Gloom

Who i will write for

Jjk

Its pretty straightforward, i will write mainly for jjk but maybe if a request comes in or something else for haikyuu or gachiakuta i might.

I will write for anyone in jjk(even curses). I often see posts with very vague requests and it kind of annoys me. In order to do the best i can for peoples request id like more information, so you can get what u wanted

What im comfortable with writing:

All of the normal things im comfy with writing

Angst

Fluff

Smut

Platonic

X reader

Canon x canon

What im not comfortable with writing:

Rape

incest

Non-consensual

Anything illegal

Crazy kinks like piss or other weird things.

There will be others but this is all i can think of off the top of my head. I will add if there are any requests that i don’t like. Just so no one gets the wrong idea

My plans for writing

The afternoon sun filtered lazily through the half-drawn curtains of Satoru’s apartment, casting long golden streaks across the worn wooden floor. You had been dragged here by Shoko, your closest friend from college days, who had insisted that this casual hangout would be “good for you.” She knew how you preferred burying yourself in your room with your Pokémon cards spread across the desk, controllers in hand, or scrolling through endless forums debating type matchups and evolutions. Socializing wasn’t exactly your strong suit, but Shoko had a way of making refusals feel impossible with her calm, cigarette-scented persistence.

“Trust me,” she had said earlier that morning, her eyes twinkling with that rare mischievous glint. “Suguru’s friend is exactly like you. Obsessed with the same stuff. You’ll hit it off instantly.”

Suguru Geto, Shoko’s friend and the calm anchor to her laid-back chaos, had echoed the sentiment when he texted you the address. So here you were, perched awkwardly on the edge of a oversized couch that smelled faintly of takeout and whatever expensive cologne Satoru favored. The living room was a testament to comfortable bachelor chaos: gaming consoles stacked neatly on a low shelf, posters of various anime and games tacked to the walls, and a coffee table cluttered with half-empty soda cans and a forgotten bag of chips.

Satoru lounged across from you, long legs stretched out, his white hair tousled as if he had just rolled out of bed despite it being mid-afternoon. He wore a simple black t-shirt and sweats, but there was an effortless charisma about him that made the casual look seem intentional. Suguru had mentioned Satoru was “the Digimon guy,” and you had pictured someone equally introverted, ready to dive deep into strategies and lore. Instead, he flashed you a bright, almost blinding smile as Shoko and Suguru disappeared into the kitchen under the pretense of grabbing drinks.

“So,” Satoru started, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, blue eyes locking onto yours with unexpected intensity. “Shoko said you’re super into it. The whole franchise, right? The battles, the partners, the evolutions. I’ve been dying to talk to someone who actually gets it on that level.”

You blinked, adjusting your glasses slightly and tugging at the hem of your hoodie, which proudly displayed a subtle Eevee embroidery you had sewn on yourself. “Yeah, absolutely. I’ve got my team optimized for competitive play. What about you? Favorite generation? Or do you lean more toward the classics?”

Satoru grinned wider, clearly excited. “Classics all the way. The original adventures hit different. That sense of wonder when your partner first evolves, the digital world opening up. Nothing beats the early stories.”

You nodded enthusiastically, feeling a small spark of relief. Maybe Shoko was right. “Totally. The first games had that raw charm. But I love how later entries expanded the world with new regions and mechanics. My starter is always something versatile, like a Grass type for coverage.”

He tilted his head, a flicker of confusion crossing his features, but he powered on. “Grass? Interesting choice. I always went for the more balanced ones. Fire or Water depending on the arc. But the real thrill is in the partner bonds. That loyalty through everything.”

The conversation flowed for a few minutes, but something felt… off. You mentioned gyms and badges, and Satoru responded with talk of “sectors” and “DigiDestined.” You brushed it aside at first, assuming he was using fan terminology or referencing spin-offs. But as you described a recent tournament where your Lucario swept through opponents with aura sphere combos, Satoru’s eyebrows furrowed deeper.

“Lucario? Is that from one of the later card sets?” he asked, scratching the back of his neck. “I stick mostly to the core games. The anime arcs are peak though. Remember when the Dark Masters showed up? That tension.”

You paused, tilting your head. “Dark Masters? That sounds like a fan event or something. No, I’m talking about the Elite Four challenges. My team wiped them last week on my replay.”

The air grew thicker with mutual bewilderment. Satoru sat up straighter, his playful energy shifting into something more puzzled. Shoko and Suguru lingered in the kitchen doorway, exchanging glances but saying nothing, clearly eavesdropping with poorly concealed amusement.

“Wait,” you said slowly, setting down the soda Shoko had handed you. “What exactly are you talking about? The Digimon games?”

Satoru’s eyes widened, realization dawning like a sunrise. “Digimon, yeah. The virtual pets, the Digivolutions, the whole digital realm thing. Suguru said you were a huge fan, obsessed like me.”

Your face heated up, a mix of embarrassment and dawning horror. “Pokemon. Shoko told me you were the Pokemon nerd of the group.”

A beat of silence stretched between you two on that couch. The awkwardness settled heavy, like a blanket too warm for the room. You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the subtle creak of floorboards as Shoko shifted her weight. Satoru stared at you, then burst into a short laugh, rubbing his hand over his face.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, though his grin remained. “They set us up. Those two probably thought it was hilarious.”

You let out a nervous chuckle, fiddling with the zipper on your hoodie. “Yeah. Super awkward. Sorry, I just assumed… Digimon, huh? I know a bit about it. The shows were fun when I was younger, but Pokemon has my heart.”

Satoru’s expression shifted from amusement to mock offense, his eyes narrowing in that dramatic way only he could pull off. “A bit? Come on, that’s criminal. Digimon has deeper lore. The real stakes, the way the digital world mirrors our own. Your Pokemon are cute pets in a battle simulator. Digimon are actual partners fighting for survival.”

The playful jab landed, sparking something competitive in you. You straightened, meeting his gaze head-on. Antisocial shell or not, you weren’t about to let that slide. “Cute pets? Pokemon have rich ecosystems, trainer bonds that span regions. The strategy in battles, the breeding mechanics, the shiny hunting. Digimon is cool for the adventure, but it’s more linear. Pokemon lets you build your world.”

Satoru leaned in closer, the couch dipping slightly under his movement. His voice took on an animated edge, hands gesturing wildly as he countered. “Linear? Digimon has multiple timelines, corruption arcs, the Sovereigns. Every season builds on the last in crazy ways. Your type charts are just rock-paper-scissors with extra steps. Digivolution lines have real emotional weight.”

You felt your cheeks flush, not from embarrassment anymore but from the thrill of the debate. It had been ages since you argued about this with anyone who matched your energy. “Emotional weight? Try raising a Pokemon from egg to champion. The IVs, EVs, natures. Hours of grinding for perfection. And the merch? Don’t even get me started. I have shelves of figures, plushies, the full card collection from multiple sets. Games on every console. Events, tournaments. Digimon has some games, sure, but Pokemon is a cultural phenomenon.”

He scoffed, but there was laughter in it, his body language opening up as he gestured toward an imaginary shelf. “Cultural what? Digimon cards were intense back in the day too. The anime had better fights, more epic scale. Mega evolutions? Pfft. Ultimate and Mega Digivolutions change everything.”

The argument escalated in that lighthearted way, voices rising and falling without real heat. You countered with stories of your competitive battles, the rush of a perfect prediction in a ranked match, the community events where you traded cards with strangers. Satoru fired back with tales of Digimon World explorations, the freedom of the digital environments, and how the partner mechanics felt more personal than training a team for badges.

Shoko and Suguru had migrated fully into the living room by now, perching on armchairs with matching smirks. Shoko lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as she watched you both. Suguru crossed his arms, his dark hair tied back neatly, observing like a proud parent at a school play.

“Admit it,” you pressed, gaining confidence as the words tumbled out faster. “Pokemon has the staying power. The movies, the spin-offs, the mobile game that took over the world. My apartment has more Pokemon stuff than actual furniture. Cards in binders, strategy guides from every era, even custom 3D prints of my favorites.”

Satoru threw his hands up in exaggerated defeat, flopping back against the couch cushions with a dramatic groan. “Okay, okay. You win on the merch front. I can’t compete with a whole collection that sounds like a museum. Digimon has its gems, but yeah, Pokemon flooded the market harder. Fair point.”

You blinked, surprised by the quick concession. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Really? Just like that?”

He shrugged, his blue eyes sparkling with genuine interest now, the awkwardness fully evaporated. “I’m not above admitting when someone’s got the receipts. But that doesn’t mean Digimon isn’t superior in spirit. Come on, tell me your top three Pokemon. I’ll counter with Digimon equivalents.”

The shift was seamless. What started as a forced meeting on that couch transformed into a rapid back-and-forth that filled the room with energy. You launched into your favorites: “Pikachu for nostalgia, but competitively? Gengar for the shadow sneak mind games. And Eevee because of all the evolutions. The adaptability is unmatched.”

Satoru nodded along, jumping in without missing a beat. “Agumon for the classic hero vibe. His lines are iconic. Then Gabumon, that fur coat design and the wolf evolution? Chef’s kiss. And for strategy, something like MetalGreymon. Heavy hitters that evolve under pressure.”

You countered with stories from Pokemon Scarlet and Violet, the open-world freedom and Terastallization mechanics that let you experiment wildly. Satoru described Cyber Sleuth’s detective elements and how hacking into the digital layers felt immersive in a way no gym battle could match. The conversation bounced between shared loves and gentle roasts: the absurdity of some Pokemon designs versus the gritty tones in later Digimon seasons.

“Remember the first Digimon movie?” you asked, eyes lighting up. “The whole Diaboromon internet takeover. That had real tension for a kid’s show.”

Satoru grinned, pointing at you. “Exactly! Pokemon movies are fun, but that one hit different. Though I have to give it to Pokemon for the music. Those battle themes slap.”

Hours seemed to slip by unnoticed. The sun dipped lower outside, painting the room in warmer oranges and pinks. You described your extensive card binder organization system, complete with sleeves and dividers for competitive versus casual collections. Satoru shared his own collection of Digimon figures from the Tamagotchi era onward, admitting he had a soft spot for the virtual pet simulations that started it all.

Shoko chuckled softly from her chair, nudging Suguru with her elbow. “Look at them. Finally talking like normal people instead of hiding behind their screens.”

Suguru smiled, a rare full one that reached his eyes. “Told you it would work. Even if the setup was based on faulty intel.”

You caught snippets of their quiet laughter, but the focus remained on Satoru. He listened intently as you rambled about shiny hunting marathons, the dopamine hit of a rare spawn after hundreds of encounters. In turn, he painted vivid pictures of Digimon Frontier’s spirit evolution system and how it blended human and digital in fresh ways.

“What about crossovers in your head?” he asked at one point, leaning so close your knees almost brushed. “If a Pokemon trainer got thrown into the Digital World, what team would wreck the most Digimon?”

You laughed, the sound surprising even you with its ease. “Easy. A full Electric team for those virus types. But a Digimon partner could corrupt the system. Imagine a Renamon with illusion tricks against a Zoroark.”

The ideas flowed endlessly. You debated favorite villains: Giovanni’s calculated menace versus the various Digimon antagonists driven by deeper existential threats. Satoru mimed dramatic fight scenes from memory, complete with exaggerated sound effects that had you both cracking up. Your initial reserve melted away completely, replaced by the kind of animated gesturing and overlapping sentences that came with true shared passion.

At some point, Shoko ordered takeout, and the four of you ate scattered around the coffee table, but you and Satoru barely paused. He challenged you to a hypothetical battle scenario: your Pokemon team versus his Digimon partners in a neutral arena.

“Alright, my Charizard Mega X versus WarGreymon,” you proposed, popping a piece of sushi into your mouth.

Satoru shook his head, stealing a fry from your plate without asking. “WarGreymon takes it with the Dramon Killer. But your Gengar could sneak in some status effects first. Tricky.”

The playful analysis continued, dissecting movesets and abilities with nerdy precision. You admired how his mind worked, quick and creative, filling in gaps where real crossovers didn’t exist. He seemed equally impressed by your depth on Pokemon lore, quoting obscure Pokédex entries that even he hadn’t heard.

As the evening deepened, the initial forced setup felt like a distant memory. The couch, once a site of stiff discomfort, now hosted two people fully engaged, trading recommendations for games to try and episodes to rewatch. You mentioned a upcoming Pokemon event in the city, and Satoru immediately suggested crashing it together, “for research purposes, obviously.”

Shoko and Suguru watched from the sidelines, their laughter more frequent now. Shoko’s quiet giggles mixed with Suguru’s deeper chuckles as they observed their antisocial friends blooming under the shared spotlight of nerdy enthusiasm.

“You owe us for this,” Shoko called out during a brief lull, raising her drink in a toast.

Satoru waved her off with a grin but didn’t disagree. His attention stayed mostly on you. “Seriously though, we should do this again. Without the setup lies next time. I need to see that card collection in person.”

You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah. And I’ll judge your Digimon setup. Fair trade.”

The night stretched on with more stories, more debates that circled back to appreciation. You talked about the emotional core of both franchises: the theme of friendship and growth that defined them. Satoru admitted Digimon’s darker edges appealed to his love for complex narratives, while you defended Pokemon’s accessibility that drew in millions. Back and forth, rapid and descriptive, the words never seemed to run out.

By the time you finally checked your phone, hours had vanished. The apartment felt warmer, more alive. As Shoko and Suguru started tidying up with knowing smiles, Satoru walked you to the door, hands in his pockets but posture relaxed.

“Thanks for not bolting when we realized the mix-up,” he said softly, that signature smile returning but gentler now.

You shrugged, mirroring his ease. “Thanks for the argument. It was… fun.”

“Next time, bring the cards. I’ll bring my old virtual pets. We can settle this properly.”

The promise hung in the air like a new adventure beginning. As you stepped out into the cool night with Shoko, her arm linked through yours, you glanced back at the apartment. Satoru waved from the doorway, and for the first time in a long while, the thought of another social outing didn’t fill you with dread. It sparked excitement instead.

Back inside, Suguru clapped Satoru on the shoulder. “Told you they were perfect.”

Satoru just laughed, already mentally planning the next hangout, his mind buzzing with Digimon strategies and Pokemon counters alike. The misunderstanding had forged an unexpected connection, one built on plastic cards, pixelated battles, and the simple joy of finding someone who understood the obsession.

The weeks that followed blurred into more meetings. You and Satoru texted constantly, sharing screenshots of rare finds or heated takes on new releases. One weekend, you hosted a joint watch party at your place, your Pokemon plushies lining the shelves while his Digimon figures claimed space on the table. The debates continued, but now laced with inside jokes and collaborative fan theories.

Shoko and Suguru often joined, content to watch their plan succeed beyond expectations. Your antisocial tendencies softened around Satoru, and his own bright energy found a perfect counterbalance in your thoughtful analyses. What began as an awkward couch session evolved into something deeper: two nerds bridging two beloved worlds, one conversation at a time.

In quiet moments, you reflected on how a simple mix-up had pulled you both from your shells. Satoru would later confess the same, his voice casual but eyes sincere during a late-night gaming session. “Didn’t expect to find someone who gets it. Both sides, you know?”

The days had blurred together in the rhythm of jujutsu sorcery, where curses never slept and neither did the weight on your shoulders. You and Satoru had been together for nearly two years now, a relationship forged in the fires of shared battles and quiet nights where his usual cocky facade melted away into something softer, something real. He was the strongest, but with you, he let himself be vulnerable in ways no one else saw. Lazy mornings tangled in your shared bed, his blindfold discarded on the nightstand, his white hair messy as he pulled you closer and whispered promises about a future where the world didn’t demand so much from either of you. You were both sorcerers, assigned to Tokyo Jujutsu High, and the bond felt unbreakable.

Until the mission came.

It was supposed to be a week-long assignment in a remote prefecture, tracking a particularly elusive special-grade curse that had been evading capture. Satoru had kissed you goodbye at the school’s gates, his usual grin in place but his six eyes lingering on you a beat longer than necessary. “Come back to me in one piece, yeah? I’ll have your favorite takeout waiting. And maybe a little something extra.” His voice had been light, teasing, but the way his fingers brushed your cheek carried the quiet worry he rarely voiced aloud.

You left with a smile, promising to text him updates. The mission dragged, filled with sleepless nights and close calls, but you pushed through, counting down the days until you could collapse into his arms again.

Meanwhile, back at the school, life moved on without you. A new teacher had arrived just days after your departure, a transfer from a smaller branch up north named Aiko. She was sharp-witted, with a no-nonsense attitude that masked a surprisingly dry sense of humor. Mid-twenties, dark hair tied back in a practical ponytail, and cursed energy that hummed with controlled precision. Principal Yaga had introduced her briefly in the staff room, explaining she would be handling some of the advanced training sessions for the second-years while also assisting with curse reconnaissance.

Satoru, ever the social butterfly when it suited him, had been the one to show her around. At first, it was purely professional. He demonstrated the school’s layout with his typical flair, infinity flickering idly around him as he levitated a few training dummies to show her the sparring grounds. “Don’t let the kids fool you,” he said with a chuckle, pushing his blindfold up just enough to wink. “They look innocent, but they’ll curse you into next week if you’re not careful.”

Aiko laughed, a genuine sound that cut through the afternoon haze. “Sounds like my old students. One of them tried to summon a low-grade curse just to get out of homework. Kids these days.”

They fell into easy conversation after that. Satoru found himself lingering in the staff lounge more than usual, trading stories about botched missions. She had a way of matching his energy without trying too hard. When he cracked a joke about how the higher-ups were basically ancient curses themselves, bureaucratic and soul-sucking, she fired back instantly. “At least curses dissolve when you hit them hard enough. Paperwork just multiplies.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, and Satoru threw his head back in laughter, the sound echoing down the hall.

Over the next few days, the bond deepened unintentionally. Mornings started with shared coffee runs before classes. Satoru would complain about the endless reports he had to file, dramatically flopping onto a bench while Aiko sipped her drink and offered sarcastic advice. “Just infinity the whole stack away. Problem solved.” He grinned at that, appreciating how she didn’t tiptoe around his status as the strongest. Most people treated him like a walking legend or a weapon. She treated him like a colleague with an ego problem, and it was refreshing.

One evening, after a particularly grueling training session where Aiko had effortlessly dismantled a simulated curse barrier, they ended up walking the school perimeter together. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. Satoru stretched his arms overhead, his white hair catching the light. “You know, most new teachers last about a month before they burn out. You’ve got that fire though. What’s your secret?”

Aiko shrugged, kicking a pebble along the path. “Surviving worse up north. Blizzards, isolation, and curses that blend into the snow like ghosts. Makes this place feel like a vacation.” She paused, glancing at him sideways. “Plus, you’ve got a good vibe here. Makes the jokes land better.”

He laughed again, bumping her shoulder lightly with his. “Flattery will get you everywhere. But seriously, if you ever need tips on handling the Gojo special, I’m your guy.” Their steps synced without thought, conversation flowing from work to lighter topics. Favorite movies, hidden talents. Aiko admitted she had a soft spot for old horror flicks, the kind with practical effects and terrible acting. Satoru lit up. “No way. I binge those when I can’t sleep. The bloodier, the better.”

By day five, it felt natural. They weren’t seeking each other out deliberately, but the moments added up. A shared lunch where she teased him about his sweet tooth, sliding over an extra mochi she’d picked up. “Figured the strongest needed fuel for all that posturing.” He devoured it with exaggerated bliss, making her chuckle. Evenings blurred into casual hangouts, discussing strategy over takeout in the common areas. She challenged him on technique, demonstrating a unique binding vow she’d developed, and he countered with playful spars that left them both breathless and laughing.

It was friendship, pure and simple. Or so they told themselves. No lines crossed, just two sorcerers finding common ground in a world that demanded everything from them.

Then came the movie night.

It was the sixth night of your absence. Rain pattered against the windows of the house you shared with Satoru, a cozy space tucked away from the main campus. Aiko had mentioned in passing how her temporary quarters were stuffy, and Satoru, without much thought, offered his place. “It’s bigger, and I’ve got the good projector setup. We can watch that old slasher you mentioned. Beats staring at reports all night.”

She hesitated only a moment before agreeing. “As long as you don’t mind the company. And no work talk after the first hour.”

They settled in on the couch, lights dimmed, a bowl of popcorn between them. The movie played, filled with jump scares and cheesy dialogue. Satoru sprawled out, one arm draped casually over the back of the couch, while Aiko tucked her legs under her. Laughter came easy during the ridiculous plot twists. “This guy’s survival skills are worse than a first-year’s,” she quipped, elbowing him when the protagonist tripped over his own feet.

“Reminds me of you during that barrier drill yesterday,” he shot back, dodging her playful swat.

As the film progressed, the tone shifted. A intense sex scene unfolded on screen, raw and unfiltered, bodies entwined in dim lighting with heavy breathing and lingering touches. The air in the room thickened. Satoru shifted slightly, suddenly aware of the warmth beside him. Aiko’s breath hitched, her gaze flicking from the screen to him and back. Neither spoke at first, the tension coiling like cursed energy ready to snap.

It started with a glance. His six eyes, uncovered in the privacy of home, caught the flush on her cheeks. She turned toward him, voice low. “This scene… it’s always the part that gets awkward in company.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his usual bravado softened. The movie’s sounds filled the space, but their focus had narrowed. A hand brushed against hers reaching for popcorn. Fingers lingered. The friendship that had bloomed so quickly felt charged now, boundaries blurring in the quiet isolation. Satoru’s mind flickered briefly to you, but the mission, the distance, the exhaustion of the week without your steady presence, it all pressed in. Aiko leaned in first, tentative, and he met her halfway.

What followed was a haze of touches and whispered affirmations. Clothes shed in hurried motions, bodies pressing together on the couch before migrating to the bedroom. It was impulsive, driven by the building tension and the shared loneliness of their world. Skin against skin, breaths mingling, the kind of release that came from two people who understood the weight of sorcery without needing words. Satoru lost himself in the moment, the pleasure sharp and immediate, drowning out deeper thoughts. They collapsed afterward, limbs tangled, and sleep claimed him swiftly, his body heavy with satisfaction and unspoken fatigue. Aiko drifted off beside him, the room falling silent save for the distant rain.

Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and unforgiving.

You arrived home earlier than expected, the mission wrapping up with a decisive exorcism that left you drained but eager. Your bag slung over your shoulder, you pushed open the front door quietly, heart light at the thought of surprising Satoru. The house smelled faintly of popcorn and something else, something unfamiliar. Shoes kicked off, you padded toward the bedroom, a smile already forming on your lips.

The door creaked open.

There, in your bed, the bed you shared with him, lay Satoru. Naked, sheets twisted around his waist. And beside him, a woman you didn’t recognize, her dark hair splayed across the pillow, blanket pulled modestly over her chest. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound, widening in shock.

Your world tilted. The suitcase handle slipped from your grip, thudding against the floor. “Satoru,” you said, voice cracking like glass. Then louder, hysteria bubbling up. “Satoru! Wake up!”

He stirred, blinking groggily, his white hair a tousled mess. His six eyes focused, and the color drained from his face as reality slammed into him. You stood there, tears already spilling down your cheeks, staring at the naked form of your boyfriend entangled with another woman in the very sheets that still carried the scent of your last night together before the mission.

“Shit,” he breathed, bolting upright. Guilt crashed over him like a tidal wave, his chest tightening painfully. He scrambled for clothes, grabbing boxers and sweatpants from the floor, yanking them on with trembling hands. Aiko sat up slowly, clutching the blanket tighter, her expression morphing from confusion to horror as she took in your presence. She hadn’t known. The realization hit her as clearly as it shattered you.

You yelled again, voice raw. “What the hell is this? Explain! Satoru, how could you?” Tears streamed freely now, your body shaking as the scene burned into your mind. Your life, the trust, the love you thought was solid, crumbling in the soft morning light.

Satoru crossed the room in two strides, reaching for you even as he fumbled with his pants. “Baby, wait, please. It wasn’t… I didn’t mean for this. You were gone, and we were just hanging out, and it just happened. I fell asleep before I could even think. I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, desperation lacing every word. Those brilliant eyes, usually so confident, now swam with regret. He could see it in your face, the heartbreak, the betrayal. How had he let this happen? The bonding, the jokes, the movie, it had all felt harmless until it wasn’t. And now, with you standing there in tears, he felt smaller than any curse could make him.

Aiko remained silent at first, staring in shock, blanket clutched like a shield. She hadn’t known he had a girlfriend. The house had seemed empty, his stories never mentioning a partner. The sex had been quick, born of tension, but seeing this, the raw pain on your face, it twisted something in her gut.

Satoru kept talking, words tumbling out as he hovered near you, not daring to touch but desperate to bridge the gap. “It was a mistake. A stupid, horrible mistake. We bonded over work stuff, jokes, you know how it is out here. The loneliness. But I love you. Only you. I wasn’t thinking straight. Please, don’t… we can fix this. I’ll do anything.” His hands gestured helplessly, guilt drowning him. He pictured the future without your trust, without your laugh in the mornings, and it terrified him more than any battle ever had.

You were in full hysterics now, chest heaving with sobs. “Fix this? You’re naked in our bed with her! I trusted you. I was out there fighting, thinking about coming home to you, and this?” The words dissolved into broken cries, your hands covering your face as the room spun.

Aiko finally moved, slipping out of bed with the blanket wrapped around her. She gathered her clothes quietly, the shock on her face giving way to resolve. Satoru glanced at her in confusion as she dressed. “What are you doing?”

She pulled on her shirt, voice steady but edged with disappointment. “I didn’t know you were taken. You never said anything, and I thought… I thought you were single. This was too fast anyway. We met a week ago, and we’re already here? That’s not right.” She shook her head, stepping into her pants. “I don’t want any part of this. What you did to her… I won’t be that person.” She grabbed her belongings, bag and phone, casting one last look at him. Pity mixed with judgment. Then she left, the front door clicking shut behind her, leaving silence broken only by your sobs.

Satoru stood frozen, the weight of it all crushing down. The house felt too big, too empty. He had ruined everything for a night that now tasted like ash. The friendship with Aiko, the unintended closeness, the movie that had escalated, the sleep that stole his chance to process it. All of it led here. He reached for you again, voice hoarse. “Please. Stay. Yell at me, hit me, anything. Just don’t leave.”

But you were already moving, grabbing a suitcase from the closet with shaking hands. Necessities shoved in: clothes, toiletries, a few photos that now felt like knives. Your tears didn’t stop as you packed, the sound of zippers and drawers echoing like finality. Satoru watched, helpless, his apologies falling on ears too full of pain to hear them. “I was weak. It meant nothing. You mean everything.”

You didn’t respond, just wheeled the suitcase toward the door. The last glance you gave him was one of shattered love, eyes red and swollen. Then you were gone, the door slamming with a force that rattled the frames.

Satoru sank onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands. The sheets still warm from the night before mocked him. The world pressed in, heavy and unforgiving. He had lost you, probably forever. The strongest sorcerer, undone not by a curse, but by his own fleeting weakness. Hours passed as he sat there, replaying every bonding moment, every laugh, every step that led to this ruin. The jokes in the lounge, the shared meals, the movie’s glow on Aiko’s face, the impulsive pull. All of it worthless now.

Satoru leaned against the cool stone wall outside the training grounds, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the Jujutsu High campus. The air was thick with the scent of blooming cherry blossoms mixed with the faint metallic tang of cursed energy lingering from earlier sparring sessions. He pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, a lazy grin playing on his lips as he watched you approach. You looked exhausted, shadows under your eyes deeper than usual, your uniform slightly rumpled from the string of missions that had kept you running without pause. Your steps were heavier than normal, shoulders slumped just a fraction, but you tried to mask it with that determined expression he had come to recognize.

“Hey,” you said, voice quieter than it usually was, stopping a few feet away. The wind rustled through the leaves overhead, carrying the distant sounds of students training in the fields beyond. “Satoru, can I ask you something?”

He tilted his head, that signature smirk widening. “Shoot. What’s up? You look like you got hit by a truck. Another mission kicking your butt?”

You hesitated, fingers twisting the hem of your jacket. The fatigue had settled deep into your bones after weeks of back-to-back assignments, each one more draining than the last. Sleep had become a luxury, stolen in short bursts between reports and recoveries. Your muscles ached constantly, a dull throb that no amount of rest in the brief lulls could fully erase. The thought of another mission tonight made your stomach twist with dread. It was supposed to be a mid-level curse extermination, nothing too extreme on paper, but after everything, you knew your focus was shot. One wrong move could turn it deadly.

“I’ve been on missions nonstop,” you explained, meeting his bright blue eyes. “Barely any time to breathe. This next one… I just need a break. Some rest before it gets worse. Could you take it for me? Just this once? I know it’s last minute, but—”

Satoru laughed, a light, carefree sound that echoed off the walls. He waved a hand dismissively, his white hair catching the sunlight like fresh snow. “Whoa, hold up. You serious? Another mission and you’re tapping out already? Come on, that’s kinda weak, don’t you think? If you can’t handle a few in a row, maybe you’re not cut out for this sorcerer life after all. What, you gonna let a little tiredness stop you? I thought you were tougher than that.”

The words hung in the air between you, sharper than any curse could be. Your face paled slightly, the hurt flashing across your features before you schooled it into a neutral mask. It felt like a punch to the gut, his casual joke landing with the weight of doubt on your already weary shoulders. You had always pushed yourself, always tried to keep up with him and the others, proving your place here despite the endless grind. But hearing it from him, the one person whose approval meant more than you cared to admit, it stung deeper than expected. Your throat tightened, but you didn’t snap back. No retort, no argument. You just nodded once, turning away without another word.

Satoru blinked, his grin faltering for a split second as he watched your retreating form. The campus paths wound ahead of you, lined with ancient trees and the faint hum of barriers. He opened his mouth to call after you, but the words died on his tongue. It was just a joke, right? You knew him; he teased everyone. Suguru would laugh it off, Shoko would roll her eyes. But something in the way your shoulders tensed as you walked away made his stomach twist uncomfortably. He shook it off, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Whatever. She’ll be fine. Toughen up and all that.”

The rest of the afternoon blurred into normalcy for him. He met up with Suguru near the dorms, the two of them sprawling out on the grassy hill overlooking the training fields. The sky had deepened to a soft orange, streaked with clouds that promised a quiet evening. Suguru sat cross-legged, fiddling with a small leaf he found, while Satoru lay on his back, munching on a stolen mochi from the cafeteria.

“Man, these missions are getting repetitive,” Suguru muttered, his dark hair falling over one eye. “You hear about that second grade that popped up downtown last night? Handled it easy, but the paperwork’s a drag.”

Satoru chuckled, popping another piece into his mouth. “Tell me about it. I could do those in my sleep. Hey, did you see Shoko earlier? She’s been buried in the infirmary again with all the scrapes everyone’s bringing back.” His mind wandered briefly to your request, but it slipped away like sand through fingers. The conversation flowed easily between them—banter about techniques, complaints about the higher-ups, plans for sneaking out later. Laughter filled the space, pushing any lingering unease far into the background. Satoru was good at that, letting the moment carry him, his youthful energy a shield against deeper reflection. The sun dipped lower, painting the world in warm hues, and for a while, everything felt right in their little world of curses and camaraderie.

Hours passed in that comfortable rhythm. They sparred lightly as the evening cooled, Satoru’s Infinity making it impossible for Suguru to land a solid hit, both of them grinning through the exertion. Dinner was a noisy affair in the common area, with Shoko joining briefly, her cigarette smoke curling lazily as she poked fun at their antics. Satoru teased her right back, the earlier exchange with you fading completely from his thoughts. Why dwell on it? You were capable. Everyone had their off days. He didn’t need to babysit.

It wasn’t until the sharp sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the main courtyard that the illusion shattered. Satoru was mid-laugh with Suguru when he spotted Ijichi, the assistant’s face pale and strained, rushing across the grounds. In his arms—or rather, supported with frantic care—was a bloodied, broken figure. The sight hit Satoru like a curse unraveling his Infinity. The body was limp, clothes torn and soaked dark red, bruises blooming across exposed skin like violent flowers. One arm… it ended abruptly at the elbow, a jagged, gruesome stump wrapped hastily in blood-soaked fabric, the missing limb nowhere in sight. Trails of crimson dripped onto the stone path, marking a horrifying trail toward the infirmary.

Satoru’s heart dropped, a cold plunge into ice. Time seemed to slow as recognition crashed over him. That face, even swollen and streaked with dirt and blood, was yours. Your hair matted, eyes closed in unconsciousness, breathing shallow and ragged. The world tilted on its axis. “No,” he whispered, the word barely audible. His legs moved before his mind fully processed it, sprinting across the courtyard, white hair whipping in the wind.

“Ijichi! What happened?” Satoru’s voice cracked with urgency as he caught up, Infinity flickering unconsciously around him. The assistant didn’t slow, his glasses askew, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Emergency from the mission site,” Ijichi panted, voice tight with panic. “Curse was stronger than reported. Ambush. We need to get her to Shoko now.”

Satoru reached out instinctively, but pulled back, afraid his touch might worsen things. The blood, the missing arm—it was real, visceral, the metallic smell assaulting his senses. His chest tightened painfully, breaths coming short. This was you, the one who had asked him for help just hours ago. The one he had brushed off with a stupid joke. Guilt clawed its way up his throat as they burst into the infirmary building, the sterile lights harsh against the dimming evening outside.

Shoko was already there, alerted somehow, her expression shifting from calm to sharp focus in an instant. “Lay her down. Carefully. Satoru, out. Now.”

“But—” He started, voice hoarse, but Suguru’s hand on his shoulder pulled him back. The door to the operating area closed with a final click, leaving Satoru standing in the waiting room, the space feeling oppressively small. Chairs lined the walls, a few magazines scattered on a low table, the clock ticking loudly on the opposite wall. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy, mixing with the faint trace of blood that had followed you in.

He sank into a chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. The room spun slightly, or maybe it was just his mind reeling. Suguru hovered nearby, murmuring something about getting updates, but Satoru barely heard. His thoughts fractured, replaying the afternoon in excruciating detail. Your tired eyes, the way your voice had wavered when you asked. The laugh he had let out, the careless words spilling from his mouth like they meant nothing. “If you can’t handle another mission, maybe you aren’t cut out to be a sorcerer.” Who says that? To you, of all people? Someone who worked harder than most, who never complained until today. He had seen the hurt, the way you shut down, but he hadn’t chased after you. Hadn’t apologized. Hadn’t even thought about it again until this moment.

Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and unbidden. He wiped at them furiously with the back of his hand, but more came, silent tracks down his cheeks. The waiting room was quiet except for the distant murmur of medical activity behind the door. Shoko’s voice filtered through occasionally, clipped commands to assistants, the clatter of tools. Each sound twisted the knife deeper in Satoru’s gut. You were in there, fighting for your life, because he had been too stubborn, too immature to just say yes. It was one mission. One stupid, replaceable assignment. He could have handled it with his eyes closed, Infinity shielding him from any threat. But no, he had to make a joke, had to poke at your vulnerability when you were already at your limit.

His mind spiraled, painting vivid pictures of what could have been. If he had taken it, you would be resting now, maybe complaining lightly over dinner about how he stole your glory. Your arm would be intact, not severed in some brutal curse attack. The bruises, the blood—they wouldn’t exist. He imagined you smiling at him later, that soft look you sometimes gave when he wasn’t being an idiot. Instead, here he was, heart pounding with a fear he rarely felt, the kind that clawed at his insides and made his usual confidence crumble. “She’s strong,” he told himself, but the words rang hollow. Strong didn’t matter when exhaustion clouded judgment, when a partner bailed out of laziness disguised as teasing.

Satoru stared at the floor, the tiles blurring through his tears. He replayed every interaction from the past weeks—your quiet endurance, the way you kept pace despite the toll. He had admired it, even if he never said it outright. And now? This. The clock ticked on, minutes stretching into what felt like hours. His hands trembled slightly as he clasped them together, Infinity useless against the internal storm. Regret flooded him, wave after wave, each one heavier. Why hadn’t he noticed how drained you were? Why turn a simple request into a jab? He was supposed to be the strongest, but in that moment, he felt weaker than anyone.

The thoughts looped endlessly, guilt wrapping around his heart like a curse he couldn’t dispel. You wouldn’t be going through this pain, this surgery, this fight for survival if he had just stepped up. No reason to deny it, really. He had no conflicting mission, no exhaustion of his own. Just his big mouth and that immature streak that still lingered. Satoru pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to stem the flow of silent tears, but they kept coming, soaking into his sleeves. The fear of losing you gnawed at him, sharper than any physical wound. What if you didn’t make it? What if the last words between you were his careless dismissal? The idea hollowed him out, leaving a void that echoed with self-reproach.

He shifted in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and let his mind drift deeper into the what-ifs. Picturing the mission site as it must have unfolded: you, pushing through fatigue, cursed energy flickering weakly. The curse emerging stronger, overwhelming your defenses. The strike that took your arm, the agony that followed. Blood loss, shock, the desperate retreat. All because he hadn’t been there. His Infinity could have ended it instantly. He could have protected you, turned the whole thing into a non-issue. Instead, stubborn pride and a joke had led to this.

Tears continued their silent path down his face as the waiting dragged on. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t speak to Suguru who paced nearby or Shoko when she briefly emerged with updates that were too vague, too cautious. His world narrowed to the door separating him from you, and the crushing weight of his own words echoing in his skull. The strongest sorcerer, reduced to this—scared, crying quietly in a sterile room, wishing he could turn back time. You had trusted him enough to ask, and he had failed you in the worst way. The guilt consumed him, a relentless tide that left no room for anything else. If only… if only he had taken that mission. You would be okay. Whole. Safe. But now, because of him, you faced the brink, and all he could do was sit here, heart shattered, reflecting on the idiot he had been.

The regret deepened with every passing second, his mind a whirlwind of memories and hypotheticals. He recalled the first time he saw you in action, the spark in your technique that had caught his attention. The shared laughs during lighter days, the way your presence made the heavy burdens of their world feel a little less suffocating. All of it contrasted brutally with the broken form he had glimpsed. His tears fell unchecked now, shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. The infirmary lights buzzed overhead, indifferent to his turmoil. Satoru clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to burst through the door, but he stayed put, trapped in his thoughts. You had to pull through. He needed the chance to make it right, to apologize, to never let his immaturity cost you again. But for now, in this agonizing wait, all that existed was the echo of his joke and the devastating consequences, replaying over and over in his head.