space actually is. There’s wooden floorboards, a wide, circular window that floods the space with natural light, but also no curtains. You can feel your eye twitch slightly, and you’re grateful for your sunglasses.

The window itself is beautiful. But beauty, you’ve learned, doesn’t always mean comfort. Especially when one has sensitive eyes such as yourself.

The rest of the room is mostly empty, save for a bookcase and a simple desk in the middle of the room. A new desk chair is definitely needed, by the looks of the old one—it isn’t bad by any means, but it also isn’t made with comfort in mind.

You must have zoned out, because something small thumps gently against your shin. “Oh,” you startle, eyes flicking down the small doll now standing at your feet, peering up at you with those round, unblinking eyes.

Then you look up again, quickly noting that Yaga is watching you. You can feel your cheeks start to warm up, and you suppose he was waiting for your reaction.

Clearing your throat, you peer at the room once more. “The space is beautiful,” you say, a little bashfully, the airiness gone from your voice. Your fingers rise automatically, nudging your shades up again; this time not because of the light, just your nerves telling you to do something.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Yaga says, already turning away from you, possibly to go back to his own office that you prefer in a way that has everything to do with the uncovered window in your own. His footsteps recede down the hall, until you can’t hear them anymore.

Stepping into the room—that what is now considered your office—you look around it while closing the door behind you. The latch clicks softly, and it makes you breathe out for the first time in what seems like an eternity.

Time after that moves quite quickly. You try to make yourself familiar with the space, cleaning and organising things in the way you like it, before you start on your paperwork that you already have, because nothing says welcome to the job quite like a mountain of paperwork, right?

The sky has darkened since, the moonlight shining through your window. You’re sat at your desk, back to the window, as paperwork is spread before you in neat, untouched stacks.

Earlier, you glanced up at the window, looking at the dark sky, noting the few brave stars that had appeared, shimmering faintly. They’re still holding their place in the sky, because you can’t afford to take any more. Not unless you want even more eyestrain.

The office itself remains dark, not having turned on any lights—you had, earlier, just to see what type of lights there were in the office, and you weren’t surprised by the hiss that left your mouth once you did. Of course they would choose bright ass lamps inside an office as well.

Moonlight filters through the round window, casting long, pale strips across the floorboards and your desk. Your skin almost shimmers in the moonlight, just like the pretty stars that are floating in the sky—and inside your eyes.

The papers before you are lit by a soft, shimmering glow. Not from a lamp, but rather your eyes. Clicking your pen. Once. Twice. You begin to write. The glitter in the ink catches the light, soft and subtle. And it’s almost like starlight threaded through dark water.

The paperwork itself isn’t anything special, just transfer documentation, a few orientation forms, a signature here, a note there. It’s easy, almost mind-numbingly easy. It makes you lose track of time quite fast.

The stack dwindles slowly, one page at a time. You’re about to reach for another one when there’s a knock on your door. Soft and hesitant, like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure if they’re allowed to interrupt the silence that’s blanketed around you.

Blinking, you scramble for your shades. You don’t want people to see you like this on your first day. Pushing them up the bridge of your nose with a haste that almost makes you poke your eye out the first time you try to slide them on.

Then you switch on the desk lamp—which is luckily a soft, orange glow rather than the bright, sterile lamps they oh so love to use in this place—letting it cast a neutral glow over the space. It makes it less strange.

“Come in,” you call out gently, in case they’re already walking away. The door gently creaks open, slow enough that you probably could’ve done everything without the person having seen your eyes even once. Fluorescent light from the hallway spills in, cold and bright.

A tall, slim man steps into view. He hesitates just past the threshold, hands stiff at his side, fingers slightly twitching. They tremble slightly, and you wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the harsh light.

He bows, a full ninety degrees—much like you had earlier today—and stays there for a beat too long before he stands straight again. His fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to wring them together.

“I’m Kiyotaka Ijichi,” he says. His voice is polite, measured, but there’s a tremor beneath the surface that you pretend not to notice. You give your name in return, along with a small nod of your head.

“It’s good to meet you, Ijichi-san.” There’s a small pause that neither of you fills. After what seems like a beat too long, you finally ask: “Can I help you?”

“Ah— I was wondering if you’d already had dinner.”

Your brow lifts, almost unconsciously, but you smooth the expression over quickly. Dinner? Glancing down at your watch, you finally note the time. 8:30 p.m. Oh. You can feel yourself paling slightly. Has it really been that long?

Looking back up at the man that’s still standing nervously in your door opening, you finally reply to him. “No,” you admit, your smile returning, soft as moonlight. “I haven’t.”

Ijichi nods, like he expected as much. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again—almost like he’s too afraid of offending you in any way, and you almost want to tell him it’s okay—before he finally speaks. “The cafeteria should still have some warm food, if you’d like.”

You hesitate slightly, not out of reluctance, but because it’s been hours since you were around anyone else. Solitude was something you basked in—no need to keep up your guard, constantly wondering if people were looking at your eyes, if they are covered enough, if someone can see the faint light emitting from them.

Looking back at Ijichi, you note the way his hands are still trembling slightly, trying not to wring his hands together. So you nod and rise from your chair. “Lead the way?”

Ijichi steps back immediately, opening the door wider for you—something that seems almost automatic for him, as if he does this all the time. His shoes squeak faintly on the polished floor as he turns, already walking a step ahead.

The hallway is quiet, footsteps echoing gently in the long corridor. The lights seem brighter now—not because they are, but because you’ve been sitting in the dark for so long, and it almost makes you hiss out before you swallow it down.

“I, uh… I didn’t mean to intrude,” he finally says, eyes stubbornly trained in front of him, almost as if he’s too nervous to look you into the eye. “I was told you might not know the way to the cafeteria.”

Glancing sideways, you note how stiff he looks. Almost as if he’s waiting for a scolding. “I didn’t realise it was already this late,” you admit, glancing over your shoulder at your office door, thinking about the dark sky. “It’s hard to tell time when the stars keep moving.”

Ijichi doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that, but you don’t mind. It is a weird thing to say to people, you’re fully aware of that. But talking about the stars seems so normal to you now, that you keep forgetting that most people don’t even think of the stars—why should they? They only come out at night, and even then there are only a few that dare to peek out under the night sky.

He opens the door to the cafeteria a moment later, holding it open for you. Bowing slightly, you step inside, and warmth immediately greets you. The faint smell of soup and rice lingers in the air, a few lights still on.

The room is mostly empty, people having cleared out long before, plus there aren’t that many people to begin with, save for two students finishing a late meal.

Clearing his throat, Ijichi nods his head towards the tables. “You can sit anywhere. I’ll check what’s still available.” With that, he heads toward the counter, hoping to get the two of you some food. Your stomach rumbles at the thought.

Pausing for a moment, you take it all in—the grand space, the lights that seem more dim here, the warmth—before moving to a corner table bathed in the softest overhead light

Gojo walks into the cafeteria with one goal in mind: food. Or, more specifically, something sweet. His stash back in the office had disappeared already, and he knows one of the students stole a few—he had like a whole box of mochi left this morning, after all! (He ate it all himself.)

Whistling under his breath, hands behind his head, he opens the doors. The blindfold has been traded for shades, his headache not being unbearable right now, so he wants the cloth away from his skin. There’s faint chatter inside, nothing loud, just low voices talking to each other.

Probably Ijichi and Nanami again.

The door opens with a flourish, and his grin is immediate, pearly whites glinting in the soft lights. The chatter dies immediately—something he’s used to; the slight pauses when he enters the room, the double takes, the eyes—but he barely registers it.

His gaze flicks to Ijichi first. The poor man is already pale, bracing himself for whatever reason. Then his gaze slides over to the next person, and— Oh. Instead of Nanami, it’s you sitting across from Ijichi, a bowl of rise and miso set neatly in front of you.

And there it is again, that cursed energy flow, the one that shimmers in its wake, like stardust caught in motion. Constellations drifting lazily around you—or, inside of you, really—as if a piece of the cosmos has settled into human shape.

Gojo stills, the tune he was whistling dies out. His smile flickers, just slightly, before he slides it back into place. He watches you glance at Ijichi, then at him, then back to Ijichi again. Finally, you offer a small bow from your seat. It’s polite and reserved, nothing grand. Then you return to your meal, as if nothing about this is extraordinary.

Gojo, meanwhile, is already moving, long strides carrying him across the space in no time. He slides into the seat beside Ijichi and slings an arm around the man’s shoulders. Said man immediately stiffens, trembling faintly.

“So,” Gojo drawls, grin crooked and bright. He taps his fingers on Ijichi’s shoulder a few times, but he keeps his gaze onto you. “Who’s this?”

You lift a hand to your shades, nudging them higher—the same shades he saw earlier this day—shielding your eyes just a bit more. A slight nervous tic, maybe. And that’s when he sees it—a soft shimmer from behind the dark lenses.

Gojo blinks one, twice, a third time just to be completely sure. For half a second, he wonders if it’s a trick of the overhead lighting, shining down onto you in a way that warps behind your glasses, but surely that can’t be.

He only half-hears Ijichi sputtering beside him, hurriedly introducing you. Then he apologises, and starts over-explaining things. But Gojo isn’t listening, he’s staring straight at you, because it looks like there’s starlight coming from your eyes.

A thought flickers into the back of his mind, like a star blinking to life in the night sky. Artemis, constellations, old myths. Which he dismisses just as quickly as it formed.

You murmur a polite hello, your voice soft, almost airy—like it carries echoes of the night sky. Gojo nods in response. And for once, Gojo Satoru doesn’t have a single thing to say, his lips not opening once. Even the brightest star knows when to stop talking.

He left shortly after that; didn’t even grab a snack, just… left. Squeezing Ijichi’s shoulder before standing up and walking straight back out of the door he entered from just mere minutes ago.

And now, it’s been weeks. He’s seen you a few times across campus, never close to him; distant and fleeting, like stars in the night sky. A slight bow when your paths do cross, never a full bow that people seem to do whenever they cross with him, no, this one is just polite and measured. Like you don’t care about him—his name, his status—at all.

He also notes the way you always wear your sunglasses. Even during snowstorms, or when the sky is too gray to bother anyone’s sight. And maybe it’s weird that he of all people notices it, or maybe it’s because he’s like that that he notices it.

Sometimes, Gojo wonders if he imagined it—that shimmer, the starlight spilling from your eyes behind those same glasses you constantly wear. Maybe he read your cursed energy wrong. Maybe his Six Eyes caught something that wasn’t really there. But that’s the thing about stars, they tend to disappear the moment you look too hard.

Now, here he is, standing in front of your office. The room beyond the door is dark, and if not for his eyes, he might’ve assumed you weren’t here at all.

He inhales once, then again. His mouth feels oddly dry, and he swallows, just once. He wants to shake out his hands, and if anyone saw him, they would’ve thought he was sick, because this is not the way he normally acts.

He’s not nervous. No, he’s just… starstruck. And, okay, maybe a little nervous as well. Not that he would ever admit that to anyone, though. He would deflect it with a blinding smile and a quick joke that rolls off his tongue.

After standing in front of the door for what feels like ages, he knocks. Just once, a little too sharp. Then he opens the door before you can even answer, and there you are. Sitting in your desk chair. The moonlight outlines the curve of your shoulders, the slope of your jaw.

You’re leaning back with an arm thrown over your eyes, but the moment the door clicks open, your head snaps up and your arm falls away. For a heartbeat, all he sees is starlight; shimmering constellations are suspended in your gaze behind the glasses.

The smile he walked in with falters, his mouth parts slightly at the sight. Words get caught on his tongue, never making it out.

It’s the light from behind your eyes that does it, that shimmer he thought he imagined. He’s still staring—eyes widened behind his own shades, mouth still parted—when you clear your throat.

“Gojo,” you say with a steady voice, but your smile is strained, brittle, like a star blinking in and out of existence. So unlike the confident, unbothered person he normally sees in passing.

He tilts his head slightly, his bangs swooping to the side, some strands falling in front of his shades. There’s a slight, awkward beat where neither of you say anything. And as if he comes to his senses, he steps further into the room.

“You always wear those.” he nods toward your shades that are on the desk, off for once in your life. Or maybe you always have them off whenever you’re in your own space. Your brow lifts slowly, as if he’s stating the obvious—which he is—but you nod anyway, like you’re waiting for him to continue. “Why?”

“Why do you?” you ask, deflecting with the same softness he’s used to. There’s a slight tremble in your voice now, but he pretends not to notice. Normally he would tease people relentlessly, but he knows when is the time to tease, and now is not it.

“My eyes are sensitive,” he says, vaguely motioning towards his face. He doesn’t mention the Six Eyes, doesn’t mention the eye strain or the headaches they give, nor the way light breaks down for him into pieces smaller than atoms.

You nod at him, as if that’s enough of a reason. “Same here. Photophobia.”

He quirks a brow at that, the word sounds foreign to him. There’s a slight pause, before he finally opens his mouth again. “Photophobia?”

“Intolerance to light,” you say, as if you’re reciting something you’ve had to explains hundreds of times before. Then again, he’s not sure if the word is uncommon, or if he just hasn’t hear of it before. Your voice is quieter when you speak up again. “…Isn’t that why you wear yours?”

He shakes his head, feeling his smile curl onto his face again. Intolerance to light is not how he would describe his Six Eyes. Stepping closer, he lets his long strides carry him to your desk, and promptly lets his body drop into the seat across from your, leaning forward—his forearms are resting on the desk between the two of you.

His grin is coy, almost fox-like, and it reminds you of the constellation—Vulpecula—spinning somewhere behind your iris. The same constellation you thought felt like a message.

“Here’s the thing, sweets,” his voice drops an octave, still playful, but more serious underneath now, “There’s no light on right now.”

Your breath catches somewhere in your throat, spine straightening up imperceptibly before your eyes flit towards your desk.

Shit.

You forgot to turn the lamp on when he walked in, eyes wide behind your shades right now. The stars start to spin faster behind your irises, almost as if they can feel your panic, or maybe it’s just your cursed energy that wakes up, wanting to use them—to protect you.

Slowly, your gaze lifts back to him, throat dry. You open and close your mouth a few times, mind scrambling; searching for an out, a reason for the fact that you’re still wearing your shades despite it being pitch black—safe for the moonlight filtering through the window behind you—in here.

And all Gojo can think about is how cute you look like this. Mouth moving, no words coming out from between those shiny lips. Like a star trying to explain how it shines.

“There’s… moonlight,” you offer, weakly. You know it’s weak. He knows it’s weak. But it’s the best thing you could come up with right now. Gojo lifts a brow. Moonlight. Glancing around, he notes how your silhouette is bathed in it, as is the desk where your shadows don’t touch, and the floor. It is there, that much is true, but that’s all there is.

He hums, low and thoughtful. A small rumble goes through his chest while he leans back in your chair, his arms folding behind his head. He’s pretending to consider your words, head tilting slightly yet again. “So you’re saying the moonlight is what makes you wear shades?”

You slowly nod, as if you’re afraid nodding too hard would break the lie into a hundred pieces that would drift to the floor. Technically it isn’t a lie, the moonlight does hurt to look at sometimes, but it’s behind you now, drifting distantly in the sky.

“Right, right…” he drawls, watching you for a second—liking the way you try to keep yourself from squirming in your seat. “So it has nothing to do with the stars in your eyes?”

He can hear your breath catch before you push your shades higher up your nose. The sight makes him grin, a bit too bright—not literally, just metaphorically—and it makes you think of the sun. Night and day, seated across from each other. Unequal orbits, and an unavoidable pull.

Clearing your throat, you can feel the way the tips of your ears are starting to burn. You resist the urge to shift in your seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gojo.”

His grin doesn’t waver, if anything, it broadens slightly, like he knew you would try to wave off his comment before he even said it. You avoid his gaze after that, looking just over his shoulder at the wall behind him, but you can feel his gaze fixed on you.

“No?” he asks, with a slight tilt in his voice that makes it known he’s amused by the whole ordeal. Tilting his head the other way he continues. “So you’re saying my Six Eyes are lying to me?”

Swallowing, you fold your hands in your lap, fingers wringing together slightly before you force them to still. It reminds you of Ijichi, the way he seemed so nervous to talk to you, fingers twitching at his sides constantly.

“What do you want, Gojo?” you echo, this time your voice no longer has that glow it always has, that starlit tone that amazes him, just tired.

He sits up straighter at that, as if weighing the question seriously. His hands fall from his head onto his lap before he starts tapping them onto his thighs. “Remember the cafeteria?” You nod at that. “I’d seen you earlier that day, when you entered the school for the first time. Your cursed energy looked like starlight—like the whole cosmos wrapped up in human skin.”

Your teeth sink into your cheek hard enough to ground you; there’s a slight metallic taste that enters your mouth, mixing with your saliva before you swallow it down. You brace yourself for the reprimand that comes when people learn what your cursed technique does. For the reminder that stars are not meant to be touched—not meant to be stolen.

But Gojo doesn’t mention that, he just looks at you with a smile on his face while he keeps talking. “In the cafeteria, I thought I saw it again. Behind your glasses this time, that starlight that you leave in your wake. I figured I was going a little crazy.” He pauses, before his tone softens slightly. “But here you are. With actual stars in your eyes.”

Your gaze slides away from his, not wanting to meet his—well, his shades. Fingers start to finally fidget with the ring on your hand as it catches the moonlight just enough to sparkle, just like the stars in the sky. You don’t say anything; don’t know what even to tell him.

Gojo leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees. The light in the room is faint, moonlight and that slight shimmer from behind your shades that spills onto your clothes.

“I want to see,” he says softly, almost as if you’re a skittish animal he isn’t trying to scare off. Still, you tense at the words, the question familiar. He sees, and softly smiles, gesturing at his own shades. “I’ll show you mine first, if that helps.”

That makes you pause slightly. No one ever tried to give you something in return for asking something so vulnerable, it doesn’t even cross peoples minds before asking. You study him for a moment, the shadow low on his nose, his easy grin—the one that reminded you of Vulpecula—gone now; in its place is something quieter, softer.

A beat passes, then another, and another before you finally nod. Just once. A small, almost jerky motion that he would miss if he were to blink. Exhaling, he lifts his shades, shoving them into his hair, strands getting pushed back.

And there they are, his eyes—Six Eyes. They’re brilliant, iridescent, like cut glass held up to starlight. There are too many shades to name, too much depth to even process. It feels like looking into the sky on a sunny day, like staring at something that was never meant to bee seen head-on.

He watches you carefully, waiting to see if you flinch, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his gaze. Your own hand rises, hooking two fingers behind the arm of your shades before you lift them slowly, placing them into your own hair.

There aren’t many times Gojo Satoru’s breath catches, but it does now. Because he sees it again—not cursed energy, nor some illusion, but actual starlight. It spills from your irises like something the sky forgot to keep. Constellations floating just beneath the surface, and while he doesn’t know the names of them, he does know that they’re there.

You blink, lashes fluttering slightly before they open again. The starlight pulses once, then settles again.

Gojo doesn’t speak. For once, he doesn’t have anything clever to say, and it reminds him of the time in the cafeteria. One of the few other times he didn’t know what to say, either.

You wonder if he understands why you hide them now, considering he seems to be doing the same thing to his own eyes. Sure, the two of you have eye strain—sensitivity to light and the world breaking down to atoms—but it’s more than just that.

After a few more seconds of prolonged eye-contact, you break eye contact and gently slide your glasses back onto the bridge of your nose.Gojo follows, slipping his own shades into place.

“I should go,” he finally says, voice lower than before, a bit more breathy, catching into the air between the two of you. You nod, not asking why, not asking him to stay. Just slowly standing up, while he does the same.

He turns toward the door, hands shoving themselves into his pockets as his footsteps echo through the otherwise silent space. Just before he reaches the door, he pauses and looks back at you over his shoulder. “You’ve got galaxies in you. Don’t let anyone make you feel like they don’t belong.”

Winter slips quietly into spring; the snow melts, the Sakura trees begin to bloom again, soft-pink petals cling to the breeze, floating around, just like the memory of something behind your eyes, left unsaid.

Gojo is away, off on a mission. He told you something about visiting a student in Africa just before he left. Leaving with a wink and him telling you not to miss him too much. You merely rolled your eyes at that, shooing him off. He’s been gone for weeks.

You try not to think about that night. The low-lit room, moonlight spilling across his porcelain skin. The way his eyes shimmered like broken glass and reminded you of the time just after sunrise, where the sky is starting to turn blue.

People used to admire your eyes, too. Just the way you admire his. But that was before you started wearing the shades, before the headaches, before taking too many stars at once. It makes you wonder if people look at his eyes the same way, or if they only see the brilliant blue.

The sun is out today, gently beaming down onto Earth. It’s isn’t bright, but it’s enough for your eyes to sting, tears clinging to the sides of your eyes.

You’re wearing your shades—obviously. There are few times you go without them. But this time it’s accompanied by a cap that’s been pulled low, trying to shield your face from the one star you sometimes wish you could take, just so it would stop hurting your eyes.

The light creeps through the cloud in slated rays, enough to set off the beginnings of a migraine. You should be used to it by now, but with each season change, you get annoyed with it time and time again. You hate spring. It’s too bright, too loud, not enough gray, instead it’s blue skies and the gentle sun-rays.

The mission you were out on was simple. It was a mere Grade Two. Annoying, but nothing that you couldn’t handle. Now you’re just trying to get back to your office, coffee in hand, paperwork in your bag.

Closing your eyes for a moment as you walk—just a second you tell yourself, just to breathe—you let the dark encompass you. A soft sigh of relief falls from your lips.

crash

Your coffee hits the ground. You stagger, arms flailing for balance, as you open your eyes again. Once you find your footing, you bend a full ninety degrees, stammering apologies at the person you’ve just run into. “I’m so sorry— I didn't see you there. Are you okay?”

A hand catches you elbow, firm and steady, keeping you from losing your balance once more. “Whoa there, easy,” a familiar voice says, and your blood almost runs cold. Surely it can’t be, out of all the people it has to be him. No, no it’s just a stranger with the same voice.

Still, you blink up. And sure enough, white hair fills your vision. Gojo is grinning down at you, smugness wrapped in morning light, and it reminds you of how he’ll always be day to you. “Well hello there, Starling,” he drawls. “Y’know, if you missed me you could’ve just said so. No need to body check me in public.”

Your cheeks instantly flare, blood rushing to them as you sputter. “That’s not what happened— I didn’t— wait, Starling?”

His grin widens, unbearably smug now. And you have to squint slightly as the sun catches his pearly whites, glinting down at you, almost as if the cosmos is favoring him. “What, you don’t like nicknames?”

“I don’t even know what that one means.”

Gojo tuts, mock-disappointed. Jutting his lip out slightly, he looks at you like a kicked puppy, before his smile returns to his face. “You wound me. It’s cute. And celestial. Very on brand for you.”

You try to cross your arms, but get held back when you feel his fingers still clamped around your elbow. The two of you look at it, before he quickly removes it, and he at least looks bashful about it. “It’s also a type of bird.”

“Yeah, but so is a phoenix. Doesn’t mean you’re not secretly mythical.” he shrugs, as if his words don’t punch you right into the sternum. Heart skipping a beat. Still, you try to glare at him, only to fail at that. Your eyes soften behind your glasses, and you just hope he can’t see it. You mutter, “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he says brightly, and if words had lumens, you’re sure you would’ve been blinded. “That’s part of my charm.”

There’s a beat of quiet. Your heart is still racing, but no longer from the stumble. It’s something you try not to think about, pretending like your heart doesn’t beat a bit faster whenever he’s around. Gojo looks at you, and something shifts behind his shades.

“You okay?” he asks, voice a little softer now. “You’ve got that whole ‘I’m fine, but also definitely dying on the inside’ thing going on.”

You open your mouth to reply, try to deflect it with a joke—something he had done quite a few times before he left for Africa—but then you just pause. Watch the way he’s looking at you, though you can’t quite see his eyes, you did hear the way his voice softened. Finally you sigh. “Migraine.”

He nods at that, almost as if he understands it. And maybe, in a way, he does. “Sun’s a bitch.”

You huff a laugh at that. “Yeah. Thought I could outrun it.” you had gone on the mission before the sun had come up, after all. But while it was an easy mission, it did take you longer than you’re willing to admit. By the time you got outside, the sun was already blinking down upon earth.

“You can always try,” his tone is almost… fond, but you decide not to linger too much on that. There’s another pause, a longer one this time. You’re not sure what to say, but seems like you don’t have to, because Gojo lifts his hand and taps the rim of your cap gently to make you look at him.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’ll get you another coffee. One with stardust in it, or whatever it is you drink.”

That’s honestly… really sweet. You were the one who ran into him, after all. Still, you follow him. The coffee shop near Jujutsu High is half-empty, early enough that the students aren’t in yet and just late enough for the morning rush to have left.

The lights are soft—luckily—yellowish. The kind that doesn’t buzz too loud or make your headache worse. Mind immediately goes back to the bright, sterile lights at the school, making you scowl slightly.

Gojo sits across from you, his shades pushed up into his hair. He’s already ordered for the both of you. One over-sugared caramel latte (his) and one carefully customized drink he remembers you liking once—surprising you that he even remembered it to begin with.

You’re still wearing your shades and cap. Even inside, you’re trying to disappear into the corner booth, the way sunlight disappears behind heavy clouds. Shoulders folding into themselves, trying to make yourself smaller.

He lets the silence sit for a while; just watches you sip your drink. Your fingers wrap around the cup slowly, as if holding something hot is still safer than holding eye contact. In a way it is. You could probably get lost in his eyes if you were to look now—the sun spilling through the window, casting a nice glow over his face, eyes catching the light that made your breath hitch when he sat down across from you.

Eventually, Gojo leans back in his seat, one leg hooked over the other, his blue eyes trained on yours. You’re even prettier than he remembers, even when you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Not pretty like polished, not the kind of pretty that wears makeup and flirts easily. You’re quiet pretty. Constellation pretty. The kind of pretty that hurts if you look too long, because it makes you want to name things you don’t understand.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” he finally says, voice softer now. Less grin, more honesty. He just came back from Africa, and missions immediately found themselves shoved into his hands—higher ups looking at him like he took a vacation rather than another grueling mission.

You hum into your cup, still not glancing at him. “Yeah. You’re usually off somewhere. Busy.”

“I am busy,” he replies, a bit too quick for his liking, and he has to stop himself from wincing at it. Not a good look. “But never too busy for coffee. Or mystery teachers with eyes like dying stars.”

Your brow lifts just slightly over your shades, but you keep quiet. Shit, was that too straight-forward? He lets the quiet stretch again. Outside, petals float against the window, pale pink and white. Pretty.

He shifts forward a little, forearms resting on the table. “When I first saw you,” he murmurs, “I thought my technique was malfunctioning.” It’s something he hadn’t admitted to when he told you he saw you for the first time that night you showed him your eyes.

You tilt your head, but say nothing. Lips wrapping around your cup again, and he quickly does the same, taking a quick sip of his own drink. “I didn’t know what to make of it. Still don’t, really.”

Finally, you set your cup down. You push your shades up a little higher before you clasp your hands together, tilting your head slightly. “Do you want to?”

The question lingers in the space between you two. He doesn’t answer right away, because Gojo has never needed to understand someone to care about them. But this feels different, so different. Like he’s been staring at the sky his whole life and only just realised someone else was up there, watching back.

“Yeah,” he finally says, leaning forward, and his eyes almost seem to glow a little—just like the way light emits from yours, but surely that’s just a trick of the light. “I think I do.”

He sees you take a breath, a deep one. Your eyes shift slightly, drifting past his shoulder, like you’re remembering something only the sky could know—and probably does know; you had told him once, that when you feel sad, you talk to the night sky. To the stars, almost as if asking them to hold a memory for you.

“When I was a kid,” you begin, voice soft—starry. “I always liked watching the night sky. I’d get so excited when a star dared to peek through the Tokyo horizon.” Your voice goes quiet for a moment, almost dreamlike; like it might float upward if he doesn’t anchor it by listening.

“One day, I was sitting near the pond behind my house. The water was still. It reflected the only star that was brave that day.” There’s a small smile now, quiet and distant, but dazzling all the same. Your eyes shimmer just a little brighter now, like the memory wakes up the stars inside them. “I remember thinking: what if I could just… reach for the stars. Not figuratively, literally.”

Gojo holds his breath, not daring to interrupt you even once.

“So I walked to the pond, and dipped my hand into the water. Right over the reflection of that star,” your voice softens even more, airier now. The smile still lingering on your face, like you’re reminiscing your favorite memory. “And when I pulled my hand back out… the star was gone. I thought it had just blinked out. Or slipped behind a cloud. But the next morning, my mom was staring at me like I’d grown wings.”

Your gaze flickers back to him—finally looking him in the eye. Leaning forward slightly, your shades slip down your nose enough to meet his eyes.

Gojo feels the breath leave him. There they are, the stars he’d dreamed about more times than he’ll ever admit to anyone. Your eyes shine, just like they did back then; constellations flickering gently behind your irises.

“Turns out, the star didn’t disappear behind the pollution.” You pause, slight dramatic effect. It seems to work with the way Gojo leans forward slightly, like he’s awaiting for the answer he already knows will come. “I kidnapped it.”

He lets out a low laugh, not loud or mocking like he normally does. No, this one is more wonder and breath, and maybe something that aches a little when he thinks too hard about pretty eyes and childhoods.

“Of course you did,” he says, tilting his head. The smile on his face doesn’t leave this time, just stays there planted on his face like he doesn’t realise how soft he looks like this. “That’s such a you thing to do.”

You lift your cup again, sipping quietly. Outside, the petals have begun to fall in earnest now, sweeping along the window glass like they’re racing to keep up with the memory—and it almost reminds him of a meteor shower.

“We should head back,” you finally murmur after what feels like an eternity. His cup is barely touched, but he doesn’t seem to mind too much. “Paperwork doesn’t write itself.”

He stands first, making you blink up at him at how quickly he slid out of the booth. Offers you his hand, one that makes you stare for a bit too long before you finally take it. You note how warm his palm is when your fingers brush.

The walk back is silent, steps matching pace while the two of you sip from your coffees. And if both your eyes shine a little brighter as you pass through the gate? Well, Gojo doesn’t say a word, just tilts his head toward the sky, and smiles.

Spring slips into summer, gentle as the shimmer in your eyes. You and Gojo have met up several times since the coffee shop. It’s mostly him just barging into your office with a grin on his face, half trying to scare you, half just because he thinks it’s cute how you scramble for your shades before you sigh out when you realise it’s him.

He’s started to leave fresh cups of coffee on your desk every night now. Sometimes the lid has little stars scribbled on it. Other times, entire constellations that are labeled and mapped out completely; as if he’s trying to learn your language.

You laugh easily with him now, bright and easy-going. No longer scrambling for your shades when he knocks—which isn’t often, but still. You also don’t flinch when he leans in just a little too close, just bask in it.

The problem with summer is that you fucking hate it. The sun is too bright, and it stays up far too long. You can’t recall just how many times you’ve actually cussed the thing out—hell, you’ve even shouted at it on occasions because you got so frustrated with the migraines it leaves behind, which wasn’t the smartest thing to do, cause loud noises and a migraine do not mix well together.

You had asked Yaga if he could adjust your schedule. Late nights into early morning, just so you could avoid the sun. A graveyard shift, essentially. He agreed without question, especially after you scowled at the sunrise like it had personally offended you.

It’s at times like these that you’re happy you’re not a teacher, cause loud teenagers plus the sun would absolutely do your head in. The job itself—exorcising curses—luckily doesn’t have a real time-frame. You could technically just work these hours all the time, but most people like to be awake during the day.

You’ve moved your desk to the darkest corner of your office, where the sunlight slants the softest. Luckily the sunlight isn’t there for long when you start working, but of course the sun doesn’t stay down your entire shift, so there’s still overlap. You should really ask for curtains.

But you’re happy, truly happy. This is the first job that has let you work into the night, instead of having to start the day when the sun comes up, during the brightest hours of the day. During the night, you can breathe. You can take your shades off and let your eyes exist freely. During the day, when the sun blazes down on the world, you sleep.

But every time you think of the sun, you think of him. The white-haired menace who still leaves coffee at your door, just before your shift starts. It’s always fresh when you take a sip, just starting to cool.

You see Gojo less now. He trains the first years, and he does that during the day; the time where you’re unconscious, dreaming about god knows what. (Certainly not the white-haired sorcerer you keep missing because of your schedules.)

You don’t meet him for breakfast, because for him it’s already dinnertime—hell, by the time you eat your breakfast, dinner has long since passed. You don’t share lunch breaks anymore, because your orbits never quite overlap.

And you’ll admit, it hurts, just a little. He is day, and you are night, after all. An observation you had made two seasons ago. They have unequal orbits, only this time, literally.

It’s stupid, really. Because without day, there wouldn’t be night. So why does it feel like your day is always just out of reach? It’s been two weeks since you last saw him, and you miss him. Not that you would ever admit as such. You’d rather return every star you’ve ever taken.

He’d be so smug. Call you Starlight again, in that teasing tone that makes your ears burn, but always vehemently deny when he comments on it. You shake your head at the thought. Nope. Not happening.

Still… if you happen to leave a coffee—which is way too sweet by the way, you’re not sure how his teeth haven’t rotted by now—and a fresh box of Kikufuku Mochi on his desk, the exact kind he likes, from the exact store that only sells it in small batches? Well… must’ve been because you were passing by anyway.

Gojo finds it a couple hours later. The coffee is lukewarm now, condensation beading down the sides of the cup, leaving behind a wet ring on the napkin you placed under it—making him smile, because you’d thought even about the small things like that. The mochi box is carefully sealed, tucked just beside the coffee.

He doesn’t do anything at first, just… stares at it. Then he smiles—lips curling up even further—not the bright, showy grin he gives the world. This one is quieter, a little warmer, softer around the edges.

“Oh, Starlight,” he mutters, like a secret, fondness coating every syllable. He misses you, of course he does. The two of you had grown close fast. And maybe, just maybe, there’s something else shimmering just beneath the surface. Something a bit more tender than he’s willing to admit.

A feeling waiting to breach the surface, like a star crossing the horizon. A feeling that wants to reach across the table and tuck your hair behind your ear. A feeling that wants to stay a little longer, even if the night is fading.

Later that night, Gojo is pacing in his office. Well, not really pacing. He just walks from his chair to the bookcase full of books he’s never even read. There was a time he wanted to change all of them with different manga, but then he remembered he wouldn’t have the time to read all of them anyway.

The sun has long since gone down. Midnight creeps closer with every tick of the wall clock, and he knows you’re on shift by now. You’re probably—hopefully—wondering why there was no fresh cup of coffee by your door this time.

He should just do it… right? It’s just a walk. A harmless night stroll. You wouldn’t say no… right? He winces at his own reflection in the window.

Okay, so, maybe most people would say no to him. He’s not exactly known for his low-maintenance presence, or his ability to act normal. He always has to say something, lighten the mood up slightly by saying random things.

But you’re not most people.

You’re his Starlight. The one who smiles at the moon and talks to the stars whenever they dare to peek through the pollution. The one who talks about constellations like they’re close friends. The one who looks at him like he shines back.

That alone is enough to steel him.

Before he can second-guess it, he opens his office door. Long strides carry him across the hallway to yours, and he has half the mind to turn off the lights—just for when the two of you step out. He doesn’t knock this time, just opens the door without a pause before nerves can catch up.

You startle slightly, paper crinkling in your hand where you’re gripping it a bit too tightly. Your eyes meet his, blinking up at him slightly. “Gojo?” you ask, voice soft, airy. Like starlight. The kind of voice that makes the night feel warmer.

He stares at you for a few seconds and just forgets how to breathe. You look… beautiful. Eyes shimmering in the dark, and it seems to brighten the moment your eyes find his. He blinks, then shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, and finally blurts out: “Wanna go outside for a bit?”

You blink once, then again, eyes flicking to the window, as if confirming it really is dark outside already. Your smile comes slow, a bit serene. “Sure. Why not?”

The stroll itself isn’t anything special. Just a quiet loop around the campus paths, stone hard beneath your feet. The lanterns are dimmed, fireflies drifting lazily through the air.

You talk as you walk. About constellations, myths, seasonal stars. You point things out with your hands, painting stories midair. Each motion leaves a little glow in its wake, and it makes him think of Tinkerbell, just slightly—the two of you had watched it some time back, not because either of you actually had the mind to put it on, but because the lounge was empty and the two of you had wanted a bit of background noise as you talked.

Your fingers keep grazing his with each swing of your arm. Gojo isn’t even listening anymore. He wants to hold your hand, just slide his fingers between yours. He’s never really wanted to do that before. The next time your fingers brush, he hesitantly reaches out.

He catches your hand in his, and it makes your freeze for a breath. Just a quiet heartbeat. Then your fingers curl into his like they were meant to be there all along. You keep talking, continuing where you left off.

Gojo lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. He doesn’t say a word about it. Just smiles, walking a little slower, as if trying to make the night last a little longer. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, making small half-circles in them.

The walk back is quiet, the two of you letting the silence stretch this time. Not uncomfortable, just… familiar in a way that can only be when you’re close with someone, not needing to fill it to feel comfortable.

He doesn’t let go of your hand, but doesn’t say anything, either. He just walks beside you, fingers still curled loosely into yours. His thumb brushes across your knuckles again, like he’s trying to remember the shape of them—just in case this is the last time you let him hold your hand.

Still, you don’t pull away from him. The faculty dorm building is just ahead now. A soft glow in the distance, the porch light left on for the night staff. You glance at it, then back at Gojo.

“I’m still on duty, you know,” you murmur, voice light, a bit teasing as you grin up at him. Gojo raises a snowy brow. “Really? I thought starry midnight walks with attractive coworkers were part of the job.”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head at him. “And here I thought you were the distraction.”

“Oh, I absolutely am,” he says without missing a beat. And you laugh a bit at his self-awareness. He really is. “I come with hazard warning and everything.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind the expression. The two of you reach the porch steps. That’s when you hesitate, jut for a second, caught in the gravity of the moment. You should say goodnight, should go back to your office. But instead, your fingers tug his hand lightly. “…Come with me.”

Gojo’s eyes flicker towards yours, lips parting slightly before he nods. He didn’t expect it, but he would go anywhere you’d want him to. “Okay.”

The room is dark when you step inside. You leave the lights off, considering the moonlight is enough for the two of you. Gojo steps inside, trailing slowly behind you. He looks around like he’s memorizing the version of you that only exists here, in this quiet hour.

You’re by the window, fingers rising to your temple. There’s a subtle shift in the air, and he can see the way your technique activates itself. It runs through you like stardust, almost as if floating inside of you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. He watches you pull something from your eye, something that glows.

A star.

It’s small, burning gold, suspended on your fingertip made of light. You bring your other hand to it and let it unravel from between your fingers.

The star splinters apart into hundreds of tiny fragments. They float upward, drifting into the air like shimmering dust motes, like galaxies breaking open. They swirl across the ceiling, leaving behind soft trails of gold. A quiet cosmos blooming above you.

Gojo stares, and once again, he’s absolutely in awe with you—something only you seem to be able to do to him. And when you finally turn towards him, eyes still glowing faintly, just a little softer now, he crosses the room in two long strides, and kisses you in the dark of your bedroom.

Above you, fragments of stars float lazily—casting a soft, golden light across the walls, across his face, illuminating the way his hand trembles slightly where it cups your cheek. The light shimmers, low and warm, just like the glow spilling from your eyes.

Your eyes—god, those eyes—the ones he’s long since learned to follow. The ones that pull him in like gravity, using them to find his way back home. Like the stars sailors once used when the world was too big.

His lips are cold against yours, the night sky biting its way into the two of you. He tastes sweet, like his ridiculous coffee order. The kiss is slow, almost careful, like he’s trying to memorise it.

He holds you like you’re made of glass, as if pressing too hard might crush something fragile—might collapse the constellations, not just in your eyes, but the ones etches into your skin, the ones you can’t see but he can.

You breathe into him, a shaky exhale as you kiss him back. Fingers sliding up, curling into the soft hair at his nape, tugging at it slightly. That’s what undoes him—the way you reach for him like you already know he’ll stay.

He exhales a shaky breath against your lips, and you pull back just slightly, breaths still mingling with each exhale. Your eyes meet his—half-lidded and breathless—as the starlight still dances above you. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Satoru blinks, his pupils wide, eyes full of awe, like you’ve just cracked the universe open in front of him. Like a wish of his had been pulled down onto earth and presented itself in the form of you. “…Really?”

You smile, that cute, crooked smile you do when you’re a bit shy about the things you’re admitting. Your cheeks are burning, blood rushing through you as your heartbeat pounds into your ears, but you don’t look away.

Instead of answering with words, you lean forward and kiss him again. This time a little slower, a little more certain. You can feel him smile against your lips as his hand tugs you a little closer to him, pulling you in.

This feels like something the stars wrote down a long time ago. Like a place just beneath the sky, where starlight learns how to stay.

Tags: @tojiscreampie @etheralpanic @yoonsucks @lilithkleia @dollieadored @starsforvia @iinvivible @saniiaa @sweethearticism @marisacosm @tojiphoria @yorikae @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz @lilslovesaizawa @secretsofchance

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