𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐯𝐬

Funny thing about it all is nobody seems to have noticed that he’s out of the house at certain hours throughout the week. Consistently. So really, it’s on them for not trying hard enough to find answers to their invasive little questions. 

Hm. Actually, no. On the off chance that they do ask what he’s up to on a night like tonight, he’ll just lie, say he’s at the gym or something. He’s not exactly allowed to tell, which is fine; he’s more than willing to keep a little secret. 

That little secret was tucked away in a nice apartment that had a view of the entire city. A tranquil little place when he’s not around, he’s pretty sure— just not when he’s around.

The bed’s steadily rocking underneath the uneven weight Satoru creates. Relentless smacking— skin to skin, hips to ass, the dirty little squelch that comes with it. 

There’s a view, but it’s not the city. 

“Arch that back some more— yeaahhh, just like that.”

He pounds into you, balls hitting heavy against your clit as he pulls you back to meet each thrust. Moans spill from your lips, taking every single inch he drills into you. The stretch is insane as he works his heavy cock in and out of you like it’s nothing. 

If there’s one thing about him, it’s that he can fuck. He can go on for hours, put you in any position, have you begging and crying, dwindle you down to nothing but a babbling mess from how many orgasms he can work out of you. 

He wears you out. 

Yet still, at the end of every night—

“Kay’. We’re done here, you can leave now.” 

You are so fucking mean.

The first time Satoru heard those words come out of your mouth, he was distraught. How dare you throw him out after the backshots he had given you?! He made you cum so hard you cried! Then you just throw him out of your apartment like some useless whore– like he was nothing but a fucking slut! He had more to offer than just his dick, he’ll have you know. 

Now he’s a little less emotional and more… 

“You sure? I could stay longer and help you with chores… or something.”

You look around your room, which is spotless aside from his t-shirt and jeans scattered on the floor. “Sure. Why don’t you start by picking up your clothes, putting them on, and then getting out?”

“Oh, come on. Seriously?” he throws his head back and groans rather childishly. “That’s a little rude, no?” 

“So was the way you were talking to your little girlfriend on the phone earlier,” you hop off the bed and throw on a big t-shirt that said Modelo on it. 

Satoru gets one final look at your ass as you do so and finds himself getting oddly jealous, wondering if the shirt was actually yours or if it belonged to an ex. He ends up telling himself it’s yours, ignoring that you’ve told him how much you hated beer in the past. Delusional? Perhaps, but he’d rather not hurt his own feelings right now.

“Carmen’s not my girlfriend,” he huffs out a laugh as he tries to explain, “I don’t even know why she called me. We haven’t fucked in months.” 

He also tried to tell you that he hasn’t slept with anyone since he started sleeping with you, but you didn’t seem to care much about either. The entire time, you were just throwing his clothes at him while he absentmindedly got dressed. He continues to yap away once he’s up and fully dressed, so you grab him by the wrist and start walking towards the door. 

“And you wouldn’t believe all the shit the guys have given me for turning girls down. One of them started calling me Celibate Satoru, can you believe that?”

“I sure can.” You open the door, walk around him, and start pushing him out. 

“They don’t even know— assholes, they’d take it all back so fast if they saw you,” he huffs out a laugh, trying to cope with the fact that he’s not allowed to tell anybody about you two. 

You laugh with him. “You better hope they don’t, ‘cause if they do–”

“You’ll bite my dick off– yeah, yeah. I know.” You never said you’d bite his dick off. Satoru turns around when he’s fully out of the door to reveal the dopey grin on his face. “So, same time next week?”

“Yup! Bye Gojo.”

He scoffs. “I thought I told you to call me Sa–”

He didn’t get to finish that sentence. You shut the door in his face. 

Gojo was a nice guy… at least to you, he was. You’re sure a lot of others would say the complete opposite, judging by the way he snapped at the girl earlier for calling him and telling her to lose his number. You felt sorry for her and also felt thankful that you didn’t have to deal with a guy like him when you were 21. 

You tried not to reflect too much, it’d just end with you being disappointed in yourself for even letting him into your apartment in the first place. It’s all for fun, but still, you should know better. 

Satoru’s a piece of work. Comes from a family swimming in money and has never been told no in his life. He’s impulsive. Very hedonistic, very immature— some people grow out of it, but you have a feeling he’ll never change since he’s never had to work hard for anything in his life. 

He is the last person you’d ever want to date, and for someone who usually dated older men— preferably men like his rich father— fucking a frat boy was just embarrassing on your part.

It’s too bad he’s genuinely one of the best fucks of your life— add in the dick piercing, the stamina that came with being a rugby player, and the fact that he spends every moment with you wanting to please you, and he was hard to get rid of. 

You met Satoru at the gym. You’d think he’d go to the one at his university, but no, he just had to get a membership at the luxury gym that’s on the other side of town. The only reason why you chose to get a membership there, rather than the more affordable gym down the street, was so that you could avoid annoying ass kids. 

Spoiler: It didn’t work. 

He didn’t approach you right away. It started with a couple of stares here and there, all of which you pretended not to see since his attention was the last thing you wanted. You can admit that if he were a little older, you would’ve indulged, but it was clear he was a college student, given how he’s worn t-shirts and hoodies with his university’s name on them. Most professional settings wouldn’t allow piercings either— he’s covered in them. One on his nose, one on his eyebrow, multiple on his ears, and a tongue ring. Not to mention the one he surprised you with when he first came over.

Of course, pretending not to notice an attention whore like Satoru Gojo didn’t work, and you soon found out just how annoyingly persistent he can be.

He started going to the gym at the same time as you. It felt like the machines he used just got closer and closer to you with each visit, up until he boldly used the treadmill right next to you one day— you weren’t having that, by the way, and got off less than a minute later. You could be talking to a trainer or one of the staff members, and he’d shimmy his way into the conversation just to get you to look at him and say something, but his attempts were met with you excusing yourself. 

It got to a point where he didn’t even care about what was said, he just wanted your attention, good or bad. When he finally did get it, it was neither. You were tired of him before he even opened his mouth. 

Imagine this: the annoying little shit coincidentally goes into the sauna at the same time as you, even though you could’ve sworn you saw him walking out the door with his duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. How he managed to strip down into nothing but his slutty little rugby shorts in so little time? You have no clue. His knee was all scraped up though, so it was safe to assume that he fell during the process. 

You gave him a curt smile and closed your eyes.

He still opened his mouth.

“Great sauna, isn’t it?”

Did he just deepen his voice? Christ.

The awkward and pathetic attempt at small talk never made you want to murder yourself more in that moment. You tried not to sound as annoyed as you were when you let out a sigh. 

“It is,” you murmured back, closing your eyes again in hopes that would be the end of it. 

It wasn’t. 

“I love coming here— nice little escape from everything,” he blissfully said.

You couldn’t imagine what the hell that brat needed to escape from. If only you could say the same, you’ve spent more time dodging him than you have working out the past three weeks. 

“Name's Satoru, by the way,” he flashed you a smile. 

You’re not a heartless wretch, so you threw him a bone and told him your name, too. Which was a mistake, the one thing you’ve learned is to never feel sorry for Satoru, give him an inch and he’ll shamelessly take a mile. Minutes later, you’re internally groaning. You hated how smooth he was when asking if you wanted to grab drinks later that night. All the charm and charisma that oozed out of him would put any narcissist to shame. 

“Did you seriously follow me into the sauna just to ask me out?”

He had to pause because that’s not what you were supposed to say, but he was too emotionally invested at that point to give up. 

“Maybe,” he chirps, averting his gaze for a moment. “I swear I wasn’t trying to be weird, though.”

You smile as your eyes scan him from top to bottom, more so out of judgment than interest. “Stripping down into nothing but the male version of booty shorts isn’t weird?”

“Ugh— ok, yeah, fine— maybe it is a little weird,” he sighs, throwing a towel over his shoulders as an attempt to cover up. “Let's just.. Forget about that. Yeah?” You continue to just stare at him, and he clears his throat. “I’d still love to take you out sometime and get to know you a little better. Whatcha think? My treat.”

Age doesn’t matter, you’ll fold too once you see what he’s hiding under his “booty shorts”. Everyone does. 

You cross your arms and lean back on the wooden bench. “I’m sorry– how old are you again?”

“I’m graduating this year,” he proudly says, making your face drop in disbelief— he’s well aware that he’s too young for you, and he’s still trying?

“Right.” The judgment in your tone was loud and clear, continuing to look at him as if he were a harmless spider— there’s no fear or concern, just peeved at how it managed to find its way into your vicinity. “So you’re 21…” You tried pulling more information out of him, “since that’s the age you need to be to order a drink.” 

“Soon,” he continues to tiptoe around the truth. “Everyone knows me, though. Nobody's gonna check my I.D.” 

Besides, he has a fake. He’s had one since he was 16. 

“Oh wow.” 

You still didn’t sound very impressed, not that it stopped him. He somehow was able to go home with your number in his phone that day, mainly because he was starting to annoy you, and giving him your number was the easiest way to get him to stop— harmless spider, remember? He was probably more of a gnat at that point, though, but harmless nonetheless. 

From that point going forward, you ignored him at the gym and his text messages. You could go on your phone and scroll for a minute before seeing a text sent from your end. Now that you think about it, you only texted him back once. 

Unknown Number: i feel like im being edged rn 😔 what’s a man gotta do to get a text back??

You: typing…

You: 

You: typing…

You: turn 21

Unknown Number: bet

You read that response and immediately regretted it. 

He came back a month later, the day after his birthday, and you unfortunately gave in. 

And by giving in, you met him halfway and asked if he wanted to come over. He was hot, but there was no way in hell you wanted to be seen in public with him. Being a man as easy as Satoru, he said yes and spent the entire night putting you in every single position he’s ever imagined having you in. You swear he hit every room on purpose— just bending you over every surface and folding you up in every position. 

You’ve never had someone throw you around that much before. He fucked you like it was some god-given right. You were so far gone that you would’ve done anything he told you to; you’re just glad his only goal that night was to impress you. 

And he did, hence why you are still letting him come over a couple of times a week. Maybe more, maybe less. 

He’s tried to get you to come over to his place before, to which you refused for obvious reasons, and berated him enough to make him never ask you a question as insulting as that ever again. 

He’s also tried to coordinate your gym visits in the past. 

It was a month into whatever little arrangement you had— you say that because you’ve never made an agreement, aside from telling him to never talk to you, talk about you, or approach you in public. 

It would come as a surprise to no one if he spent the whole day there just waiting for you to show up. 

He didn’t even give you a chance to go into the locker and put your things away before attempting to walk up to you. You had just walked past the front desk— head down, phone up— and felt like there was something off, and what do you know? He was walking in a straight line towards you as if you hadn’t banned him from speaking to you in public. 

Luckily, the women's locker room was directly to your left, so you turned and walked there as fast as your legs could take you. You were pissed, slamming your duffel bag down onto one of the benches to spend a minute or two pacing back and forth. There was no way in hell you were going home, so you pulled up with messages with him and sent him a text.

You: Do not fucking embarrass me.

You: Don’t even come near me.  

S. Gojo: fine .

It wasn’t another 20 minutes until you finally stepped out of the locker room, mostly ready to spend the next 30 minutes working out. Usually, it’s 45 minutes to an hour, but you gave yourself some grace, even though you really should’ve been getting the most out of your membership with how pricey it was.

The first 20 minutes were fine— peaceful. You ended up letting your guard down as you fell under the assumption that Satoru left, given how he was nowhere to be found. Then, 2 minutes into using the stairmaster, someone got on the one right next to you, despite the entire row being empty. 

He was met with a scowl. The only response he had for it was throwing his palms out and grimacing right back at you, as if to say, I’m not doing anything wrong.

Minutes later, he’s reaching over and grabbing your water bottle to take a sip from. Mind you, he already had one with him. It had more water in it than yours. 

That was the moment you knew Satoru really wasn’t shit. 

He casually gave it back with a smile, trying to act all cute and be funny, so you sent your water bottle flying at his big head. 

“Ow!” he frowns, rubbing the side of his head, having absolutely no right to look as shocked as he did. “That hurt!”

“Suck it up,” you snapped at him in a hushed tone. “You’re lucky I didn’t lodge it down your throat and drown you.”

“Why would you do either?!” he threw his arms out.

“I don’t know— why would you reach over and drink from my water bottle when you have your own?!”

“Because I wanted water that had some of your backwash in it??” he says, as if it should’ve been obvious. 

To this day, you still don’t know if he was trying to throw you off or if he was being serious.

“If I hear one more word come out of your mouth while I’m here, even if you’re 10 feet away and talking to someone else, I’m fucking blocking you.”

“. . .” You could see the panic in his eyes as his face dropped. “Okay— 10 feet away is fucking crazy—”

“Stop. Talking.”

He opens his mouth, quickly decides he’d rather not find out if you were bluffing or not, and closes it.

You hated being strict with people— you had no other choice but to be strict with Satoru. You could draw a line, explicitly tell him not to cross it and why, and he’d walk right up to it and tap his toe on the other side, just to see if you’d say anything.

With the way you talk about him and talk to him, it’d be easy to assume that you hated him— you complain about the shit he does, you yell at him often, you look at him at times and start to wonder if he was just a sign sent by god to finally get therapy. But you don’t dislike him, let alone hate him.  

On the occasion that you don’t kick him out right after you two fuck, he’s really not that bad to be around. If circumstances were different, you wouldn’t mind being friends with him. He’s easy to talk to, easy to get along with when he’s not actively and purposely fucking around and finding out. You honestly enjoy talking to him here and there. 

Truly.

Except for when he’s talking about anything frat-related. More often than not, it’s dumb and genuinely a waste of your time to listen to. Not to mention the fact that you don’t need any more reminders of who you’ve been welcoming into your home. 

You were pushing thirty for Christ's sake. It'd be one thing if he were just a one-night stand, but he’s not. He raids your pantry when you’re not looking and, on multiple occasions, has purposely left his boxers behind as some sort of parting gift.

It’s gotten easier with time— the embarrassment that washes over you when he says something stupid, that is. Like whatever went down at some party he threw or some joke one of his “brothers” told him. It’s still a waste of your time, but you’ve grown to just let him talk about it rather than shut him down to avoid that pang of guilt you sometimes get when you’re around him. 

There’s the disappointment and the embarrassment, and lately, there’s the odd form of pity you have for him. You’ve always known you were going to have to let Gojo down one day and cut things off completely, you’re not quite sure how he’d take it, though. 

There was some hope that he’d get bored with you and move on to someone new, but that’s slowly diminishing. He’s volunteered to get tested for STDs weekly and sends you the results. He hasn’t slept with anyone else, either, which is shocking. You’ve gotten a glimpse of his phone and his messages, all of which were unopened texts from the girls he’s probably led on in the past— ignoring them all for a woman who does the same to him more than half the time.

Sometimes you wonder if he notices that, too. He has to. You say he’s stupid all the time, but he’s smarter than he lets on. 

—

S. Gojo: how’s my pretty girl doing?? ((:

You: what do u want

S. Gojo: 😭damn not even a question mark?? I didn’t even ask u for anything 😔

You: i can tell when u want something. now what is it

S. Gojo: can i come over after practice today? pretty please

S. Gojo: it ends at 3 today

You: im not even home

S. Gojo: ik i have a key

You: you took my spare key?

You: give it back

S. Gojo: today? (:

You: im not even home by then. I don’t want u there, you’re gonna make a mess

S. Gojo: wtf? I never make a mess

You: what do you even wanna come over for

S. Gojo: i don’t wanna be home later

You: why

S. Gojo: there’s a few sorority girls coming over and they don’t like me

You: why

S. Gojo: it’s just bc of some bet during freshman years

S. Gojo: they’re not over it

You: pig

S. Gojo: i didn’t even tell you what it was!

You: please don’t

You: but ya, no. go to the library or something

S. Gojo: PLEEEEEAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSEEEEEEEEEEE

S. Gojo: FUCK i’ll have takeout ready for you when you get off work ffs

S. Gojo: have some compassion these bitches are gonna try to CHOP my DICK off PLEASE

You: maybe you never deserved one to begin with

S. Gojo: BRO???

You: kiddinggg

You: have some pad thai ready for me. I also expect the place to be vacuumed 

S. Gojo: i got u

S. Gojo: i can do your laundry too if you want

You: stop trying to sniff my panties you fucking freak

S. Gojo: ):

You’re home at 5:15 on the dot, and you’re met with the lovely smell of all-purpose cleaner despite only telling Satoru to vacuum. So naturally, you’re in a good mood when you walk into the living room and hang your purse up in the hallway. 

Satoru’s on the couch, turning to look at you and doing that stupid nod he does when he doesn’t feel like verbally greeting someone. 

You slip out of your heels and walk up. “Did you clean the kitchen?”

“A little,” he hums, taking the opportunity to pretty much eye fuck you since you don’t pay much attention to him as you look into the kitchen. 

“What do you want?” you ask suspiciously, turning to look at him lounging back on your couch, half-naked. He’s got nothing but a pair of socks and rugby shorts on, and you can’t help but take a look at his thighs. You don’t ask why his titties are out on display, though, knowing he’d make a comment about how hard he worked cleaning the place. 

“Nothin’,” he shrugs, feigning innocence. The slight twitch of his lip right after gives him away, not that you give it much attention. “How was work?”

“Long,” you yawn. “Slow, too— felt like I was on my phone the entire time.”

He tilts his head, getting ready to fuck with you despite it not even being 5 minutes since you walked through the door. “Are you complaining about doing nothing at work today?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mimic his tone. “I hate looking at the clock all day.”

He huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna remember this the next time you complain about work being too busy.”

You smile and hum. “Do that, and I’m shoving my socks down your throat.”

“Kinky.” You start to walk away, and Satoru takes the opportunity to reach over the couch, biting his lip as he strikes a palm over your ass. “What else are you tryna do to me?” 

“Choke you,” you boredly say as you walk into your room, but end up smiling when you hear him laugh. You come out a couple of minutes later in a pair of shorts and a tank top. “Where’s the food?”

“The fridge,” he responds, seemingly distracted. 

Only for him to grab your wrist right before you walk past behind him. 

You whip your head around and click your tongue. “What?” you whine, eyes narrowing as you shoot him an irritated look. 

“How hungry are you right now?” he asks, tongue in cheek as he keeps a firm grip on your wrists. 

“Hungry enough.”

“Starving?” There’s an obnoxious glint in his eyes as he asks. 

You scoff. “Does it fucking matter?” 

“Mmmmmm, a little.” He blatantly checks you out as he hums, not struggling to hold on to your wrist at all. He leans over the couch to get a better look at your shorts, his other hand reaching forward to snap your shorts against your skin. “I like these.”

“Let me guess, you’d like them better on the floor.” 

“Something like that— come here,” He stifles a laugh, pulling you closer until you're up against the couch. He snakes an arm around your waist to keep you from leaving, pressing kisses all over your chest. “Been waiting for you forever– give me a minute or two.” 

“You expect me to believe it’ll just be a minute or two?” You smile, trying to keep your breath from hitching as he gets closer to your neck. 

“Mhm. It’s a lie, though.” He places one last kiss against your collarbone, then pulls a hum out of you as he licks a slow, fat stripe up your neck. He tops it off with a couple of kisses along your jaw before nipping at your ear. “How about I work up that appetite a little, hm?”

Your lids grow heavy, each word growing breathier than the last with each kiss and touch. “My stomach’s gonna start hurting.” 

“It’s fine,” he murmurs, running his big hand down your back to your ass, giving it a squeeze before his palm lands on it. “You won’t be thinking about it.” 

He steps over the couch and starts nudging you towards your room, dick print against the fabric of his shorts on full display. 

“No?”

“Nope,” the grin on his face grows, “I’ll keep you distracted.”

And distracted you were. 

Whining as you trembled and clenched around his cock while he worked it into you. You’re at the edge of the bed— bent over for him, back in the craziest arch as he gives you the deepest strokes. The round metal studs under his tip add the right amount of pressure as it drags over your gummy spot.  

He leans back, suppressing a laugh at the sight of your fucked out face and the creamy ring already starting to grow around his base. He’s barely done anything, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he saw drool stains right where your face is pressed up against. It’s always like this, your attitude just magically disappearing the moment he gets near your pussy. Doesn’t matter if it’s his dick, his fingers, his tongue— they’ve all made the miracle of getting you to say please happen. 

“Shit,” he curses under his breath, just mesmerized at the sight of his cock disappearing inside of you. His attention only gets pulled away once he hears a soft, drawn-out moan leave your lips, his hands unconsciously moving up to your hips for him to knead. “You alright?”

“Mhm— go faster.” The demand sounds so sweet falling from your lips, how could he say no?

He rests a knee against the bed and leans over your body. Chest pressed up against your back, caging you in. You rest your head on his forearm, unknowingly letting him get a full view of the tears he’s about to give you. He picks up the pace, angling himself just right with each thrust, watching your eyebrows slightly pinch as your breathing picks up. 

“Can’t believe you wanted to wait for this,” he starts to poke fun at you, and it somehow goes straight to your core. “The hell were you thinkin’, huh?”

“I don’t know,” you murmur. 

“Were you thinking at all?”

“Shut up.” You get whinier with the change of pace. “Can you just– mmh yeah.”

“Yeah?” He grins as you lose your train of thought, rolling his hips nice and slow, working his tip right over that spot that has you curling your toes. “Like that?”

“Mhm,” you hum, fingers starting to dig into his bicep as the praises slowly fall from your mouth. “Feels so good.”

“I knoww– you’re droolin’ on my arm already,” he stifles a laugh as he mocks you, brushing some hair out of your face to grab your chin, turning your head toward him. 

He leans down to kiss you, and it’s nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet smacks once he held you down and crashed his lips into yours, just rough and hungry. Greed is what comes to mind once you pull away— lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath, heat creeping up your neck. 

It’s just selfish— who grabs people like that?

The hand on your jaw wraps around your neck, and you soon find yourself taking in a sharp breath as Satoru crashes his lips into yours again. His hips continue to rock into you, grinding every inch of himself up against your gummy walls, trying to knock the air out of you as he tries to take it for himself. 

He bites your bottom lip, and you’re giggling as he slowly pulls back, dying out at your throat once he gets back to work. His shallow thrusts grow deep, making your eyes start to glaze over as the fat head of his cock hits and rubs against a spot you’re sure only he can reach. 

“Ready?” he murmurs in your ear. 

“What are you–” 

He bites your bottom lip, then starts fucking you like you owed him your soul or something. He drills every single inch of his cock into you, the sharp sounds of his hips striking against your ass cutting through the air, nearly bringing you to tears from how overwhelming it all is.

“F-Fuck!” you choke out a whine, shoving your face down on the bed, unable to keep up with how fast he’s going. Your cunt stretches around his cock, walls fluttering and squeezing around his length as he pounds you into the bed. Low groans slip through his lips as he sees a mess of slick and cream starting to coat his shaft.

He goes faster. The obscene wet slaps of him pounding your pussy and his heavy balls slapping against your clit grow louder, messier. You’re clawing at your sheets and holding back choked moans each time he slams his tip against your cervix. Your legs start to tremble, struggling to keep them open when each thrust pushes you forward with all the force behind them. 

You start to feel something in your core begin to wrap up and coil, and you are not ready for it. You find yourself crawling forward, trying to close your thighs, all without even realizing it. Satoru lets out a laugh that fades into a low groan as your walls squeeze and tremble around him. 

He teases you as he drags you back by your hips, his ragged voice dripping in amusement.

“You running from me, baby? Where’s this pussy goin’, huh?” He nudges your thighs back apart with his knee, pulling you back on his cock and holding you in place, hips flush against your ass as he lazily grinds into you. 

“Yeah, c'mere— m’not done with you yet.” he rasps, picking up the pace back up again until a messy wet squelch can be heard between you as he pounds you out. He presses your back further down into an arch, fucking into you at a deeper angle. “Mmmm— there we go— just stay right there for me.” 

“Sa— fuck— t-toru!” Your breath shatters as you gasp, pressure starting to build all over again. 

You don’t see the way he smirks when you cry his name like that.

“I know— M’sorry, baby.”

He’s not. A hand slides up your spine to get a fistful of your hair, pulling you up against his chest in one swift go. His pace doesn’t falter as a strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you against him while his lips graze the shell of your ear. 

“Look how good I’m fuckin’ you, though— looks like you’re about to start crying.” He smiles, feeling you squeeze around him as the messy squelch in between your legs becomes more pronounced. 

“T-too much,” you sputter out.

“You should probably cum them,” he offers as if it were a simple solution. “If you want, I can work it out of ya.”

“F-fuck,” you inhale sharply. “Please.”

He lets out a low, pleased hum before he just starts slamming into you, making the bed shake as he starts to knock the absolute wind out of you. His free hand snakes down, slipping down in between your legs until the pads of his fingers find your clit. You tense as he presses on it firmly, breath faltering once he starts rubbing little circles. 

His grip around your waist tightens as he keeps going, not minding your nails as they start scratching and digging into his arm. Soon you’re let out a sharp cry, trembling as you start gushing all over his cock. 

And the way you pussy clamps down and just starts milking him has his thrust growing sloppy, fucking you both through it. 

“Fuck— fuuck,” he lets out a breathy groan, doubling over and nearly squeezing you to death when he starts pumping you full of hot cum, flooding your sensitive walls. He breathes heavy, grinding against you, giving you every last drop. “Shit— that was so fuckin’ good— are you alright?” 

You’re lying limp in his arms, nodding weakly, trying to catch your breath. “Uh-huh”

“You’re so shaky right now,” he heaves, gently letting you down on the bed. “I fucked you good this time.”

“Shut up,” you barely snap at him, “Go get me my food, I can’t fucking walk right now.”

“Fuck— I’m sorry. Don’t kick me out.”

“Get me my fucking food.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, putting his boxers on and walking out of your room with a little smile on his face. 

. . .

He’s leaning against the fridge as he lets his mind run off for a bit, aside from the microwave whirring in the background, it’s quiet— a rare occurrence for Satoru. He doesn’t snap back to reality until he hears footsteps coming up behind him. 

He looks over his shoulder to see you back in the clothes he nearly ripped trying to get off you. And that you’re walking perfectly fine. 

“Thought you couldn’t walk,” he points at you, gesturing his finger up and down.

“So did I,” you shrug, wrapping your fingers around the fridge handle and pulling it open to retrieve a white claw. You can physically feel Satoru staring at you, while something in your spirit is telling you that he’s waiting for you to offer him one. 

You crack it open as you turn to look at him. 

“Can I help you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Initially, his eyes drift to the drink in your hand and look at it quite longingly. “That looks good.”

“It is good,” you say, then obnoxiously take a sip. “Pairs really well with noodles.”

“I’m sure.” His tones flat as he looks back at the drink. 

You have no idea why he’s so set on waiting for you to offer him one, but you eventually do because you’d rather not get into some weird silent war with him. “Would you like one?”

“Yes, I would,” he says with a blissful sigh, reaching into the fridge to get one for himself. 

The microwave beeps, you open it, and take the plate out yourself. “You know you can just grab one, right?”

The can cracks and he takes a sip, then nods. “I know, I just wanted you to offer me one.”

“Yeah, you made that pretty obvious,” you laugh and walk to the living room, and Satoru naturally follows. “Do you want some of my food, too?”

“No— appreciate you asking, though.”

“Sure,” you say, before muttering, “weirdo.”

He’s the first one to grab the remote and put something on, taking advantage of the fact that you haven’t pushed him out yet, like you do 60% percent of the time. The 40% is too random for him to be able to tell when it’ll happen next. 

You weren’t planning on kicking him out too soon today, though, since he’s currently hiding from an entire group of women.

“Wait, so what did you do to get those girls to hate you?”

“Got dared to homie hop.” He casually shrugs, taking a sip from the can. “Over the course of one weekend.”

“What is wrong with you?” you ask with the utmost disappointment. 

He points to himself. “In my defense, I was 18.”

“I guess.” You stifle a laugh before feeding yourself another fork full of food. “I’m surprised they still hate you that much.”

“Yeah, I got dared to do it again last year,” he finally mentions, just as casual as the last time. 

You pause for a moment as you try to think of an answer. You never do. “Yeah, I think I’d hate you, too.” 

He delusionally brushes you off. “You would’ve loved me. I’m a great friend.”

There's a contemplative look on your face as you tilt your head, thinking of all he’s revealed to you about himself, which is probably just a 3rd of all he’s done. “I’m sure you are.”

“I am,” he scoffs. 

“Yeah— that’s what I said.” You laugh, wiping the side of your mouth off with a napkin before throwing it on the empty plate, getting up to put it away.

You're in the kitchen when Satoru raises his voice to say something to you. 

“I am your friend, right?” he asks. 

You close the dishwasher and walk back out into the living room, there’s a slight pout on his face as he walks for an answer. 

“Yeah,” you let out an amused sigh. “You’re my special friend.”

“Yeah?” He sinks further back into the sofa, looking more pleased. “Special enough to talk to outside of here?” 

“Fuck no,” you say with zero hesitation, wiping the smile off his face again. “You wouldn’t be special anymore. Is that what you want? You wanna be an average normie?”

There are two things in this world that Satoru would never want to be— average and poor.

He crosses his arms and scoffs. “You really know how to turn a situation around on other people, don’t you? That’s pretty evil, y’know that?”

You feign innocence, looking at him all concerned. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“Whatever,” he rises from his seat, accepting your evil nature and his role as your special little slut. “Can we shower together?”

You give a bored look, knowing he’s gonna try to get you to scrub his back. “Fine.”

. . .

Tonight’s just like every other Friday night. The bass of the music bouncing off the walls, loud conversations happening in every direction. Most people are having a good time, while some are crying their eyes out over something that’ll seem minuscule a couple years from now. The only thing that’s changed is Satoru hasn’t, and most likely won't, bring a girl up to his room tonight. 

For once, all of his attention is on playing his fifth round of beer pong. 

The guys will still give him shit for the sudden change, but it was never a bad thing, just odd. They’ve given up on theories as to why after realizing Satoru really wasn’t going to cave and tell them this time around. Not even Suguru. He doesn’t need to ask, though, he knows Satoru is fucking someone. With how secretive he’s been though, he’s most likely sneaking around with someone that’ll get him in trouble if word gets out. Like the wife of one of his father's very affluent and important friends, perhaps? It was on brand for him.

It wasn’t that serious. Suguru will find out, eventually. He just hopes it doesn’t end badly for his friend that’s brought enough scandals for his family, being the problem child he’s always been. Hell, he’s being problematic right now, pulling Suguru out of his thoughts as some poor girl tugs on Satoru’s shirt.

Suguru has no idea what she said to him, but he steps in a little closer, pretending to focus on the game as he listens to whatever his friend has to say. Satoru barely looks at her and responds, not only rudely, but with quite possibly the most ridiculous words Suguru has ever heard come out of his mouth. 

“Sorry, sweetheart– I like my women a little more grown.” 

Mind you, they were in the same year. 

She laughs, there’s still stars in her eyes as she looks at him. “Wait, what?”

He shortens it. “M’not interested.”

“Why?” she asks, eyes growing dull. 

And Satoru, having already lost his patience, takes a step back and looks at her from head to toe, looking for another reason. It’s quite embarrassing— standing there and waiting for someone to figure out what they don’t like about you. 

“Yeaah, no.” He takes another look at her. “You just don’t do it for me— sorry.”

You’d think it’d be fine since he didn’t point out any of her features, but being told you ‘don’t do it’ for someone that you’ve already fucked doesn’t feel very good, nor does realizing that he completely forgot that they have, multiple times. He’s gotten drunk and fucked a lot of people. Keyword: Drunk. He doesn’t remember most of the time, hence his initial confusion when she threw a drink in his face. 

Unfazed, he wipes the remnants of her drink off his face, throwing her off in the process as he treats it like it’s a common occurrence and that he’s used to it (he’s very used to it).

“You just proved my fuckin’ point,” Satoru says, still unimpressed as he takes his shirt off and continues to casually wipe himself off. “Grow up.”

The comment makes her realize he was being dead serious with his original reason for rejecting her, even though he had zero problem with fucking her at the beginning of the year. “Oh fuck you, Gojo,” she ends up cursing at him as she storms off, furious and embarrassed.

“Yeah– not happening!” he laughs and yells back loud enough for her to hear.

Suguru just laughs because fucking called it. He totally was seeing someone older, and Satoru's response gave it away. Suguru doesn’t mention it, though. “You coulda been a little nicer, y’know?”

“Whatever,” he waves him off, knowing he could’ve been ruder, but chose not to. “I’ll probably never see her again after graduation, anyway.”

Suguru shrugs. “You never know.”

Satoru ruffles his hair with the semi-damp t-shirt in his hand, wondering why his friend decided to embrace his inner Gandhi when he’s just as bad as him. Satoru literally watched him tell a girl to stop crying after he cut things off with her, then added salt to the wound by giving her some speech about how she wouldn’t run after a snake and explain how being bitten made her feel. Suguru wasn’t technically wrong, but he did not have to say all that. With that being said, he wasn’t in the mood to listen to Suguru lecture him any more though, and lets the comment go. 

“I’m gonna go wash the rest of this shit off,” he says, referring to the sheer pink stain on his hair. 

Suguru pats his back a couple of times as he continues to laugh. “Have fun with that. Try not to run into her or friends.”

Satoru hoped not, that mini-meltdown was enough for him. He wasn’t stumbling or anything, but having to walk through crowds to get to his room made him realize he was drunker than he realized, not that it made him feel any remorse for the words he said. They did not warrant getting a drink thrown in his face. 

The first thing he does when he gets to his room is kick out a couple making out on his bed, throwing a couple of insults and threats their way as they scurry out of his room. Then he walks into his bathroom to wash his hair off in the sink, which leads to him completely stripping down in frustration and hopping in the shower, in hopes that it’d sober him up a bit. 

It doesn’t— it just makes him want to call it a night. 

He dries himself off and throws on a pair of boxers and sweats before sitting down on his bed with his phone in hand. His thumb hovers over the call button as he stares at your contact. The room continues to spin as he wonders if you were even awake. It was pushing midnight. 

After spending way too much time wondering if you’d answer, his thumb hits the screen. The phone rings once. Twice. Then a third time.

“What do you think you’re doing calling me this late?” you immediately grill him, your smooth and unhurried tone making you sound more amused than anything. 

He smiles as he stifles a laugh. “I can’t call you and say what’s up now?”

“People don’t usually call someone at midnight to say what's up.”

“M’not like other people,” he chuckles, though you know deep down inside, he wouldn’t dare put himself in the same category as a regular person. There isn’t one mirror he’s walked by and hasn’t looked at— the way Satoru looks at his own reflection could send anyone into a crisis, wondering if their spouses really did love them as much as they claimed.

“Yeah, you’re real different,” you respond blandly, coming off as trying to knock him down a peg, when really you’re just trying to move on. “Anyways, what do you want?”

“You should let me come over,” he doesn’t hesitate to say, slurring his words slightly. 

“No.”

He pulls his phone away from his ear and looks at it with his brows pinched together, all hurt from how you didn’t even bother thinking about it before giving him an answer. 

“Why not?” he grumbles, finding himself more offended than usual. “I miss you.”

He’s reminded that you don’t actually hate him when you begin to laugh at how endearing he can be, even when he’s just complaining. “I saw you two days ago.”

“What can I say, baby?” he murmurs, the stupid grin on his face widening when he hears you click your tongue. “You make it hard not to with that tight little p—”

Are you drunk right now?” You cut him off, wiping the smile right off that little pervert's face. 

“Maybe.” 

He hears you let out a disgusted scoff on the other side of the phone. “Ew, no. I don’t wanna fuck you when you’re all drunk and sloppy.”

At first, he lets out this noise that can only be described as what a pout would sound like if you could hear it. “First of all, I’m not sloppy. Second, I wasn’t asking to fuck, just let me spend the night. It’s loud here— buncha’ hooligans running around.” 

“So you can fuck with my sleep?”

“Baby, I would never fuck with your beauty sleep,” he swears. “I’m a beast— not a fuckin’ monster.”

“You are such a fucking loser.” You pinch your nosebridge as you sigh and mutter under your breath. “You’ll be fine. Just take another shot and put some earplugs in.”

“I don’t have any!” 

“Headphones then,” you curtly say. “Anyways, I’m going to bed now—”

“No, wait—”

“Good night~”

Click.

Satoru’s left staring at the wall in disbelief, jaw all the way to the floor. Surely you could’ve offered him a couch— but you didn’t bother, and the thought adds to the betrayal that’s already exacerbated from all the shots he’s taken earlier. It doesn’t go away, it just simmers once he’s processed the fact that you basically told him that he could suffer and fucking die, for all you cared, before hanging up. 

The music’s so loud that the walls are fucking shaking, there’s no point in noise cancelling headphones when he can feelhow loud it is. His eyes dart between his phone, his dresser, and the door before finally getting up with an irritated sigh. 

“Fuck this.”

. . .

Instead of sleeping, like you said you would when hanging up on Satoru, you continued to watch what you put on the tv prior to answering your phone. Though with how late it was, your eyes inevitably grew heavier with each blink, and you found yourself beginning to doze off. 

Until a knock on the door and the muffled sound of your name being called snaps you right back to reality. 

“I swear to god if that’s—” you begin murmuring to yourself as you walk up to the door, cutting yourself off because no shit it’s Satoru. You can’t think of anybody else who would still come over despite being told no.  

You swing the door open, annoyed that it doesn’t swing outwards, it would’ve been nice to hit him with it. He’s leaning against the entryway to stop himself from swaying in place, as carefree as ever. 

“What are you doing here?!”

Immediately, he begins to beg. “You have got to let me sleep here— some nasty couple fucked on my bed and there’s a group of psychos hunting me down with pitchforks.”

He was not going back there, and if a little truth-twisting is what it takes to get you to let him, then so be it.

Your face twists in annoyance. “Hunt you down for what?!”

“For turning one of them down.” He throws his arms out, pretending to be outraged. “Threw a drink in my face and everything just because I wouldn’t fuck her! And now my bed smells like rotten fish—”

“Just get inside,” you snap at him, feeling an incoming headache starting to form from his theatrics.

“Thank you.”

Despite showering and brushing his teeth, you can still smell some of the alcohol radiating off of him as he walks past you. Irritated, you shut the door a little too harshly, missing the way the man flinched as he stood there and waited for you. You completely ignore him, walking to the coffee table and picking up the remote to turn the T.V off. You walk off to your room after, with Satoru following right behind you like a lost puppy. 

The decorative pillows get plucked off the bed one by one. The only reason why he doesn’t ask if you need help with anything is that he is a little too scared to ask. You pull the duvet back and whip your head around to look at him. 

“Get in,” you order, and he quickly walks around to the other side, pulling his shirt over his head and leaving his sweats on. “And do not wake me up tonight.”

“Kay’,” he says quietly, slipping the covers. 

You follow, after killing the lights, sighing as you lay your head back and close your eyes. He awkwardly lies there at first, arms pulling the blanket up to his chest, staring at the ceiling. It’s not how he sleeps, and frankly, he is really fucking uncomfortable. He’s also scared to move right now.

But Satoru is Satoru, and at the very last minute, turns and snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. He slides a leg in between yours, and you open your mouth to protest, only to get cut off by his slightly nervous voice. 

“Good night.” 

. . .

Satoru wakes up twice. 

Once at 6:00 am to a pounding headache. He got up to look for an over the counter painkiller. Luckily, he found some in the first cabinet he opened in your kitchen and downed more than he should’ve before getting back in bed, throwing an arm and a leg over you, and falling back asleep. 

Then again, at 11:00 am, when he hears some shuffling around the room and realizes you are no longer next to him. 

He opens one eye and mumbles, “Where are you going?” 

You’re in a hurry as you put a pair of socks on. “To a pilates class.” 

“Can I come?” he pops his head up and asks, struggling to open both eyes.

There’s an incredulous look on your face when you pause and look at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one, you look like a fucking mess right now.” He didn’t really need to hear that, he already figured it out since he feels like one right now. “Two, I don’t need you sitting alone in the corner, watching me for an hour straight.”

“That’s mean as fuck.”

“Not one lie was told,” you argue back, getting the last sock on and rising to your feet. “I’m not kicking you out just yet, so you can stay if you want.” 

“Oh, I fuckin’ will.” It comes out as if kicking him out was never an option to begin with, earning himself a little side eye that he was too busy stretching his arms out to notice. You quickly let it go, figuring the hangover was doing a number on him. “Do you have food?”

“Yeah, just look around in the fridge.” You look at your watch, then throw your bag over your shoulder after realizing you’re just barely running on time. “I’ll be back in like an hour.”

“Kay’,” he yawns, lying back against the pillow and closing his eyes once you're out of view. 

As much as his head hurts, he’s glad he’s suffering here and not at the house. It’s quiet, your bed’s comfy, time actually feels like it’s running slow for once. There are another 15 minutes of peace before it is ruined by the ring of his phone. 

Before he reaches for it on the nightstand, he takes a few seconds to shove his face into the  pillow and let out a slew of curses. He picks up the phone and answers, as if his head wasn’t pounding more than ever. 

It’s Suguru, who’s not as concerned as he is confused. “Hey, so— you’re not home.”

“M’not,” Satoru mumbles. 

Suguru gives him room to explain, but speaks again when he realizes Satoru’s not going to take any of it. “Where are you then?” Again, not concerned, just confused.

“At a friend’s,” Satoru vaguely says. Even in his current fucked up state, he still remembers that you don’t want him talking about you at all. 

“...and this is the friend that you’re not fucking and avoiding everyone for, right?”

He lets out a laugh. “Exactly.”

At least Suguru’s smart and is able to read between the lines, meaning that was enough information for him. “Alright.” He laughs with him. “I’ll let you go then. Have fun with your friend.”

“I will.”

Right after he hangs up, he hears another notification go off that’s not from his phone. He hears the ping a couple more times and quickly realizes it’s your phone hiding under the sheets. You were in too much of a rush to realize you forgot to bring it with you. 

Satoru’s not one to look through someone else’s phone. He never has, never cared to, never felt the need to. So fighting the urge not to was not only something new, but incredibly fucking difficult. It’s literally right in his hand. He even knows your passcode from the one time he watched you unlock it because his memory’s perfect. 

One minute. He’ll just give himself one minute to take a peek. 

. . . 

It’s been several. 

Putting it down, while he’s in the middle of scrolling through a particular conversation, feels impossible. Even when he knows he’s just ruining his own morning by looking at it, he continues to read and make mental notes. 

His names Shiu. 37 years old. Moderately successful. 

Boring as fuck. 

He can tell when someone’s forcing themselves to keep a conversation alive, and can’t wrap his head around why you’d even bother when it’s over shit you have zero interest in. Shiu hasn’t even complimented you once. Nothing about you physically, not even the bare minimum of making a comment about how he enjoys talking to you, since it’s you carrying all of these dry, meaningless conversations. 

It's like he just expects you to talk to him. 

He continues to scroll, getting closer to the more recent messages, and Satoru finally sees something interesting. Not for you or Shiu, but for him. Reservations for your date next weekend. The first date. 

And also your last.

. . . 

Before you met him, Shiu wasn’t someone you’d ever imagined yourself being with. He’s calm, quiet, and more of a listener than he was a talker. Not much of a joker or a gossiper. 

He was just stable. Rooted. Shiu is a man who couldn’t be moved. 

He was a safe choice. A smart one. A mellow man with a successful career. Given your track record of failed relationships with men that you chose based on how exciting you found them, maybe it was time to be smarter.

Some may say it was settling, but you say it’s being practical and choosing what’s best for you. 

After a few weeks of casual texting, you were finally having dinner with him tonight. You weren’t exactly excited, but you weren’t nervous either— maybe this is him rubbing off of you. 

You’re not sure, honestly. 

It feels like there’s something missing, and in its place is the weight of something that refuses to show itself to you, as if its sole purpose was to burden you with confusion. 

You take one last look at yourself before you leave, smoothing your hand over the long, tight black dress you chose to wear. Flattering, not too revealing. The same for your shoes, just simple black kitten heels. 

At the last minute, Satoru manages to squeeze his way into your mind as you randomly recall the last time you saw him, which was exactly a week ago. The only thing that was off was his supernatural ability to bounce back from a hangover in under an hour. He was fine by the time you got home— at least fine enough to follow you into the bathroom for some shower sex. 

You haven’t heard from him since he went home that day. You should be relieved, you wanted him to get bored with you and pull away, yet here you are, wondering why you haven’t heard from him. 

. . .

Shiu wasn’t a man who couldn’t be moved— that would require being passionate about something, and so far, he’s about as dry as a matchstick.

And maybe there is something that he’s passionate about, but you doubt it. It’s not necessarily a complaint, just a change in the way you saw him. Shame on you for building up a false idea of him in your head. 

At least he’s still calm and quiet— you’re just hoping that all there is to him. 

As for now, Shiu was like a constant stream of water that never changed in temperature. He was a place on earth where the weather never changed. A solid 70 degrees, every single day. Acceptable. Easy to digest. Nothing out of the ordinary is ever likely to happen with him. 

He’s still a safe choice.

You’re not exactly sure how it’d be what’s best for you, though. You liked surprises— they turned an ordinary day into a day worth remembering— a life without them was just a forgotten past and pointless future. 

You could be acting a little dramatic over it right now, but you are honestly sick and fucking tired of getting absolutely nowhere with all the guys you’ve dated and spoken to.

Which is why you push yourself to consider that Shiu could just be a little shy, it's only 15 minutes into your date after all. You remind yourself that opening up takes time, for reasons that make only you feel better. 

You haven’t had a quarter life crisis yet, but learning that you’ve spent all this time swinging sledge hammers and wrecking balls at a safe that’s been empty from the start might finally take you there. 

You take a sip of your wine and set it back down. “Do you know what you’re gonna order?” 

He slowly shakes his head, humming  indecisively. “Not yet.” 

You wait for him to say something else, but to no one’s surprise, he doesn’t. “You mentioned it’s your 9th time coming here. Do you have any favorites that you reorder?” 

He hums again. “Nah. The food here’s decent, but I haven’t had anything that’s stood out to me just yet.” 

It’s not often people leave you speechless, especially on first dates, but here you are. Tight lipped, eye threatening to twitch. 

“Wow— you’re 9th time here, and you still haven’t found a dish that left you satisfied at the end of the meal?” 

You’re really hoping he backtracks and corrects you. Coming to a restaurant you don’t like that many times was one of the most ridiculous things you’ve ever heard. 

“Not yet,” he smiles and shakes his head, as if wasting his time and money on a restaurant he didn’t like was just a silly little quirk of his. “Maybe today will be the day.” 

Why the fuck would he take you here?

“Fingers crossed,” you force out a light laugh, feeling your patience start to fade.  “So you’re just gonna keep coming here until you’ve gone through the entire menu?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” he chuckles, not catching the slight irritation in your tone. “What can you do, you know?” 

“I mean… you can always try new restaurants,” you suggest. 

“Nah.” He waves a hand as if that's doing too much. “Easy to stay here. I already know what to expect.” 

It took the amount of discipline a sergeant had to hold back on saying that this wasn’t the doctor's office or the fucking barber shop. 

You can absolutely check other places out.

Does this guy not understand free will exists? 

“Makes sense,” you lie, pushing out all the enthusiasm you’re able to put forward. “No point in fixing something if it’s not broken, you know?” 

“Exactly,” he proudly nods. 

“There you two are!” 

…You were going to kill yourself if it’s who you think it is. 

At first, you ignored the familiar voice and instead took an extra big sip of wine. 

He hates being ignored though, so instead of pulling up a seat between you and your date as he had originally planned, he sits right next to Shiu and smiles at the way you instantly freeze. 

You hate to admit how good he looked tonight. His hair’s styled for once, loosely brushed back with some expensive styling cream. You can’t help but notice how much sharper his eyes look with his hair out of his face. More rough and intimidating. He was in a white button up, tailored to perfection, rolled up at his elbows, leaving the top buttons of the shirt unbuttoned to show off the chain he always wore. Grey tweed trousers, also tailored to perfection. 

“My bad— ran into some traffic on the way here.” 

Satoru turns to Shiu, who’s even more confused than you, and holds his hand out for a handshake, giving him a veryformal introduction. 

Afterwards, Satoru proceeds to pluck the menu out of your date's hand. 

“Alright, Shiu, what are we getting tonight?” 

Shiu is visibly appalled when he looks at you, but doesn’t say anything because he’s never had a stranger do that before. Especially when the stranger’s as eccentric as Satoru. 

“I— I don’t know.” Your date stumbles on his words at first from the surprise of Satoru’s sudden appearance. “I didn’t get to finish looking through the menu.” 

“Wait— really?” 

Satoru looks at his watch and sees how you two have been here for nearly 20 minutes, and he still hasn’t picked something. He doesn’t wait for a response and hands the menu back since he already found what he liked, which sucks for you because now he can direct his attention elsewhere. 

He leans back and nods at you, because you haven’t spoken at all yet. 

“What’re you getting?” You catch the split second his entire expression darkens. He is fucking pissed.

“The cod and asparagus,” you murmur. 

“That’s fucking disgusting,” he says through a smile, playing it off as a joke even though you both know it’s not. “Your palate sucks though, so I’m not surprised.” 

“Yeah, no— it’s fucking awful,” you let out a laugh. “I need to start eating better— feels like I’ve been eating nothing but junk the past few months.” 

His face drops, and just before he’s about to say something 10x ruder, Shiu cuts in. 

“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” he takes several steps back to about 5 minutes ago, “was there some sort of mix up here? I thought this was a date-date, not a dinner with… friends.” Shiu looks back at you, and you’re no help, you’re just glaring. 

“A date?” Satoru huffs out a laugh, making the man look like an idiot for even thinking this was a date. “It’s been dinner this whole time. You’re the one who booked a reservation for four, our other friend couldn’t make it.” 

Shiu's face twists in confusion. “What? No, no, no— I booked the reservation under two.”

“No, you didn’t. It was booked under four,” he sadly breaks it to him. “You can go ask the receptionist if you want, but I swear it’s four.” 

Shiu gets up from his seat to go talk to the receptionist, because he knows he booked it for two— he’s not fucking crazy. 

And it’s true, he’s not. Satoru’s the crazy one here.

He’s still gonna go home believing he is though, since the receptionist got paid to change the booking information and lie to him. 

Satoru laughs just thinking about it, then downs the rest of Shiu’s wine, ready to gaslight him over that, too. 

Finally, he looks back at you and feels a sick sense of satisfaction. You’re angry… baffled, in complete and utter disbelief— you’re looking at him like you’re two seconds away from jumping over the table and strangling him. 

Though in the end, you gather yourself together as you finally ask: “What are you doing here, Satoru?” 

“Why the fuck are you on a date with someone right now?” His tone clipped, it sounds like he’s about to throw a fit.

“I—“ you stop for a moment, reminding yourself not to yell. “Satoru, we’re not in a relationship.” 

“Fine, then,” he decides to rephrase it, “why are you trying to replace me? And with him? Seriously?!” 

“What’s wrong with him?!” 

“He looks like a sleazy pornstar from the 80s!”

“Not everything is about looks—“

He laughs and cocks his head to the side. “Ok, what is it then? Is his dick bigger than mine?”

Your brows pinch together. Of course, he’s worried about that. “No— I haven’t even seen it yet.” 

“Yet?!” his voice broke. 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

You try to use a more stern tone to get him to relax, but you don’t think it’ll work. Satoru looks fucking devastated.

“What’s next, you're gonna have babies with him?”

Your jaw drops at his conclusion. “What? No! Do you not realize how dramatic you sound right now?” 

“I’m being replaced by a man with fucking pornstache!” he points to himself and says. 

“Excuse me?” You’re both interrupted by a timid waitress. “Um– the man that was here earlier just left.”

“I’m not surprised,” you mutter until your breath. 

“Yeah…” she sighs, almost apologizing for it. “Were you guys ready to order?”

You glance back at Satoru, and he’s looking away with his arms crossed. “Could I just get the bill for the drinks?”

“Oh, no worries about that! It’s all been covered already by Mr. Gojo. You can just head out when you’re ready.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course! Have a good n–” she cuts herself off, knowing damn well you weren’t. “Take care.”

You would’ve laughed at how timid she was if you weren’t so irritated, and instead just nod and smile. You look back at the date crasher, contemplating whether you should thank him or not for trying to cover the bill, but hold off, knowing he probably only did it to assert even more dominance over your date than he already has. 

“We’re leaving.” You rise up and grab your purse. Satoru doesn't even look at you, let alone move an inch, because he’s throwing a fucking tantrum, so you slam your hand on the table. “Get up.”

He gets up.

There’s a slight pout on Satoru’s face as he follows you out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. His hands are shoved in his pockets, dragging his feet. 

“Where’s your car?” you ask. 

“There,” he mumbled and nodded in its direction, then suddenly, you’re pinching his ear and yanking on it. 

“Ow—”

“Walk,” you say through gritted teeth, pinching harder. 

“Ow– fuck– I am,” he chokes out. “Ow, ow, ow.”

You continued to drag him through the parking lot, ignoring his pleas for you to let go. 

“Suck it up,” you coldly respond. “You were asking for it when you crashed my date.”

“I’m sorry, I… ugh— I’m really not, he was lame as fuck, but still— your nails, ow.”

“Exactly, so get over it,” you continue to scold him. “Can’t believe you fucking did that.”

“Because you—”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” you cut him off, giving his ear one last tug, leaving him next to the driver's side door of his car. “Take me home. Now.”

gojo when reader said she hasn’t seen it “yet”:

Shoko first—small, silent, blue around the lips. Her mother would later tell her she hadn’t cried, not even once. She just blinked up at the ceiling, like she’d already seen too much of the world. You had come days after—red-faced and furious, shrieking like you’d already been wronged.

Balance, their clanhead called it. One to make, one to unmake.

They grew up in a quiet prefecture, tucked between the mountains, where fog collected on windows in the morning and everything smelled like pine and old rain. Their family was not a traditional jujutsu clan—not in the way the Zenins or the Gojos were—but they still had blood that remembered power, blood that ran strangely cold.

Shoko discovered her technique early—reversed cursed energy, delicate and warm, the ability to stitch together what others could only destroy. It made her quiet, made her thoughtful, made her feel too responsible for things she didn’t understand. You, on the other hand, were all forward motion and fury, manifesting offensive cursed techniques with raw instinct and terrifying precision.

You burned. Shoko cooled. A soldier and a healer.

It wasn't rivalry. It wasn't even contrast, really. It was rhythm—two halves of a heart, orbiting each other, moving through childhood in tandem. You protected her from bullies, from curses, from the dark under the bed. Shoko bandaged your scraped knees, held your hair back with her small hands when you threw up after manifesting your cursed technique for the first time, whispered questions into your shoulder late at night about whether they’d ever be normal.

Neither of you wanted normal. Not really.

So when your mothers had suggested both of you for Jujutsu Tech—you didn’t hesitate. It is the slight chill that Spring of 2005 that Shoko remembers most. Fifteen years old, uniforms they’d taken customized to their liking just a month before—Shoko, with her wide turtleneck and midi skirt. You, in a well-tailored blazer, and much to your mother’s disapproval—a short skirt.

Even after the arguments and bickering, their mothers had cried. Their fathers had barely nodded at them. The train took them away to Tokyo with petals sticking to the window, and their only belongings in duffle bags at their feet. Shoko’s hands were cold where they held yours softly.

She was afraid. You weren’t.

You had always loved the idea of being chosen, and Shoko just didn’t want to be left behind.

And maybe that’s how it all began—not with power, or fate, or bloodlines.

Two girls stepping onto a train together, one chasing strength, the other running away from a world she’d one day have to hold together with her hands.

ii. april, 2005

Jujutsu Tech was nothing like Shoko expected.

She thought it would be colder, older, more like the hospitals she’d passed on the train—tall and sterile and gray. But it was… soft. Vines curling around wooden buildings, laundry strung between windows, the hum of cicadas already testing their voices in the trees. It smelled like dirt and chalk and something faintly sweet, like sakura or summer air caught in the stairwells.

She didn’t talk much those first couple of days. Neither did Suguru Geto.

They met on their first day of class, standing awkwardly apart. Shoko was pressed against the wall, you beside her like a shield, when she noticed him—black hair long just at his shoulder, eyes unreadable, hands folded neatly behind his back like he was waiting for something more important than small talk. He caught her looking, and they didn’t smile, but something passed between them anyway. A kind of shared silence.

Then came Gojo.

She had heard of him before, of course. The honored one, the destined boy of the Gojo Clan. He arrived like a storm—messy white hair, too-tall frame stuffed into the uniform like it didn’t quite belong to him. He talked too much, laughed too loud, tripped over his own shoes, and still managed to radiate something untouchable. He was awkward, undeniably gifted, and absolutely convinced he had nothing to learn from anyone.

Shoko didn’t really like him.

You despised him worse, found him amusing. You would say he was infuriating, sure—but interesting.

“He thinks he’s better than everyone,” you whispered one night, grimacing into your pillow. “But his ears turn red every time I catch him staring.”

Shoko rolled her eyes, gave you a half smile. “He’s insufferable.”

“You're just mad that he said you would look better if you grew out your hair.” you teased.

“That's not true. I like my hair.”

“I like it too.”

“Then why does it matter to me what he thinks?”

But slowly—so slowly it almost escaped her notice—he changed. He started making jokes with them. And regrettably, Shoko would sometimes laugh at something he said. He started sitting with them at lunch. Picked up Suguru’s habit of folding napkins into strange little birds. Borrowed Shoko’s pens and returned them. Awkwardly, with both hands and a muttered thanks.

He began learning them. Their rhythms. Their silences.

It was the end of summer when it started to feel like something real.

Missions were few and far between in those first months. They trained hard, sweat and bruises under the cherry blossoms, sparring on grass that still held morning dew. Shoko hated sparring. She wasn’t built for it—not the way you were, with your reckless cursed technique and even more reckless joy.

But she tried. Because she had to. Because she wouldn’t let herself be the weak link.

And Gojo—he always held back when they fought. Even then, before he understood how to be gentle, he understood that she needed to win sometimes. Needed to prove that she could. He let her land hits, not because she needed help, but because he saw the way she looked at herself compared to the rest of them. She knew that Gojo—the freak of nature he was with those blazing blue eyes—saw her beneath her dry sarcasm and grins and tired eyes.

Suguru, on the other hand, never let her win. But he gave her pointers after. Explained why she slipped, what her stance betrayed. His feedback was quiet, clinical, never cruel. Always gave her a nod and a smile. Shoko trusted him for it.

Those were their blue springs—their youth washed in cloudless skies and laughter and rain-soaked uniforms drying on sun-warmed rocks. Those were the days of early friendships, of discovering who they were becoming.

They took the train into Tokyo for missions, packed into cars half-asleep, heads knocking against windows. You would always take the window seat, with your far too expensive mp3 player and ratty wired earbuds. You’d hum under your breath, fingers tapping a beat on your thigh. Gojo sprawled across two seats, his head inevitably ending up in someone’s lap. Suguru read novels and pretended not to notice you and Gojo’s helpless bickering.

❀

The first storm of the summer comes sudden, like most things that mattered back then. Sheets of water turning the courtyard into a lake, petals plastered to the stones.

Gojo didn’t run for cover. Of course he didn't. He stood in the middle of it all like some idiot, arms outstretched, hair plastered white against his forehead, laughing so loud it made the rain sound shy.

“You'll catch a cold,” Suguru called from the walkway, voice dry as the towel slung around his shoulders.

“Colds are a myth,” Gojo shot back, spinning in a circle, water flying from his sleeves. It wasn't rare back then for Gojo to turn off his infinity, especially for rain storms he used to practically bathe in.

Shoko watched from the step, dry under an awning with a cigarette between her fingers. Smoking was a new habit she’d picked up, in spite of the protests from her friends, in spite of the distaste and the mini interventions and scoldings you’d given her. All these years later, she can’t really remember where it started from.

You had taken the cigarette from her fingers that day and threw it in the rain, leaving her a little frustrated. Then she watched as you tried not to smile, and bolted straight into the storm after Gojo, shoes kicking up water like wings.

The both of you were soaked in seconds—shrieking, colliding, uniforms clinging like second skin. Grinning too bright for the gray sky above them.

❀

They went on their first mission as a full team in late October.

A cursed spirit in a temple in the countryside—nothing particularly dangerous, but big enough to warrant the four of them. The four of you, as it turned out, had garnered somewhat of a reputation in the Jujutsu world by this point, even though it had only been a couple months into your first year. There was Gojo, being who he was, and then there were you and Geto, two special-grade hopefuls, and then Shoko, with her reverse cursed technique. It was hard not to hear the excitement, the chatter from your seniors and teachers and higher-ups and worse, the curses, as they marveled at what potential the four of you possessed.

On their first mission together they took the train, bundled in thin jackets, feet tangled under the seats. You sat next to Gojo this time, your knees knocking occasionally as the train curved through the mountains. You two didn’t talk much, just passed a packet of rice crackers back and forth, you opening them with your teeth and Gojo laughing, soft, like he couldn’t help it.

Suguru fell asleep with his head against the window. Shoko watched the landscape blur, temples and fields dissolving into dusk.

She remembers that October day clearly — because the first time they saw a body together was on a bridge, the river swollen black beneath it, the cold gnawing at their ankles. The mission shouldn’t have had civilian casualties. It wasn’t supposed to be anything. Yet their world didn’t care about supposed to.

Shoko stood back as Suguru exorcised the curse, her hands clenching, heart banging against her ribs like it wanted out. When it was over, the corpse of the victim lay sprawled against the guardrail, mouth full of frozen air. A little girl—her hair so matted in blood Shoko couldn’t tell what color it was anymore.

Gojo tried to crack a joke, to distill the buzzing in the air—something stupid about ghosts haunting bridges—but no one laughed, not even him. You touched Shoko's arm, light as breath, and for the first time Shoko wondered if maybe they weren’t weapons at all. Maybe they were just kids with blood under their nails and no way out.

It's that night she remembers all these years later, coming home from the mission. They stayed up talking until sunrise. They lay on futons in someone’s dorm room, the windows open, moths circling the lights.

“Do you ever think,” you had asked, staring at the ceiling. “That we’re not meant to survive this?”

There's a quiet that fills the room, uncomfortable, like understanding the inevitable.

“Don't say that depressing shit,” Gojo said sharply, but his voice still held a hint of something that could’ve been mistaken for vulnerability.

“I'm serious. We're weapons. Tools. They'll use us until we break.”

“Then we don’t break,” Suguru said quietly.

“Or we break together.”  Shoko said, so softly no one answered.

That first year, they were just kids. Cursed kids, sure. But kids.

And even though Shoko knew better—even though she could already see the shape of blood and bodies and burials in the future—she let herself believe in nights like those. The four of them sprawled on the floor, laughing at someone’s expense, playing cards and cheap candy wrappers littered on the floor.

In the way Gojo looked at you when he thought no one else saw.

In the way Suguru never raised his voice, but always listened.

In the way you gave your heart like the world hadn’t hurt you yet.

In the way they all leaned on each other like scaffolding, like maybe if they held tight enough, they wouldn’t fall.

iii. june, 2006

Summer in Tokyo hit different when you were sixteen and almost certain you’d die before twenty. 

They weren’t supposed to go out—they had curfews, missions stacked like bones at the start of their second year—curses growing restless, schools asking for protection, strange whispers threading through reports about ancient prisons and shifting power balances. Still, they trained. Still, they laughed. Still, they stole naps on rooftops and dared each other to eat expired convenience store pudding.

Still, they were kids.

Gojo whined until Suguru sighed and gave in, and you had tugged Shoko by the wrist before she could protest.

The festival was a crush of lantern light and smoke, sweet batter curling through the air, fireworks cracking open the dark. You darted ahead, yukata swaying, hair pinned up with something glittering like starlight. Gojo stuck by your side, wolfing down skewers two at a time, Suguru following at a distance with his hands tucked in his sleeves, gaze flicking toward the crowd like a man always counting exits, but still roaring in laughter as Gojo almost chokes on his third kebab.

“Try this,” Gojo said, shoving a stick of candied fruit under Shoko's nose.

“I don’t want your leftovers,” she muttered, unimpressed. But after a bit of nagging she took it anyway, quietly unwrapping it and biting through the sugar shell and pretending it wasn’t good—just to spite him.

Fireworks bloomed overhead—white, then red, then a scatter of gold that turned every face strange and beautiful. For a moment, Shoko saw them like strangers: Suguru haloed in crimson, Gojo’s grin carved bright in the dark, and you tilting your head back to watch the sky like it would never fall.

The boom of the next firework swallowed her thoughts, and she let it.

❀

Shoko always thought the end would come like a firework—loud, blinding, impossible to ignore.

But it hadn’t. It came instead like fog. Slow, creeping, impossible to trace where it started.

By the time they noticed it was already over, the fog of it had already filled the room.

She thinks she can trace every lamentable moment of her life back to that August of 2006. 

Gojo, Geto, you and the star plasma vessel mission she hadn’t been a part of. When she thinks back on it, she can’t exactly understand what happened in that week to have changed the course of their entire lives. Was it before Gojo died in a bloody mess? Was it after he came back, blood-stained, eyes dark, buzzing with an energy that she acknowledged—with bated breath—had finally crossed to godhood?

Gojo was stronger. Far stronger. Six eyes sharp as knives, his cursed technique threading into infinity like it had always been waiting for him to catch up. The elders watched him now—not as a student, but as a threat. You noticed it too. Started staying closer to him, stepping between him and the higher-ups during briefings.

“They're grooming him,” you told Shoko once. “Not for leadership. For war.”

Shoko looked at you—at the calluses on your hands, the scar on your jaw you hadn’t let Shoko heal.

“They're grooming all of us.”

You didn’t deny it anymore.

❀

There are softer things that year, where Shoko can’t remember the exact moment things changed.

Only that something had slowed, gone hazy. Like the last layer of frost on a windowpane, melting so gently it almost went unnoticed.

It felt like fall had come early. The leaves on the tech’s old trees went gold and red like they’d been waiting to burn. There were still wounds to be tended to, and there were still things they couldn’t talk about from the end of that summer.

But Gojo had grown taller over the summer, like his body had finally remembered he came from giants. His hair had grown shaggier, uniform didn’t fit right anymore, and he refused to ask for a new one. Shoko watched him adjust his cuffs every morning like it was some kind of ritual, then pretend not to notice when you offered him your spare hair tie for his sleeves. He took it without meeting your eyes, and wore it like armor.

Shoko noticed the shift in the air. Maybe it was the way that you had started lingering after training, towel around your neck, laughter caught in your throat like a secret. Or the way Gojo stood straighter when you walked into a room, blinking too slow, like he hadn’t meant to look. Maybe it was how the two of you had stopped fighting in that way you used to—loud, fast, like lightning cracking open the sky—and started teasing instead. Light, easy, ridiculous. Like you didn’t know how else to be near each other.

Shoko noticed it in the quiet, in the pauses between conversations, and in the way you touched your own wrist absentmindedly whenever Gojo spoke, like grounding yourself. She noticed how Gojo—always so proud of his attention span—started forgetting what he was saying mid-sentence if you laughed too loud.

“You're obvious,” Shoko told you one evening, as you stood in front of her dorm mirror brushing your teeth. It was practically your dorm now, too.

You spat into the sink. “He’s worse.”

“You're both insufferable.”

“He’s insufferable. I'm charming.”

“He told Nanami you punched him in the throat during training.”

“I did, so what? He totally deserved it.”

“I just can’t believe he let you in the first place.” Shoko shook her head, and thought of the infinity around Gojo, the invisible barrier between him and humanity. The thing that put him closer to godliness. A smile curling at her lips despite herself, understanding the implications of Gojo turning it off around you. “And yet you still gave him your last Milkis at lunch.”

“It was strawberry-flavored.” a shrug. “I don't like strawberry.”

Shoko didn’t say anything else. Didn’t point out the way you lingered when Gojo wasn’t around, or how your voice got quieter when you talked about him. Didn’t say that she’d seen Gojo staring out windows when he thought no one was watching, fingers tapping the rhythm of your laugh on his thigh.

There was something sacred about their closeness. Something fragile and half-formed, still soft at the edges. Shoko didn’t want to break it by naming it too soon.

She just watched. Just remembered.

Suguru was the only one who never commented.

He saw it too—of course he did—but he never overtly teased, only gave a knowing smile quietly to Gojo who would glare back, but never really poked at the obvious tension between the two. Maybe because he understood it, or maybe because he was the kind of person who noticed things and let them be.

He grew quieter that fall, but not in a way that worried her yet. It was more like he was watching, gathering. She felt like something was shifting behind his eyes, too slow and too early to name yet. He still joked with Gojo, still helped Haibara with his footwork, still spent long evenings reading next to Shoko in the common room without saying a word.

But he didn’t smile as easily. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes like the world was too loud.

Shoko didn’t ask. She didn’t know how.

Maybe she should have.

❀

It's late November and the mission went fine.

They exorcised the spirit, cleansed the space, burned the remains. But it was what happened after that stuck.

They stayed overnight in a small inn at the base of the mountain, just two rooms—boys in one, girls in the other. The floors were tatami, and the air smelled like cedar and sulfur from the hot springs nearby. it should’ve been peaceful.

But Shoko couldn’t sleep.

You lay on your side, back to Shoko, eyes open in the dark. She listened to the wind outside, the drip of water from a leaky faucet, the quiet hum of something that felt like change.

And then, sometime past midnight, you slipped out of bed.

Shoko didn’t move, just watched the shadow cross the room, slide the door open, and vanish into the hallway.

It wasn't long before Gojo left too.

You weren’t subtle. Maybe you didn’t want to be.

Shoko waited a full minute before getting up. Her feet were cold on the floor. She didn’t know what she expected—to interrupt them, to tease them. She heard echoes in the hallway, but couldn’t make out a word. Just the shuffling of feet, and the wind blowing against the door.

But when she found the two of you — you weren’t touching.

You were standing in the snow-dusted garden outside the inn, facing each other, breathing visible in the cold. Your arms were folded tight across your chest. Gojo's hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets.

You weren’t saying anything, but she felt this air around you two. In your distance, in the heavy breathing and puffs of smoke between your lips, like you had run out of words to say.

Now, you were just looking.

And maybe that was worse. More intimate, somehow.

Shoko didn’t move. She stayed hidden by the shadows, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.

Then you reached forward.

Your hands touching Gojo’s cheek, just barely.

He flinched.

Not away. Not exactly. Just — startled. Like he hadn’t expected you to be real.

Shoko could see it then—how scared he was. Not of you, but of what it meant to want something in a world like theirs.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you said quietly.

Gojo looked at you. “I should.”

“You never say anything you don’t mean.”

“I don’t know how to mean this.”

A pause. Your breath hitched.

“Just don’t look away.”

He didn’t.

And she watched as you leaned in, closing your eyes for your first kiss. How his lashes had brushed against your cheek as he let you pull him in, his hand finding its way to gently hold your waist. 

Shoko had left after that — witnessing a moment so intimate she felt shivers just watching it, intruding in it. Or maybe it was the cold that got her. But, she waited to sleep until you went back inside. Waited until you crawled into bed beside her again, colder than before, but smiling softly into the dark.

Neither of you said a word.

Shoko stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about how everything had already started to change.

❀

The next few weeks felt warmer, somehow. Like something had opened in their group that wasn’t there before. Not just between Gojo and you—but all of them.

They trained harder. Laughed more. She wanted to believe they were healing the cracks from that August, that the feeling of finality sinking into her wasn’t real.

Even Suguru seemed lighter again. He stopped frowning at the radio when the news came on. Started humming again while he read. He taught Haibara about a complicated binding technique in the training yard one afternoon and let out a laugh when their junior tried it himself. There was a moment—a brief, impossible moment—where Shoko almost believed in forever.

They sat on the school rooftop one evening, all four of them, sky streaked violet and pink and gold. Someone had brought a speaker, and someone else had brought a bottles of various soda. Music played low. She noticed that you had rested your head on Gojo's shoulder, and he didn’t move, just leaned into it like gravity.

Suguru was telling a story about a curse he saw shaped like a crab. Shoko laughed. The wind was cool and sweet. The world didn’t feel like it was ending yet.

“You ever think we’ll get out of this?” Suguru asked, voice low, cigarette between his lip.

“Out of what?” you asked.

“This. Jujutsu. Destruction and death and chaos—whatever it is.”

Gojo stared at the sky. “No.”

“Maybe,” Shoko took the cigarette from Geto’s lips, and took a puff. “but not whole.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that.

The sun set, and Shoko watched the light disappear behind Gojo’s glasses, behind your smile, behind the quiet curve of Suguru's mouth.

It felt like a beginning.

But all she could think about was how beautiful things always seemed, right before they broke.

iv. march, 2007

It’s cruel to her, how the missions only seemed to get worse after that.

Higher-ranked, more volatile, more death. More nights in strange towns with blood on their hands. They started seeing each other less and less. After last August, in the aftermath of Riko Amani’s death, Gojo had been assigned onto more missions alone—acknowledged for the first time in finality as the strongest. Started carrying all the mission files himself, memorizing them down to the street corners. Shoko started collecting more tools, more supplies, more sutures for the clinic at the tech, where she stayed more often than not now. She stopped wearing earrings because they got in the way of her face mask. You had learned how to kill without hesitation.

And she swore Suguru never complained about the missions he went on alone. But now he flinched when they passed playgrounds. Tensed when civilians asked for help. The curses he swallowed grew sharper, crueler. nastier, he had once told her late one night, the word leaving his tongue like he had coughed up bile.

“Don't let them suffer,” he said once, without blinking. “Fast is better.”

Shoko nodded.

She didn’t ask what he meant.

❀

The last mission they took together was in the early spring of 2007, before the start of their third year. 

A cult in Hiraizumi—dark rituals, civilian disappearances, cursed users hiding behind holy symbols and incense. They traveled light, only the four of them. It felt like the early days again, for a moment—suitcases and jokes and Gojo making dumb puns as they checked into a cheap ryokan.

But the mission itself was ugly.

Children locked in closets. Blood on the temple floors. Curses formed from fear and starvation, clinging to walls like rot.

Suguru lost control halfway through.

Not of his technique. Not of his mind. But of his restraint.

He killed too quickly. Didn’t wait for surrender, and didn’t leave the last cursed user breathing long enough to answer questions.

Gojo grabbed him by the collar after.

“What the hell was that?”

“They were killing kids.”

“They were running away.”

“And they would’ve kept going.” 

Gojo's hand tightened. his voice dropped. “We follow orders.”

“Do we?”

Suguru's eyes burned—hotter than Shoko had ever seen. “Whose orders, Satoru?”

Shoko watched you step between them. A hand on Gojo's chest. Your voice low. “Not here.”

Gojo dropped his hand, and Suguru had turned and walked away, scoffing.

The two of them didn’t speak again the rest of the trip.

❀

Haibara died not long after.

He had been bright—sun-bright, laughter-bright, too-young-to-fall-bright. He said “good morning” like it mattered. He addressed them all formally even when they told him to stop. He sparred with you like he was dancing, ate lunch with his mouth full, had dreams about being a sorcerer who saved people and meant it.

The mission was supposed to be simple.

Shoko remembers the call. A cursed womb, grade 3, nothing extraordinary. She remembers you saying, “they’re strong. Nanami'll be with him. they’ll be fine.”

They weren’t.

What came back wasn’t a body, not really. It was a mess of limbs and red and something too silent to be the Haibara she had known.

Nanami carried him. Wouldn’t let go, even as his uniform soaked a darker shade from the blood.

Shoko stitched Haibara's body together with shaking hands—not to save him. Just so his mother could recognize his face.

You threw up in the courtyard after the funeral. Gojo didn’t speak. Suguru didn’t cry.

Grief had finally split the group like glass under pressure—fracture lines running between them, invisible until the light hit just right.

Gojo got louder. More obnoxious, more ridiculous. He made jokes during meetings, fell asleep in class, tripped over his own feet just to make you laugh.

And you did laugh. Loud and real and reckless. But there was something sharp underneath it. A glint in your voice. A kind of defiance.

Suguru got even quieter.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, the kind that meant calm or ease.

This was the kind that clung to him. That narrowed his eyes when he passed civilians on the street. That curled his lip when they reported to elders who hadn’t lifted a hand in battle in years. That made him look at Haibara’s photo like it was a question that would never be answered.

Shoko felt it most at night.

Suguru used to accidentally fall asleep reading in the common room, head tilted back, glasses slipping. Now, he sat up long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at nothing, fingers curled like he was still gripping a weapon.

She said something once. Tried to, at least.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly, as they stood in the hall one night. She can’t recall why, or where, but she remembers this moment because there has never been a part of her that hadn’t wished she had pushed back harder.

Suguru looked at her.

His smile was soft, fake. “Yeah.”

By then she knew he was gone.

❀

A couple weeks later, in the midst of an August heatwave — Suguru Geto disappears.

He left a note on the dorm kitchen table and a photo of the four of them.

Just one sentence: I can't do this anymore.

The rest was silence.

Shoko found it first. She read it twice, then sat down at the table and stared at the handwriting until you walked in and asked where everyone was.

Gojo didn’t say anything after meeting with Yaga. Didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the morning.

Though it’s the last time she sees Suguru, she understands this is it.

She had heard, just a little after reading his final note, what he’d done. A town massacred, burned to the ground and cursed residuals that couldn’t have been anyone’s but the man next to her — his own mother and father killed by their only son’s hands. 

Yet here he was, lighting her cigarette for her and laughing. At least she could pretend for a moment that this didn’t have to be over.

She gives Gojo a call and waits with Suguru for his best friend to arrive and she wonders if Gojo could change the outcome of this. If Gojo Satoru could save Suguru Geto from himself. But another glance up at him, long hair disheveled, the purpled skin under his eyes deeper than she’s ever seen, and the emptiness behind his smile, that she realizes she doesn’t know the man next to her. Not anymore. Maybe not at all.

So he waves goodbye, and she nods and lets the smoke cloud her lungs.

And she never spoke to him again.

❀

That winter, the sky felt heavier. The air full of ghosts.

You stopped wearing bright colors. Started sleeping in your uniform, like you expected to be called into battle at any second. Gojo trained until his hands bled, and didn’t let Shoko bandage them.

“What if he’s right?” he asked her once. His voice barely audible. “What if we’re just killing things to delay the inevitable?”

Shoko didn’t answer, because she didn’t know. (Because something in her still wanted to believe.)

But by the end of that year she had found herself alone more often.

In the morgue. On the roof. In the silence between patrols. She smoked less, not because she wanted to live longer. Just because it didn’t feel worth the taste anymore.

You had stopped talking about the future.

Gojo stopped calling himself the strongest.

They were eighteen then. Too young to have seen so much. Too old to unsee any of it.

v. 2008

The years felt blurry after.

Like the sky after a firework show, after the beauty of it wears and you are left with the remains. Of the sky billowed in smoke, and the ground covered in ash. Shoko remembers the firework show during the summer festival in their second year, how she had watched the lights change your faces. How when she thinks of Suguru, she remembers him back then, hair in a half bun, wearing a yukata, his profile cast under the red glow of fireworks.

Mission after mission. Report after report. Half-empty dorm rooms. Birthdays that passed unnoticed. Names that became numbers. More curses. More blood. Fewer friends.

By then she had stopped smoking entirely, not because she wanted to live. But because you had always hated the smell.

And for a long time after Suguru left, Shoko couldn’t sleep without dreaming of the morgue.

The lights were always too bright. The steel trays too cold. Her gloves slick with blood that would never dry. In the dream, you always walked in first—whole, alive, laughing. And Shoko would reach for you. Call your name. But you would just smile, step onto the autopsy table, and lie down.

“You're early,” Shoko would whisper.

“I know.” you would say.

Then the door would swing open, and Suguru would walk in next. But his face would be hollowed out, eyes dark like tunnels. He'd sit beside your body, light a cigarette, and say nothing at all.

Shoko always woke up with her hands clenched tight around the sheets, fingers aching.

❀

Gojo never talked about Suguru.

Not once.

Not even on that day all those years ago when he came back from the confrontation in Shinjuku with blood in his nails and grief in his eyes.

He got stronger. Faster. Untouchable.

The elders stopped looking at him like a student and started looking at him like their greatest tool. He didn’t flinch, just started smiling bigger, make louder jokes, wore sunglasses indoors, and flirted and teased and deflected.

Shoko could see it, thought. In the slump of his shoulders, or the way his laugh caught wrong in his throat.

He was grieving like a dam breaking. Slowly and inevitably.

But never where anyone could see.

You stayed close to him after that. Stopped being fire and became gravity. Quiet and steady. The only thing that could bring him back when he started spinning too fast. You were the one who waited outside meetings. The one who kicked open his door and pulled him out of bed on the days he refused to get up, muttering, “If you don’t move, I'll set your curtains on fire.”

He always moved. Shoko thinks that it’s less because he believed in your vague threats, and more because he just believed in you.

Shoko watched it all from the edge.

The way you stopped waiting for him to say how he felt. The way you just stood there—open, unwavering—until he stopped running.

The two of you never made it official. Not with labels. Not with grand declarations or anything, But Gojo started showing up late to meetings because he walked you home.

Shoko didn’t know if it was healing, but for a while, it was peace.

vi. april, 2009

Around this time, the Fushiguro’s arrived.

Megumi. Six years old. Too serious. Too quiet. walked around everyone like he was ready to hit, or be hit. His older sister, Tsumiki. Not older by much, just eight years old, but she was sunshine, warm and motherly beyond her years. Shoko saw that you took to her instantly, buying her hair clips and braiding her hair — showing her how to throw a punch if she ever needed to.

Gojo brought them to the school with a box of takeout and a stubborn glint in his eye. "Don't say anything weird,” he told you and shook. “He already thinks I’m an idiot.”

“He's not wrong,” you smiled, and Gojo pouted at you.

Shoko bent down to meet the boy’s eyes, unsure of what to say. “Hmm. What’s something you like?”

He shrugged, and gave her an unimpressed look. “I like dogs.”

“Me too,” she said. “They’re honest.”

That night, they all sat in the common room eating cold noodles. Gojo told a story about a cursed tanuki that stole his left shoe. Megumi didn’t laugh, but he leaned into his sister when she did. Shoko watched as he leaned by Gojo's side as the lights went out.

You and Gojo had opened your arms and made space for the two of them.

Or maybe you had filled in the spaces left behind.

❀

Gojo cooked more, and wasn't great on his first try, surprisingly. Shoko had to supervise so he didn’t poison anyone, and you would’ve eaten anything Gojo cooked, regardless.

Shoko watched as the four of them fell into something like a rhythm. Not a family. Not quite.

But something softer than she had become used to.

The kids brought color back to the halls when they came to visit. Laughter that didn’t feel borrowed. It wasn't like before—but nothing ever was.

Gojo had bought an apartment for Megumi and Tsumiki, and the two of you stopped by almost everyday that year. You and Gojo made bento boxes. You went on grocery runs. You argued over what show to watch on Saturday nights. When Shoko would come over, Tsumiki would beg to paint Shoko’s nails, and once she had given in with her nails painted badly in rainbow and glitter, and you and Gojo had made fun of her for weeks when Shoko didn’t wipe it off.

You stopped wearing your uniform outside missions. Started wearing sweaters with loose sleeves, earrings again, mismatched socks.

You started reading books and magazines and things that weren’t just mission reports. Bought a plant for their windowsill. Put post-it notes on the fridge.

Shoko found one once that said, “Satoru, if you forget to buy me dorayaki again, I swear to God.”

He forgot anyway, but he came back late that night with flowers.

Shoko watched from the couch as you opened the door, just to see you blinking down at the bouquet like it had grown a second head.

“They didn’t have dorayaki,” he said, sheepish. “But they had these.”

You didn’t speak—just grabbed the collar of his coat and stepped into the apartment hallway with him, shutting the door without looking.

Shoko looked away, and gave them the evening. She hung out with the kids, because they were cooler, and let them sleep on the couch watching movies.

It’s after they had fallen asleep, and you and Gojo were nowhere to be seen, that she sat on the balcony and watched the city lights flicker, listening to the hum of traffic into the night.

For the first time in months, she felt… full.

Not happy. Not yet healed.

But full, like maybe all her pieces had stopped rattling.

Just for now.

❀

She still worked long hours, because the clinic never slept.

New students. New injuries. New names she tried not to memorize.

She stitched and cut and stabilized and cleaned. Practiced her technique until it no longer felt like a gift but a reflex.

She stopped praying, though she had never been good at it anyway.

But every time a body came in, not yet cold, not yet gone, she held her breath.

Please, not them.

❀

They didn’t talk about the past. At least not often.

But sometimes, when you had already fallen asleep and the wind whistled through the hallways, Gojo would sit next to her on the balcony and say things in a tone older than his twenty years.

“He liked soba more than ramen. I never knew that.”

And Shoko would nod.

“He read faster than anyone,” she’d add. “even me.”

“He believed in this more than we did.”

“Yeah.”

Then silence.

Then the night.

Then the world turning, regardless.

❀

Shoko isn’t sure what time it is now, but it feels like a bit past midnight. In here, it’s just the two of you on the couch with the weight of exhaustion like a second blanket. The balcony door is half-open, and the September chill is blowing in softly. There’s a glass of wine balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, that she keeps forgetting to drink, and you’ve got your legs tucked underneath you, hair damp from a shower, wearing one of those shirts that’s probably his — though neither of you ever acknowledges it out loud.

Shoko tips her head against the back of the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling like it’ll tell her the future, and mutters, “I feel so old.”

You laugh, soft, incredulous. “We’re twenty-one.”

“Exactly. And yet my back feels like I’m fifty.” You give her a side glance, smiling.

“My back feels perfectly fine, granny.”

“That’s because you have two little minions who give you back massages whenever you ask. And they can’t say no because you house and feed them.”

You nudge her knee with your own, half-amused, half-affectionate. “They’d starve if it wasn’t for us.”

“They’d at least learn how to cook instant ramen properly,” she fires back, though her tone is fond. She knows it as well as you do—how Megumi sometimes falls asleep at the kitchen table with his homework still out, how Tsumiki always insists on washing the dishes even when her fingers are pruned from her bath. How the apartment has begun to feel not just like a place to sleep, but like the kind of home you were never supposed to have.

It makes her chest ache.

She glances at you again, more carefully this time. “You’re happy, right?”

You blink at her, then tilt your head like you don’t quite understand the weight of the question. “Happy?”

“You know what I mean.” Shoko shrugs, too casual. “With all this — and with him.”

There it is. Not accusatory, just curious, like she’s been holding this thought in her mouth for months, letting it turn over until it smoothed into something she could say without breaking it.

You’re quiet for a moment, your gaze lowering to the glass of wine you still haven’t touched. “It’s not simple.”

“Nothing ever is with him.” She huffs a small laugh, but she doesn’t look away from you.

“Sometimes,” you admit, your voice softer, “it feels like we’re still kids, sneaking out after curfew, daring each other to jump rooftops. And then sometimes I look at him and I feel like—” You break off, shaking your head as though it’s too fragile to name.

“Like what?”

You exhale slowly. “Like he already belongs to the world, and I’m just borrowing him for a while.”

That hits Shoko harder than she expects. She shifts on the couch, watching the way your fingers worry at the hem of your sleeve. There’s something unguarded in the way you say it, something that makes her throat tighten.

Shoko leans her head against the couch cushion, her glass dangling loosely from her fingers. “You talk like he’s a library book or something. Checked out, due back in three weeks.”

You laugh, though it’s small and tired. “Maybe that’s all love really is. Borrowing someone for as long as they’ll let you keep them.”

“Morbid.”

“Honest.” You glance at her, and your smile is crooked, fond. “You know him. He’s… a hurricane in human form. Everyone wants a piece of him, and half the time I feel like I’m just holding on, hoping he doesn’t blow past me.”

Shoko hums, noncommittal, but her eyes are sharp. “And yet you’ve been holding on for who knows how long. Most people can’t even last five minutes with him in a room.”

“Don’t remind me,” you mutter, though your lips curve. “He still leaves his socks everywhere. Still eats candy for breakfast if I don’t stop him. And he—” You pause, and the softness of your voice betrays you. “He still looks at me the same way he did when we were sixteen. Like he can’t believe I’m real.”

Shoko conceals her smile, and masks it with a sip of wine. “He’d be an idiot not to.”

“I think about it sometimes,” you admit. “If we hadn’t met so young. If we hadn’t been thrown together in that pressure cooker of a school — would it have still been him? Would he have still found me?”

Shoko stretches her legs out, her gaze slipping toward the ceiling. “I think he was always going to be yours, you know. Some things just… fix themselves in place before you even notice.”

You fall quiet, staring at the wine in your glass, watching the way the light fractures against it. When you speak again, it’s hushed. “I’m scared, Shoko. I– I think I’m scared of losing him. Of the day the world asks for more than he can give, and I have to watch him walk toward it anyway.”

Shoko doesn’t answer right away. She looks at you — really looks — the girl who grew up at her side, who always chose kindness even when it cost you. You, who Gojo has loved since he was growing into his height, awkward and half-feral with grief and brilliance. You, who still look at him like he’s worth the trouble.

Finally, she says, “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to wonder if you’d grow tired of him. If one day you’d realize it was too much.”

You blink at her, startled. “And now?”

Shoko shrugs, her expression softening. “Now I think — if anyone was ever built to love him, it was you. Stubborn, patient, stupidly brave. He’s impossible, but you’ve always made the impossible look easy.”

Your laugh catches in your throat, trembling somewhere between joy and sorrow. “Don’t make me cry, Shoko.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She lifts her glass in a lazy toast. “To you and him. To sixteen and twenty-one, and however long you can keep borrowing each other.”

You tap your glass gently against hers, the sound ringing low and warm. “To growing older.”

Shoko watches the way your face lights up at the thought, and takes a long sip from her glass. She tries for levity, though it comes out a little rough. “Well, if he breaks your heart, I get to kill him. That’s the rule.”

You laugh—really laugh this time, the kind that crinkles your eyes and warms the air between you. “You’d have to fight him first.”

“Please,” she scoffs. “He’s all bark. I’d win.”

“You’re funny, Shoko.” You smile a little sleepily, and lean your head against her shoulder, the way you used to when you were girls hiding from the elders in the back hallways of the clan compound. She doesn’t move, just lets you settle there, the weight of you a reminder that some things never change.

There’s a long stretch of silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Then, almost shyly, Shoko says, “Well, I hope he loves growing old with you as much as I loved growing up with you.”

You still against her, then let out a breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t push. That’s never been your language. Instead, she reaches for her wine, takes another sip, and adds, almost casually, “And if he doesn’t, then screw him. You’ll still have me.”

You laugh again, watery this time, and lean closer. “Always.”

❀

In the mornings, she drank coffee alone.

In the evenings, she liked to come to your apartment to the sound of laughter, and nonsense on the TV. To the smell of your cooking, which had gotten better than Gojo’s after a couple months. To Tsumiki and her hands that grabbed Shoko’s wrists and led her to the dining table. To Megumi, who Gojo tried so hard to make smile at his awful jokes.

Sometimes, she let herself believe it could last.

Sometimes, she let herself want more.

That was enough.

vii. 1997

When they were seven, you and Shoko built a grave for a bird.

They’d found it after a storm — a small thing, all bones and feathers, collapsed in the mud beneath a persimmon tree in the compound’s garden. You crouched beside it, poked it with a stick. “Is it sleeping?”

“No,” shoko said. “It's dead.”

“How do you know?”

“Its chest isn’t moving.”

“How do you know?”

Shoko didn’t answer. Just knelt down, tiny hands damp with soil, and began to dig.

They buried it beneath a square stone, lined the edges with pebbles. You picked wildflowers and bundled it with twine from the kitchen. Shoko pressed her fingers to the earth and whispered something she didn’t really understand — a wish, maybe, or a prayer.

They sat there until the wind died down, until your mother called them in, until the sky turned the color of ash.

“We should’ve saved it,” you whispered, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

Shoko didn’t say it, but she knew it then: sometimes you’re too late.

❀

january, 2014

The call comes at 2:19 in the afternoon, a higher-up’s voice, clipped and formal.

“She’s been recovered. We’re bringing you the body now.”

The world doesn’t spin, it just stills. Though Shoko sits at her desk for a long time after, the phone silent in her lap, her hands empty.

Shoko doesn’t ask whose, because there’s only one person left.

She's already standing.

Her coat’s already on.

Her tea’s gone cold. The light in the infirmary has gone muddled and slanted, painting long shadows over everything like a warning.

Her hands move automatically. Clipboard.Pen. Gloves.

The air starts to feel static.

The mission was supposed to be easy. “A clean-up.” A second sweep.She repeats, and repeats. Yet how many other times has she thought this?

You weren’t supposed to go alone, but someone backed out last minute, and you were never one to wait around.

Grade one curse. Warehouse District.

Shoko remembers the briefing because she was in the room. Because you had smiled — tilted your head, chewing gum, loose-limbed and tired. “I’ll be home quick.”

❀

Shoko gets a morbid sense of déjà vu when she sees you laid out on the table, covered with a sheet pulled too high. 

But when she sees the body, it doesn’t feel like you.

Not you. Born five days apart. The soldier to her healer. Balance, the clanheads had once called them. One to make and unmake.

Not the same girl who used to share her shampoo, or talk in her sleep. Not the girl who burned bright and reckless and kissed Gojo Satoru like it was the only truth left in the world.

The word balance keeps running through her head as she stares at your face. So still.

No, it wasn’t you. This body is cold, and broken in ways Shoko doesn’t have the words for.

Her gloves are on. Her cursed energy thrums at her fingertips.

But it’s all useless.

The wounds are clean. Carved into you like declarations. Chest collapsed, Ribs fractured inward. Shoko's already cataloging the report in her head. Trachea crushed. Internal hemorrhaging. Cursed lacerations across the sternum.

Then she moves.

Like a surgeon. like a healer with something to prove, even if there’s no one left to prove it to.

She doesn’t try to bring you back. Not really. She's seen too many bodies to believe in resurrection.

She stitches muscle back together like it’ll matter. Seals split skin. Brushes blood from your scalp. A ritual, maybe. or penance. And as she runs her fingers through the ends of your hair, she thinks of being five years old when you had taught her how to braid it.

When she feels her vision blur she whispers, “don’t be stupid,” just like you used to.

Her voice doesn’t tremble until the end.

Too late, she thinks, and she sees a dead bird cupped in your small hands. Wildflowers wrapped in twine.

Too late, too late, too late.

She writes the report with mechanical precision.

Her handwriting doesn’t shake.

She signs it, and place it on top of the clipboard.

Then folds your arms across your chest, straightens your uniform collar, uses a towel to wipe a smudge from your chin, and the drawer of the morgue clicks shut with a hollow finality.

And she finally lets herself cry.

Just once.

Quietly.

Like a confession.

❀

Shoko takes the train without really knowing why she’s chosen this route over the school car. After she explained what she was doing, Ijichi had told her he could drive her with a solemn look in his eyes, always so insistent. She had declined, so now she sits by the window, forehead pressed to the cold glass, the tunnel lights strobing against her reflection until her own face starts to look like a stranger’s.

She's still in her work clothes, still smells faintly of antiseptic and smoke, and the folder in her lap feels heavier than it should. She keeps one hand pressed flat to its cover like she’s holding a wound closed.

People filter in and out of the train at each stop, their chatter muted, just faint shapes moving through her periphery.

She doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The only thing she lets herself look at is the glass, and the snow on the other side of it—each flake blurring against the motion of the city, small and perfect and already gone.

Yaga had told her, after, that Satoru wasn’t told yet, but she wonders if he already knows. If some part of him—whatever raw, uncanny instinct makes him the strongest—registered it the moment your heart stopped. Maybe he felt it like an earthquake deep in his bones, the sudden, wrong absence in the air. Maybe he was sitting on their couch, turning toward the door without knowing why.

Her mind drifts, unspooling memory:

Summer afternoons, the four of them sitting on the roof with drinks to cool the sweat on them. Your hair tangled from the wind. Gojo leaning back on his palms, his sunglasses pushed to the top of his head so she could clearly see the way his gaze snagged on you like he didn’t even notice he was staring. The quiet shift over months from banter to something slower, gentler, like they’d started speaking a language that Shoko didn’t know but could still recognize in the spaces between words.

A late night after a mission, all of them exhausted, half asleep in the common room. Shoko had woken to see them leaning together on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his hand resting loosely on yours. The kind of touch that wasn’t accidental.

There had been other moments—quieter, private ones she hadn’t meant to see—that told her this was the thing that had changed him. He'd always been brilliant, unbearable, untouchable. but with you, his edges softened. He laughed differently. He listened.

Now she wonders how much of that she’s about to take from him in a single sentence.

The train slows into her stop, brakes screeching. She rises, folder in hand. She doesn’t know why she carries the hardcopy—maybe it makes it feel more real, more final, more like evidence of something she already failed to prevent.

She had stopped by a gas station and bought a pack of cigarettes and a small black lighter for the first time in almost six years. There’s now a cigarette clamped between her teeth, though she hasn’t lit it.

Snow is falling.

It catches in her hair, her sleeves, her lashes.

When she reaches their apartment building, she stops at the bottom of the stairs and thinks about turning around. But she doesn’t. She climbs each step like she’s approaching a grave.

The light’s on under the door.

She raises her hand.

And knocks.

❀

The door opens almost immediately.

And for a second — just one, flickering, incandescent second — Shoko sees the look on his face.

Gojo Satoru opens the door like he expects you to be behind it. Not Shoko. Not grief incarnate. But you. The woman he loves. The only thing in the world that could quiet his mind and hold his entire future in her palms.

He opens the door like someone in love. Like someone relieved. Like someone who still dares to hope.

And then he sees Shoko.

And everything stops.

His face doesn’t fall.

It freezes.

She watches the hope die in his expression. It doesn’t vanish — it dies. Like something physically collapsing inside of him. A structure caving in, silently, under its own weight.

His shoulders lock, and she watches his jaw tense. He doesn’t move aside to let her in, doesn’t say a word.

Just stares.

He looks at her like he had known this would be how it ended all along, but still — still, deep down, some piece of him had been holding on. Had left the light on. Had made her side of the bed. Had waited.

Shoko clears her throat.

The words don’t want to come.

"I’m sorry—she’s gone.”

That's all it takes.

Gojo doesn’t flinch.

But she sees it in the way his hand clenches around the edge of the door. The way his breath leaves him — sharp, shallow, wrong. The way he looks past her, like he’s trying to reframe the hallway, the scene, the moment.

Like maybe he can rewind it.

Undo it.

See you behind her, scolding her for delivering bad news so bluntly.

But Shoko is alone, and the silence is loud.

He steps back, and turns.

Walks into the apartment like everything inside was knocked over.

Shoko follows and shuts the door behind her.

The apartment is dim. Bathed in soft warm light. The heater hums gently in the corner, and there are two mugs on the table, one empty and one half-drunk. Your sweater is still hanging over the back of the couch, sleeves inside out. Your boots are by the door. The windows are covered by sheer white curtains, but the shade of blue that appears just after sunset peeks through, framing the room the same color as melancholy.

Shoko wants to scream.

Instead, she places the folder on the table.

Neither of them look at it.

She taps the folder once, not to push him, but to make its presence undeniable.

“Are you going to read it?”

His back is still to her. She can see the angle of his spine through the thin cotton of his shirt, every muscle tight, like he’s bracing for impact.

With no hesitation, “No.”

Shoko expected that answer, but she still feels something drop in her chest.

“You sure? It’s not… it’s not just medical jargon. I kept it clean. No gore.”

He turns his head just enough for her to see one sharp eye over his shoulder.

“You want me to read the autopsy for the love of my life?”

She pauses, feeling herself hold her breath.

“I want you to know what happened,” she says, voice level. “Exactly what happened. Without the stories you’ll tell yourself later.”

He scoffs—a sound halfway between disbelief and exhaustion—and shakes his head.

“The story I want is that you’re lying.”

Silence.

He pushes away from the counter, crosses to the table. His height makes the space between them smaller without him even trying. He puts a hand on the folder like he might open it—thumb brushing the edge, fingers curling.

And then he just… freezes.

Shoko watches him, and for the first time she sees it—not the usual walls, the sarcasm, the easy dismissal. This is different. This is a man standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down, knowing there’s nothing but rocks and cold water below.

“I can't,” he says finally, and it’s not defiance. It's quiet. almost gentle.

“Why?”

he swallows, eyes still on the folder.

“Because the second I read it, it’s over. She's gone in ink. In numbers. In your handwriting.” he glances up at her, and there’s no shield in his expression now. “If I don't read it, she’s just… late coming home.”

Shoko's throat tightens.

For a moment, she wants to tell him she understands. That she’s done the same—taken certain pages out because the words make her feel sick. But she doesn’t. She just nods, takes the folder back, tucks it under her arm again.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He’s not moving.

Not breathing, maybe.

His hand rests on the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright and she watches his shoulders shake.

Once.

Then still again.

His face is unreadable.

But his eyes — god, his eyes.

Shoko has known him for more than a decade, has seen him bloodied and laughing and blind with pain and victory. But she has never seen him like this.

Not even after Suguru.

Not even after Toji.

This isn’t rage.

This isn’t despair.

This is something else.

Something jagged. Something bottomless.

He looks at her like she’s the executioner. Like she didn’t just bring the news — but she made it true. But maybe, in some way, he’s right to feel that way.

“You’re sure that she’s—?” he asks, voice quiet. She could’ve mistaken his tone for desperation.

Shoko nods.

That's when it happens.

He laughs.

Short, ugly, and bitter.

An instinct, like flinching.

He runs a hand through his hair. Leans back against the counter.

The quiet settles like dust.

Shoko sits down on the couch. something crackles beneath her — one of your notebooks. She picks it up, flips it open without thinking.

The last page is filled with sketches. a little cartoon version of Gojo, grinning, speech bubble saying “have you seen my honey?”

Her throat tightens.

She doesn’t speak.

“I thought I had more time,” he says. Shoko doesn’t have it in her to speak.

“I wanted to take her to Okinawa again. Not for a mission this time. Just because.”

He closes his eyes.

“She never got to see it in winter. She would’ve liked the cold.”

And she stays the night on their couch. Like old times, except there is no wine and no laughter and your warmth isn’t beside her. Shoko never really registered that she’ll never see you again. Even now, it feels like you’ll call her at any moment and ask her if she wants a drink.

But that first night without you, she doesn’t think she could really fall asleep.

And he doesn’t really cry.

But in the morning, he makes coffee with hands that won’t stop shaking.

She drinks hers cold, and so does he. But she watches him press your mug to his lips and set it down again, like it burned him.

❀

august, 2014

Gojo is twenty four, and he’s older than he was meant to be. More tired than he lets on, and somehow still waiting for something that already ended.

Sometimes, when it’s late, and the city is loud, and the stars don’t show themselves—Shoko catches him leaning against the doorway of his apartment balcony, looking at the buildings and cars and passerbys like he’s trying to remember the shape of your face.

And that, she thinks, is love.

Not flowers.

Not vows.

Not even the waiting.

But the remembering.

The carrying.

The way his world stopped. The way he never quite leaves the doorway, just in case you might still come home to him.

viii. 2015

Grief, when it lingers long enough, becomes routine.

Shoko wakes the same way every morning: early, cold. the city a dull hum outside her window. The kettle clicks on. She measures out coffee. Drinks it black, because that’s how you liked it, and then cooks konnyaku because you hated it.

The irony keeps her company.

The mornings are always quiet now. The kind of quiet that settles into your bones and stays.

And Nanami leaves the Jujutsu world around that time.

Quietly. Respectfully. Without fuss.

He came to her clinic on a Tuesday, knocked once, sat down across from her, and said, "I'm leaving.”

She didn’t ask why, because she felt like she already knew.

He was twenty three and already looked like he’d seen the end of the world twice.

“You'll be good,” she said softly. “Too good for this place.”

Nanami looked away. “I just want to live like a person.”

She envied him for thinking it was still possible.

Before he left, he placed a small paper-wrapped gift on her desk.

Inside was a lighter, clean, silver, unused.

She held it in her palm for a long time that night.

But she didn’t smoke.

Not yet.

❀

She sees Gojo more often these days.

Not because they talk more, and not because they seek each other out. Just because there’s no one else left.

They don’t need to make plans anymore. They just end up in the same places. The clinic. The faculty room. The convenience store on that street with the broken traffic light.

Sometimes he brings her canned coffee. Never says anything when he hands it to her.

She drinks it anyway.

It’s the only thing he offers that she can still take.

And he laughs a little more now, but it’s not the same.

When he does, it’s wrong. Jagged. Like something trying to escape from under his skin. It reminds her that he’s still grieving, even when he tells her “he’s over it.”

The students adore him. Still think he’s invincible, and think the blindfolds and wit and charm are who he really is.

 But Shoko knows better.

❀

december, 2017

Suguru's death didn’t come like she expected, though to her, Suguru Geto had died the August they were seventeen.

From the outside, he went out in flame and fury.

But then again, it feels like he went out quietly. Gently. By Gojo’s own hands.

Because, in the end, that was the only way it could’ve happened.

Not in hatred or vengeance, but in recognition of what they’d been. Of what they’d lost. Of the thin line between who you are and who you become when the world stops making sense.

“It was quick,” Gojo told her afterward, his voice steady, eyes blown wide with something far beyond pain.

Shoko believed him. Not because she trusted the words, but because she trusted the silence between them.

❀

She thinks of Suguru now more than she admits.

Remembers how he used to hum under his breath while taking notes. How he’d hand her highlighters during meetings without looking. How he used to let them braid his hair on missions just to make them smile.

Remembers the way he stood the last time she saw him, on the night of the cursed parade—back straight, curses curling around him like smoke, eyes tired in a way that made her want to scream. 

He broke long before he died.

Shoko knows this.

She also knows he would’ve been a wonderful teacher.

If the world had been kinder, and if someone had stopped to tell him that softness wasn’t weakness. That wanting to save people didn’t make him naïve.

That watching them die wasn’t his fault.

❀

Gojo comes to dinner sometimes.

Not often or predictably. Sometimes he just knocks, steps inside, doesn’t take his shoes off properly, and drops onto her couch like he owns the place.

She used to yell at him for that, but now she just lets him.

He eats whatever she makes. Doesn’t complain, even when it’s instant ramen or cold rice or nothing at all.

They don’t talk much during those nights.

But sometimes, he falls asleep.

And sometimes, she covers him with the old blanket you used to use when you were over — just because. Just to remember what it felt like to care for someone who was still breathing.

There's one night that she remembers, after a long day of treating a couple injured sorcerers in the midst of a mission, that she finds him already waiting.

In the kitchen, cutting vegetables.

“What are you doing?” she asks, flatly.

“Trying to give you a break,” he says.

“By mutilating my carrots?”

“They fought back.”

She puffs a breath from her nose and smiles.

It’s the closest she’s come to laughing in days.

He makes curry. It's too spicy. The rice is slightly undercooked — but it’s not half bad.

She eats every bite, and doesn’t thank him for showing up.

They’re not close, not in the way people imagine. They don’t tell each other secrets. They don’t hug. They don’t reminisce out loud. Their bond lies in the memory of what it meant to be sixteen and still whole. Of how it felt watching the strongest boy in the room slowly learn how to be gentle. Of seeing him break and build and break again.

Of surviving the wreckage together.

He keeps her from vanishing. She keeps him from shattering.

They exist near each other.

Orbiting.

Keeping each other tethered.

❀

Shoko's the only one who doesn’t have a grave.

Not really.

Haibara's is now marked in a clean Kyoto cemetery. Suguru's ashes were never recovered, but there’s a stone for him outside his old temple. You have a simple plaque under the oak tree they used to study beneath.

Shoko visits them all, but she doesn’t linger.

Because it’s not the places that hold them.

It’s the way she still turns her head when someone says “Geto” in a briefing. It’s the way she keeps chopsticks in her drawer for four, not one. It's the way she wakes from a dream, disoriented and reaching for an image of herself, of when her hair was cut to her chin and she is surrounded by people who were once her home — before she remembers that no one’s coming.

Though, there's a new photo on her desk now.

Four teenagers. Uniforms on and grins wide.

Gojo has his eyes closed. Suguru is pretending to look annoyed. You’re flipping off the camera. Shoko is mid-laugh, mouth open, eyes crinkled.

She doesn’t remember who took it.

Doesn’t remember what they were laughing at.

But she leaves it there.

Next to the medical files and the pills and the list of new students.

It’s a reminder — not of who they were, but that they were. That at one point in time, the four of them had existed together. That at some point, that was all that mattered.

ix. december 24, 2018

The first snow falls unceremoniously. No warning and no wind to carry it.

Just flakes, slow and fat, drifting sideways over the rooftops of Shinjuku like ash from something that’s already burned.

Shoko watches it from the roof.

She doesn’t move.

Not yet.

It's the holidays, and she hates this time of year. There’s too much pretending, too many bright windows, too many mouths grinning like the world hasn’t ended five times already.

This year, the snow comes early.

And with it—him.

She thinks the city is strange under snow. Not soft. Not pretty. Just muffled, hollowed out. Sirens echo longer. Footsteps vanish quicker. The skyline dissolves behind a white veil, lights blurring like bruises.

She walks through it alone. Past vending machines glazed in frost and power lines sagging beneath the weight. There are paper lanterns swaying over shuttered storefronts, their glow smudged and dim.

Her boots crunch the snow like something brittle and alive. She isn’t wearing gloves. She likes the cold biting at her skin. It feels honest.

She finds him in the square.

Tall. Unmovable. Eyes like winter distilled into glass.

He's facing Sukuna, and there’s no backup. No panic. No speeches or horns sounding in the dark. Just two gods standing where no man should be.

She doesn’t call his name or break the silence. Only stands at the edge of it all, smoke slipping from her mouth, her eyes dry as bone.

He knows she’s there.

He doesn’t turn.

But he tilts his chin, barely, like a gesture carved out of stone.

And she understands, like she did all those years ago in August, when Suguru Geto had lit her cigarette. When he smiled and waved and she had turned away, for the last time.

That this is the end.

Not just of him. Not just of this fight.

But of everything that tethered them to a time when living felt possible.

Springtime in Jujutsu Tech. Sunlight tangled in white hair. You, singing too loudly, Suguru sighing like the world rested in his lungs. Sandos split in half. Train cars rattling at dusk. Leaves falling as soft as promises they never kept.

All of it.

Ending here.

Under a sky in a city stripped down to bone.

He burns too bright, even now. Bends space like a god, cuts air like a blade, shoulders the infinite and makes it look like art. And still—Sukuna is cruel. patient. inevitable.

Shoko watches as it begins: sharp, merciless, a brilliance that blinds and dies just as quickly.

She sees him hold and hold and hold—until he doesn’t.

He doesn’t scream.

He just folds.

Quietly.

Finally.

And the moment he hits the ground, the world doesn’t shatter.

But something in her does.

Everything slows.

The air thickens. Her breath fogs in front of her. Her hands are shaking, not from fear, but because she’s remembering. Nostalgia has always had its way of killing her, of creeping up on her and leaving her feeling sick. There is nothing left to reminisce now, as the last remaining part of her youth lies split in half in the show.

❀

The lab smells like steel and antiseptic, like every failure she’s ever catalogued. Fluorescent lights hum above her, sickly and bright, making her want to tear them out of the ceiling. She doesn’t. She just sets the instruments in place, lines up scalpels with the precision of someone who cannot afford to think.

Yuta lies unconscious on the table, his chest rising shallow, his pulse steady under her fingers. Now, she moves over to the drawer, where she placed Satoru’s body after stitching it back together. When she pulls back the sheets, she touches his hair once, brushes it off his forehead the way she remembers you used to when he was too stubborn to sleep.

Now she stands over him, and for the first time in years, her hands shake.

Not from inexperience. Not from fear of failure.

But from knowing that if she succeeds, it won’t really be him. And if she fails, she will have killed the last piece of her friend’s legacy with her own two hands.

Her cursed technique hums, steady, inexorable. Flesh unravels, rewrites. Neurons glimmer under her touch like constellations in a dark sky. She threads them carefully, patient as a weaver, until she feels something spark. Until she feels him.

Not Yuta, not exactly.

But not Satoru either.

Something between.

A gasp, sharp and wet, tears through the air. fingers twitch. The body arches against restraints she swore she wouldn’t use, but had to.

And then—eyes.

Too blue. Too familiar.

Her knees nearly buckle.

Because for an instant it feels like the dorms again and being a teenager. Then for an instant, she is twenty two again, and she watches Gojo lean down to talk to Tsumiki and Megumi, to give them reassurance, to protect their youth.

But then the boy blinks, coughs, chokes on his first words, staring at his hands. and Yuta is suddenly speaking to her, from Satoru Gojo’s lips.

And it’s not him.

It’s not him.

She forces her hands steady, swallows down the tremor in her throat. “Well, it worked.” She says, clinical, detached. Like she didn’t just carve open time and stitch it into something monstrous.

The snow keeps falling outside.

❀

Later, they ask her what happened. after transferring Yuta back to his own body, after dismantling Satoru, pieces lying on a table in her clinic — while Yuta walks, unscathed.

She gives them the facts. stripped bare, like bone. No softness. No poetry.

“Gojo fought. He fell. He's dead.”

Nothing more, because she refuses to let them dress it in glory, refuses to let them write a hymn where there was only silence.

He was tired.

He died.

And there’s nothing beautiful about that.

❀

She cremates him herself. In the same furnace that once took you. Her gloves are soaked by the end of it, dark and slick, but she doesn’t take them off. Doesn’t cry either. Not this time.

x. 青春

Tokyo feels different after. Like the city is holding its breath, waiting for something that will never come.

That evening, she stops beneath a streetlamp outside the school. Cigarette trembling faintly between gloved fingers. Snow catching in her hair, turning her into something ghostlike. Embers glow like memories in the dark.

For the first time in forever, she speaks. Not to anyone. Just to the cold, to the shadows that linger in her bones.

“You win.” she whispers.

The lamp above her flickers once, then dies.

And Shoko stands alone in the dark. Utterly. Finally. Completely.

Yet that night, she finds herself dreaming in color that she thought had left her vision over a decade ago now.

Dreams not of blood. Not of battle, or of bodies in a morgue, or the harsh December air.

But of summer. The old apartment bathed in sunlight. Then, you’re next to her, seated cross-legged, fingers deftly braiding Tsumiki’s hair. Gojo at the table, laughing, trying to pry the cap off a bottle of soda with his teeth while Suguru shakes his head, pretending not to smile at him. Somewhere on your balcony, Haibara’s voice rings out, bright with Nanami’s deeper murmur tucked inside it.

Shoko feels a weight in her hands, and forces herself to look down for just a moment just to see that she is holding a camera. She lifts it. Frames them in her viewfinder — her whole heart in one room. Click.

A still life. A stolen moment that no one else notices.

They’re too busy being alive.

(終わり) END.

When August comes, I don’t count the days Transitory views from the subway train How strange, when life unfolds this way In the drift less zone, sky’s prone to stay off-gray Clouds are omens too, fading at the rate That most pleasant memories do

mae's note. first chapter of "of love & lesson plans" out tomorrow, and i pinky promise it won't be this sad </3 likes + reposts are appreciated, thank you soso much for reading

The words snap you from your daze. You blink up, and Maki’s already halfway across the flowerbed—hands shoved into her jacket pockets, brow arched in flat disbelief.

“Oh…” you murmur. “Hey.”

She slows when she reaches you—green ponytail swinging behind her, eyeing you through her glasses from head to toe before landing on the comb. A long sigh pulls from her, like it’s a conversation she’s already exhausted by.

“I told you to toss that thing.”

Your hand rises instinctively, brushing over the gem-encrusted metal nestled in your hair. Still warm from the sun. Perfectly centered.

“Yeah… you did.”

And you meant to. You meant to do a lot of things. But somehow, each morning, it finds its way back to you. Like clockwork. Like ritual. As if it might mean something—if only you hold onto it long enough.

“So… what?” Maki grumbles, dropping onto the bench beside you with a grunt. “Did they glue it to your damn skull when I wasn’t looking?”

A faint smile touches your lips, but it fades quick. Your eyes drop to your lap, smoothing your kimono like the fabric might offer clarity you haven’t found in weeks.

“I… well…”

…why do you keep wearing it?

“I’m expected to wear it. Mother says it would be disrespectful not to.”

It’s not a lie—but it isn’t the truth, either.

Maki scoffs. “Yeah. Right. Because he’s such a shining example of respect…”

The wind shifts. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, gaze drifting past the koi pond, toward the ivy-wrapped wall. It all looks the same. That’s the strange part. This portion of the estate remained untouched by time. But you haven’t been here in years—not since your clan shut you out. Not since you stopped believing they’d ever let you back in.

A bird takes off, wings beating sharply against the quiet as Maki leans back on her hands, eyes fixed on the garden.

“It’s bullshit…” she mutters. “You’re always the one who has to look composed. Smile, bow, act grateful. If the roles were flipped, he wouldn’t think twice about disrespecting you. You know that, right?”

She’s right.

…isn’t she?

You don’t know what to make of things. Because every time you believe you’ve mapped Satoru Gojo out, he flips the entire picture. Turns the world on its back. And perhaps that is what you keep thinking about—what draws you to this quiet, this pain. Not the gift. Not the absence. But the look in his eyes—after the ring, after the applause.

Like… he was mourning something you couldn’t see.

“I’m… supposed to meet him tonight…” you murmur, barely above the breeze. But the words feel hollow. Unbelievable, even now.

Because it’s been weeks. Weeks of silence. Weeks without him. Each meeting was canceled before starting, reduced to clipped apologies that never came from his mouth.

| ‘Gojo-sama has been called away on urgent clan business.’

| ‘Gojo-sama sends his regrets—something came up.’

| ‘Gojo-sama will reschedule.’

| ‘Gojo-sama…’ this. ‘Gojo-sama…’ that.

Always the same excuses. Never his voice.

Maki turns. “Supposed to…” she echoes flatly. “If he ghosts you again, I’m clockin’ him in the face.”

That actually pulls a laugh from your chest—real and sudden, surprising even you.

“Maki…”

“What?” she huffs. “I’m serious. Right in that smug-ass smile of his.” And you shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “Sure… okay. But how exactly are you planning to get past Infinity?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs, reclining lazily against the bench. “I’ll find a way…” She looks up toward the sky, squinting at the sun. “Hmm… maybe I’ll trip him. Or—oh! I’ll insult his taste. That’ll drop his guard.”

“Mm… wouldn’t work.”

“Yeah, probably not,” she sighs, lips quirking. Then she nudges your arm. “But you…? You could put him on his ass.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Pfft. Don’t act innocent.” Her eyes gleam. “That move your dad drilled into you a hundred times. What was it again? You nailed me with it when I was twelve.”

The memory creeps in, and you hesitate.

“…aiki otoshi?”

“Yeah. That one!” she snorts. “Thought I broke my elbow that day. Rude.”

“Okay, first of all, you fell wrong,” you say automatically—soft, amused. But then, your voice lowers, quieter now. “And second… well. There’s more to it…”

Pausing, your eyes flick to the path ahead, tracing the faded grooves in the stone with your gaze—weathered lines from years of footsteps. The place where the moss grows thick in the cracks. The corner where the old plum tree leans a little too far, as if it’s listening in.

You remember the sound of your father’s sandals there.

‘Lower, little crane. Bend your knees, not your pride. Feel the weight of things before you move them.’

He always spoke like that. Riddles. Soft warnings. You didn’t always understand them. Because he made it sound so simple. But it wasn’t.

‘You’ll know it’s time… because you’ll feel it. The pressure. The shift. And when you do… you must act. Don’t hesitate.’

A breath catches in your chest. You hadn’t thought of that lesson in years.

“My father used to say… it’s not just how they fall, but why. Because the body doesn’t lie. It reveals… everything. Where you carry your pride… where you bury your fear.” Your fingers curl slightly in the fabric of your kimono.

“And that’s what makes the technique work best,” you finish quietly. “Especially on the ones who think they can’t be moved.”

Maki grins. “So it was literally made for Gojo.”

You huff—barely a laugh—and for a moment, neither of you speak.

The light’s shifted; sinking low across the courtyard, brushing the edges of the stone walk in amber. Cicadas hum in the hedges. A wind chime stirs in the distance. It should be peaceful. But all it does is press the silence in deeper.

Until, a soft vibration cuts through your stillness. You blink, pulling your phone from your pocket—your thumb automatically unlocking the device.

    | Good evening. Gojo-sama will arrive shortly. You may proceed to the Gojo estate. Please meet him at the northern hall.

One of the Gojo household attendants.

You stare.

No postponement. No apology. No last-minute excuse. Simply… confirmation?

The message sits on your screen like a foreign object. You read it again and again, half-expecting it to disappear, to correct itself, to vanish before you can stand. But it doesn’t.

Maki eyes you. “What?” she mutters. “Did he finally grow a pair and text you himself?”

“…no. Not him. But… look.”

You angle the device, her eyes skim the text, squinting through the fading light—and when she looks over at you, the skepticism is soft, but certain.

“So… what?” she pulls back, scoffing. “He’s actually showing up?”

You stare down at the message again, not answering.

…is he?

You’ve learned not to believe it until he’s there—until his voice is in the room, until his shadow hits the floor. Until the very idea of him stops feeling like a goddamn ghost.

With a slow breath, you tuck the phone away and rise. The comb stirs in your hair, catching the last kiss of sunlight like it’s waving goodbye. As your fingers find your sleeves, you smooth them with quiet precision, more out of ritual than need.

“Well… I guess I should get going.”

But Maki doesn’t stand. Her weight stays sunk into the bench; arms draped across the backrest. Her gaze lingers on you—serious now. Quiet. The teasing edge in her voice gone.

“Um… you don’t have to, you know,” she says after a moment. “Maybe… just… let him wait for once.”

Your eyes flick toward the garden path. The same path you used to race down barefoot, kimono hem clutched in one hand, laughter tucked behind your teeth. When things were simpler. When you didn’t know how far you’d have to bend to fit inside a name that was never meant for you.

It’s strange, how familiar it all feels—and how removed you are from it now.

“No…” you say at last. “There’s no avoiding the inevitable.”

But even as you speak it, your feet are heavy. And you are left wondering if you’re walking toward a reunion, or another silence.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Mother?” you call, slipping off your sandals. “I’m heading off. And I’ll probably be home late.”

No reply.

But… you don’t really expect one. Ever since the clan welcomed you back—welcomed her back—it’s been like this. Quiet. Formal. Like someone drew a line through her, and the part that belonged to you got left behind. You’ve barely seen her after the yuino ceremony.

But still—like clockwork—you make her dinner. Pack her a bento. Leave it on the counter without a word. And every morning, it’s gone. No note. No comment. But the box is always empty. And somehow… that’s enough to keep you doing it.

Your feet pad across the tatami as you drift toward the kitchen, the scent of miso hanging in the air. The soup’s been simmering since dawn—seaweed curling at the edges. And clicking off the burner, you pack her meal.

Pickled daikon, tamagoyaki, a few slices of grilled fish. You fold the furoshiki with care, placing it where she’ll find it without a word. But as your gaze falls to the rest of the meal—the food you prepared for yourself, more out of habit than hunger—you pause. Because whatever tonight holds… it won’t be soft. Will it?

This isn’t some… romantic dinner.

You’re not expecting a meal. Or warmth. Or anything, really. Not from a ghost of a man.

So, without thinking, you pack another—for yourself. Rice. A little kinpira gobo. A plum tucked against the edge. Enough to see you through the night. But as you seal the cover, your hand lingers.

…

Would it be strange to bring one for yourself and not… him?

You stare at the lacquered lid, fingers hovering like they’re waiting for permission. Like maybe, if you stall long enough, your better judgment will intervene. Because this is ridiculous. You know better. You shouldn’t be thinking about this. Thinking about him.

And yet… you reach for the larger box anyway.

With a gentle tug, you tuck both bentos into your bag—yours, and his. Better to keep your hands busy than let your thoughts wander too far. Because it’s nothing. Simply food. A meaningless gesture. But… damnit. Your fingers won’t stop shaking.

Why are your hands trembling?

Nothing makes sense anymore. You haven’t a clue what the fuck you want. Because he’s made it impossible to understand—showing up one moment, disappearing the next. Feeding you silence like it’s something you’re supposed to be grateful for.

…are you grateful? Is this better?

No. It can’t be. Not when the clan has already begun whispering again. Not when your mother has purpose again. That’s why you must fulfill yours.

You can’t fuck this up.

The door slides shut behind you as you step out into the lazy afternoon, the sun dipping low past the tiled rooftops. Your sandals move soundlessly over the stone path—the bento bag hanging at your side. But then, you smell it.

Smoke.

Sharp. Bitter. The kind of smoke that used to slip through the shoji during clan meetings. That curled beneath doors when voices dropped to whispers. That clung to your sleeves long after the men stopped talking.

‘Smoke speaks in ways we can’t.’

Your mother always reminded you, every time the elders gathered, pipe stems between their fingers like they were carved from bone. And sure enough, as you round the corner, you see him.

Councilman Daigo.

He’s perched on the edge of the engawa step beneath the old camellia tree—back straight, gaze steady, a kiseru nestled in his grasp as if an extension of his breath. You’ve spent your whole life reading the air between men like him. Because it isn’t about what’s said. It never was.

“Ah.” The pipe taps once against its dish. He doesn’t look up. “The daughter returns.”

The daughter.

Never your name. Not even your role. Only the title that binds you to the man they erased. You bow, but it feels mechanical. Your spine bends, but your thoughts do not.

"Good evening, Councilman."

"Off to the northern hall, I presume?"

"Yes, sir."

A plume of smoke blooms from his lips as a ghost of a smile pulls at the corners. “That’s wonderful,” he hums, tapping the kiseru once again. “We were beginning to wonder when things would move forward.”

You force your shoulders to stay level, your breath even.

They’ve noticed. Noticed Satoru’s absence. Noticed yours. You’re the test they never stop administering—the girl with the wrong name, the wrong bloodline, the father no one speaks of, and now… the groom who doesn’t show.

“Yes… well. I should go—”

Click!

Each tap of his pipe on the dish is a clock ticking towards your unavoidable fall to failure, to shame.

"Of course," he smiles serenely, smoke curling upward in a lazy spiral, spilling out like a second language. "Don’t let me delay your duties. It’s good your bloodline has found some… renewed value. Better to be reclaimed than forgotten entirely, wouldn’t you say?”

There’s no polite answer to that. So you say nothing. Because what he’s really saying is:

You’re lucky we let you back in.

You’re lucky we didn’t bury your father’s name with him.

Don’t make us regret it.

Your second chance is still conditional. And you’ve yet to move in with Satoru.

He shifts, brushing ash from the rim of the dish with the edge of his pipe.

“I trust you’ll handle things with care.”

“Of course…” you murmur, hand tightening on the bento bag. “I won’t let the clan down.”

“Mm. That’s what your father said, too…” he scoffs, almost lazily, drawing in another long breath from the pipe. “The problem wasn’t that we didn’t stop him… it was that we trusted him in the first place.”

Your breath catches. Your eyes flick to his face.

Because—wait. It's the most direct this man has ever been with you. Not cloaked in smoke or couched in implication. Not one of those offhanded remarks meant to sound like nothing and sting like hell three days later.

No. It seems like the nearest you’ve ever gotten to the truth. Because all your life, they’ve only ever spoken of your father in fragments. A disappointment. A shadow. A shame.

A scandal… but never a story.

And no one ever tells you why.

Not your mother—who goes quiet every time his name is mentioned, who changes the subject or leaves the room. Not the clan—who speaks of him like a blemish on a blade, a weapon too flawed to be remade. Only that he betrayed them. And that you—his daughter—are what remains.

A legacy of shame.

You’ve carried that weight in silence—wearing it like silk. But a scandal with no name is more dangerous than one with a face. A curse with no shape festers. Expands. You've been living your entire life inside the silhouette of something unspeakable. And now—now—he’s handed you a thread.

You shouldn’t ask. You know better. But—

“What… do you mean? What did he do?”

You don’t even realize you’ve spoken it until the silence returns. The elder’s pipe stills, and for the first time since this conversation began, he looks at you. Not past you. Not through you.

At you.

And whatever he sees there… makes his expression harden.

“You’ve been given a second chance. I suggest you don’t waste it on questions with no rightful answers.”

His voice is cold as stone.

That thread?

Gone.

Snapped clean in two.

“Yes… of course. Apologies Councilman.”

“Tch… a man like your father… what a disgrace. It was only a matter of time before he scorched everything he touched.” He inhales deeply, dragging a large breath from his pipe, eyeing you with contempt. “Strange, how some bridges only burn halfway.”

Half-burnt.

That’s what you are, aren’t you? All you ever are. A daughter of ash and almosts. Not banished. But not embraced. Not quite reclaimed. But useful enough to keep.

For your clan… and for Satoru.

“But… alas,” he sighs, tapping the pipe against the rim of the dish, “we all owe our gratitude to Gojo-sama, don’t we? Which is why you shouldn’t leave him waiting. Yes?”

The smile he gives you is thin. Practiced. Meaningless. But the message beneath the smoke lands heavy as stone:

You’re not here because you belong.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

You were still a young girl when your father left, but not so young that you don’t remember the way he laughed. The way he held your hand when you walked to the shrine together. The way he said your name.

You remember the man. But… everyone else remembers the mistake.

It’s strange, right? How memories soften at the edges. How warmth fades faster than truth. Because near the end, something in him changed. His voice, his gaze, his touch—resembling someone else entirely.

Like… a stranger had taken his place.

And you wish—god, you wish—you could ask him. Could look him in the eye and demand to know if any of it had ever been real. If the love you thought he gave you was yours to begin with. Or only a trick of the smoke. Because despite what your mind insists, your heart remembers differently.

…like it does with Satoru.

‘Smoke speaks in ways we can’t.’

The words rise once again; your mother’s voice echoing where it doesn’t belong. And as your sandals crunch down the gravel path—you stop before you realize what you’re doing, what you’re standing in front of.

Your father’s shrine.

…what are you doing here?

There’s no avoiding the inevitable—you said so yourself. But… you veered right off the main trail, past the crooked pines, the leaning stone lanterns. Not toward the Gojo estate. Not toward Satoru. No. The opposite direction you should be going.

And here it is. Hidden, almost—tucked deep in the wooded edge of your estate, because he preferred it that way. Removed from ceremony. Removed from… your mother.

Your eyes drag across the structure, and the air changes, your heart aching. Because it’s not frozen in time like your clan’s garden—in fact, the roof sags more than you remember—with wooden beams, weather-beaten and tired—ivy climbing along the edges like it’s trying to pull the whole thing back into the earth.

Your father tended to this place as though it mattered. And now, it’s just… abandoned. Not looked after like before—not without him here to sweep the steps every morning, pruning the ivy. Igniting the incense…

‘Smoke speaks in ways we can’t.’

Incense…

‘Do you know why we light three sticks, little crane?’

You shook your head, crouched beside this very altar, your small hand pressed into his palm.

‘The past teaches. The present asks. The future… listens. That’s why we light all three. So that nothing goes unheard.’

Your father always talked about the core of time, and how in Buddhism, time wasn’t a straight line, but a circle. He insisted that prayer didn’t only go outward—it entered something timeless. A loop. A thread that wound through all things.

‘We light incense to find our place in it…’ he murmured; gaze fixed on the curling wisps above the altar. ‘And sometimes… it says what we’re too afraid to.’

…it says what we’re too afraid to?

The wooden floorboards creak beneath your weight, your kimono whispering with each gentle step. A matchbox sits at the altar—dust clinging to the lacquered tray where an incense box rests. The bento bag slides off your shoulder with a quiet thud.

Right. Perhaps this will give you the clarity you’re searching for.

If smoke speaks in ways we can’t… perhaps it’ll finally say something worth hearing. Something that will straighten the knot in your chest. Something that will tell you what to do with all of this—this ache, this silence, this fucking confusion that no one else seems to see.

But as you wipe the box clean with your thumb, setting three sticks into the grooves with practiced hands, you wonder what the hell you’re even asking for.

Still, you light the initial match, holding it steadily to the stick.

Past.

The smoke curls up like a memory, drifting up, shapeless. And you let yourself follow its path, head tilted slightly, watching it disappear into the stillness above.

…

Nothing.

No answer. No clarity.

Fine. It's possible that the past isn’t where your answer lives.

Present.

This one doesn’t take immediately. You have to breathe on it once—soft, coaxing—and when it flares, the scent rises sharper. The smoke curls into the space between the other—twisting, twinning—before drifting up, up, out of reach.

…

Nothing.

No meaning. Simply a ritual. The same emptiness dressed up in ceremony.

And god, you hate it.

Hate that you keep doing this—looking at objects like they’re going to give you something Satoru won’t. That your clan won’t. Your father won’t. Like the smoke will spell it out. Like the ring will hum some truth into your bones. Like the fucking comb in your hair will whisper: he cares, he just doesn’t know how to say it.

And more so, you hate that you’re here again, in this shrine, searching for meaning in a pile of ash and tradition. Hate that part of you still waits for something. Still wants something. From him.

What the fuck do you even want?

An apology…? Possibly. A reason? Sure. For him to sit beside you and ask if you’re okay? Like it would matter? Like he would mean it?

No. That can’t be right. That’s not it, either.

Then what?

What do you want?

Your breath catches. You don’t want to answer that. You were hoping the smoke would do it for you. Hoping it would grant you permission to feel something before you had to name it yourself.

Your hand reaches for the last match, trembling, and with a shaky inhale, you steady it towards the box.

The future.

But… as you strike—

Snap!

The head breaks clean off, dropping to the floor. And you blink—once, twice—staring at the now-useless sliver of wood in your fingers. At the now empty matchbox below you. And of course. Of fucking course. At the unlit stick of incense. Because the future just sits there. Mockingly. Refusing to catch.

With a hissed breath, you toss the spent match at your feet—eyes cutting toward the storage tucked behind the altar, where forgotten things gather dust. And like that, you’re already rising. Because there has to be another match. Has to be an answer. Anything to ease the knot in your chest.

The hollow floorboards creak as you approach, and the shelf greets you in its usual state of quiet disarray—dried herbs wrapped in string, a collapsed lantern, a splintered tray. You nudge things aside, shuffling through its contents.

“Come on…” you mutter, “I know they’re here…” and dust clouds the air, until—tucked near the back, you spot a glimpse of cardboard.

A matchbox.

Breath catching, you stretch up, up, up—up on your tippy toes. But as your fingertips brush the edge, just shy, just barely out of grasp, you feel your eyes begin to water. Because… why? Why is everything like this? Always half a step out of reach. Slipping through your fingers—the answers you seek, your father, your place in all this. Satoru.

“Please…” you whisper, voice cracking. “Simply this… grant me this…”

And like Buddha himself heard your desperate plea, your fingertips close around it. Your heart flutters as you slide it open, finding one match. One. Sitting at the bottom. Like fate.

Finally. An answer.

But as you spin on your heel—

Crash!

“Whoa there…”

You gasp, stumbling as firm hands catch you. One steadies your elbow, the other presses gently to your waist.

“Easy now… that was a close one.”

The voice rumbles near your shoulder, and with a blink, your gaze settles on the blue kimono before you, silk gentle and delicate, woven with coiling designs of green and gold.

A man.

You collided into… a man?

“I-I..”

Your words tangle in your mouth as your eyes climbs higher. He’s tall. Broad in the shoulders, but… elegant. Not the stiff, lacquered kind of elegance your clan parades around in. No—his is effortless. Worn loose. Soft. Even the gauges in his ears make it seem he’s only half playing the part.

His violet eyes are studying you, and his raven hair is tied back in a half-knot—most of it falling past his shoulders, loose and untamed, with a few strands slipping free to frame a face you swear you’ve never seen before. And yet… something about it feels familiar.

“Oh—thank you,” you manage, stepping back. His hold lingers, then drops. “Sorry. I didn’t realize someone else was here, I was just—”

But as you lift your hand, the words die on your lips. Because your match—it’s snapped clean in half, broken right down the middle.

Again.

“I… I was just…” You try again. “Just—um…” you sniffle. “I-I was…”

But the sentence unravels before it’s ever whole, and suddenly your throat is tight, your eyes sting, and—god. It’s happening.

Stupidly—inevitably—the tears come.

Too fast. Too late to stop.

“Oh—shit. Shit.” His brows draw together, words tumbling like instinct, hands lifting cautiously. “Hey. I didn’t mean to scare you. That one’s on me.”

Great.

That’s great.

You’re crying. In front of a total stranger. In your father’s half-forgotten shrine.

Get it together.

“No, I’m—god, I’m fine…” you mumble, swiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Sorry,” you add, breath catching on an awkward laugh. “I don’t usually… I’m not usually like this.”

“Yeah, well… grief’s a bitch. Doesn’t exactly RSVP.”

You let out a shaky laugh—caught somewhere between breath and break. It startles you, the way it slips out so easily. That’s the sort of comment your father would have said; wry, dry, but not unkind.

“Tell me about it…” you murmur, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm. “Grief and I are on a first-name basis at this point.”

“Mmm,” his lips twitch into a faint grin. “Mine’s been living rent-free in my head for years. Real moody, never shuts up. Terrible roommate.”

This time, your laugh comes softer. Thinner. The kind that escapes when you’ve been holding everything in for too long. It lingers, even as silence reclaims the space between you.

He’s… easy to talk to. 

And familiar? No. Perhaps it’s just since he reminds you of your father.

Your eyes drop, fingers curling tighter around the broken match in your palm. Something twists low in your chest. Because here you are, left bearing a future without closure—again. 

So much for your answers.

“So, uh. Bad day?”

You blink, glancing up. Oh, shit. He’s watching you. And not in the way you’re used to—not the distant, speculative glance of someone weighing your worth. No. He’s just… looking. Present.

“…kinda?” you manage. “I mean… it wasn’t awful or anything. I’ve had worse. Way worse. But…” Your grip tightens around the match again, and gazing down, it mocks you.

How can something so small feel so heavy?

“I guess…” you exhale. “Sorry. It’s stupid. But I just needed one thing to go right today.”

“Ah.” His eyes flick to your grasp. “That was your last one?”

“Yeah…”

His gaze shifts to the altar, where two sticks still burn—smoke curling slowly toward the eaves. It clicks into place—a long breath escaping his nose.

“The future’s always stubborn…” he mutters, hand slipping into the inner fold of his robe. When it reappears, it carries something small—sleek, worn around the edges like it’s been thumbed too many times.

A lighter.

“Here. Need a light?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Your stranger had a gentle, mysterious ease to his presence. 

The kind of stillness that doesn’t press silence onto you, but shares it. With him, silence was allowed. You were allowed. You watched as a small flame flickered to life in his hand, catching the final stick of incense with quiet grace. Smoke curled upward in slow, lazy ribbons, joining the other two as he settled beside you.

And now, the two of you wait. For what, you weren’t sure. A sign? A memory? A whisper of something lost in the smoke?

But still… nothing came. No weight lifted. No truth revealed. Only the same dull ache where clarity was supposed to be. Only the sting in your eyes you could no longer blame on the smoke. And the more you sit with it, the more certain you become that, perhaps it’s not the ritual that’s broken. 

Perhaps… it’s you.

You’re the one that’s broken. Too far gone to hear whatever wisdom the smoke is supposed to carry. And you hate it.

Glancing down, your fingers curl around the broken matchstick still caught in your palm that you hadn’t realized you were still holding.

“I keep lighting these sticks like they’ll tell me something…” you admit. “Bring clarity. Or peace. Or… I don’t know.” You exhale, eyes tracking the lazy swirls. “All I ever see is just smoke.”

He hums, not unkind. “Maybe that’s the point,” he says, following your gaze. “Clarity isn’t always something you see. Sometimes it’s what’s left behind when the smoke clears.”

“It never clears,” you scoff, lips pursing. “Or maybe it does—and I’ve just forgotten how to see without the blur. Because even when it fades, I can’t tell what’s clarity and what’s just the same old haze, coming back to haunt me.”

He tilts his head, considering you. “Did you know incense wasn’t always about peace?” he murmurs. “It was meant to ward off spirits. Smoke as a barrier. A warning.”

“…really?”

Your eyes meet his, and you sit with that.

Ghosts.

How ironic. You’ve spent so long trying to reach them. To make them speak. Your father, Satoru—both of them swallowed by silence. And you’ve been taught to return it—swallowing your questions like ash.

“I think…” your voice trails before catching again. “I’m tired of chasing ghosts.” He hums in agreement. “Funny thing about ghosts is they only linger if we let them.” And you exhale slowly.

“If I let them go… I think I’d be more alone than I already am.”

As the words tumble out, you blink—startled by your own honesty. The ache behind your eyes sharpens, and you rub your temple, groaning softly.

“Oh my god... I swear I’m not usually this depressing.”

He chuckles as he rises, dusting off his kimono with easy grace. “Trust me,” he grins. “I’ve heard worse confessions in places holier than this.” And glancing up, your lips twitch into a smile.

Well… that’s intriguing. What kind of confessions has he heard? You don’t ask. But somehow, the thought makes you feel a little less pathetic.

You shift, easing the bento bag into your lap.

“I can’t believe I just trauma-dumped on a total stranger,” you murmur with a soft laugh, your voice rounding into something warmer, looser.

But your gaze lingers on him—longer this time. Because there’s something in the way he moves, the quiet strength, the deliberate grace, the way the moonlight threads through his dark hair like it belongs there. 

Familiar…

“Or… maybe not,” you add, slower now. “I haven’t seen you around the clan before, but… do I know you?”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you wish you could take them back. Because suddenly, it’s like a door closed within him. Like the temperature dropped a single, imperceptible degree.

His violet eyes harden, gaze shifting toward the far corner of the room, like you’re invisible. Passing over your father’s altar, the stone, the shelves left empty all these years. Like… he expected something to be there.

Exhaling, he looks back to you—and a shiver runs up your spine.

“Maybe I’m just another ghost,” he says, smiling serenely. “Rest assured… you don’t know me. I’m just passing through.”

Your stomach tightens, and suddenly, you feel small beneath him—in that haunting way that happens when you realize: you’ve missed something. Because his smile comes slow. And soft. But something inside it is… off.

“…right,” you murmur, unsure. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—um… I just thought—well. You just seemed familiar, that’s all.”

With a faint hum, he slides one hand into the fold of his kimono, drawing out his phone—thumb brushing the screen.

“Well,” he says, slipping it back. “I should be off.” His gaze flicks toward the door. “Promised my girls crepes in the city. Can’t be late—they’ve got a sixth sense for strawberry syrup.”

The sentence hangs there, soft and strange and jarring in its normalcy.

Girls?

“Oh,” you manage. “That’s… sweet. I hope they enjoy it.”

“They always do,” that same smile pulls at his lips. “Anyways… take care. And good luck with your ghosts.” 

He tosses you a wave, and the moment he’s gone, you’re left sitting there—still a little thrown—watching the doorway he passed through like it might offer you a clue.

Stranger. Ghost. Something in between.

You don’t know what he was, only that something shifted when he left. Like the silence he carried took a piece of yours with it. Because as you glance towards the altar, where the incense is fizzling out, for once, it no longer feels like a question you’re desperate to hear the answer to.

Huh…

What was your answer then?

You’re not even sure, but perhaps… being heard was enough.

Bzzt!

Your phone buzzes against your thigh.

 | Gojo-sama is waiting. Will you be arriving shortly?

Shit.

You scramble upright, hoisting the bento bag across your shoulder, rushing down the path. Your sandals tap quickly against the stone, the scent of incense clinging to your sleeves—and just as the world begins to blur around you, the smoke behind you finally begins to clear.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

By the time you’d reached the estate, an attendant greeted you just past the gates—young, wide-eyed, bowing quickly with a clipboard tucked beneath her arm.

“Gojo-sama’s getting cleaned up,” she advised politely. “Said he got tired of waiting. But he’ll be out shortly—you can meet him in the north room. Down the hall, second left.”

The halls are quieter than you remembered. Weeks ago, they pulsed with ceremony—elders drifting past in brocade, councilmen murmuring in corners, incense clouding the air. Now, it’s just you. Just the hush of your own footsteps across the tatami.

The edge of the corridor comes into view, and your eyes land on a familiar opening—the dojo. It’s just as beautiful as you remember, with shoji panels pushed ajar, the evening air slipping through, rustling the bamboo just outside the courtyard. Your gaze lifts, peaking inside, and that’s when you see it.

…a three-pronged staff?

It’s centered neatly on the wall, ordinary to anyone else—but not to you. Because you know that shape, that grain, that worn curve along the middle joint, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

…can it be?

You don’t even remember setting the bento bag down; you’re already halfway inside—searching the grooves with your eyes, trying to memorize it all at once. But as you approach, disappointment immediately floods you.

…no.

It isn’t your father’s weapon. Not the one you gave away. Not the one you sold. It’s just a lookalike—a ghost of it—like everything else you’ve tried to forget.

“What are you doing?”

The bite in his voice slices through stillness. You stiffen, turning slowly to face him, and you don’t know what you were expecting—but it wasn’t this.

Satoru’s standing in the doorway; barefoot and shirtless, snowy hair damp and disheveled from the shower, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. But it’s those eyes that pin you—they’re like fractured ice, cold in a way that burns.

It’s… unsettling.

Despite how the hallway lantern casts a gentle glow, haloing his frame in gold, there’s nothing angelic in the way he’s looking at you.

“…I was heading to the northern hall,” you murmur, taking a hesitant step away from the wall. “I didn’t mean to touch anything. I just—”

“Right,” he cuts, low and cold. “Lemme guess, just like how you didn’t mean to touch him.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out at first. Because it takes a second to even register what he said.

“W-What?”

“Don’t fuckin’ play dumb,” he scoffs, hands shoving into his pockets. “My eyes don’t lie. I can see it. See his cursed residuals all over you.”

Residuals? Him?

Your brows draw together in confusion as your brain tries to make sense of what he’s saying. All you know is he’s upset—because those eyes are cutting through you like a goddamn curse. The weight of his stare makes you feel pinned—slicing you with a precision that leaves nowhere to hide.

…is he talking about the man at your shrine? But… you hadn’t even gotten his name, hadn’t thought twice about him.

You try to swallow. “Satoru—wait. I went to my father’s shrine and—”

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mumbles, shifting his weight like he’s already bored of the excuse he thinks you’re about to give. His eyes cut back to you, voice rising. “Seriously? I don’t have the patience to hear whatever story you’re about to spin. Don’t bullshit me.”

“What?” You blink, stunned. “I-I’m not. Listen, this guy was there and—"

He huffs a disbelieving laugh, bitter. “Ah… there it is,” and leaning against the doorway, he’s already decided—already branded you guilty. “Residuals cling two ways, sweetheart—domain exposure… or contact.”

The condensation in his voice makes you recoil. His eyes flick to you, surveying you with disregard.

“And you’re wearing his residuals like fuckin’ perfume,” his expression hardens. “So… what? What happened to your perfect little act, huh? Did you sit in his lap? Pray there like an offering? That it?”

Your mouth drops, and you’re fucking speechless.

Because what the fuck? Of all people—he has the nerve? The audacity? The sheer fucking audacity? This man, who has given you nothing but silence for weeks?! Who was ready to fuck another woman on your fucking engagement ceremony?? The air goes tight in your lungs.

“I went there to honor my father,” you say, slower now. Firmer. “Not to be accused of… this.”

“Honor…” he mutters, rolling his eyes, head tipping back. “So fuckin’ tired of that word. Don’t feed me that word like it absolves you.”

“Excuse me?!” The heat tears out of you—raw, jagged, a sound you’ve never let yourself make. But you don’t reel it back. “You have no right! Not after weeks of silence! Not after I’ve given everything I could—everything I had—” your throat tightens, eyes stinging, and for a split second his widen in surprise. But you’re not finished.

“Do you have any idea what I’ve had to give up? I’ve bent myself into knots trying to be what’s expected, what’s demanded—smile when I’m told, bow when I’m told, hold my tongue when I want to scream. I’ve tried to do everything right—all my life. And still, still I see you in that bathroom with—!”

The rest sears your tongue. Your lips snap shut, your eyes fall closed, cutting it off before it can spill out and scorch the space between you.

Because you can’t. You won’t.

You won’t hand him that memory. Won’t let him know how many nights it’s replayed in your head—the way he touched you, the way you let him, the way it left you hollow and restless after.

No.

To say it now would make it sound like proof of something you’re not ready to name. And this man does not love you, does not want you.

‘If the roles were flipped, he wouldn’t think twice about disrespecting you. You know that, right?’

Your breath stutters, your ribs aching as you try to reset—try to count the way your lungs expand. God, what are you doing? This is not how you were raised to be. Pretend you’re fine, even if you’re not. This man holds your future, your fate. Come on now… you never expected warmth tonight, so get it together and face him.

But… despite not expecting warmth, you’re not ready. You’re certain that cruelty is carved into his eyes—a seething anger, a blame you don’t even understand. The words still burn on your tongue, too jagged to swallow back, and you don’t know how to mend them. How do you patch something that was never meant to tear? You’ve never let the sharp edge of your temper slip before, and those eyes will surely slice through you like glass.

Your lashes flutter open, and the sight of him cleaves through the breath you’ve been trying to hold steady. He’s still there, blue eyes watching you, chest heaving like he’s holding something back. And… no.

Nonono.

Oh god. Not this again. It’s that look. That same look that tied your stomach in knots then, and still does now. Like he sees you in a way you don’t want to be seen, in a way you can’t even stand under. Like he knows every thought you’re trying to choke down before you can even form it.

And it hurts.

Because anger, you can fight. Hatred you can meet head-on. But this? This silent recognition that says everything and nothing at once—it’s all you’ve ever known, and it’s crawling up your ribs, crowding your throat until you swear it’s going to split you open, raw.

“I’m not doing this…” you whisper.

He doesn’t move as you turn across the tatami, reaching for the bento bag that remains where you dropped it. The strap digs into your palm when you lift it, and as your fingers rummage through its contents, Satoru observes your movements—gaze landing on the comb nestled in your hair, the gems shimmering underneath the lantern glow.

The air shifts; something tightening low in his chest that he cannot name. Though all he says is—

“Where are you going…?”

“Home.” You answer, setting his meal on the low table. “I brought dinner. I’ll leave it here. Eat it… or don’t.”

The silence stretches. You sense him moving before you hear him—steps slow but certain as he crosses the threshold into the dojo.

“…running away already?”

“…I’m not running,” you murmur, smoothing the strap of your bag, hoisting it on your shoulder. “Just going home. I’m tired. Have your attendants call for me another day.”

He huffs. “You’re tired? Tch…what the hell do you think I am?”

You purse your lips together, biting your tongue.

“…then I suppose you should rest as well. Goodnight, Gojo-sama.”

With that, you turn—intent on slipping past him—but his hand shoots out, closing firmly around your wrist. And your body doesn’t think; it remembers.

Rather than pulling away, you pivot, folding into his momentum. His arm becomes the lever, your shoulder the hinge, and as your knees sink, his strength only feeds the fall. Before he can register it, the tatami is shuddering beneath his back, and you’re left kneeling beside him—breath sharp, his wrist still caught in your hand.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. You blink, stunned—taking in how he’s sprawled on the floor, white hair mussed against the mat, blue eyes wide, blinking like he can’t believe you dropped him.

And that realization hits you. Hard. You—flipping Gojo Satoru.

You can already hear the verdict in your mother’s voice, in your clans’ whispers.

Reckless. Shameful. Disgraceful.

“I—I…” your lips part, the beginnings of an apology fumbling out. “I’m… oh god… I didn’t mean to—"

But he’s gripping you before the words can form. You yelp, tumbling down against his chest one moment, twisting against his body the next as he pins you beneath his weight. His hands are on both sides of your face, his knee pressed to the floor between yours, and his breathing is loud in the space between your lips.

“…who taught you aiki otoshi?”

You’re lost in the blue of his eyes, because his face is so close it blurs—mouth hovering just a breath away, snowy hair spilling forward, brushing your temple.

“My father…” you whisper, swallowing. “I-It was just instinct. I didn’t mean to…”

His tongue clicks mockingly gentle. “Bad girl…” he mutters, eyes landing on your lips. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

And then he’s kissing you.

Lashes flutter, and your breath stutters as your fingers bury between damp hair. He’s not tender. He’s desperate—and shit, it’s addicting, the way his breath spills between broken kisses, panting, groaning—every exhale trembling against your mouth before he swallows it.

“Satoru…” you mumble, but he cuts you off, rasping, “Enough…” and his mouth crashes back onto yours before you can form another word—devouring, drowning.

The kiss consumes you, his hands trembling, unable to keep still. One drags down your throat, pressing against the hollow, and you whimper, pulse fluttering. The other grips your waist, tugging your kimono, sliding lower as he hauls your hips against him.

“O-oh—fuck…” The thick heat of his cock presses through his sweats, slotting perfectly between your thighs, and you gasp.

“Haaa… that’s it…” he groans, head dipping to your jaw, teeth grazing your skin as his hips rut hard, shameless, chasing friction like a man starved. “…mnh—fuck,” he pants, grinding again, harder this time, hot breath fanning your throat.

And god help you, your body arches up to meet him.

The nerve of this man! But worse—the betrayal of your own body. Heat’s curling low, your hips are tilting into his, and you hate it—hate that you want this. Because you shouldn’t. Not after weeks of silence, not after the bathroom, not after everything he’s put you through.

His thrust drags another moan from you. “Asshole—” you gasp, hands shoving at his shoulders. But a groan pulls from his chest when your nails bite into his skin, making you scowl.

“You don’t get to act like this, not after—mnh!”

Your words break into a whine as teeth catch your lips in another bruising kiss. He’s consumed, rolling his length harder, ruthless. Fabric rustles, him fumbling with your sash with trembling fingers—tugging the knot like it’s personally offended him.

When the cool air grazes your skin, his breath stutters in anticipation, mouth breaking from yours with another groan.

“God…” his lips trail fire down your jaw, your throat, your breasts. “Shit…” he mutters, tonguing at your nipple, sucking, groping greedy handfuls. “So fuckin’ perfect… can’t believe I wasted weeks—"

Weeks?

The word burns, because whose fault is that?! But his hand distracts you before you can question it—sliding down your stomach with possessive intent. Dropping lower, he cups your heat, and you shudder, biting your lip as he holds your cunt.

“—fuck yes… can’t believe I kept myself from this… my slutty little wife.”

The title drips from his lips like filth, and you can’t help the laugh bubbling out of you—breathless, brittle, trying to scorn.

The fucking audacity of this man.

“You don’t get to call me that!” you snap, heat flaring beneath your skin. “Not after you disappear for weeks, leave me with nothing but silence, nothing but—ahn!”

Damn him. Your defiance cracks. His fingers are already dragging through your soaked panties, pussy dripping from the mess between your legs.

“Oh?” he taunts, smirking, pushing the wet fabric against your slit. “Then what’s this, hm? Say what you want, sweetheart. Your sweet little cunt’s already beggin’ for me.”

You hate that he’s right. Hate the way your hips twitch into his hand. The tatami rustles beneath his shifting weight as he settles between your legs, fingers curling at the waistband of your panties.

“Gonna strip these off…” his breath fans your cunt. “Fuckin’ make you mine all over the tatami and—”

“No.”

Before you can think, your hand flies up, pressing hard against his forehead. The sudden stop jolts him. Damp strands of hair spill into your palm, soft against your trembling fingers, and his blue eyes flash wide, startled.

For a beat, neither of you move. Your breath is shaky, ragged, while he’s laying against the tatami, face between your legs, shocked. Tears are threatening to spill over, your eyes burning, because now you’re even more confused. It’s not fair. He’s not fair.

“You don’t get to use me…”

The whisper scrapes out of you raw, cracked at the edges, and he’s looking at you like the very thought of you denying him doesn’t compute. Guilt, hurt, something else—all flashing quick across his face, dimming the usual gleam in his eyes. His brows pull tight, and the look on him is almost lost.

“What if…” his throat bobs with a swallow, blue eyes searching yours. “…you don’t have to touch me.”

You blink, looking down at this man, dazed, your fingers still tangled in snowy hair. His voice is hoarse, pleading in a way that doesn’t sound like him, and his forehead presses harder into your hand, as if leaning into your rejection, desperate to stay connected to you.

“…what?” you whisper, head shaking in disbelief. “You’re not making sense—”

“I know,” he cuts in, lips parting on a shuddering breath. His chest rises and falls against the tatami, fast and uneven. “Just… let me taste you. You don’t need to touch me. I don’t need anything else. I just… need you on my tongue. Please.”

Please.

That word doesn’t sound real, doesn’t belong on his mouth. Gojo Satoru doesn’t ask—he owns, he takes. Yet here he is, head bowed between your thighs, looking up at you like he’d starve if you told him no.

This man keeps confusing the hell out of you.

He’s supposed to be cruel, indifferent, cold. And yet… right now he feels terrifyingly close.

What if letting him do this means you’re handing him power you’ll never get back? The thought terrifies you. Because you don’t know what this means—don’t know if this is desperation or devotion or just another game. And you can’t risk being wrong. Can’t risk being ruined.

So… maybe you close the door? Give—whatever this is—a label that protects your fragile heart. But… can you really draw that line when your thighs are already trembling open for him?

“…all right,” you murmur finally, and his eyes brighten immediately, unbearably blue. “But…” your eyes narrow, lips pursing. “I’m only doing this because… it’s expected of me. My duty. I’m not touching you, and I’m not giving you the rest. Not until the wedding. Understood?”

He smirks, gaze dropping to your cunt. “Yeah… sure. But once my tongue is buried inside that little pussy, doubt you’ll be thinkin’ about duty, babe.”

Heat crawls up your neck from his sheer filth. “God—how can you just—say shit like tha—ah!” but the protest rips into a gasp as cool air hits your skin—Satoru tugging your panties down in shameless urgency.

“Finally…” his cock jerks up, twitching from the sight of your tiny hole. “Look at you… fuckin’ perfect. Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen.”

God—your face is molten. Snowy hair is tickling your thighs, his breath warms your slick, and you feel flayed open—exposed in ways you never imagined. Like he can see every piece of you, every thought you’re trying not to have.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea…

Tremors wrack your body as nerves take over. He notices, eyes lifting, and he’s instantly cooing. “Shh…” Thumbs stroke lazy circles into your trembling thighs. “S’okay baby… gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel.”

That sweetness—softness laced with filth—it confuses you way more than his cruelty ever did. Why does it hurt worse when he’s gentle? Why does it threaten the one wall you swore you’d keep up?

Duty, you remind yourself. Just duty.

Your lashes lower. “O-Okay…” His grin spreads up, unholy. “That’s it, baby…” Strong hands push your legs apart, cunt glistening for him. “Now… be a good girl yeah? Open up for me. Wanna enjoy my meal.”

This wasn’t your idea of a romantic dinner.

Satoru’s tongue hits you, dragging from your soaked little hole to your sensitive clit, and you gasp. “Ohmygod—” It’s wetter than you expected. Sloppier. “S-Satoru—” you’re squirming, trembling beneath him, unsure if you want to run or pull him deeper.

He decides for you, hands yanking your ass, burying himself into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ffffuck…” he slurs, sliding through your folds, groaning through the mess. “Better than I fuckin’ dreamed… you taste so sweet… mnh…”

Each swipe of his tongue leaves you raw, overstimulated—making you whimper as his mouth works through your folds with ruthless devotion, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

But… this is just duty.

The thought wavers when his nose nudges your slick and he licks a messy stripe through you, sloppy and relentless.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this, baby…” He pulls back just far enough to press his thumb into your clit, lazy circles that snap your back into an arch. Those vivid blue eyes flick up, watching you, and he rasps.  “Mmm… soaked for me already. Gonna fuckin’ cum on my face, huh sweetheart?”

Heat sears your neck. “Satoru, I—” But he shifts, sliding one hand under your thigh, tilting your hips higher. The other pins your belly, holding you open while his tongue plunges back into your cunt. “O-oh… fuck—” Your cry pitches high.

“Wanna eat you every night…” he pants, rutting against the floor, cock oozing at the tip. “Mnh… fuck you full every morning… keep this tiny pussy stuffed till you’re too dumb to walk…”

Duty. Duty. Duty.

You chant it like a prayer while your hips buck, chasing every flick of his tongue. Too good—god, too good. He’s gorgeous like this, ruined between your thighs, and it would be so easy—too easy—to just let go, give in—cum all over his perfect face. Drench him in you.

“Doin’ so good f’me, baby…” His voice vibrates against your clit, tongue circling before grazing you with his teeth. The ring on your finger shimmers as your hands fist in his hair, tugging, making him groan “Fuck… that’s it…” he mumbles into your cunt, devouring again. “Such a good girl. Such a needy girl, aren’t you?”

“I—”

I want you.

A tremor rolls through, your throat tightening with the threat of tears. Fuck. You’re losing your resolve.

Get it together.

“I can’t… I can’t think when you talk like that—” you shudder, thighs trembling. “—can’t think when you look at me like that…”

Low laughter rumbles against your skin, his warm breath fanning you. “Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking your clit, slow and deliberate, before circling again in a wet brand of torture. “Then stop thinkin’…”

A long finger slips inside, and the sound you make is half-gasp, half-cry.

“Mmm… tight little thing,” he groans, pumping slow and deep. “Slutty little pussy misses me already. Fuck… so fuckin’ wet, so fuckin’ sweet. She’s mine. Knows who she belongs to.”

His…?

Blue eyes cut up to you—impossibly dark, half-lidded, utterly gone. The look of him hits harder than his words, and your heart jerks painfully. You want it—want it too much—and that’s exactly why it burns. He doesn’t want you. He only wants this.

Tears bead at your lashes before you even realize they’re there, cooling as they slide back toward your temples. And that’s when it crashes in.

This was a mistake.

You’d told yourself you could split your body from your heart and stay whole. That you could call it duty and survive it. That you could handle giving him this part of you if he didn’t reach for more. But here you are, shaking under his mouth, coming apart anyway. And… he’s not even fucking you yet.

What happens when he does? What pieces of yourself will be left then?

How are you supposed to navigate this arrangement? How the hell did your mother do it for so many years? How did she learn to shut out the part of herself that still longed for softness, for gentleness?

…is that what strength looks like? A slow suffocation? A steady starvation?

And if that’s the cost, are you willing to pay it?

The thought lodges sharp in your chest, bitter, because you already know the answer. You must. You’ve been paying it all your life.

And your hands are already moving, pressing at his forehead. “Satoru—stop,” you tremble, pushing him off, scrambling for your robes. “I… I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He jerks up at once, watching you fumble with the fabric, confusion sliding in with panic. “Wait—what?” he breathes, ragged, eyes searching you. “What is it? What’s goin’ on?”

But you’re already rising, reaching for the bento bag like it’s the only thing tethering you. “I just…” with a shuddering breath, your head shakes, lashes wet. “Sorry. I need to leave.”

“Leave?”

The word feels foreign on his tongue. He sinks back on his knees, unable to make sense of it, while you’re fumbling with your kimono, putting yourself back together before he can see how undone you really are.

As you turn, the comb he gave you slips loose in your hair, the jewels catching faint light before settling crooked. His gaze snags on it, and

Damnit…

There’s that ache blooming low in his chest again—an ache he doesn’t understand.

“Babe, just—” his lips press together, a frustrated breath pushing through his nose as he stands. “Fuckin’… wait,” his hand grabs your wrist. “Slow down and tell me what—”

“Let go,” you say, sliding the strap over your shoulder, your voice too small to hide the crack in it. You don’t pull away, but you don’t look at him. “I’m going home,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I just… can’t do this right now, Satoru. Please… just let me go.”

And with that, his mouth shuts. He lingers too long, fingers still circling your wrist, his gaze catching on the ring that glints faintly against your delicate hand—his gift, his burden, the tether neither of you asked for. Whatever protest was forming dies in his throat, swallowed by the silence stretching between you. At last, his grip falls away, leaving the air thrumming, swollen with everything unsaid.

You don’t look back. You can’t. If you do, you’ll shatter completely.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

For Satoru, sex was supposed to make him feel better. So why does he feel like shit?

It had never failed before; a warm body, a quick fuck, that sweet, fleeting rush that burned everything else quiet. Because Satoru Gojo hates noise—always has. And sex is his reset button. His switch. Feelings? They’re meant to be buried.

But lately… it’s like they’ve been burying him.

You’re gone now, and he’s left standing in the empty dojo with all this shit in his head—thoughts clawing at the inside of his skull, louder than ever. And he has no fucking clue what to do with any of it. No way to drown out this stupid, fucking noise.

Why did you leave? Was it something he said? Too much? Too fast? He tried being gentle—wasn’t that what you wanted?

Noise.

Why didn’t he stop you? Why does he care? Why the fuck can’t he stop seeing your face—that night, in the bathroom—shocked, hurt, hollow. Why does it haunt him like this? Why does it piss him off?

Is he angry at you? Or himself?

Noise. Noise. Noise.

What now? What if you don’t come back? What if you call it off, tell him this whole thing was a mistake? Is he that easy to walk away from? Does he push everyone away? Is that why Suguru—

CRASH!

The tension snaps, his arm swinging blindly, knocking a ceramic vase off the low ledge by the wall. It shatters violently on the floor, jagged pieces splintering, water seeping into the tatami as blossoms scatter, bruised and broken.

But the noise of the vase isn’t enough to drown out the noise in his head—because the crash fades, leaving only silence, and he’s standing there for a moment, staring at the wreckage, chest heaving.

…what the fuck is wrong with him?

Hands drag through his hair, tugging the roots in frustration until his legs give, slumping against the wall like his body’s too heavy to carry. With a shuddering breath, his face buries in his hands and he has no choice but to sit with the noise.

Fuck…

He can’t even remember the last time he felt this. Doesn’t want to. And when his eyes open, blinking through the sting, he’s left staring down at the tent in his sweats—still hard, still aching, a dark patch of pre-cum slicking through the fabric.

Pathetic.

Groaning, his head knocks back against the wall with a dull thud. Who the fuck even is he? He literally almost came in his pants, eating you out. Because it’s been weeks—weeks—since he’s fucked anyone.

And not for lack of trying.

Every time someone offered—brushed up against him, pressed a hand to his chest, whispered something filthy in his ear—there you were. That same fucking face flashing through his mind, haunting him.

Sex had always worked for him. So… he thought—hoped—it might work for you, too. That he could fuck the pain off your expression, wipe it clean with his hands, his mouth, his tongue. Drag you into that quiet, mindless place where nothing hurts.

And for a second—god, for a second—it looked like he had. You were trembling beneath him, gasping, clinging. Falling apart in all the right ways. You looked so fucking beautiful. So fucking perfect.

Until… you didn’t. Until that look shifted, and suddenly you were slipping through his fingers again, all water and ache and tears he still doesn’t understand, leaving his chest hollow with something he can’t fucking name.

He scrubs a hand over his face, harder this time, hoping he can wipe that image of you away.

…what the hell is he supposed to do with himself if even this—the one thing that’s always worked—doesn’t work anymore?

As the thought ruminates in his head, the shoji slides open.

“I heard a crash.”

The voice is crisp, stern. Satoru’s eyes flick up just long enough to catch sight of Gojo Hajime, standing at the threshold of the dojo, robes pristine, mouth tight.

Great. Just fucking great.

“Yeah?” Satoru mutters, eyes rolling back toward the floor. “No shit.”

Hajime doesn’t move. But his eyes narrow as Satoru shifts, glass crunching beneath him, elbows resting to his knees. Water creeps across the tatami in slow, quiet veins, while the vase lies in ruin—just like everything else.

“…where is she?” he presses, and Satoru’s head tilts back against the wall with an annoyed huff, staring blankly at the ceiling beams. “Home.”

Home?

That gets the old man to move.

“She left?” he echoes, voice tightening with disbelief. The tatami creaks under his weight, arms folding into his yukata. “Inconceivable. On today of all days?”

“Yup.”

Satoru doesn’t bother to elaborate. Doesn’t even spare the man a glance. If Hajime wants drama, he can dig through the damn broken glass himself for it.

The elder’s eyes scrutinize, stopping a few paces away. “And what of duty?” he huffs, voice sharpening, turning brittle, formal. “What of ceremony? This marriage is not some dalliance, Gojo-sama. It is the cornerstone of our future. A convergence of bloodlines. Responsibility. Honor—”

Blah, fucking blah.

Satoru exhales through his nose, checking out entirely. More useless noise—words he’s heard a thousand times, could recite in his sleep if he cared enough to try. And tonight, of all nights? He’s even less inclined to play along. Not with the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. Not while he’s sitting in the wreckage of his own silence, surrounded by the shards of everything he never said.

“This is no small offense,” Hajime intones, rigid with judgment. “You see now, don’t you? That girl was never fit for this role. Your schedules finally coincide after endless delay, and she has the audacity to walk away? How deeply unbecoming. That woman is a disgrace.”

Disgrace?

At that, Satoru’s eyes flick up, brow furrowing.

…the hell did he just say?

And why the fuck does hearing it—hearing him say it about you—make his fingers twitch?

“It appears she follows in the footsteps of her father,” Hajime continues. “Shameful. Disrespectful of hierarchy, dismissive of ceremony. It’s bred into her. That woman has no sense of place and—"

“Don’t.”

It leaves his mouth before he even knows what it is, and Hajime’s gaze shifts back to him—back to Satoru, who’s no longer slouched or half-listening. The glow of his Six Eyes is sharp now, cutting, lit with a quiet simmer that borders on dangerous.

He doesn’t know what line just got crossed—only that it did.

“Say another word about her,” he warns, the edge of his voice honed to steel, “or about her father, and we’ll have a different kind of problem.”

For a moment, the room is silent—eerily so. Not even the wind breathes. Just that tight, taut stillness that always comes before something breaks. Hajime’s lips seal, jaw ticking beneath the skin. Because no matter how old, how honored, how steeped in hierarchy he may be… even he knows the difference between authority and power.

Hajime wears the robes of authority.

But… Gojo Satoru wears power.

Still, he presses carefully. “With respect… Gojo-sama. The council will not look kindly on a bride who walks away before the rites are even complete. It is not her place to decide when—"

“I sent her home.” The lie leaves his mouth easily. “She didn’t walk out. I saw she was tired and told her to leave. End of story.”

He doesn’t know why he says it—only that it lands before he has time to second-guess it.

Maybe it’s the fact that Hajime kept using words like disgrace and shame, as if you haven’t spent your whole life trying to survive their expectations. Maybe he’s tired of watching people walk into fire for tradition while the old men stay seated.

Or maybe… it’s the look on your face when you turned away from him.

Either way, the lie sticks.

Hajime’s mouth tightens further. “You’d best be ready to explain yourself at the next council gathering.” But Satoru doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah, I’m not explaining shit,” he says, flicking his hand like the conversation’s already beneath him. “And I’m done for tonight. So… uh. Do me a favor, Hajime?”

A flicker of cursed energy coils beneath the surface, and that stare—cold, crystalline—locks in, like lightning waiting for a reason.

“Get the fuck out of my estate.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

‘Are you the strongest because you’re Gojo Satoru, or are you Gojo Satoru because you’re the strongest?’

Satoru still doesn’t know how to answer that question. Maybe he doesn’t want to. Because the older he gets, the more that voice—Suguru’s voice—sounds less like philosophy and more like a trap; a snare meant to make him pause—stop and think. Look inward in a way he’s spent years avoiding, because nothing worthwhile ever came from staring into that pit.

It’s easier to be the strongest. Easier to be a weapon, a title, a consequence. Something for the world to worship or hate or fear. People expect less that way. There’s no room for tenderness or doubt.

No room for just… him.

With a frustrated exhale, Satoru kneels in the dim light of the dojo, limbs heavy as he sweeps the broken pieces of the vase into his palm, one by one—the tatami creaking under his knees. They clink together hollowly as he drops them onto the low table, and his gaze drifts—landing inevitably, to the bento box you left behind.

You made it for him. After everything went to shit, and well before it went into even deeper shit—knowing he might not deserve it. And he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better, or worse.

He pops the lid open, almost absently, and grabs the chopsticks. Steam clings faintly to the rice, the grilled fish glistens under the lantern glow, a wedge of pickled radish tucked neatly in the corner beside tamagoyaki cut into even squares.

'So… what? What happened to your perfect little act, huh? Did you sit in his lap? Pray there like an offering? That it?'

The image of your face flashes back—hurt, shocked, furious—and he groans, shutting his eyes as he shovels in a bite. 

God, he’s such a fucking asshole. What the hell is wrong with him? Why is he being so possessive over a girl he barely knows—a girl who, by all rights, should hate him after everything he’s done? After everything he hasn’t said?

He takes another bite, chewing mechanically, the food settling on his tongue.

It doesn’t make any sense to him, but ever since this engagement started, you’ve been getting under his skin in ways that make no sense.

Exhibit A: The sunglasses.

His free hand slips into the pocket of his sweats, fingers closing around the familiar weight, turning them over in his palm. He balances them against his knee, staring like they might offer an answer.

They’re just… sunglasses.

Right?

He’s had a dozen pairs, broken twice as many. It pisses him off a little, that something so stupid carries weight. That he can’t slip them on without thinking of you. And yet… he can’t bring himself to throw them away. The thought of doing that would piss him off even more.

He shovels in another mouthful of rice, jaw tight. Which brings him straight into—

Exhibit B: He doesn’t want a wife.

For fucks sake, he hates that word. It’s loaded with tradition and expectation and a thousand eyes watching, waiting, molding him into something he never asked to be. And yet, every time he calls you it while you’re falling apart underneath him—some fucked-up part of him likes the sound of it.

Huh… maybe he’s developed a new kink.

Satoru blinks.

Oh. Fuck.

That must be it… the only possible explanation, right?? Why else would he fantasize about the thought of fucking you so deep the only thing you remember is his name. Of filling you with his cum, creamy and thick, watching it spill out of you just to fuck it back in.

The idea hits him like a punch to the gut, and now—great—his dick’s joined the conversation again, throbbing against the inside of his sweats while he’s sitting here among broken glass and grilled mackerel like an idiot.

God, that’s so fucking deranged.

He stuffs another bite in his mouth—chews like it’ll grind the thought out of his skull. But it lingers; because the truth is, he wanted to fuck the pain he caused you right off your beautiful face—right there, on the goddamn dojo floor. Wanted to kiss the anger from your mouth, to pull your thighs apart and fuck every trace of Suguru off your skin until there was nothing left but him.

His jaw ticks.

… why the hell were his cursed residuals on you?

He pauses, chopsticks halfway to his mouth, appetite curdling by the second.

It’s been years—years since he’s felt it, but he’d know it anywhere. He’s felt it laced through battlefields, curled around corpses, stitched into silence—and once, long ago, wrapped around a friend who stood beside him when they believed in the same world.

It’s changed since then—muted, frayed at the edges—but it still clings like memory.

And tonight, it clung to you.

He sets the chopsticks down. Just for a moment. The food sours on his tongue, heavy in his gut. And he doesn’t know if it’s jealousy or fear or something darker—something uglier—but it gnaws at him all the same. Because if Suguru’s cursed energy was on you… then Suguru had been close.

Too close.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Proximity. The reminder that no matter how far he’s tried to keep it buried, their paths will always curve back toward each other. Sooner or later. Like gravity. Like fate.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. That’s his duty. One he’s managed to stave off with excuses and avoidance, with silence and denial. But the truth presses at the edges of his mind, sharp and merciless.

It’s only a matter of time.

He knows what it will demand of him. What he’s going to have to do.

a/n. hello my darlings! i hope you enjoyed this part. i intended it to be longer but i couldn't do another 20k one lol, i think i would have died. so i'm splitting it. like i said, i really want this growth to feel earned and realistic. reader is starting to stand up for herself, satoru is having to sit with his own shame - something this man NEVER feels. this is just the beginning. our couple has a lot to work through. there are still a LOT of messy feelings going on. but as you can see, satoru is clueless. utterly, completely clueless. this man is so emotionally constipated and incapable 🙂‍↕️ he thinks sex fixes everything. bruh. i wish it did. gosh there is prob more i could yap about. there are lots of clues i dropped, i wonder if you can pick up on them. BUT... as i'm typing this ya'll are waiting for me to post it so i'm gonna post it now, hehe. anyways - would love to hear your thoughts and i love you all! thanks for reading and supporting this fic 🥹 mwah!

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