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"I did!" You brush him off.

"You definitely thought of something else." He taps a hand on his chin. "Was it naughty?"

You shake your head aggressively, eager to change the subject, and now he wants to know even more.

He gets his answer months later, when you're drunk and slumped across his shoulder. This time, when he asks, you're a lot less dogged.

"You can't tell him I said this, okay?" Your voice slurs as you continue to lean into him. "You can't tell Satoru. It's a secret." You clumsily push your finger to your lips, loudly shushing in his ear.

"I promise I won't," Satoru assures you as he lets you cling onto him, eager to claim his prize after waiting for so long.

"It's so mean, it's just one of those...intrusive thoughts, but I always wondered how inbred he is."

He blinks. What?

"I mean, he's gotta be right?" You continue, oblivious to the frozen man. "I bet the Gojo clan was all about 'keeping it in the family' or whatever. It's not like I'm blaming him, but you really gotta' wonder."

"You think...he looks....inbred." He repeats your words with a flat tone.

"I mean, not in a bad way." Is there a good way? "He looks like he'd fit right in with the Targeryens, and those guys are so beautiful even though they're only into their sisters and cousins. Wait, do I like inbred-looking men?" You cut yourself off with a drunken laugh.

You reach for your cup. Satoru stops you.

"I'm taking you home." He tells you flatly. You whine and complain as he drags you out of the bar.

When you're dropped off at home and asleep underneath blankets, Satoru sits right outside your apartment. His hands grip the steering wheel as he replays your words over and over again.

Well, you did say you liked men who looked inbred, he thinks as he fiddles with his fingers.

"For all I know, he'll ditch tonight," he shrugged.

Your brow quirked. "Satoru? Playing hooky? Don't joke around."

"He's not big on these snob fests either."

Your lips pursed. 'Snob fest' was certainly a way of putting a family function.

The plan was to arrive at the event with Satoshi and meet his twin there. Now, you're not so sure.

Satoru was always so attentive in everything he did. Whether it be hyper-analysing an equation sequence simply because it didn't feel right or studying a 'better boyfriend 101' manual from index-to-appendix cause Satoshi teased him about acting like a love robot.

You couldn't fathom the idea of him ditching a family function. Especially with what you've heard about the Gojo's. They were prestigious as they were plentiful. Or: problematic. As Satoshi often said.

The thought stirred earlier's coffee and sweet treat in your gut into a puddle of anxiety. Zoning you out to soothing smoke and Satoshi's warm arm still holding you close.

Suddenly, your dress felt too short. Your colours felt wrong. Your shoes felt weird. You'd spent hours fumbling through appropriate outfits and retrying every dress at least twice. Spent even longer doing your hair, your makeup, practising your smile in the mirror.

Meeting a partner's family was already stressful enough. Now slap the label 'polyamory' onto it and you've got a recipe for disaster.

What exactly were you getting yourself into by attending the event tonight? Would you make things worse for the twins? You could only imagine the comments about them sharing a lover.

A press to your temple snapped you out of your mind. You blinked at the silver-ringed index that poked your head and urged you to face a pair of thoughtful blues.

"What's up in that pretty little head of yours?" Satoshi grinned. Softer. Always for you.

"Just. . . thinking," you muttered, slumping back further into the black steel of his bike. Maybe if your dug your heels enough into the pavement, you could root yourself here instead.

You voice lowered. "Are you sure about this?"

He paused. Stared at you for a bit. Understood. You never needed to over-explain with him. He understood your heart like every gear in his bike transmission.

Squeezing you tighter so the scent of smoke and leather embraced your senses together with his warmth, he replied. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"What if they don't like me?"

"Well then they can just go suck a co—"

"Toshi!" You thwacked his arm and he huffed a chuckle. The remaining cigarette dropped from his fingers and snuffed under his black boot as his arm slipped down your waist. Hand smoothing over your side to caress your hip and lean you further into him. To his soft smooch on your head.

"Babydoll, I don't give a damn 'bout what they think." He squeezed assurance into your hip with those big hands that promised to always protect you. Your muscles innately eased into him. Like your heart knew she was safe.

"I love you. Satoru loves you. Anyone who's got a problem with that can take a hike," he shrugged. "Or swallow teeth. Depends what mood they catch me in."

You clicked your tongue and ignored your inward swoon as you shot him a playful glare. Gojo Satoshi. Ever trigger-happy. His grin and glinting teeth told you he wasn't exaggerating.

"You can't solve everything with fists, y'know." You pouted.

He mimicked your lips, jutting out his lower one. "Oh I know. Some things also call for. . . " He squished your hip and then swung you both around. Sending your squeak into the air as he flushed you further into his bike and slipped both hands to your thighs.

"— kisses."

His lips were on yours not even a second later. As he bundled your thighs and scooped you up. Seating you over his bike as his towering height toppled over you. Your hands shot to his shoulders. Clinging to the back of his hair as he tipped over you. Weighing into the kiss and stealing your breath into his lungs.

He tasted of smoke and bad decision. Of roughness and fun with love riddled in the leather of his tongue.

It was never just one kiss. But several. Until your knees were quaking and your lungs burned. Kissing Satoshi was a matter of trading air for passion and anxiety for thrill. His pierced tongue urged the exchange as the silver barbell stroked on your pink muscle and prompted another squeal from you.

"Toshi!" You whined.

"Toshi!" He mimicked, pitching his voice in an exaggerated squeak to mock you. You could feel that bastard grin on your mouth.

Gripping tuffs of his snowy hair, you dragged him back. A string of saliva snapped between your mouths and glistened in the last few glimmers of the sun that shone from the left. His lashes were heavy, eyes glinting, piercings shimmering. Oh, he was beautiful when favoured by the setting sun.

Beautiful and a brat. Because the bastard was still trying to steal another kiss despite swelling your lips with several.

You smacked his chest and huffed. "You're insatiable. Crazy too."

He caught your hand. Crooking his head to press a kiss on your palm. Blue eyes never once breaking from yours. "But you lovveee meeee." He whined.

"I do love you," you whispered.

Because 'I love you's' weren't something you ever kept from Satoshi. He had enough of that in his life. It was his turn to be loved. For all his cracks and the gold that shone from within them. For the rough around the edges that you adored just as much as his gooey centre.

His grin melted into a smile. Softer than any of the stars that would soon take to the sky. His forehead pressed to yours. Hands smoothing over your thighs in soft caresses.

"I love you." He mumbled back. Sealing one more peck before he withdrew, reluctantly.

Satoshi shifted and snatched a helmet. The one he'd bought for you on your first date. Slipping it over your head with practised ease and strapping it beneath your chin. "We gotta get going. We're already late."

"Mmm," you hummed, as he flipped your visor open to get a good look at your eyes. A single index pressed to the centre of the helmet.

"And I don't wanna hear any 'what if they don't like me' crap again. If anyone gives you shit you tell me immediately, got it?" His brow arched. Even his sternness was soft. Because it was protective. Because it was for you.

Your face warmed in the helmet. Even after a year of being his— he still had an effect on you. Well, until he flicked the helmet just to hear you whine and give him a verbal response.

"Yes, yes. Promise." You mumbled.

His gloved hand raised. Pinkie expectant. Stare serious. A giggle shook your shoulders as you looped your pinkie with his.

"I pinkie promise," you teased.

"Mhhm," he hummed, pressing a kiss to the tip of your finger before he snatched his own helmet and positioned you both over his bike.

The engine rumbled into the night as you nestled behind him. Hugging around him with your head to his back. Anxiety slipping into the rushing air as he took off into the streets.

As long as Satoshi was at your side, how bad could it be?

Thank heavens Satoshi barely left your side. You might have slipped on the marble floors from your own nerves.

From what you gathered, this was his childhood home. Black marble and mahogany furniture. A lavish living room that outstretched into a grand kitchen on one end, probably bustling with catering staff, and an extravagant staircase on the other end. A chandelier shimmered above it. More crystals than you could count. Dazzling onto the floor and commanding attention like every speck of this house— no, mansion.

Even the fake flowers smelled expensive.

The Gojo family was exactly as described. As prestigious as they were plentiful. A sea of white hair and blue eyes. You wondered if that was a boastful trait, too. There were the odd ones out, of course. Some black hair, some darker eyes, silver ones. But the air remained the same.

Thick with pride and riddled with prejudice.

They moved through the luxuries and leaned on the furniture like they owned the place. And yet Satoshi hadn't even been offered a seat yet. Wasn't this his home?

He lingered at your side. Hands stuffed in his pockets and blue eyes brimming with boredom. He didn't bother taking of his jacket, nor greeting anyone who hadn't greeted him first.

"Satoshi, how nice to see you." An old woman with more jewels than wrinkles approached you both. Satoshi stepped closer to you before you even considered to do the same.

"Yukino." He spoke. Not really a greeting, more of an acknowledgement.

She didn't seem to appreciate it, given her furrowed brows and tight smile. "Still lacking manners. It wouldn't kill you to call me o-bāsan."

Your shoulders stiffened. This was his auntie? Which one? Probably a close one considering she had the same white-haired-blue-eyed combo. Regardless, you bowed your head.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." You offered a polite smile.

Hers thinned. "Oh, you must be the girlfriend."

It didn't sound like she was too impressed.

Yukino's stare seemed to sharpen, like a needle. Scanning over every part of you as if to find which spot needed stitching. But before she could so much as open her mouth, Satoshi's arm curled around your waist and yanked you into him.

"Yeah, yeah. This is my girlfriend. Now go find your cheating husband."

He scoffed, dragging you off with him and leaving behind a scandalised old woman without a care. You could only fall into place beside him as you walked on fumbling heels.

"Satoshi—" your hissed scold was met with a squeeze. The look on his face shut you right up.

His brows were narrowed. Eyes cold. As he guided you through the hall and to the just-as-bustling living room. Really, how big was this family? Their numbers were only emphasised with their not so subtle stares.

"Where the fuck is Satoru?" He huffed, digging his phone out of his pocket as he leaned with you against a pillar. Arm still strung tight around you. As if you'd slip into the sea of judgement and pride that scorned the manor.

You eyed the time. "Probably just finishing up."

"He's sure taking his fucking time."

Satoshi exhaled. Shoulders slumping with his head that rolled back. His exasperated stare dug into the ceiling and squeezed your heart. He looked tired. You couldn't blame him. Ever since you both got here it's been exactly as he described— a snob fest.

Your gaze flickered across the room. Eyeing the luxurious furniture. The lavish people. Money etched into every inch of the scene. Pride was more than just thick in the air. It was the air.

You hadn't missed how they looked at Satoshi. With piercing blues that matched his own yet could never live up to the heart his had. Their's were hollow. Sharp. Like sharks hunting for fresh blood. And you both looked like just the right meal.

Of course you expected a few sour apples. But not a comment the second you both arrived and stepped over the threshold.

"You really should fix that face of yours. Why cover it in holes?"

You found yourself flinching at the memory. Satoshi hadn't even batted an eye at who you assumed was one of his elders. Maybe an uncle if not a grandparent.

"Surprised you even showed up."

Commented another when you both approached the refreshments table. Their youth shocked you. Was that a cousin?

"How's college? Or did you finally drop out? We're looking to fill a spot in the ground staff."

That one nearly got a comment out of you. You would have said something. Should have said something. But the way Satoshi hadn't even blinked, let alone dignified it with a response ached your heart.

Was he so used to being the black sheep that he tuned everything out? How many of these had he attended where he was shamed for simply breathing?

The thought unsettled you. Pitted your stomach. There were probably several of these events that he attended in the past. Before you were even in the picture. Before you could protect him the same way he protected you.

Angry flames licked at that pit in your stomach. Anger that this had happened before. Enough times that he now seemed numb to it. A part of you wanted to shatter that expensive champagne they kept prattling on about. Command their attention. Shame them for their disgusting behaviour.

Because your Satoshi was built for love. He was rough around the edges, but he was gentle at the centre.

You saw it in his soft eyes. In the way he never let his lack of privilege stop him from spoiling you with whatever little money he had. How attentive he was to your discomfort. Be it at parties or your dorm. How he memorised all your tells. Knew when you were happy, when you were sad, when you needed him to listen and when you needed him to hold you.

The innate protectiveness over not only you, but his twin that he once claimed to despise and now was actively trying to rekindle their brotherly bond.

The same guy who stopped to pet stray dogs and help old ladies cross the street.

The same guy who never, ever, let you think for even a second. That you were not loved by him.

And they made him seem unlovable.

Your lips pressed together as your eyes stung. Teary. You were actually getting teary at the thought. At the unfair reality. But you sucked in a breath and blinked away the gloss. You couldn't afford to smudge your mascara. He'd notice, because he noticed everything. The last thing you wanted was for him to think someone had said something and cause a scene.

Not for your sake, but for his.

"Hey, toshi!"

Your guarded eyes glanced over. Readying a retort on your tongue if this turned out to be another slew of judgement. But warm, pale eyes and a smile eased your nerves. Seemed to ease Satoshi's too with the way his arm relaxed around you.

"Yutaka, how've you been?" It's the most mellow you've seen him all night.

Yutaka looked young. Probably younger than both of you. Maybe a cousin? He was also littered in piercings. Way more than Satoshi.

He waved a pale hand. "Fine, fine. The usual," he shrugged, offering you a small greeting which you returned with a smile. He then looked back at Satoshi.

"Come over here for a sec? Enari and I wanna show you something." He motioned with his head upstairs. Satoshi hadn't tensed, but he didn't look too thrilled either.

He glanced at the stairs. Then back to you. His lips set tight. You knew that look in his eye. Couldn't help but smile.

Always your guard dog.

"Go," you squeezed assurance into his arm. "I'll be fine. I'll just go outside."

He huffed. Hesitated. Only to roll his eyes as Yutaka badgered him. With one last kiss to your temple, he slipped from his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. Before he walked off. Leaving you already missing his warmth, but sucking in a breath.

You needed some air anyway. And he needed to relax— seemed Yutaka liked him quite a bit. Maybe another black sheep, for all you knew.

As Satoshi disappeared, you almost regretted telling him to leave. The sharks' eyes struck to you again. Sharp with the new blood that now stood defenceless.

Yeah. You definitely needed some air.

Pushing yourself off of the wall and through the doors that weren't too far away, you sighed. The cold air hit your face and eased your nerves. But not your heavy heart. The night and its stars only reminded you of Satoshi. And in turn reminded you of his mistreatment.

You leaned against the patio railing. Black steel. Probably riddled with expense too. The Gojo family were a lot more wealthy than you initially thought.

It only served to frustrate you more. All this money, this lavish home that wasn't even theirs— and Satoshi still struggled to pay for his studies and make groceries every month? What the hell was up with that?

If this was his childhood home, decked in black marble and sleek mahogany, why was he still left to struggle?

You wanted to ask him the second you both got home. Round him up and interrogate him regarding the injustice that was his empty pockets. Not that you ever cared about his financial status— but that didn't make it fair. He was his parents' eldest child. Twin or not. Tradition was still tradition.

Or did tradition not count when it came to your Satoshi?

You bit the cold air and exhaled. Wrapping the jacket tighter around you and finding comfort in the leather filled with his smokey cologne. You never minded the spikes nor the tears. If anything, it just reminded you that it was uniquely his. Just as he was yours.

Another sigh. What time was it? You found yourself glancing from the stars to the street lights. Even those screamed money.

Satoru should be here soon, right? Hopefully he'd make it all better. Where Satoshi was the heart, his twin was the brain. Warm and cool. Mind and soul. Fire and ice. The balance you needed to stay steady in an environment as hostile as this.

You checked the time on your phone. 8:23 pm. He's late. Maybe caught up with the professor? They always treated him like their favourite pet. You'd rather that than the idea that he might have actually ditched.

No. Satoru wouldn't. You had faith in him to not leave you— or his brother— stranded in this shark cage.

You were right not to doubt him.

Only a minute later, a cab pulled up. Black dress shoes graced the pavement. Moonlight adored white hair. A slice of blue cut over rimless glasses. As a tall man dressed in a white-collared shirt, black dress pants and a tie, stepped out of the car, fixing his watch. Smooth and graceful. Like an albino panther.

He checked his watch with a click of his tongue. Scrunched his nose— yup. That's Satoru.

Relief washed your shoulders into a slump. You pushed yourself from the railing and to the steps as he made his way up the patio. You smiled, folding your arms. "You certainly took your sweet time."

He paused at the last step. Stared at you.

Then grinned, slow.

His head crooked. "What's a pretty girl like you doing in my home?" The croon was deeper. Probably with tiredness. You hadn't seen him all morning, who knows how many errands he ran before you had so much as slipped from your seventh dream.

Another exhale. You met him as he took the last step. Hands tethering to him like magnetic poles. Arms looping around his neck. Your heels made it easier.

"Hi baby," you cooed. Lips pressing to his soft ones and tasting his spearmint sedulousness.

He froze.

Nothing out of the ordinary. You were Satoru's first girlfriend. You remembered how he'd stiffen at any affectionate touch in the beginning of your relationship.

Although, you would have thought he'd be used to it by now.

His mouth curled on your lips. There you go.

Large hands snapped to your waist. His head shove forward. Kissing you deeper— rougher. Oh. That's new.

The taste of spearmint sharpened. Sliced into your mouth like steel as his tongue snaked in. Tangling with yours. Knocking your teeth. You found yourself squeaking as his feet shuffled and he slumped you up against the railing. Trapping you.

Satoru was never this hasty. Not without buildup, at least. He must've been real tired.

His hands certainly weren't drowsy in the way they roamed you. Slipping down your waist and squeezing your thighs. Shoving you further into the kiss. Stealing your breath. Melting your mind.

You could hardly keep up. His glasses knocked on your face. His mouth moulded yours. Hands clung. One kiss turned into several with only a gasp's break in between.

"Sat— mm."

Sucking on your tongue. He was sucking on your tongue. Only to kiss you again. Practically shoving it down your throat this time as a hand slipped up to grip your jaw. Twist your head with his. Tousle your sanity into your shaking knees.

The railing and his strong hands were the only thing holding you up. Hands. They seemed bigger.

Wait— no.

They felt rougher.

Satoru's hands were always so soft—

"Satoya, get the hell off of my girlfriend."

At last the man broke away from you.

A grin etched on his face. Something so unlike Satoru. Something from the depths of hell itself, as he glanced over his shoulder at the folded arms and another pair of blue eyes stabbing over identical rimless glasses. Narrowed brows. Glaring daggers.

Satoru?

Your heart didn't skip a beat, it stopped altogether.

The man standing behind the one who held you was without a doubt, your Satoru.

Then.

Then who.

The man holding you grinned.

"Oh come now, toru. Let me have a little fun."

"Satoya."

Satoru's voice cut through the night. Eyes unblinking and face steeled. "I won't tell you again. Get the fuck off."

Satoya.

Who the hell was Satoya?

He sighed. Theatrical. Hands slipping from your thighs, slower than necessary, as he slinked away from you. But not before casting you one last wink.

Your tummy twisted.

"What. . . What just, who—" panic bled into frazzled eyes as you immediately scampered to Satoru. Pushing past his doppelganger and clinging to your boyfriend's arm.

"My brother, Satoya," replied Satoru. Curt and clipped. His cold stare never left the eyes that mirrored his. But he still tugged you closer. Gripped you tight.

"The one we don't talk about for this very reason."

"So rude. You would think you had some respect for your older brother, huh?"

Satoya crooked his head, brow arched and grin stained on his sharp teeth. Like he was fucking proud to have been caught with his hands in the cookie jar.

"Respect is earned, asshole." Satoru scoffed.

"Oh come on. Don't be mad," Satoya sighed, taking a step closer.

Satoru yanked you back with him.

"Your pretty girlfriend over there kissed me first. You telling me she can't tell the difference?"

"How could she when you obviously want to live in my skin?"

You'd never heard Satoru bite back so fiercely before. Even if his voice hadn't raised in the slightest. That easy control he always maintained was crackling at the edges. Spurred on by that unsettling grin on his brother's lips.

What unsettled you further, though? That Satoru was right.

Satoya obviously wanted to live in his skin.

His hair was the same as Satoru's. He wore the same clothes. Had the same watch. Hell— even the same glasses. Right down to the brand. An exact replica.

What.

The hell?

"Boys, is everything alright here?" Another relative called from the door, the old man from earlier. Satoru's stare still didn't leave his brother's.

"Fucking peachy." He grunted.

"Hey, show some respect for your elders," Satoya's face went serious. Obviously feigned. Mocking.

Satoru's fingers curled on you. Jaw set tight. Eyes flaring. You didn't know how to quell his anger. It was cold— an icy hell.

His head reared. "How about you—"

"Toru? What the hell's going on?"

Your heart stuttered. No. It sank.

Your head snapped to the door and sure enough, there was Satoshi. Pushing past his relative and stepping outside.

It took one look. At Satoru. At you bundled in his arms. At the grinning devil that was Satoya. And in the span of seconds— Satoshi's brows narrowed. A flame flickered in his eyes. The fire to Satoru's ice.

His voice lowered. Flat. It didn't even sound like a question.

"What happened."

"Satoya happened."

Satoru replied, just as tense, as Satoshi's stare left his to find yours. Rough around the edges with not a hint of that gentleness you knew at the centre.

"What did he do to you?"

The question hitched your breath. Cramped your muscles. You tried to hold his stare. You really did. But in the end, all you could do was cling to Satoru's arms and stare into the floor. Ashamed. Anxious.

"I. . . "

You couldn't say it.

A part of you hoped Satoru wouldn't. But of course he did.

"She mistook him for me. His tongue was down her throat when I arrived."

Satoshi's jaw ticked.

You saw it.

Saw his stare flare. The fire surge.

A beat of silence.

Several.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four—

"You fucking— bastard!"

The fire didn't just surge. It detonated.

Satoshi shot across the patio in seconds. Hot on his heels. A storm in his hands. He snatched Satoya by his white collar that might drip red very soon. Hurled him into a pillar. Banging his head back on the stone with a sickening thwack! So hard you swore it cracked.

Your heart shoved into your throat. The hairs on your arms standing. You knew that look. Knew that sneer and those wide eyes.

Satoshi wasn't mad.

Mad. Angry. Wrath. None of that could measure when he was pissed.

It was something you only witnessed a handful of times. More than a flame and a flare. Sheer volcanic. It was jagged. Ragged.

Ugly.

Satoru dragged you back into him before you got any ideas. Your feet were already shuffling. You always tried to get to Satoshi when he got like this. Instinctive to pull him from trouble.

"Toshi—!" You tried.

Squirmed. Thrashed. But Satoru gripped you tight. Turning his back to the scene. Pushing his hand to the back of your head. Shoving your face into his shoulder. Shielding you.

"Don't." He whispered.

You squirmed your face up. Staring. Gaping. Wide eyed and horrified at your seething boyfriend who yanked Satoya forward.

Then crashed! him back into the pillar.

No.

You're sure.

He fucking cracked something.

And Satoya— was grinning.

"Fucker— wanna see if you'll be smiling when you choke on your teeth!?"

Shouting. No— not shouting. Screaming. Satoshi was borderline screaming. Alerting the other family members who rustled from inside. Soon to poke their heads in the already dire situation.

Satoya hadn't so much as flinched.

He just. Smiled. His stare steel to Satoshi's scorching snarl. As unblinking as his brother. Yet all the more calm. Eerily so.

"You always knew how to cause a scene, huh, toshi?" He mused, leaning his face closer.

"What? Worried your little girlfriend might like me more too?"

Satoshi bristled.

You winced.

He didn't scream again. That was the terrifying part.

His voice evened. Steady. Too steady for a man who was blazing wildfire from his eyes. Shaking with violence in his hands.

"Don't." He grit. Jaw cramped.

Still. Not blinking.

"Don't. Fucking push me right now."

"Terrified." Satoya drawled. Lazy.

"Can you even afford bail?"

"You think I give a fuck about that right now? No one's gonna give me bail if I rip your fucking throat out."

The threat chilled your blood. Cold like some of the relatives that stood at the door. Frozen. Clearly wanting to say something. Clearly frightened. Clearly recognising this.

Your heart hammered. Ears ringing. Satoshi already had a run in with the cops last week. You knew how his anger burned. Knew it was ugly. Knew he could crack concrete if pushed far enough.

The true. Unbridled.

Horrifying.

Reality of anger issues.

"Satoshi—"

Still, you called for him. Choked. Teary. Your hands clambering to the back of Satoru's cardigan. Your heart shoved in your throat. Knees shaking.

Eyes. Wide. And staring at your boyfriend. Your angel boy. The man who was built for love.

But birthed from hate.

He snapped his head over. You didn't expect him to. Weren't frightened when he did. Not of him— never of him. He could never hurt you.

Satoshi finally blinked.

Finally took a breath.

Harsh. Sucked through his clenched teeth. But a breath nonetheless. A pause. A stare. At you. Your trembles. Your tears.

Something other than flames flickered in his eyes.

A beat.

One.

Two—

He hurled Satoya to the ground.

Staggered over him. Stormed forward. Past Satoru. Away from you.

"I gotta go." He hissed.

Satoru didn't flinch.

"Where are you going?"

"I gotta go before I fucking— kill him."

You winced. But still reached out. Still followed him with your eyes as he pushed himself down the patio stairs and shoved his hands into his pockets. Still tried to go after him— but Satoru held you steady.

"Toshi— Toshi please be careful." You croaked after him.

He didn't reply. But you knew he heard you.

Whether he listened to you was another story. You hoped he would. Knew he wouldn't. Not when he was like this. When fire scorched beneath his boots and his glare cut flames into the night.

He might speed.

He might might start a fight.

Might punch a cop.

Might end up in a holding cell.

The possibilities wrung your heart. So you buried your tears into Satoru's shoulder. Knees shaking with adrenaline. Lungs struggling to breathe.

"You better fix that attitude while you're at it! How shameful!" One of the elders bellowed after him.

Satoshi didn't bother looking. He just stuck his middle finger back. Didn't blink at the scandalised shouts. Only swung a leg over his bike. Roared the engine to life.

And tore through the night without even his helmet.

Satoru's arms strung you closer. He refused to reply to any of his relatives who greeted him with a politeness they hadn't dared to offer his twin. His stare fixed on Satoya who was helped up by Yukino and fussed over by a few more older women who checked for injuries.

A few others commented. Elders shaking their heads and aunties already gossiping. A sea of chatter. Of domino of judgement.

"That Satoshi's a real brute, isn't he?"

"So unslightly! It's only a matter of time before he's behind bars."

"Befitting. Maybe he'd find something better to do with his time."

Your fingers curled into Satoru's cardigan. The only reason you bit your tongue was because of your exhaustion and the desperation to just get the hell out of there.

"Toru," you croaked, tugging on his sweater. Teary eyes peeked up at him. "Let's. . . go home. Please."

His stare softened. Hand cupping the back of your head as his lips pressed atop your hair. "Of course, sweetheart. C'mon."

Satoru nudged you forward. Promptly ignoring any comments and everyone else who was trying to speak to him. He guided you down the stairs. Shooting one last glare at the smiling Satoya.

Was he staring at you?

Not that you noticed. Not that you cared. You let Satoru whisk you away from it all. Away from those black marble floors and mahogany furniture. Away from whatever horrors just occurred.

Alas, the anxiety clung to your heart. Digging its teeth in and bleeding a name that twisted in the pit of your stomach. In the hollow of your chest. The woe of your mind.

Satoshi.

You tried to think of how he was before. Leaning against his bike with a cigarette in one hand and the other squeezing your arm. How the sun adored him.

When you looked at the moon, you could only think about how it probably loathed him. Just like everyone else is that damned house.

Your Satoshi. Your angel boy.

You could only hope he was alright.

You could only hope that he'd be alright.

You hoped he would be alright.

God.

You hoped he was alright.

You were convinced that your thoughts raced as fast as his bike might have been. Was he speeding down a highway? Tumbling into a ditch? Crashing into a truck?

Would there be anything left of his bike to salvage?

Anything left of him?

"Hey."

A voice mumbled into your cheek. Cold hands squeezing on your hips stirred you back to reality. To the soft sheets and the scent of mint. To your arms clamped around a pale blue hoodie and fluffy white hair tickling your face.

"You're doing it again," Satoru mumbled, pressing an index to your temple. "Stop it."

"Easier said than done." You sighed, turning on the bed and nestling further into his arms. Pressing into his comfort. Or well— his desperate attempt at it.

Satoru's lanky arms were awkward. Constantly shifting with hands that didn't know where to hold. He'd alternated from burying his head into your chest, to your shoulder, to trying to tuck you under his chin.

He was still getting used to cuddling.

With hands that knew more about experiments than affection— you couldn't really blame him. You found it endearing, regardless. How he tried for you. Learnt for you.

"Not everyone can just tune their mind like a supercomputer, toru." Your attempted joke fell from a shaky smile.

His lips pulled thin. Something crossed between a pout and a frown. You could see the hundreds of theories and hypotheses rushing through his eyes. And yet none of them were to decode a system nor analyse an astronomical observation.

But to find a way to ease your anxious mind.

"Well," he started. "What're you thinking?"

You sucked in a breath. Looked to the side. Satoru was all about logic and reason. Something anxiety wasn't birthed from. You could only imagine how stupid you'd sound to him, but you replied nonetheless.

"Satoshi speeding," you mumbled. "Where could he have a gone? Is he on a highway? How fast is he going?"

"Well, he brought you to the function, yeah? Mean's he tuned his bike to be safer beforehand. He wouldn't take risks with you." Satoru's voice was even. A fact. "And we both saw him take off. He hadn't changed anything. Just got on and left."

Your heart eased with the realisation. Right. That was true.

"And what about the highway?" You mumbled.

"The highway was only fifteen kilometres from our home, so chances are if he met an accident we would have gotten a call by now."

That had your heart clenching all over again. Your distressed gaze flickering up to blue eyes that stare down at you, unblinking. Blank— then realising.

"Which— is a good thing," he rushed. "It's been a few hours. So. You know. He's probably not lying dead somewhere—"

"And what about a ditch?"

"Don't think we have any of those nearby. Even so, Satoshi's tough. Statistically someone of his height and weight wouldn't lose blood so—"

"Satoru."

His hand scratched at the back of his neck. Face flushed and lips pressed together. Bashful that his attempts of facing facts with your anxiety might just be making it worse. Still, he rambled.

"Look, look. The statistics of Satoshi getting into an accident are slim. Especially since he's a good driver. It's a Tuesday night. The roads are dry. His bike's tuned. He's probably not even on the road. Maybe he visited Sukuna? He's only twenty minutes away. We could text that guy— or you could text him. I don't know. Uhm. . ."

Your chest swelled with warmth as his hands scrambled to pull you closer. Nudging you under his chin and fumbling to stroke down your spine the same way his brother did whenever your thoughts wandered.

It certainly wasn't a conventional comfort, but you found yourself melting into his hold nonetheless. Mulling on his facts and squeezing your arms around him. Letting the silence settle for a minute, before you murmured.

"Thank you."

He exhaled. Sharp and ragged. Fingers bunched on the baggy shirt you threw on the second you both got back to the apartment he shared with his twin. "Sorry," he hushed. "I just. My brain doesn't think like that."

"I know." You smiled, scooting closer to smooch his jaw. You felt him tense again, then relax. His long limbs tangling with yours as he snuggled you close. Still awkwardly angled and hopelessly hesitant, but trying nonetheless.

You shifted. The bed creaking under your weight as you pressed onto him. Guiding his arms into a more comfortable position so that you could lay your head on his chest. Listen to the beat of his heart and hope that it could lull you to sleep.

Maybe. Sleep didn't seem possible with both the anxiety and the stress of what had occurred. The last few hours felt like a month, and while sleep called— you weren't sure you'd be able to slip into a dream until Satoshi was back home and safe in your arms.

So instead, you asked: "what's with your brother. . . Satoya?"

Another tense. This time Satoru hadn't eased into your warmth directly after. His muscles remained wound tight as a hand cupped the back of your head. Keeping it on his chest while his flopped back onto the pillows.

"He's. . . our older brother. By four years." He started.

"You've both never spoken about him before."

"Yeah well, he's weird. And Satoshi hates his guts."

"I noticed."

It was the way he didn't flinch when Satoshi had grabbed him. How he grinned when he was caught. The memory stirred your gut and you subconsciously shifted at the unsettled feeling.

Satoru's hands nudged you closer. Maybe he also felt it. Or was simply growing accustomed to your little tells of discomfort.

"He's. . . something," he muttered, arms squeezing around you. "I don't blame you for mistaking him for me."

"The resemblance is uncanny," you curled in on his chest. Hoping to bury the unease deeper in your gut. "Even the glasses. Was that a coincidence?"

"No. He's been doing that for awhile. He purposefully tries to mimic everything about me."

Oh, that unease was going nowhere. It rooted in the pit of your stomach and tangled an uncomfortable shrub up your throat. For a minute, you could only ruminate in his words.

What the hell did that even mean?

Slowly, you raised your head from his chest. Looking down at him through his strewn glasses. He seemed a little too calm for someone who just admitted that his brother was playing doppelganger.

"That's. . . what do you mean?" You asked.

He sighed. Shrugged. "I dunno. It started in our youth. Probably something to do with our parents. It's weird."

He squished your thighs. Whether to ground himself or to assure you— you weren't sure. You weren't surprised that it involved their parents. Satoshi had told you a bit. Needless to say, you were not their biggest fan.

So what, did they force that on Satoya? Or was that his own accord? You weren't sure if you wanted the answer. All you did know was that Satoya unnerved you.

That smile flashed before your eyes and had you curling your fingers on Satoru's hoodie. Jaw set tight and eyes downcast. Something wasn't right.

Something was.

Wrong.

". . . toru that's really creepy."

He blinked at your shaking voice. Then shifted immediately and sat up. Pulling you between his knees and cocooning you in his arms. The scent of old books and mint embracing your senses as you clung back to him.

"Hey," he hushed, large hand splaying at the back of your head. Even if he didn't know what he was doing, his body seemed so attuned to yours. "Don't worry about it, okay? He's just a little weirdo with money. Most rich people are creeps."

"That's one way to put it," you mumbled, burying your face into his shoulder. "Don't become a creep, toru."

He huffed. "Hey, I'm not rich. I'm on a strict allowance."

What even was his allowance again? You weren't sure. That silver spoon was far down his throat— but at least he wasn't a snob like the many you'd seen tonight.

His chin propped atop your head. Arms locked tight around you, as if he could squeeze every worry out of you and hide you from whatever had occurred tonight. Your knight in a blue hoodie.

"Just. . . promise me you won't worry about it too much, okay?" His lips pressed to your hair. "We don't see him much either way. And whenever we do, toshi's usually got it covered."

You exhaled at the name. It ached the empty nook in your heart, but you nodded nonetheless. As you snuggled into his lankly arms and attempted to push the nagging tugs at your anxious mind away.

You pressed half of your face into his chest. Looking out the window and into the night. While you could bury the worry over your boyfriends' creepy older brother, you couldn't shake the turmoil in your tummy whenever you looked outside.

When you saw the streetlamps, heard the cars, and wondered when your angel boy would be home. Safe and sound.

Satoshi didn't feel like your angel boy when he trudged through the hallway. Mud on his boots and his mind a muck.

Didn't feel like your rough around the edges and gentle at the centre lover as he shoved the bedroom door open.

Didn't feel like any iteration of yours as he stood rooted to the wooden floorboards.

Even as you laid there in bed, wrapped up in his jacket. With his helmet on the bedside. His name probably in your dreams.

Nightmares, he's sure. He'd let that ugly side of him out again. Even after he promised himself that it'd never happen again. Not in front of you. His babydoll.

Did the look in his eyes haunt you? Did the way he screamed and threatened and looked like he was one second away from becoming a monster. . . did it frighten you?

You looked peaceful, as you slept. Curled up and hugging a pillow. Satoru must've been studying in the other room. He usually did when his stress levels skyrocketed. Satoshi wished he could have a more productive way of letting out steam.

His knuckles ached. Split and bloodied. He's glad it was concrete he punched and not a cop. Or anyone else, for that matter. Probably sprained his wrist. If not broke a finger. Maybe two.

Not that he cared. Not when the adrenaline numbed his senses. Tunnelled his vision. He tried— god. He tried. A race down the highway, a kick of dirt, he punched a wall he doesn't know how many times.

He hated getting like this.

Hated that he couldn't control it.

Hated that it was just a part of him

Hated that you.

Saw it.

Again.

And now here you were. Laid peaceful now that your monstrous boyfriend was out of the picture. He hoped he didn't haunt your nightmares. Not his babydoll.

He stood there. Statued for what felt like hours. Staring at your soft body. So soft. Too soft for him. Too pretty for someone as rough and ragged as he was.

Fuck, you were gorgeous. Even with his anger wound tight in his chest and his gut in knots— he could appreciate it. You called him an angel, but it was you who looked like you graced from heaven when you slept.

So peaceful. So pretty. Your soft curves. Those tender thighs. Soft lips.

So pretty.

So soft.

And Satoya finally had a taste.

The fire that had begun to simmer sparked back to life. Stirring in his gut and surging flames up his throat. His jaw set tight.

He's glad he wasn't the one who saw it. He might have actually ripped Satoya's throat out if he witnessed his filthy hands on you. But that didn't make the knowledge that he had touched you— kissed you— any easier.

Satoshi moved before he could overthink it.

Not that he would. He never thought when he was like this. Never rationalised. Never relied on logic. He was the heart. The passion. Fire. Not clear and crisp like Satoru.

Not steady and serene like Satoya.

Just a blackhole. Jagged, and ugly. Detonating. He destroyed what he touched, and yet. . . yet you let him touch you. Ever day, every night.

What was wrong with you?

The bed creaked. Complaining under his weight as he dropped over you. Not a second of reverence. No beats of appreciation. Just want.

Need.

His face shoved into your neck. Nose engulfing your scent and inhaling it deep into his burning lungs. Like you were his nicotine. His every addiction. His damned vice.

Large hands rushed down your sides. Felt what was his. What he didn't deserve. Dragging a searing possessiveness down your waist, your hips, to your thighs. Gripped tight. Nails biting a snarl into your skin: mine.

His bitter mouth trudged down your neck. Hot, wet kisses messing down your skin. Pressing into your pulse. Down your spine. Teeth catching on the leather of his jacket. Wanting to dug between your shoulderblades.

He ripped the jacket off.

Snatched the leather and tossed it to some useless corner of the room. It had no right to hold you. Didn't deserve to wrap around your softness and pretend it could be gentle. Just like him.

Even as you stirred, he couldn't bring himself to be gentle. Not now. Not with flames pumping through his veins and the image of Satoya's hands on you scorched in the darkest crevice's of his mind.

Your shorts succumbed to his twisting fingers. Scuffed down your thighs. Fuck— soft. So soft. Your plush under his nails and pressed into his palms stole his breath.

Panting. He was panting on your spine. Kissing back up and jerking his face into your throat so that he could drag his teeth on your pulse. Remind himself that he could easily tear in. Hurt you. Because that was the reality.

You were too gentle for him. Too soft and sweet. Even your cunt—

Shit.

His fingers littered in silver rings brushed over your panties. Felt your heat on the cotton. Tender like every part of you infuriatingly was.

Nothing about him was smooth. Not confident nor cool. None of what he'd built himself into. He was ragged. Hoisting himself down and shoving his face into your panties. Nose buried deep. Inhaling— deep— shaky. Until his eyes rolled back into his skull.

A shiver struck his spine. His hands clamped on your thighs. Wrenched you open for him as he mouthed on your panties. Sucked the cotton between his teeth. Nursed on your pussy and hoped to smear its heat onto his pierced tongue. Just a taste. Just a smidge.

No. All of it.

He needed it all.

You shifted. Stirred. . . then pressed back into him. Like your cunt was drawn to his tongue. Meant for him

He groaned, rumbled and deep. "That's my girl."

Mouth full. He never had manners. Especially not when it came to his favourite, sloppy girl.

Long fingers curled into the garter. Yanked on the fabric and strung it round your thighs. He was almost jealous of how it bit into your soft flesh. Fuck. What was wrong with him? Jealous of your fucking panties?

But he was. He was jealous of them. Jealous of the pillow you hugged. Jealous of the sheets that stained in the small trickle of your pussy. He shot his head down and lapped at the droplet before the sheets stole it completely— then shoved his face back into your cunt.

Sweet. So sweet. So sweet that you fluttered his eyes. Nearly crossed them. Nearly short-circuited his mind and rewired him into an animal that only knew how to lap. Lick. Suck and suckle. Mouth on your pussy until your juices were slipping down his chin and staining bobbing Adam's apple.

Satoshi didn't have time for patience. Not when your taste was consuming his tongue. Not when even in your sleep— you whimpered for him. Soft, tender. Something he didn't deserve. Something he'd work his entire life to earn.

Hot kisses smooched on your slit. Slotting through your folds. Trailing up to your clit and rolling his silver piercing over it until your body finally jolted.

"Ah— mngh?" You roused.

He didn't acknowledge. Only dragged his messy mouth to your slit. Pushed his tongue in. Fucked you on his piercing until your pussy spasmed and you squealed. Squirming back onto him.

He couldn't see your face. But he assumed you caught a glimpse of him. Considering how you immediately started grinding back on his mouth. How your thighs fell limp in his hands that wrenched you further open. Jostled you into the perfect position for his feral tongue.

Saliva and slick trickled down his throat. He was rasping, gasping— gulping. Drunk on your pussy and how pretty she was when he roughed her up.

Pretty.

So pretty.

And now fucking Satoya knew it too.

He yanked away from your cunt. Wet webs snapping between his mouth and your twitching folds. You gasped, readied a question. Then jolted.

Because his teeth dug into your inner thigh. Biting down hard.

Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to feel you shake on his teeth. To imprint his frustration on your flesh. Maybe if he bit hard enough he could tear away the reality that his bastard of a brother had his hands on you—

Maybe if he tasted your blood on his tongue he could erase the fact. Maybe if he felt you tremble under him. Maybe if he fisted your hair around his fingers. Maybe—

Maybe if he fucked you into the mattress and felt you squeeze around his cock in that sickeningly sweet way that only you could.

He could forget about it.

Yeah. Maybe that's exactly what he needed.

Wiping the slew smeared over his mouth with the back of his hand. Satoshi shoved himself up. Clambered over you. His knees digging into the mattress and trapping your hips. Trapping you. Under him. Under the monster you insisted on calling an angel.

"Toshi—"

His palm shoved to your mouth. Pressed his callouses into your lips and clamping your words shut as his hips dropped to your ass. Weighing you down. Crushing you.

"Ssh." He hissed. Pushing you further into the wrinkled sheets until he heard your soft whine. His nose pressed into your cheek. Teeth tight. Voice husked.

"Don't wanna hear you do anything other than take it."

His other hand jostled his belt. The metal buckle was nothing to his feral fingers. It was snapped in a second. His zipper fell victim next. Pants shoved in the slew of a few, dizzying seconds.

Your skin was cool against his. Or maybe his was just burning. The contact ripped a hiss from his throat. Hand curling tighter against your mouth and hips knocking yours flat to the bed.

Helpless. His. As his hot, angry tip flushed between your thighs. The cool piercing dragged ice on your sensitive slick where his skin burned hot.

Satoshi was no stranger to roughness. He'd played with your body like the strings of his guitar and fine-tuned its gears like his bike. He knew how to wind you to staggering heights and tear you down into a trembling puddle.

But this was different.

This was raw.

The way he pressed through the first ring of resistance in your sweet cunt. The way he shoved his hips into the backs of your thighs. Sunk into you inch— by agonising inch— it was impatient.

Possessive.

Carnal.

"Fuck—" he grit, cock throbbing with the wet pulses your pussy squeezed around him. The angle and position had him lodged in that perfect spot of yours. The one that thrummed on his underside vein and pressured his prince albert piercing.

The same spot that sent you squirming. Had you whining. Your shaky hand scrambling back. Nails digging into his arm when you found it. Holding. Clinging.

Still. Clinging to him.

Really. What was wrong with you?

Your whine was pitiful on his palm. He could imagine your pretty eyes. Fluttering and glossy. If your hips that tried to rock back into him were anything to go off of— you were needy. Needy for him. The guy who didn't deserve you because he never deserved anything sweet and soft.

Still, he huffed a snicker. "Yeah, there ya go." His hips bucked forward. Once. Twice. Grinding so filthy into that darling, devilish spot that wormed more of your muffled whines and spluttered your messy slick.

"That's it. This pussy knows she's mine, huh?"

She sure sounded like it. Squelching and squealing as he drew his hips back. Languid, sadistically slow. Only to shnap! back. His balls smacking slick from your puffy folds.

Then again. Again— and again. Falling into a pace that was hardly natural. But primal. A roughness that bounced your body on the creaking mattress and fucked you sore into the messy sheets.

He felt it. Every flutter. Every squeeze. Every spittle of drool you leaked on his palm. You were his in this moment. In every definition of the word. Your pussy clenching around him, your heartbeat thrumming around his cock, your wetness suffocating him as he etched his claim into your body. Chasing bruises into the backs of your thighs like the ripples on your ass.

Filthy. The sound of wet smacking. Clamouring hips. Your squelching cunt and his cock that bubbled sin out of her with every wicked snap of his hips. The way you moaned for him— keened for him.

The way you just. Let him do this.

Let him fuck you.

Let him ruin you.

Let him slam his cock so deep that it was grinding a filthy, wet smooch on your cervix. So that he was moulding your sweet pussy to every vein, bump and curve.

Let him make you his. Even if he didn't fucking deserve you.

He shifted. Hooked his arm around your throat to replace his palm over your mouth. Spilling your needy, pitched whines into the air. Letting his name fill the scent of sex and sweat.

"T-Toshi— oh god, oh toshi—"

His bicep wrestled up. Pressed to your mouth. Urged you to bite. And when you did, he bit back a low whine from the back of his throat.

Fuck. He hoped your teeth left marks. Left him with something to prove that he was yours. Even if just for the moment. When he was balls deep and fucking you feral. Pouring his frustration into brutal thrusts and hissed pants on your ear.

Every inch of his hard muscle pressed into you. Weighing you into the matress. Caging you. And yet he was the animal.

The one who should be put on a leash. Hell— the one who should be muzzled. Maybe then his teeth wouldn't drag down your neck. Maybe his canines wouldn't circle your pulse.

Maybe he could forget that he had a maw. That it was capable of violence.

That he was violence.

His arm snagged around your waist. Shoving your pelvis into an arch so that the curve of your ass squished back onto him. So he could feel it slap with every filthy thrust that ploughed into you. Allowing him to drive into you so deep that your nails tore into the pillowcase and your teeth dug deeper into his bicep.

"Mngh!" You whined.

"Yeah? You like that baby?" He panted. Ragged and rough on your ear.

Long fingers wedged between your folds. Trapping your clit. Harassing it under his callouses and roughing it into a spasm that spread to the rest of your body.

He felt your thighs squish together. Felt the suffocating squeeze of your pussy. The way your tongue went limp on his bicep and the shattered sound that you choked out.

Sucking a breath through his teeth, he shoved his cock deeper. Humped on your spasming cervix and fucked you through the wet, messy orgasm that shook through you. Left you helpless.

Left you his.

"That's it— fuck. That's my babydoll—" His teeth caught your lobe. Tugged. Rolled his barbell piercing on the heated skin. As he panted. Rasped.

"Needy girl. Only I get to fuck you like this, got it?"

He plucked at your clit. Rubbed it rough between his thumb and forefinger as his thrusts turned into nasty, deep grinds. "No need to slut it up with that bastard. You've got me."

Your cum spluttered with ever feral hump. Sticky strings webbed between your thighs. Snapping and smacking into a lewd mess as he fumbled into a clumsier pace. Still hard. Still rough. But struggling.

Not struggling to fuck you. Never that.

But struggling to keep up with his pounding heart and the surge shooting through him. Anger, possession, pleasure, insecurity— it all became one. A confusing blur that commanded him to do nothing but ram his hips forward. Fuck your sweetspots. Cream you full.

Because he was good at sex.

Good at winding you up so high and tearing you back down. Shattering you through several orgasms. Rolling your eyes back and having you drooling all over.

Good at making you forget that he was just some broken, battered man who you kept trying to glue together. As if his cracks were worth anything.

"You're mine—" he still rasped. Because he couldn't help but want you to be his. He was a broken man, but a selfish one, too.

"All mine. You've always been mine." He prattled. Arms squeezing you tighter into him. Cock ramming clumsier. Hitting into a new spot with every plunge. Gushing your slick all over and spamsing your nerves into overstimulation.

He wasn't sure where his words started and where they stopped. Wasn't sure what he was saying. Only that he was fucking you. Only that he was holding you. Clinging to you.

Begging.

Begging?

"You're mine— mine, all mine, say you're—"

"Toshi—"

Soft lips brushed a kiss beneath his jaw.

His muscles locked up. Eyes fluttered. He faltered. Hips stuttering pitifully as you strained to lean your head up. Kiss his jaw. Whisper oh, so, devastatingly sweet.

"Always yours toshi."

Fuck.

Fuck.

His strength gave out. Collapsing. His weight slumped into you. Face sagged into your shoulder. Hips staggering in a broken pace. Broken. He was humping on your ass like he was broken. Flushing you completely prone into the mattress.

"Yeah— y-yeah, fuck—" he croaked.

What was happening to him?

"Say it again. Please."

His arms, hulking and strong, wobbled like twigs as they hooked around you. Hugged you tight. Close. As if even a breath of distance would dispel you into thin air. Even an inch would allow the possibility that you weren't his to worm in.

Your hand snaked back this time. Fingers finding his messy, soaked hair. Threading through in that gentleness that only you were capable of. You were panting. Whining. Clenching so tight he was suffocating.

Yet you still spoke so sweetly. So true.

"Yours. Yours. 'm yours. I love you."

The world stopped spinning. His ears stopped ringing. Satoshi—

Shattered.

He seized. Hips halting. Breath baiting. Muscles wound so tight he thought they'd snap. As he replayed those three, darling, dangerous words. I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

He whimpered.

Tender. Trembling. A pitiful sound that shook from the back of his throat as his fingers curled on your flesh and his face limped into your pulse.

And yet you still dared to speak to him so gently. So softly.

"Toshi,"

Calling him by that name that everyone did. The name that you made yours.

"Let me hold you, please." You whispered, pressing another kiss to him. This time his bicep, where your teeth marks dented into his flesh. Where you tore, and now tendered.

His shaky hands were moving before the rest of his body could keep up. Trembling knees digging into the sheets and lifting him. His arms shifted. Slower now. Sacred. As he turned over so his back hit the headboard and you were bundled within his lap.

Your skin was soft against his. You always were. The soft to his hard. Gentle to his ragged. Where he was creased, you were comfort. Even now. Especially now. As your arms slipped around his head.

As you cradled him.

Cradled him. Him. The guy who didn't deserve you. Who could never earn it no matter how hard he tried.

"Baby," he shuddered. Face pressing into your shoulder as you straddled his hips. Squished your thighs against his. Your tummy and breasts into his hot skin that mellowed at the brush of your lips on his temple.

"Sshh." You hushed. Crooking his head under your chin. Lifting your hips slow, slow, devastatingly slow— and then sinking back down his cock. Seeping your wetness into every vein and spasming him into a tender overstimulation.

"I've got you 'toshi. I've got you."

And oh, his heart ached. Throbbing hard in the chasm that was his chest. A place he once thought hollow. A place you'd crept into and held, and kissed, and caressed, and whispered stupid, hopeful things like: I love you.

His heat melted into your warm. As you hugged his head into your shoulder and rocked your hips with his. A slow sway. A sensual dance. Despite your bruised thighs and strained hips.

Pleasure curled up his spine. Something raw pooled in his tummy. Something raw.

Something terrifying.

He moved with you as best he could. Mouth limp on your shoulder and panting as he tried to match the rock of your hips. But how could he when your voice whispered to his ear? When he stuttered every time you said—

"I love you."

"I love you, Satoshi."

"I love you."

"Don't."

He finally croaked.

Quivering fingers clutched your thighs. As if he wanted to tuck into you. Crawl into the comfort that was your body and hide from the ugliness that was him.

"Don't. You shouldn't. You—" he breathed. Heavy, shaky.

Your fingers thread into his hair. Rubbed at his scalp. Had him flopping his head further into you as his hips staggered into pitiful rolls.

"Yes, I should." You whispered. Softly, stubbornly

Cradling his head closer as your hips came down just a bit firmer. Dragging him deeper, deeper— deeper. Until he hiccuped a moan on your shoulder.

Hiccuped a sob.

Broken, brittle.

He tucked his face further into you. Burrowing in your neck with his mouth limp and panting, whining. As your lips brushed his ear. Whispering those three words that unravelled him into something bare, and hideous, and disgusting—

And yours.

"I love you, Satoshi. Love you, so much. 'm so glad you're okay." Your voice shook. Pussy squeezing him as you sank to the base and bucked slow. Intimate. Your slick velvet hugging him tight the same way your arms did.

"I love you," he returned. Ragged from the back of his throat.

His tears slipped to your skin. He tucked closer. Tried to hide them. But his shaking shoulders gave it away. His stifled breaths and shivering hands. The stutter in his hips.

His mind scrambled. His heart frazzled. Tears pouring down his cheeks as he helplessly bucked and let you take him higher, and higher.

You cupped his face.

Damn you. Your hands were heavenly.

Palms caressing his wet skin as your thumbs brushed on his cheekbones. Smoothed over his tears and directed his gaze to you. Blue eyes shimmering. Shattered, like crystals.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

You squeezed around him in-turn.

"Look at me," you breathed, rolling your thumbs over his cheeks again. How could he deny you when you were so sweet? How could he do anything other than crack his eyes open and let you see the fragments of his soul?

You smiled.

He splintered.

"Cum for me," you whispered. So innocent. Dripping with honey despite what you were telling him to do.

"Cum with me, please," your hips rolled. Just a bit faster. No— passionate. Intimate. "Please. Please, cum with me, angel boy."

Angel boy.

His tears fell faster.

"Oh— fuck. Oh fuck." He hiccuped.

Blunt nails dug into your skin. His arms locked around you. Trembled. As you rose the pace. Surged the heat into a desperate rock of your hips onto his.

Satoshi clung to you. In any way he could. In every way he could. A sob choked from the depths of his chest as his nerves flayed and his head limped into your hands.

"I'm sorry—" he spluttered, tears trickling down his pale, blotched face. "I'm sorry— 'm sorry. So sorry for everything baby. Sorry for scaring you. Sorry for getting angry again. Sorry—"

His hips jerked. An arch crawled up his spine. As his hands anchored to your hips. His only sanity. His sweet serenity.

"I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sshhh."

You hushed him. Hugged him. Hugging his head close to your chest. Drowned him in your soft breasts and heartbeat. Lulled him with your tender voice. As you pushed him higher. Dizzying. Blinding.

Until it all crashed down.

Until your tears hit his face, too.

His orgasm didn't crash. It caressed. Washing over him in thralls that stole his breath. Had him gasping sobs into your neck as his nails scratched at your hips. Clambered. Clung.

To this feeling only you could give him. To this devastating way only you could shatter him. To you.

He clung to you.

Your hips rocked a few more times. Easing him through a climax that left his ears ringing and his mouth drooling. Shoulders shaking and body limp as he slumped into you. Exhaustion bleeding out into his soft sobs that eased into hushed cries.

Cries because you—

"I love you."

Fuck.

He croaked again. Something incomprehensible as you slowly, tenderly, slipped off of him and guided him into the bed. Tucking his head beneath your chin and embracing him in your arms.

"I—" his breath struggled. "I love you. I love you. I'm sorry."

"Don't," your hand raked through his hair. Massaged his scalp. The whimper died in his throat as his lashes fluttered and his head limped further into you.

"I'm just happy you're safe, toshi. Just happy my angel boy's safe in my arms."

You held him like he wasn't rough around the edges. Like he wasn't all leather and silver. Like he was just. Yours.

And as the exhaustion finally crashed down upon him, as he collapsed into your body and slumped against your heart.

He allowed himself to think that he deserved this. Just once.

Allowed himself to be your angel boy.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/dollywons @/pixopix. art cred: @/thatsallitchief. the inspiration from having a creepy older brother was definitely from my baby @madamechrissy <3 satoya isn't a triplet, however !

that had been three months ago. now, you found yourself looking forward to your tuesday and thursday afternoons with an intensity that bordered on concerning. not because you'd developed some crush on the six-foot-something jujutsu sorcerer with impossible ivory hair and an even more impossible smile. no, it was something else. something in the way he carried his strength like a casual coat, the way he made death seem like a minor inconvenience.

you adjusted the small bouquet of wildflowers you'd brought—something you'd started doing a few weeks ago, when you'd noticed the stark white vase in his room remained perpetually empty. the nurses had told you he rarely received visitors.

"delivery for the world's strongest sorcerer," you announced, pushing open the door to room 307.

gojo was sitting up in his bed, blindfolded as always, but today he had a pair of sleek black headphones perched over his ears. he tapped a finger against his wrist, indicating you should wait. you did, watching the subtle movement of his fingers as he apparently navigated whatever playlist he had going.

when he finally pulled off the headphones, a smile spread across his face that temporarily blinded you in more ways than one. "ah, my favorite volunteer! come to analyze me again?"

"something like that," you said, placing the flowers in the vase. "thought these might brighten the place up. hospital decor leaves something to be desired."

he leaned forward, sniffing appreciatively at the wildflowers. "nature's rebellion against institutional sterility. i approve." he paused, then added, "though i have to say, the flowers are nice, but your company is the real highlight of my week. don't tell the nurses i said that—they'll start charging admission."

you rolled your eyes, but couldn't suppress a smile. "flattery will get you nowhere, gojo. especially when you're supposed to be resting."

"rest is for the weak," he declared, though he made no move to get out of bed. "and boring. absolutely, mind-numbingly boring. you know, i think they're trying to kill me with monotony."

"or maybe they're trying to save your life," you countered, taking your usual seat by the window. "the doctors said you need to take it easy after that last mission."

he waved a dismissive hand. "pfft. 'last mission."it was a couple of curses—lower grades, at that. barely broke a sweat. though..." he paused, rubbing his temples with two fingers. "there might have been some minor exertion."

you studied him more closely. his usually impeccable posture seemed slightly slumped, and there were faint lines of tension around his eyes that the blindfold couldn't completely hide.

"minor exertion that gave you a migraine so bad you needed intravenous medication?" you asked, keeping your tone light but watching his reaction carefully.

gojo chuckled, but it sounded slightly strained. "it's nothing. the six eyes work overtime, that's all. processing all that cursed energy—it's like running a supercomputer at maximum capacity without any cooling. things get a little... overheated."

he said it so casually, as if discussing the weather rather than what sounded like a neurological crisis. you'd been volunteering long enough to recognize when someone was downplaying their symptoms. the other sorcerers who came through here did it all the time—pride, stubbornness, or some combination of both.

"have you talked to dr. shoko about it?" you asked.

"ieri worries too much," gojo said, shifting position wince slightly. "it's just a headache. happens to the best of us."

you didn't push, not yet. you'd learned that with gojo, subtlety was your best approach. direct questions about his health were deflected with jokes or changed subjects. but you made a mental note to mention it to shoko later—she was his regular doctor and had been more forthcoming about his condition than any of the doctors.

"soooo," you said, changing the subject. "what's on the agenda today? more 'rest,' or are we breaking hospital rules?"

he grinned, that infuriatingly charming smile that made you forget you were supposed to be monitoring his health. "how about we play a game? twenty questions, but with a twist. you can only ask about my love life."

you laughed. "is that supposed to be tempting?"

"extremely," he said, leaning back against the pillows. "come on, you know you're curious. the great satoru gojo—relationship status? single? dating? married to my work?"

"i'm not sure that's appropriate for a volunteer-patient relationship," you said, though you couldn't help but smile at his persistence.

"rules are made to be broken," he countered. "besides, i'm practically a guest here. not a real patient."

"tell that to the iv stand in the corner," you retorted, nodding toward the equipment that had been there since your first visit.

he glanced at it as if noticing it for the first time. "ah, yes. the evidence of my 'debilitating' condition." he made air quotes with his fingers. "it's just saline, you know. mostly. sometimes they add vitamins. makes it feel like a fancy smoothie."

you shook your head, but couldn't suppress a laugh. "you're so stupid."

"thank you," he said, bowing his head slightly. "i try."

the afternoon passed in a blur of conversation that ranged from the absurd (his theory that cats were actually cursed spirits in disguise) to the philosophical (whether strength was a gift or a curse). you found yourself opening up in ways you rarely did, sharing snippets of your own life—your struggles with university, your complicated relationship with your family, your dreams that felt increasingly distant with each passing semester.

and he listened. really listened. his blindfold never wavered, but you had the strange sensation that he saw more with those covered eyes than most people did with their sight wide open.

as the afternoon wore on, you noticed him growing quieter. the playful energy that usually surrounded him had dimmed, replaced by a thoughtful stillness. his fingers, which had been gesturing animatedly moments before, now rested lightly on the blanket.

"you okay?" you asked softly.

he blinked slowly, then shook his head as if clearing it. "just tired. these 'rest periods' they insist on—they're actually exhausting."

"maybe that's the point," you said gently.

"probably," he admitted. "but i hate feeling useless. being stuck here while everyone else is out there handling threats..." he trailed off, then added with forced lightness, "guess i'll just have to content myself with your sparkling company."

you stayed until the nurses came to give him his evening medication, watching as he accepted the small pills with a nod that was almost imperceptibly weary. as you were leaving, he called your name.

"hey," he said, his voice softer than usual. "thanks for coming today. i enjoyed spending time with you. more than you know."

you paused at the door, surprised by the sudden sincerity. "of course, gojo. i'll see you on thursday."

"looking forward to it," he said, and this time, his smile seemed to reach the eyes hidden behind the blindfold.

as you walked down the hospital corridor, the neon lights suddenly seemed harsher, the silence more profound. you thought about his earlier comment about feeling useless, about the way he'd winced when shifting positions, about the saline drip that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his room.

something was wrong. really wrong. and you had the sinking feeling that whatever it was, gojo was determined to face it alone.

the next morning, you found yourself seeking out shoko during your break. she was sorting medication in the supply closet, her movements efficient and precise.

"morning, shoko," you said, trying to sound casual.

she looked up, surprised. "what brings you here? not another bouquet for our favorite patient, i hope?"

you smiled. "not today, i've spoiled him enough. actually, i was wondering about him. yesterday, he mentioned having a headache, but he brushed it off. is he... okay?"

shoko's expression shifted, becoming more guarded. "satoru is a private person. he tells us what he wants us to know. i don't think he's being entirely truthful about his symptoms."

"i understand that," you said quickly. "but i'm worried about him. he seemed different yesterday. tired."

shuko sighed, setting down the box she was holding. "the six eyes are both a blessing and a curse. they process cursed energy at speeds no human brain was meant to handle. for years, that idiot has pushed himself beyond his limits. the human brain can only take so much overclocking before things start breaking down."

you felt a chill despite the warm hospital air. "breaking down? what does that mean?"

she lowered her voice, glancing toward the door. "neurological degradation. it's rare, but we've seen it in sorcerers who've pushed their techniques too hard for too long. the brain tissue that supports the six eyes... it's wearing out. like a processor that's been running at maximum capacity for too long."

"can it be treated?" you asked, your heart pounding.

shoko shook her head slowly. "we've tried experimental cursed techniques, medications, everything. the degeneration is tied to his ability itself. it's irreversible." she paused, then added softly, "he doesn't have much time."

the words echoed in your mind, a death sentence delivered with the clinical detachment of a medical diagnosis. gojo, with his impossible strength and even more impossible smile, given "not much time" to live?

"he doesn't know, does he?" you whispered.

"not the full extent," she confirmed. "he knows something's wrong, but he's... compartmentalizing. satoru has always faced everything with confidence. this... it's different. it's something he can't fight his way out of."

you thought about his laughter the day before, his jokes, the way he'd made you feel like the most interesting person in the world. and beneath it all, this quiet unraveling. this neurological time bomb.

"thank you, sho," you said, your voice tight. "for telling me."

she nodded. "he cares about you. you should know what you're dealing with."

as you walked away, the hospital corridor seemed to stretch on endlessly, each step taking you further from the illusion you'd built around gojo and closer to a truth that felt both devastating and inevitable.

when you returned to room 307 that afternoon, you carried with you a knowledge that felt like a physical weight. gojo looked up as you entered, his blindfolded face turning toward you.

"there you are," he said, a smile already forming. "i was beginning to think you'd abandoned me for some exciting life outside this crappy room."

you forced a smile in return, placing the flowers—sunflowers this time, bright and defiant—on the nightstand. "never. you're stuck with me."

he chuckled, then winced slightly, rubbing his temples. "sorry, shit— these headaches... they're getting worse. like someone's digging into my brain with a drill."

you sat down heavily in your usual chair, the words shuko had spoken replaying in your mind. "gojo—"

"satoru."

"what?"

"you can call me satoru, if you want."

"okay then, satoru. have the doctors told you anything specific? about what's causing your headaches?"

he waved a dismissive hand. "just stress, they say. overexertion. nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." he paused, then added, "though i have to admit, even sleep doesn't feel like rest anymore. it's like my brain won't shut down."

you watched him, really watched him, seeing the exhaustion that lurked beneath the surface of his usual confidence. the way his fingers trembled slightly when he reached for the water glass. the way his blindfold seemed to sit crookedly, as if his head was too heavy to hold it straight.

"satoru," you began, then stopped. what could you say? that you knew he was dying? that you knew his brilliant mind was literally breaking down?

"yeah?" he prompted, tilting his head in your direction.

you took a deep breath. "i'm worried about you. that's all."

his smile softened, becoming something more genuine, more vulnerable. "i know. and i appreciate it. really." he reached out, his fingers brushing yours where they rested on the armrest of your chair. the contact was brief but electric. "you're good at this whole caring thing. maybe i should keep you around."

you pulled your hand back slightly, surprised by the intensity of the moment. "i'm just doing my job."

"not really," he said, his voice dropping lower. "volunteers don't have to sit with patients for hours. they don't have to remember how they take their coffee or bring them flowers." he paused, then added, "you choose to be here. with me."

the air between you suddenly felt charged, thick with unspoken words and possibilities you hadn't allowed yourself to consider. you looked into his blindfold, trying to see beyond the fabric to the eyes you knew were watching you with an intensity that was both unnerving and compelling.

"i do," you admitted quietly. "because i enjoy your company. even when you're being infuriating."

he laughed, a real laugh this time, devoid of the strain you'd noticed earlier. "good. because i enjoy yours too. even when you're trying to psychoanalyze me."

as he spoke, you noticed something new—a faint tremor in his hand that he quickly tried to hide by clasping it with his other hand. the casual mask was slipping, revealing the cracks beneath. and in that moment, you knew with certainty that this was more than just a volunteer assignment. this was something real, something that was growing between you despite the circumstances, despite the ticking clock you now knew was counting down the days until the inevitable.

you reached out again, this time taking his hand in yours. his skin was warm, but you could feel the fine tremor running through it. he didn't pull away, but turned his hand slightly, his fingers lacing through yours.

"hey," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "what's going through that pretty head of yours?"

you met his gaze, holding it even though you couldn't see his eyes. "just thinking," you said softly. "that you're not as invincible as you pretend to be."

he was quiet for a long moment, then squeezed your hand gently. "maybe not. but i'm still here. right now, anyways. that's what matters."

and in the sterile white room of the tokyo metropolitan curse technical hospital, with the afternoon light filtering through the window and your fingers intertwined with his, you knew he was right.

—

the days that followed shoko's revelation blurred into a haze of hospital routines and stolen moments with gojo. each visit became a delicate dance between the carefully constructed illusion he presented and the crumbling reality you now knew existed. you found yourself arriving earlier, staying later, inventing reasons to linger—offering to read to him, bringing books from the library, simply sitting in companionable silence as the afternoon light slanted across the room.

one tuesday, you arrived with a thermos of hot tea and a collection of short stories you'd been told were particularly engaging. satoru was already awake, sitting up in bed with his laptop balanced on his knees, the screen illuminating his blindfolded face.

"breaking hospital rules with unauthorized electronics?" you teased, setting down the tea and books.

he minimized his screen with a flick of his wrist. "just checking emails. the higher-ups can't seem to resist bothering me even when i'm supposedly 'resting.'" he gestured to the thermos. "is that that fancy jasmine blend you brought last week? the one that smells like a flower garden?"

"guilty as charged," you said, pouring two cups. "thought it might help with the migraines."

he accepted the cup with a nod that seemed more dulled than usual, his fingers brushing yours as he took it. the contact sent a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the tea.

"you're too good to me," he said, taking a sip. "keep this up and i'll turn soft."

you smiled, but your eyes were drawn to the way his hand trembled slightly as he raised the cup. the shiver was subtle, almost imperceptible to someone who didn't know what to look for, but to you, it was another crack in the facade.

"how are you feeling today?" you asked, keeping your tone casual.

"never better," he declared with his usual bravado. "though i did have a spectacular headache this morning. felt like someone was trying to rip out my medulla." he took another sip of tea, then winced, setting the cup down carefully.

you watched him, noticing the way he pressed his fingers against his temples, the slight tension in his jaw. this wasn't just a headache; this was something more, something deeper.

"satoru," you began, then stopped.

"yeah?" he prompted, turning his head in your direction.

you took a deep breath. "can i... can i see your hands?"

he looked surprised, but held them out, palms up. they were steady now, but you remembered the tremor from moments before. you reached out, taking one in yours. his skin was colder than before, but you could feel the fine shakes that had returned, running through his fingers like an electrical current.

"what are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't pull away.

"just checking something," you murmured, tracing the lines on his palm with your thumb.

he was quiet for a long moment, then his fingers tightened around yours. "you're different today," he said. "more observant."

"i'm always observant," you countered, though you knew that wasn't entirely true. something had shifted in you since shoko's diagnosis. you couldn't unsee what you now knew to look for.

"maybe," he conceded. "or maybe i'm just getting worse at hiding things."

you looked up at him, meeting his blindfolded gaze. "are you in pain right now?"

the question hung in the air between you, fragile and charged. gojo was quiet for so long you thought he might not answer. then, slowly, he nodded.

"a little," he admitted. "it comes and goes. mostly in my head. sometimes... sometimes it spreads."

"where else?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

he hesitated, then said, "my eyes. they ache behind the blindfold. like they're trying to burn through it." he paused, then added, "my hands too. sometimes they feel... disconnected. like they don't belong to me."

you wanted to ask more, to press him for details, but you could see the effort it was taking for him to even admit this much. instead, you simply squeezed his hand.

"i'm sorry," you said.

he shook his head. "don't be. it's not your fault. it's just... the price of power, i guess." he managed a weak smile. "though i have to say, i expected a more dramatic end. not... this. not fading away in a hospital bed."

the vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. this wasn’t the satoru you’d come to know—the flirty, overconfident jujutsu sorcerer who made death seem like a minor inconvenience. but there was something different now, a quiet understanding in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. it wasn’t shock. it wasn’t fear. it was just... awareness. the realization that he wasn't invincible—that, maybe, the end was closer than he liked to admit.

It made your chest tighten, a protective instinct rising within you, one you didn’t even know you had.

"i don't think anyone expects to fade away," you said softly.

"no," he agreed. "we all think we'll go out in a blaze of glory. fighting some impossible curse, saving the world, that kind of thing." he sighed, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years. "not like this. not with my brain turning to mush."

the room felt too still after he said it, like even the air didn’t want to move. he looked so small in that moment — so unlike the man everyone believed couldn’t be touched by anything. his shoulders were hunched forward just slightly, the posture of someone who had been fighting the inevitable alone for far too long.

you opened your mouth to comfort him, to reach for any piece of softness you could offer, but nothing felt right. nothing felt enough.

instead, you reached out gently, your fingertips brushing the edge of his blindfold right above his right eyebrow. the fabric was warm from his skin, damp with sweat, familiar in a way that made your throat close up. he leaned into the touch just a little, like it helped him breathe.

the silence stretched for a long, heavy moment — not awkward, not even painful. just… real. a rare moment where everything between you hung fragile and honest in the air.

then, quietly, you said it.

“there’s no we in this, gojo.”

he blinked, slow and confused, as if the words didn’t quite make sense at first.

you swallowed hard. “nobody else expects to die like that. nobody else lives with that hanging over them. it’s just you who thinks that way.”

the words felt sharper than you meant them to be, but they were true — painfully, unmistakably true. you saw it hit him, saw the way his expression shifted, the way something behind his eyes dimmed. not because you hurt him, but because you’d exposed something he never let anyone say out loud.

because he realized, maybe for the first time:

he had been carrying that belief alone his whole life.

his fingers tightened weakly in the blanket again. his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “oh,” he whispered, almost to himself. “i guess… yeah. it’s just me.”

there was a tremor in his voice — not physical, not from the illness, but emotional. a quiet unraveling. his façade cracked in a way even death hadn’t managed yet.

“i always thought that was just… how it was,” he continued softly. “that people like me don’t get to grow old. that we’re… built to die dramatic. quickly. violently. i thought that was normal.”

you shook your head, moving a little closer, your hand slipping from his blindfold to his cheek, your thumb brushing the faintest trace of fever-heated skin.

“it’s not normal,” you said. “you were just alone in it. that’s all.”

his lips parted like he wanted to argue, or agree, or just breathe, but nothing came out. he looked up at you with this expression you’d never seen on him before — a raw, bewildered kind of vulnerability. like he didn’t know what to do with the truth now that it was sitting between you.

for a moment, he wasn’t the strongest. he wasn’t untouchable. he wasn’t a legend. he was just a man who’d been conditioned to believe his life only had one possible ending.

and it wasn’t this one.

you wanted to comfort him, to say something that would make this better, but you knew there were no words. instead, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his blindfold, just above his right eyebrow.

"can i...?" you began, not sure what you were asking.

he didn't pull away. "what?"

"can i see?" you whispered. "just for a moment. your eyes. i won't tell anyone, i promise."

he was quiet for so long you thought he might refuse. then, slowly, he reached up and untied the knot at the back of his head. the black fabric fell away, and you found yourself holding your breath.

the eyes that met yours were not what you'd expected. they were a startling shade of blue, so pale they seemed almost translucent, like chips of ice. but it was the pain in them that struck you most—a deep, raw anguish that seemed to emanate from his very soul. the pupils were dilated, and the whites were webbed with fine red lines, as if the blood vessels had been strained to their breaking point.

"they're beautiful," you breathed, the words escaping before you could stop them.

gojo managed a weak smile. "that's what everyone says. though i think they're less impressive right now. they look like someone took a screwdriver to them."

you reached out, your fingers hovering near his face, not quite touching. "does it hurt? the light?"

"everything hurts," he admitted. "but especially light. even the soft light in here... it feels like needles."

you nodded, understanding. "i'll draw the curtains."

as you moved to the window, you felt his eyes following you, watching your every movement. when you turned back, he was still watching you, his gaze intense and unnervingly perceptive even in pain.

"you know," he said, his voice low, "you're not like the others."

"you're making me sound like a pick-me," you snorted, returning to his side. "how so?"

"the other volunteers... they come in, they do their job, they leave. they don't notice things. they don't care." he paused, then added, "you notice. you care."

you didn't know what to say to that, so you simply sat down on the edge of his bed, close enough that your knees brushed his. "i care because you're... you're important, satoru. to a lot of people."

he was quiet for a long moment, then said, "including you?"

you met his gaze, not flinching from the intensity in his eyes. "yes. including me."

something shifted in the space between you then, a current of understanding passing between you that needed no words. you reached out, your fingers brushing against his cheek, and he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly.

"thank you," he whispered.

"for what?"

"for seeing me. not just the satoru gojo everyone else sees. the real one."

you wanted to tell him that there was no other gojo to you, that this was the only one you've ever seen, the only one you've ever wanted to see, but the words caught in your throat. instead, you simply leaned closer, your forehead touching his.

the afternoon wore on in a blur of quiet conversation and shared silences. you read to him from one of the short stories, your voice soft and steady as he listened with his eyes closed. at one point, he reached out, his fingers finding yours and lacing through them, and you didn't pull away.

as the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the room, gojo grew quiet, his breathing slowing. you thought he might have fallen asleep, but then he spoke.

"you know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "i used to think being strong meant never showing weakness. that if i was vulnerable, people would see me as less than." he paused, then added, "but being with you... it's different. it's okay to not be strong all the time."

you squeezed his hand gently. "no one is strong all the time. not even you."

he smiled, a real smile this time, that reached his eyes despite the pain. "maybe not. but it's nice to have someone who knows that."

as the nurses came to give him his evening medication, you stayed, watching as he accepted the small pills with a nod that was almost imperceptibly weary. when they left, he turned to you, his expression serious.

"you'll come back tomorrow, right?" he asked, the vulnerability in his voice making your chest ache.

"of course," you said, surprised by how much you meant it. "i'll be here."

"good," he said, reaching out to take your hand. "because i think... i think i'm starting to need you."

the words hung in the air between you, charged with a meaning that went far beyond the patient-volunteer relationship. you looked at him, really looked at him—at the pain in his eyes, the exhaustion in his posture, the way he clung to your hand like a lifeline—and knew with certainty that your life had changed irrevocably. you weren't just a volunteer anymore. maybe to him, you never were. you were someone who had seen beyond the mask to the man beneath, and in doing so, had found something neither of you expected.

as you left the hospital that evening, the city lights blurring past the window of the train, you found yourself thinking about him—about his laughter, his strength, the way he made the sterile hospital room feel like a place of warmth and connection. and beneath it all, this quiet unraveling.

you pulled out your phone, your fingers hovering over the contact list. you wanted to call someone, to talk about what you were feeling, but there was no one who would understand. no one who could comprehend the complexity of what was happening between you and gojo—the attraction, the concern, the impossible circumstances that had brought you together.

instead, you typed a message to shoko, asking if you could stop by her office the next morning before your shift. you needed to know more, to understand what was coming, to prepare yourself for whatever happened next.

as the train pulled into your station, you closed your eyes, seeing gojo's face in your mind—his blindfold, his smile, the pain in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. and you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your bones, that whatever came next, you would face it with him. because for the first time in your life, you weren't just watching someone else's story unfold. you were becoming part of it.

—

the next afternoon, you arrived to find him in a state of disheveled agitation. his bed was unmade, his laptop was open on the nightstand, and he was pacing the length of the room, his fingers pressed against his temples and his feet shuffling against the floor."

"satoru?" you asked, concern immediately flaring. "what's wrong?"

he stopped pacing, turning to face you, his blindfold askew. "they want to put me in a fucking coma. an induced one," he said, his voice tight with anger. "shoko said it'll give me more time."

you approached him cautiously, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt at any moment. "and you don't want to?"

he laughed — or tried to — but it came out cracked, jagged, nothing like a real laugh. it was a sound pulled straight from panic, scraping the raw edges of his throat.

“want to?” he echoed, like the word itself was offensive. “of course not. why the hell would i want that?”

his voice kept getting thinner, shakier, like he was losing grip on it second by second. his hands twitched against the sheets, trembling too hard to hide now. he pressed the back of his wrist to his mouth like he was trying to steady his breathing, but it only made it worse.

“it’s a waste of time,” he spat, eyes flicking wildly like he was searching for something to anchor himself to. “you know it is. i’ve seen what it looks like.”

his chest hitched — a tiny, broken jerk — and something in him just… buckled.

“it’s not natural,” he whispered, voice cracking halfway through. “it’s— it’s not even living. it’s just waiting. waiting to die while your body does… whatever the fuck it does.” he squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head like he could physically dislodge the images. “i’ve watched people go into comas. i know what they look like when they take the— when they pull the plug.”

his fingers curled tightly in the blanket, knuckles whitening even through the tremor.

“don’t ask me to do that,” he choked out. “please.”

you reached out instinctively, but he flinched — not from you, but from the terror clawing through him.

“i don’t want to be—” he swallowed hard, breath stuttering. “i don’t want to be a body lying there while everyone pretends i'm gonna make it. i don’t want to be trapped in my head. i could…” his voice warped, thin and breaking, “i could just— never wake up at all.”

his breath came too fast, too shallow. he pressed a shaky hand to his chest like he couldn’t get enough air.

“they’re trying to put me away,” he whispered. “shoko wants to shelve me. like i’m already gone.”

his eyes shot to yours, wide and shimmering, panic clawing behind them.

you reached out, your fingers brushing his arm. "but it might help. it might give you more time, as shoko said."

he shook off your touch, his jaw clenching. "time for what? to lie in a bed, to be a prisoner in my own body? i won't do it. i'm not throwing away any months i might have left by laying in the hospital bed like— like i'm already dead."

you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what you knew was coming. "satoru, listen to me. this is not brave. it's not strong. it's not like you'll be in the coma forever. it's just... you're being stupid."

he recoiled as if you'd slapped him, his eyes widening in shock. "what did you say?"

you held your ground, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "you heard me. skipping treatment isn't going to make you stronger. it's just going to make things worse. it's going to make you weaker, and it's going to make me and other people upset. we only want what's best for you"

he stared at you for a long moment, then laughed, a bitter sound that grated against your nerves. "upset? you're upset? you're just my nurse— no, not even that. jesus christ, you're a fucking volunteer. you're not my keeper. you're not my mother. you don't get to tell me what to do."

the words stung, but you refused to back down. "i'm not trying to tell you what to do, gojo. i'm trying to help you. i'm trying to keep you here, with me, with all of us, for as long as possible. but if you're just going to throw that away... if you're just going to give up— then— then i don't know what to say to you!"

he turned away from you, his shoulders tense. "you don't need to say anything. i know what i'm fucking doing. i know what's best for me."

you took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. "fine. if that's how you feel. but i can't... i can't watch you do this to yourself. i can't watch you throw your life away."

he was silent for a long moment, then said, his voice cold, "then don't watch. no one's asking you to."

that one hurt in a way nothing else had — not the distance, not the slow dying, not the fear. this felt like betrayal. like he’d taken every soft thing you’d given him and lobbed it back at your chest.

your laugh came out sharp and humorless before you could stop it. “yeah? no one’s asking me?” you said, stepping closer so he had to hear you. “that’s funny, because just a few hours ago you were talking about how you didn’t want to be alone. about how much you needed me here.”

his shoulders tensed even harder, but he still wouldn’t face you.

“but sure,” you went on, voice low, trembling with hurt and anger. “let’s pretend that didn’t happen. let’s pretend you’re not terrified and lashing out because it’s easier than admitting you don’t want to die without someone in the room.” you swallowed hard. “you want me here more than you’ll ever say, but your head’s shoved so far into your own ass you can’t even admit that.”

he flinched. actually flinched.

you stepped back, your hands shaking. “but if you wanna play it like that… fine. i won’t.”

you heard the breath he sucked in — sharp, panicked — but he didn’t turn around. didn’t call after you. didn’t take the words back.

he just sat there, shoulders trembling, as you walked away for the first time.

you made your way to shoko's office, pushing open the door without knocking. she looked up from her desk, surprise flashing across her face.

she said your name, standing. "what's wrong?"

you took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "satoru. he's... he's deciding on skipping treatment. he won't listen to reason. he won't listen to me."

shuko sighed, rubbing her temples. "i was afraid of this. his pride... it's going to be his downfall."

"he says i'm just his nurse," you said, your voice breaking slightly. "he says i don't have the right to tell him what to do."

shuko was quiet for a moment, then said, "you're too attached to him. it's clouding your judgment. you need to distance yourself. for your own sake, and for his."

the words felt like a slap in the face, and you found yourself recoiling. "what do you mean? i'm just trying to help him."

"exactly," shoko said, her voice gentle but firm. "you're trying too hard. you're letting your emotions get in the way. you need to step back, let the doctors handle this."

you shook your head, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. "no! i can't do that. i won't do that. i won't just stand by and watch him— watch him... fade away!"

shoko’s expression softened, but there was something tired in it too — something that told you she’d already had this conversation in her own head a hundred times. something that told you you weren’t the first person breaking over him.

“you think you’re the only one scared?” she said quietly. “you think you’re the only one who hates this? i’ve known him since we were kids. i’ve stitched him back together more times than i can count. i’ve watched him walk into hell with that stupid grin like he’s invincible.” she let out a hollow laugh. “this isn’t easy for me either.”

her voice wasn’t sharp — it was worse. it was honest.

you swallowed, but the knot in your throat wouldn’t budge. “then why are you acting like i should just… step aside?”

“because i know how he is,” she murmured. “he won’t stop. he won’t rest. he won’t admit he’s scared until he’s already drowning. that’s how he’s always been.” she paused, something wounded flickering across her face. “and every time he does it, someone else gets dragged down with him. usually me. now it’s you.”

that stung — not because she meant to hurt you, but because she was right. painfully right.

you shook your head. “i don’t care if it hurts. i don’t care if he doesn’t want help. he needs someone. he needs… someone who refuses to quit on him.”

“and you think i don’t?” she whispered.

the quiet in her voice punched straight through your chest. shoko wasn’t accusing you — she was grieving with you. the difference made it worse.

you wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, frustrated. “you’re telling me to let him go because you’re used to this. because you’ve been watching him self-destruct forever.”

“i’m telling you to be careful,” she corrected softly. “he’s proud. he’s stubborn. he doesn’t know how to let himself be taken care of — not by me, not by you, not by anyone.” her shoulders sagged, and for a second she looked as tired as he did. “if you push too hard, he’ll shove you away. not because he wants to — because it’s all he’s ever known.”

you hated that. you hated how true it was.

“and when he does shove you away,” shoko added, glancing at you with something like sympathy, “you’re the one who’s going to bleed for it. not him.”

your voice cracked. “so what? i should just sit here and do nothing?”

“no,” she said, shaking her head. “you stay. you care. you love him in whatever way he’ll let you. but don’t make yourself believe you can stop him from being who he is.” she hesitated, then admitted, “if i couldn’t do it after all these years… you won’t either.”

that was the part that finally shattered something in you.

because she wasn’t pushing you away from him — she was warning you from experience. from heartbreak. from loving someone who never let himself be saved.

and for a moment, standing there in the dim hospital hallway, you realized it wasn’t just your heart on the line.

he’d been breaking hers for years too.

you left her office without another word, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind a whirlwind of anger, fear, and confusion. you knew she was right, knew that you were too invested, too emotionally entangled, but you couldn't just walk away. not now. not when he needed you most.

—

you spent the rest of the day avoiding gojo's room, instead throwing yourself into your other duties with a fervor that bordered on manic. you cleaned patient rooms, restocked supply closets, even helped with laundry, all the while trying to push thoughts of gojo from your mind. but no matter how busy you kept yourself, his words echoed in your mind, a bitter litany of rejection and anger.

you didn’t go back the next day.

or the day after that.

the silence stretched into a week — a cold, echoing gap that felt way too big, way too sharp, like someone had carved out a piece of you and left the wound open to the air. at first you told yourself you were still mad. that you needed space. that he deserved to sit with the consequences of pushing you away.

but that wasn’t the truth. not even close.

the truth was uglier: every time you even thought about going back, something twisted in your gut, a nauseating mix of fear and shame that made your lungs feel too tight. because yeah, he’d snapped at you. yeah, he’d been cruel. but it wasn’t his fault. not really. his brain was failing him. his control was slipping. and you’d walked out anyway — furious, hurt, convinced for one stupid moment that your pride mattered in the face of what he was going through.

shoko's words echoed in your mind: you're too attached. but detachment felt like a betrayal of a different kind. on the eighth day, the gnawing worry won out. it wasn't about forgiveness or pride anymore; it was a simple, biological need to know if he was still breathing.

you didn't bring flowers. instead, you stopped at a small, expensive bakery near the hospital and bought two slices of matcha cheesecake—his favorite, something he'd mentioned offhandedly months ago when complaining about hospital food. the box felt flimsy in your hands, a pathetic peace offering for a war you weren't sure you wanted to end.

the walk to room 307 felt longer than ever. the familiar scent of antiseptic and despair seemed sharper, more accusatory. you paused outside his door, your heart hammering against your ribs. no sound came from within. taking a deep, shaky breath, you pushed the door open.

the room was dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. gojo was sitting up in bed, but he wasn't wearing his blindfold. he was staring blankly at the wall opposite him, his profile illuminated by the sliver of light escaping the drapes. and he was crying.

silent, steady tears tracked down his cheeks, glistening in the low light. his shoulders were slumped, his hands limp on the blanket. he didn't seem to notice you, lost in some private agony. the sight stole the breath from your lungs. you’d seen him in pain, frustrated, angry.

you’d never seen him weep.

for a long moment, you just stood there, frozen, the cake box dangling from your fingers. was it the physical torment? the relentless, grinding decay of his own mind? or was it the wreckage of your argument, the bridge you’d both burned with such furious precision?

a floorboard creaked under your weight. his head snapped toward the door, his startlingly blue eyes—now clouded with pain and red-rimmed from crying—widening in shock. he swiped hastily at his cheeks with the back of a trembling hand, a gesture so vulnerable it made your chest ache.

"you're here," he breathed, his voice raw and thick.

"i brought cake," you said lamely, holding up the box as if it explained your presence after a week of radio silence.

he stared at you, then at the box, then back at you. a fresh wave of tears welled in his eyes, but he blinked them back fiercely. "you came back."

"i..." you swallowed, stepping fully into the room and closing the door softly behind you. "i was worried."

a bitter, choked sound escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "yeah. me too." he looked away, his jaw working. "about a lot of things."

you set the cake box on the nightstand and pulled your chair closer to the bed, but didn't sit. the distance between you felt vast, charged with everything left unsaid. "satoru..."

"i'm sorry." the words rushed out of him, quiet but fervent. "what i said— calling you just a murse... it was a lie. the biggest lie i've ever told, and i've told some whoppers." he finally met your gaze, his eyes pleading. "you're not. you haven't been for a long time. i was just— i am— so scared. and i took it out on you! pushing you away, as stupid as that was, it was-" he pauses, gesturing helplessly to himself, "it was easier than letting you see me like...this. but it didn't work. nothing's easier. it's all just— everything's worse without you here."

the confession, so stark and honest, dismantled the last of your defenses. the anger bled away, leaving only a profound, aching sorrow. you sank into the chair. "i'm sorry too," you whispered. "for storming out. for calling you stupid. i didn't mean it. not really. i was just... so afraid for you."

he nodded, a tear escaping to trace the path of its predecessor. "i know. i am stupid. just not in the way you think." he was quiet for a moment, his breathing shallow. "the headaches... they're constant now. a white-hot pressure behind my eyes that never fully goes away. my hands..." he held them up; the fine tremor was now a persistent, noticeable shake. "i dropped a glass of water this morning. couldn't pick up the pieces. shoko had to do it." the humiliation in his voice was a tangible thing. "i can barely feed myself without spilling everything. i tried to wash my hair in the sink yesterday and almost passed out from the pain of leaning over."

his gaze dropped to his lap, his shoulders curling inward. "i feel so... weak. useless. i don't know how to— i don't know how to be who i've become."

without thinking, you reached out and covered his trembling hand with yours. he turned his palm up, his fingers lacing through yours with a desperate strength. then, slowly, as if the movement cost him immense effort, he leaned sideways, letting his forehead rest against your thigh. the contact was electric, a surrender so complete it stole your breath. you could feel the heat of his skin through your jeans, the slight dampness of his tears.

you let your free hand come up, hovering for a second before you gently carded your fingers through his hair. it was, as you'd noticed from the doorway, lank and slightly greasy at the roots. the strongest sorcerer in the world, brought low by something as mundane as being unable to wash his own hair.

"let me help," you said softly, the words leaving your lips before you could reconsider their intimacy.

he stiffened for a fraction of a second, then exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that seemed to deflate him further. "you don't have to."

"i want to."

he was silent for so long you thought he'd refused. then, a barely perceptible nod against your leg. "...okay."

you helped him shuffle to the edge of the bed, his movements slow and uncoordinated, leaning heavily on you. you guided him to the recliner chair by the window, draping a towel over his shoulders. you filled a basin with warm water from the bathroom sink, adding a few drops of the lavender-scented shampoo you'd brought for him weeks ago, hoping the scent might soothe his headaches.

kneeling beside the chair, you gently tilted his head back. he kept his eyes closed, his long white lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. his breathing was shallow, hitched.

"tell me if it hurts," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

he gave another small nod.

you began, pouring the warm water slowly over his hair, using a cup to wet it thoroughly. he flinched at the first touch, a sharp intake of breath, but then relaxed marginally as the warmth seeped in. you worked the shampoo into a lather, your fingers massaging his scalp with careful, deliberate circles. the intimacy of the act was overwhelming—the smell of lavender and clean sweat, the softness of his hair against your skin, the absolute trust in his stillness.

as you worked, you felt it—the subtle tremors running through his skull, the tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders that no amount of gentle massage could ease. you rinsed, the water turning slightly cloudy, and repeated with conditioner. through it all, he didn't speak. but you heard it—the soft, hitching sniffles he tried to suppress, the occasional shuddering breath that betrayed the emotion he was fighting to contain.

it wasn't just the pain. you knew that now. it was the humiliation. the loss of control. the terrifying vulnerability of being cared for in such a fundamental way. for satoru gojo, who had defined himself by his effortless, boundless strength, this was a deeper agony than any curse could inflict.

after the final rinse, you wrapped his hair in a fresh, soft towel. you didn't move away. you stayed kneeling there, your hands resting on the towel atop his head. he finally opened his eyes, looking down at you. they were clearer now, but swimming with a pain that had nothing to do with his six eyes.

"thank you," he whispered, his voice cracking on the second syllable.

you just shook your head, unable to speak past the lump in your own throat. you reached up and carefully dabbed at a stray tear track on his cheek with the corner of the towel. he caught your wrist, not to stop you, but to hold it there, his thumb stroking over your pulse point.

"i don't deserve you," he said, the words raw.

"that's not your decision to make," you replied, your own voice thick.

you helped him back to bed, his body heavy and pliant with exhaustion. you fetched a comb and carefully worked through the tangles in his damp hair until it fell in its usual soft, chaotic waves. he watched you the entire time, his gaze a physical weight.

when you were done, you finally opened the cake box. you fed him small bites, your fingers steadying his trembling ones around the fork. he ate silently, his eyes never leaving your face.

you felt the room shrink around the two of you — the quiet hum of the machines, the soft glow of the bedside lamp, the faint sweetness of the cake mixing with the sharp, sterile air. he lay there against the pillows, chest rising in shallow, tired breaths, hair falling into his eyes. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the bravado he carried like armor.

his voice broke the silence, barely more than a whisper.

“can i kiss you?”

you froze. you shouldn’t have — you knew better, you really did — but something in the way he asked it just… gutted you. it wasn’t flirty or smug or teasing. it was a confession. a plea. like he was afraid he wouldn’t get another chance.

“satoru…” you breathed, not even sure what you meant to follow it with.

he swallowed, throat bobbing. “i just—” his fingers flexed weakly on the blanket. “i don’t want to go without knowing what your lips feel like. please?”

you hesitated, the weight of every reason to say no crashing into you all at once — boundaries, professionalism, the messy tangle of grief already forming in your chest. but he looked at you with so much naked vulnerability that it felt like refusal might shatter him outright.

“okay,” you whispered finally. “okay. come here.”

you shifted closer, leaning in slowly, gently, giving him every chance to pull back. but he shook his head with a faint, breathless laugh.

“no. let me,” he murmured, determination flickering through the exhaustion. “i want to kiss you.”

he pushed himself up with trembling arms, gritting his teeth as the effort drained what little strength he had left. you reached out instinctively, steadying him at his waist.

“hey— take it easy—”

but he only shook his head again, stubborn even now. “please,” he said, and that single word undid you completely.

so you let him.

he brought one hand up to your cheek — slow, shaky, but purposeful — his thumb brushing just under your eye like he was memorizing you by touch alone. his palm was warm, but you could feel the tremor running through it. he leaned in until his forehead touched yours, breath coming uneven and fragile.

“you’re… so beautiful,” he whispered, the words ghosting across your lips.

then, with every ounce of strength he still had, he kissed you.

it wasn’t desperate in the way you expected. there was no rush, no heat, just an aching tenderness that made your heart lurch. his lips were soft, careful, reverent. like he was afraid you might disappear if he pressed too hard. his hand cupped your face fully now, shaking just slightly as his fingers threaded into your hair. you felt him pour something into the kiss — something quiet and honest and devastatingly gentle.

you kissed him back just as softly, one hand gripping the front of his hospital gown because he was swaying, and the other bracing against the mattress. the whole world narrowed to the faint mint on his breath, the warmth of his mouth, the way he exhaled shakily against your lips like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

after a long moment, he pulled back, chest heaving with the effort. his eyes fluttered open — tired, bright, impossibly full.

“worth it,” he whispered with the ghost of a smile.

“you’re ridiculous,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone, but your voice shook.

he sank back into the pillows, breath shuddering as though even that tiny moment had wrung him dry. you helped guide him down gently, adjusting the blankets around him.

when his breathing steadied, you reached for the cake box. the spell didn’t break — it softened.

you cut a small piece, placing it on the plastic tray, and held the fork out to him. his fingers trembled too much to grip it properly, so you wrapped your hand around his, steadying him as he lifted it to his mouth.

he ate each bite slowly, almost reverently. crumbs clung to the corner of his lips, and you reached out to wipe them away with your thumb. he leaned into the touch like it was instinct, eyes half-lidded.

“good?” you asked softly.

he nodded, chewing, then swallowed with effort. “only ’cause you’re feeding me,” he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours again — heavy, unguarded, almost glowing with something you weren’t sure you were ready to name.

you fed him another small bite. his fingers trembled again, and you steadied them without a word. he didn’t look away from you once, not even for a heartbeat. it felt like he was memorizing you — the shape of your face, the sound of your breathing, the warmth you never realized you were offering.

like he wanted to save all of it, store it somewhere inside him before anything could fade.

before he could fade.

—

the next morning hit you like a cold hand around your spine.

you walked into his room expecting him to at least be awake — maybe exhausted, maybe dim around the edges, but awake. instead you found him half-curled on his side, blindfold askew, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. the sheets were twisted around his legs like he’d been fighting the pain even in his sleep.

“'toru?” you whispered.

his eyelids twitched. he didn’t open them.

you stepped closer, trying to breathe normally despite the sudden spike of dread clawing through your chest. his skin looked paler than yesterday — not the soft, porcelain sort of pale he always joked about, but a washed-out, empty kind. his breathing was uneven, each inhale catching like something inside him snagged on the way in.

you touched his shoulder gently. “hey. can you hear me?”

he flinched. actually flinched. like your touch burned.

“sorry— sorry, i’m so sorry,” you blurted, but he grabbed your wrist weakly, fingers barely curling around it.

“’s not you,” he breathed, voice shredded. “just— hurts.”

the two words lodged in your throat like shards of glass.

you eased down onto the bed beside him, lifting the edge of the blindfold. his eyes were squeezed shut, lashes damp. there was a faint line of dried blood under his nose — he must’ve wiped it away in the night, too groggy to get help. you grabbed tissues and dabbed at the dried streaks, careful not to make it worse.

his jaw trembled.

“bad morning?” you asked softly, because saying anything heavier might break both of you.

he let out a small, humorless laugh, more air than sound. “y-you could say that.” his voice cracked. “feels like my brain’s… eating itself.”

your chest tightened painfully. “shoko’s coming in soon. i’ll get her—”

his hand shot out, clutching your sleeve with surprising desperation. “no. stay a sec.” he swallowed hard, throat clicking. “just… stay with me.”

you sank back into the chair, staying close enough that your knee brushed the edge of his hip.

“what can i do?”

he hesitated, like he hated the answer. “water,” he whispered finally.

you helped him sit up — or tried to. the second your arm slipped behind his back, he let out a strangled sound, half-gasp, half-whimper, immediately hiding his face in the crook of your shoulder as if that would muffle it. you froze, heart breaking cleanly in two.

he’d been in pain before — migraines, disorientation, the occasional wave of dizziness — but never like this. never so raw that he couldn’t pretend.

“hey, hey— it’s okay,” you murmured, supporting his weight. “i’ve got you.”

“shouldn’t…” he breathed shakily. “shouldn’t hurt like this.”

you bit the inside of your cheek. he’d always been the strongest person in any room — physically, spiritually, catastrophically — and watching him fold into himself like this felt wrong on some cosmic level.

you got him upright against the pillows, even though it left him trembling, teeth clenched. you offered the cup of water, but his hands shook too hard to hold it. so you brought it to his lips yourself, angling it slowly so he didn’t choke.

he drank a few sips, then leaned his head back, exhausted from just that.

“thank you,” he whispered, breath catching halfway through the words.

“you don’t have to thank me for helping you.”

“i do,” he murmured, eyes opening just a sliver — bloodshot, unfocused. “you… you shouldn’t have to see me like this.”

“stop.” your voice broke on it. “don’t say that.”

his lips twitched in something that wanted to be a smile but died halfway. “i was more fun yesterday, huh?”

you set the cup down a little too hard. “shut up,” you whispered, suddenly angry in that helpless, scared way grief feels before it has a place to go. “you don’t have to be 'fun'. you don’t have to joke.”

his breathing hitched — not quite a sob, but close. “if i don’t joke,” he whispered, “i’m gonna fall apart.”

you reached for his hand.

he didn’t squeeze back.

not because he didn’t want to — because he couldn’t.

his fingers lay limp in your grasp, trembling faintly, warmth fading from them as if even holding your hand cost too much.

his eyes were half-open now, staring past you at something you couldn’t see, pupils unfocused like his energy was slipping away faster than he could pull it together.

“satoru,” you whispered urgently, brushing his hair from his damp forehead, “hey, look at me— stay with me, okay?”

he blinked slowly, clumsily, like it took effort.

“i’m here,” he murmured. “just… tired.”

tired. not the normal kind. not the stayed-up-too-late kind.

the kind that sounded final.

you cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the fever-warm skin. “i’m calling shoko.”

he shook his head — a tiny motion, barely there. “no— five minutes. please. just… not yet.”

tears pricked your eyes, hot and unwanted. “you’re in so much pain.”

“yeah, i am” he said softly, a broken little sigh. “but it's better with you here.”

you felt something inside you crack open.

he leaned into your touch again, weakly, like he barely had the strength to move but still sought your warmth. his breaths were uneven, shallow, every exhale shaking.

you could feel the tremor in his ribs each time he inhaled, like even breathing was something his body was starting to argue with.

you swallowed hard. “did you take your morphine this morning?”

he didn’t answer right away. his jaw twitched, the faintest shift. his eyelids fluttered, then lowered again like he didn’t even have the energy to lie properly.

“gojo,” you said softly, “did you take it?”

a beat.

then a tiny shake of his head.

your stomach dropped. “why not?”

that got a reaction — not a verbal one, but he stiffened just a little, shoulders tightening like a flinch. he looked away, face turning toward the wall as if he could hide inside the shadows it cast.

“i… couldn’t,” he murmured finally.

“what do you mean you couldn’t?” you pressed, keeping your voice gentle even though panic was starting to climb up your throat. “the cup was right there.”

he swallowed, throat bobbing painfully. “i couldn’t sit up.”

the words landed like a punch.

you stared at him, your hand still cupping his cheek, thumb stroking along his skin like you were afraid he’d fade if you stopped.

“why didn’t you call me?” you whispered.

nothing.

you leaned closer, trying to catch his gaze. “hey. why didn’t you call me?”

his lips parted, trembled, then pressed together again like he was trying to hold the words in. his fingers curled weakly in the blankets, fighting some invisible battle with himself.

finally, barely audible:

“i didn’t… wanna bother you.”

you blinked, staring at him because the sentence didn’t make sense. not here, not now, not after everything.

“bother me?” you echoed. “gojo— what are you talking about?”

he let out a shaky laugh, the kind that wasn’t really a laugh at all. “i was… i was embarrassed.”

you felt your heart break — loudly, violently — right behind your ribs.

“embarrassed?” your voice cracked. “you think i'd feel burdened by you? because you needed help?”

he winced, not from pain — though there was plenty of that — but from hearing it out loud.

“i just…” he breathed, staring at the ceiling because he couldn’t look at you. “i used to be able to do everything. anything. sitting up wasn’t supposed to be—” his voice wavered, broke, “—something i need help with.”

you slid your hand down from his cheek to his shoulder, grounding him, grounding yourself. “you’re sick,” you said softly. “you’re allowed to need help.”

he shook his head again, smaller than before. “not from you.”

“why not?”

his breath hitched, and for a moment you thought he might cry — not loudly, not noticeably, but in that quiet way where someone’s entire face softens and collapses under the weight of the truth.

“because i don’t want you to see me like this,” he whispered.

you leaned closer, voice breaking right along with him. “i've already seen you like this. and i’m still here, aren't i?”

his chin trembled. he didn’t answer.

you brushed the damp hair from his forehead, fingers gentle. “you should’ve called me.”

he whispered, “i know.”

“i would’ve come right away.”

a beat. his voice came out thin, almost childlike. “i was scared you wouldn’t.”

your breath caught.

that was the first time he said something like that — the first crack in the armor that wasn’t pain, wasn’t exhaustion, but fear. real, human fear.

you slid onto the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him.

“i’m here,” you murmured. “i’m right here. you’re not doing any of this alone.”

his eyes finally met yours — glazed, exhausted, rimmed red — but there was something else there too. relief. shame. fragility.

“can… can you help me sit up now?” he asked, voice small.

“yeah,” you said, brushing your thumb across his cheek again. “of course i can.”

you shifted closer, slipping an arm behind his back. even that small movement made him tense, breath catching like a whimper he refused to let out. slowly, carefully, you lifted him, guiding his body upright a few inches at a time. every muscle in him shook.

“you’re okay,” you murmured. “i’ve got you.”

his fingers clutched weakly at your sleeve, more for grounding than support. you could feel how badly he was shaking — not from fear, not exactly, but from sheer exhaustion, pain threading through every nerve.

when you finally propped him against the pillows, he let out a shuddering sigh, sweat dampening his temples. you reached back to adjust them, making sure he wasn’t leaning at an angle that would strain him more.

but then he did something you weren’t expecting.

he scooted over.

slowly, inch by inch, like each movement took a whole breath to complete. he shifted closer until his shoulder brushed yours, then leaned into your side, curling into you like someone exhausted down to the soul.

you froze for a heartbeat — not because you didn’t want it, but because the gesture was so vulnerable, so unlike the gojo you used to know. the one who joked, bragged, teased—he wasn’t here. this was someone softer. smaller. hurting. trusting you anyway.

hesitating only for a moment, you lifted your hand and slid your fingers through his hair.

he exhaled — a tiny sound, almost a sigh, almost relief — and relaxed just a little against you. his head rested against your shoulder, the weight of it so light it scared you.

you kept running your hand gently through his hair, stroking the damp strands back, untangling a few knots with your fingertips. each time your nails grazed his scalp, his breathing steadied, just a bit.

he curled his legs up slightly, like folding in on himself made him hurt less, one hand clutching at the fabric of your shirt weakly. he was warm against you, but too warm — feverish.

after a long moment of silence, he spoke.

“can i… ask you something?” his voice was rough, barely above a whisper.

“of course.”

he hesitated. you felt his fingers tighten faintly, like he was bracing himself.

“do you…” he swallowed hard, breath trembling, “do you see me as… less of a man? like this?”

the question hit you straight in the heart.

you turned your head slightly, brushing your cheek against his hair as you kept stroking through the soft, messy strands.

“no,” you whispered immediately. “not even a little.”

he inhaled shakily — not quite relief, not quite disbelief, something tangled between the two.

“i feel like i should be stronger,” he murmured, his voice cracking on the last word. “i used to be… everything. untouchable. unbeatable. i don’t… i don’t know what i am now.”

you curled your arm around him more firmly, holding him so he wouldn’t have to hold himself upright.

“you’re still satoru,” you said softly. “you’re still strong. needing help doesn’t change that.”

he let out a broken breath, leaning more heavily into your side like your words had taken something unbearably heavy off his chest.

“i don’t want you to think i’m weak,” he whispered. “or pathetic.”

“i don’t,” you said, threading your fingers through his hair again. “i never will.”

your hand slipped down to cup the back of his neck, thumb brushing soothing circles. he shivered — not from pain this time, but from the softness of it. like he wasn’t used to being touched gently. like he didn’t know how to accept it without falling apart.

his voice came again, even quieter, barely there:

“thank you— thank you for not looking away.”

you turned your head, resting your cheek lightly against the top of his hair.

“nothing else is worth looking at,” you murmured.

and he curled into you just a little tighter, like he needed those words as much as the air he was struggling to breathe.

—

you didn’t sleep that night. you sat slumped in the stiff hospital chair with your head tipped back against the wall, staring at the pattern of tiny cracks in the ceiling tiles. the room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fading lavender — the little diffuser you’d snuck in weeks ago because he said it reminded him of “a nice hotel, not a deathbed.”

every so often his breathing hitched in his sleep, these tiny, stuttering noises that were almost whimpers. they slipped out before he could swallow them down, before he could turn them into a joke or a smug comment about how dramatic he was. each one struck you like a pin in the ribs.

by morning, your eyes burned, your back ached, and the gray dawn light through the blinds made everything look washed-out. but none of that mattered.

because the strongest looked worse.

so much worse.

his skin had gone a pale, waxy shade, like the color was draining out of him from the inside. the hollows beneath his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen, bruised and sunken. sweat dampened the white hair at his temples, plastering a few strands to his forehead. his chest rose and fell in uneven jerks, each inhale a struggle, each exhale shaky enough to make your own breath catch.

you could tell right away — before you even touched him — that something had shifted overnight. something irreversible.

“satoru?” you whispered, barely breathing the name.

at first he didn’t respond. his eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, like he wasn’t sure whether he was awake or dreaming. you reached out slowly, your fingertips brushing the back of his hand.

he flinched.

so faintly you almost missed it, but it was there — a startled, fragile twitch, like your touch was too much sensation for a body too close to shutting down.

“hey,” you murmured, scooting closer. “what’s wrong?”

he blinked. once. twice. each one slow, delayed, like his brain had to send the command twice.

when he finally turned his head toward you, it was sluggish, as if gravity itself had grown heavier.

his mouth opened a little. no words came out. he swallowed and tried again.

“i was gonna tell you something important,” he said, a weak, confused sound. “i— i forgot.”

it froze you.

it froze everything.

because even exhausted, even when his pain split his skull open, he never lost words. he lived in words — cocky quips, teasing insults, dramatic declarations. his mouth ran even when his body failed.

but now, lying there lost and blinking slowly at you, he wasn’t gojo satoru — strongest sorcerer in the world, living embodiment of arrogance and charm.

he was a scared young man who couldn’t remember what he was trying to say.

“okay,” you whispered. “it’s okay. just breathe for me.”

he tried. god, he tried. his chest rose but trembled, like the simple act of pulling in air was something he had to fight for. you shifted closer, adjusting the pillows behind him to lift him a little. his body moved like a ragdoll — light, limp, frighteningly easy to guide.

when his eyes finally met yours again, they were glassy. too bright. too wet.

“hey,” he mumbled. “is it time?”

everything dropped out under you.

the air. the room. your heartbeat.

it all fell silent for one excruciating second.

he’d never asked that. not once. he’d joked about it, teased you about worrying too much, shrugged off shoko’s stern lectures. but now he asked it with this raw fear, this quiet, helpless confusion that made your stomach twist.

you opened your mouth, desperate to say no, to soothe him—

but no sound came out.

and he saw that.

his expression shattered slowly, piece by piece, like glass cracking under pressure.

“it is, isn't it?” he whispered.

your throat closed so tight you couldn’t breathe. you shook your head too fast, too hard, your tears spilling immediately, hot and stinging. your vision blurred, but you kept looking at him because he needed you to.

“no— satoru, just— just wait, okay? don’t— don’t jump to conclusions—”

“hey,” he breathed, voice trembling with fatigue. “don’t lie. i can… i can feel it.”

he tried to lift his hand toward you. it barely moved more than an inch before dropping again. you grabbed it instantly, wrapping both hands around his, trying to infuse warmth into fingers that were frighteningly cold.

you wanted to be strong. to be calm.

but the panic surged too fast, too violently, clawing up your chest.

his breathing grew erratic, shallow. his gaze kept drifting to the side, losing focus. every few seconds he tried to form a word and failed — the syllables falling apart halfway, dissolving on his tongue.

“satoru,” you whispered, voice cracking. “stay with me. hey— stop! look at me. please.”

but he couldn’t.

his head rolled slightly, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth slack with confusion. you squeezed his hand harder, your tears dripping onto his sheets. each second felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

“please!” you cried, the word barely a sound. “don’t go yet.”

he blinked, slow and delayed.

then he tried to smile.

it was faint. broken. but it was him. still him.

you turned away.

“hey,” he murmured. “don’t… look away from me. please. i wanna… wanna see your pretty face.”

that shattered you.

your breath stuttered violently. you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing the cold skin just beneath his eye. he leaned into it — weakly, barely perceptible, but he did.

“good,” he sighed, his voice a thin thread. “there you are.”

he was slipping.

you felt it in the way his chest rose slower, in the way his fingers twitched but couldn’t close around yours anymore. every time you blinked, he looked softer, more unfocused.

“i… i was saying something, right?” he murmured, the fog swallowing half the words.

your heart pounded so loudly it hurt.

“okay,” you whispered. “try. i’m right here.”

he swallowed with difficulty.

“i was saying… that…”

his gaze drifted. his face slackened.

he blinked, looking at nothing.

you watched his mind lose the thread.

“i can't,” he whispered, ashamed.

you covered your mouth with one hand, trying not to break completely.

“it’s okay,” you sobbed softly. “it’s okay, satoru.”

his breath hitched.

and then — just for one heartbeat — his eyes cleared.

"i need to tell you this before i forget how to say it"

crystal blue. sharp. bright. unmistakably him.

and he said it:

“i love you.”

you collapsed forward, the sound you made nothing short of broken. he smiled, tiny and soft, like the confession relieved him of a weight he’d been carrying for too long.

you touched your forehead to his, your tears sliding onto his cheek. his breathing was collapsing inward now, weak and uneven, every inhale thinner than the last.

“i love you,” you whispered back, desperate. “i love you so much, please— p-please stay, please don’t—”

but he was already fading.

his eyes drifted. his hand slipped from yours, fingers falling limp. his breathing slowed to something fragile and irregular, like a candle flickering in its last seconds.

“satoru?” you whispered, voice shaking. “hey. hey— look at me—”

he looked one last time.

one slow blink.

one small, peaceful smile.

his chest lifted. once, twice, then it fell.

and it didn't rise again.

the silence that followed was unbearable.

your brain couldn’t wrap around it. it sat there in the space between you like something obscene, something unholy. your hand was still cradling his cheek. his forehead was still touching yours. your tears were still sliding down onto his skin.

but he wasn’t breathing.

your body knew it before your mind did. something primal inside you recoiled, screamed, twisted — but everything in your head went eerily, horribly blank.

you didn’t move.

you didn’t breathe.

you just stared at him.

at his half-closed eyes, still aimed in your direction but empty now. at the faint hint of a smile still on his lips, as if he’d slipped away mid-sigh. at the way his chest stayed still, stubbornly still, despite every instinct telling you it had to rise again.

it didn’t.

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that — seconds, minutes, a lifetime — before the door burst open.

“we got an alarm spike—!”

shoko’s voice hit you like it was underwater, muffled and distant. then more footsteps, louder, clattering equipment, the curtain being yanked aside, voices overlapping:

“get oxygen—” “he’s unresponsive—” “pulse?” “nothing—” “start compressions—” “move the volunteer out of the— wait—”

someone touched your shoulder.

you didn’t feel it.

your mind was trapped in this strange slow-motion loop, reliving the last second of his life over and over again — the way his eyes softened, the way his smile sagged, the way his chest fell and never rose again. time didn’t feel real. your body didn’t feel real.

a pair of hands grabbed your arms, trying to pull you back.

you didn’t resist. you didn’t help either. you were a statue they had to drag away, your limbs stiff, your gaze glued to the bed.

they moved you aside, but your eyes never left him. not even when someone stepped in front of you — you just shifted enough to keep him in view.

they laid him flat on the bed. his head lolled a little with the movement, and that — that tiny motion — made something inside you wrench violently. you wanted to scream at them to be gentle, he was fragile, he was hurting, he—

but your throat didn’t work.

you watched shoko climb onto the stool beside him, her face set, her eyes sharp, her hands steady.

you watched her lace her fingers together and place them over his sternum.

and then she started cpr.

hard. forceful. the sound of her compressions was awful — this sickening rhythmic thump of bone and muscle and skin being pushed down, over and over. his body jerked with every push, arms shifting, hair bouncing.

you felt nauseous.

the room swarmed with motion — machines beeping, nurses shouting vitals, someone tearing open an iv packet, another preparing a defib pad — but it all blurred together into meaningless color and noise. none of it touched you.

you just kept staring.

you couldn’t recognize him now — not the way he moved under their hands. he looked like a body. like something separate from the warmth you’d held only minutes ago.

your vision tunneled. all the edges of the world faded out.

someone knelt in front of you, saying your name with urgency, trying to get you to respond. but they sounded far away, like they were shouting to you from across a canyon.

you blinked once. slowly.

your eyes burned. your chest felt tight, too tight. your heartbeat thudded painfully against your ribs, a frantic drum that didn’t match the lifeless stillness you were seeing.

and still — you didn’t move.

you just watched.

watched shoko push and push and push, her jaw clenched, sweat forming at her brow. watched the nurses switch out, taking turns, their movements frantic.

watched the defibrillator paddles press against his chest, jolting his whole body off the mattress in a violent, horrifying jerk.

you didn’t flinch. not did you blink.

you just watched.

time lost all shape. your ears rang. the air felt thick like syrup. your hands tingled uselessly in your lap.

then — suddenly — everything stopped.

the movements. the shouting. even the rhythmic thump of compressions.

shoko slowed, her arms trembling slightly, then pulled back. she stared down at the body beneath her hands. her shoulders rose and fell with one long exhale.

“time of death…” she whispered, voice cracking at the edges as she spoke the words you weren’t supposed to hear.

your stomach dropped. not sharply — more like you were freefalling in slow motion, the ground disappearing beneath you without warning.

a nurse hesitated, glancing at you.

shoko didn’t look up. her voice was barely audible as she repeated it.

someone in the room sighed. someone else quietly stepped back. the beeping machines were turned off one by one until only the harsh fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

you stayed frozen in time.

your mind was empty and full at the same time — blank, but screaming somewhere distant, like the part of you that felt anything had been shoved behind thick glass.

his body lay still on the bed, his hair mussed, the sheets wrinkled beneath him, his skin already losing heat.

you watched the last spark of your world extinguish in real time.

and you didn’t move.

—

you’d been dodging room 307 like it was cursed.

for three whole weeks, you took the long way around the ward, pretended you suddenly cared about taking the stairs, ducked into supply closets just to avoid walking past that door. even shoko noticed — she cornered you one morning, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and told you therapy wasn’t optional anymore. you didn’t argue. you didn’t have it in you.

slowly — painfully slowly — you’d started to feel like a person again. you were sleeping a little more, eating a little more, breathing without it hurting so sharply in your chest. but room 307 was still a black hole you orbited in wide, terrified circles. you couldn’t look at it without feeling your heartbeat stutter, couldn’t imagine stepping inside without your stomach twisting.

you eventually went back because shoko said you had to — because two weeks of sitting in a chair and answering questions about crying in public had to mean something — but also because the avoidance was getting loud in your bones. therapy helped in small, practical ways — grounding exercises, naming things in the room until the room was just furniture again — but grief kept its own stubborn hours.

the hallway to room 307 smelled like bleach and nothing else. when you pushed the door open you expected it to be an obliterating museum of him — his mug, his blanket, a thousand little objects clinging to presence — but instead it was skeletal. the bed was made with hospital efficiency, a pillow plumped like someone had tried to fold air into a shape. the tv was off. the magazine rack sat empty. his blindfold was gone, his chair tucked under the tray table like it hadn’t been sat in for years. the diffuser you’d hidden? not there. even the sticky ring where the cake box had sat was gone; someone had cleaned it like you’d never been there at all.

it felt like the room had held its breath and then exhaled without you.

you walked the perimeter slowly because you were afraid to break anything — not furniture, not a glass, but the illusion that something of him might still be anchored here. the tile floor was cool under your shoes; the fluorescent light hummed a thin, insulting hum. you ran your fingertips along the bedside rail out of habit and found nothing but metal.

then your foot hit an edge. a tile — one of the square floor tiles near the bed — was slightly uneven, a hairline difference that made you stop. you crouched, knees protesting, and pressed at it. it gave with a small, private click, sliding up like it had been waiting for you to notice.

underneath, folded into the dark of the cavity, was an envelope. plain manila. your name written across it in a hand that made your throat seize before you could decide if it was cruel or merciful.

you sat back on your heels and stared at it for a ridiculous amount of time. your fingers trembled when you reached for it, because anything you touched that had his handwriting felt like stealing. you turned it over, checked for a stamp or a date — nothing. the flap was tucked in like someone had been careful to keep a secret clean.

you slid a fingernail under the flap and opened it.

the blindfold hit you first.

soft, worn, familiar — the fabric he always joked about (“my designer eyewear”) now folded neatly beneath the tile with the paper tucked inside it. your breath caught as you lifted it, fingers curling into the cloth. it still smelled faintly like him, that warm, subtle scent you’d pressed your face into more times than you could count.

the letter inside was creased, edges bent, the handwriting… oh god. it was bad. jagged. uneven. letters tipped sideways like they were trying to lie down and rest too.

he’d tried so hard to write this.

the paper smelled faintly of his shampoo — the scent of mint and something you could have sworn had been there since that first ridiculous night with the cake. his writing spilled across the page, messy in that same confident scrawl he used when he was being performative, the loop on his g’s insistently extravagant. you read and then read again, because your brain kept refusing to accept the pile of words in front of you.

"if you’re reading this… it means i’m gone. i’ve gone back and forth on whether leaving a letter would make things better or worse for you, but in the end… i couldn’t leave without saying what i never had the strength to say out loud. i’m sorry. for all of it. for leaving you with this weight. for making you open a goodbye instead of hearing one.

my handwriting is awful — that’s the one joke i get — but i needed to write this even if every line shakes and smudges. i wanted something of me to stay behind, something you could hold without it hurting the way my body did.

i keep trying to figure out where to begin. maybe with thank you. you don’t know how much you gave me, just by sitting beside me, just by talking to me like i wasn’t dying. you made the hours feel less sharp. you held me like i still had a future, even when we both knew i didn’t. you were gentle with me when i’d forgotten what gentleness even felt like.

i know it wasn’t easy. watching me fall apart piece by piece… i saw it in your eyes, even when you tried to hide it. i saw the fear. the grief. the anger at how unfair everything was. i’m sorry you had to see me like that. i’m sorry you had to carry the version of me that was more pain than person.

but you stayed. even when i told you not to. even when i tried to joke my way out of scaring you. you stayed. that… meant more than i ever said. more than i ever could say while i was still here.

there’s something i never told you, and i hate that i’m telling you now, like this. i wish we’d met sooner. before all the breaking. before the countdown. before every moment between us became something we had to savor because we didn’t know how many were left. i wish we’d had time. real time. the kind where we could’ve been in love without the terror of losing it before it even had a chance.

i think about it a lot — what we could’ve been if i had more months, more years, more anything. maybe we would’ve lived somewhere quiet. maybe i would’ve learned to cook something that didn’t burn. maybe i would’ve woken up beside you instead of in a hospital bed. maybe i wouldn’t have been so afraid to want those things if i wasn’t already dying.

you made me imagine a future i had no right wanting. and even if that hurts now, even if that tears you apart, i’m grateful you existed long enough in my life to make me dream of it.

i’m sorry the end was messy. i’m sorry i scared you. i’m sorry you had to see me go. i didn’t want that for you. i hope someday the memory softens, even a little. i hope you remember me before the shaking, before the forgetting, before the pain made me someone smaller than who i really was.

remember the way i looked at you — that was real. even when everything else was slipping away, that was real.

i love you. i need you to know that. i need you to never doubt it, even on the days when remembering hurts too much to breathe. i love you in ways i didn’t understand until the end. i love you in ways i didn’t get enough time to show you. if i had been granted more time, every second would’ve been yours.

please take care of yourself. please don’t carry me like a wound forever. you deserve mornings that don’t ache. you deserve nights that don’t hollow you out. you deserve a life that keeps going, not one that stops because mine did.

if you ever think of me, i hope it’s in a way that doesn’t hurt. i hope it’s in a way that warms you instead of breaking you. i hope you remember that even at my weakest, even as everything inside me was failing — i was never alone because you were there.

i’m glad it was you. right until the very end, it was you."

your hands trembled so hard the paper blurred. his voice — the cadence of his line breaks, the way he undercut a heart with a joke — was exactly him. absurdity wrapped around confession. he’d left you a map that was both practical and mischievous, like him trying to keep caring for you even when he couldn’t bend the world to his will.

you read it again because the sentence about the sunrise made your chest split in a new way every time. the instruction to keep the cake container felt like permission to hoard something silly and alive against the sterile civilization of the hospital. the “don’t be perfect” line hit with the force of a command you didn’t know you needed.

you curled the letter to your chest until it wrinkled. your body finally broke when the first full-bodied sob hit — a real, wet thing that left you shaking and empty. you didn’t notice when the nurse knocked and stepped in, a soft, awkward pause at the door, because your whole world had narrowed to that single sheet of paper and the taste of mint that clung to it.

someone offered you a box of tissues and you took it without looking up. shoko arrived a second later, quiet, her arms folded like she was bracing for impact. she crouched beside you, wordless, and for once there were no medical terms, no protocols — just the two of you and the letter you’d uncovered under a tile.

you unfolded it again, reading aloud because your voice needed to fill the room with him. and each line was both a wound and a salve: a joke to make you breathe, a command to keep living, a confession you hadn’t been given in time.

when you read the last line, you pressed the paper to your lips and made a promise into the mess of sniffles and whispered words.

outside, the hospital lights hummed the same indifferent tune. under the tile, a piece of him had waited to be found. you tucked the letter into your jacket, close to your heart, because a thing written by his hand felt like a small, stubborn anchor. you stood up slowly, fingers white against the paper, and for the first time since the day he died, you felt like you could walk out of room 307 without tripping over silence.

you left the tile slightly askew. some things, you realized, were better with a little gap — a place to slide memories into when the world felt too whole without him.

You feared for your life. But no harm befell onto you. For as you tightened your fists around the blanket and coiled your head to the stiff pillow further— his footsteps echoed for the door.

You made sure to not waste the food he gave you after that. And honestly? Dinner wasn't that bad. A little tough. A little bland. But sustainable.

If not a god, you considered him a ghost.

Silence haunted the shrine. Mystery spirited in its wooden walls. Phantoms creaked beneath the floorboards. If this shrine was not for a god, was it for a yōkai? Was your tea made by a kitsune? Your dinner by a tengu?

He felt like a ghost. His hands, that dropped off blankets in the dead of night when the wind howled cruelly, were as pale as one. His stare was a hollow ghast when you dared to speak to him. At times, you wondered if he had a voice at all. Or if it was a mere illusion. His silence was spectral.

Even now, as he returned for the third morning in a row and set your steaming tea by your bedside. You were sat up this time. Feeling had returned to your knees and the pain in the back of your head subsided. At last, you could look at him properly without pain blurring your vision's edges.

He did not return the favour.

He uttered no words. Spared you no glances. Only stirred the brew with a wooden spoon before he withdrew. Set the utensil in a bowl and placed that next to the yunomi.

You eyed the tea. After your third helping, you managed to curb your paranoia. You doubted it was laced with anything. Not because you trusted him. But because your knees trembled whenever he was near.

He wouldn't need a sedative to overpower you. He could do that with his pale, bare hands alone.

The man who saved you was strong. Insurmountably so. Nauseatingly so. Cursed energy did not drip from him. It flowed. Not a steady stream, nor a raging rapid— but a cold ocean. A dead sea. Mighty, and murky, but unmoving.

It was the kind of strength you never trusted. The kind that you never faced. For someone so low in the food chain, the strength that radiated off of him was one that was drilled into a pawn's head to respect. Despite you all wearing the same, tattered title: collateral.

Even without the strength. He was also twice your size. Tall. When he stood straight after setting your dishes down, he towered over you.

"Thank you." You murmured.

He did not reply.

He only turned. Hands pushed into the sleeves of his white haori as he stepped for the door. The floorboards creaking with phantoms and the wind howling against the shoji.

You spoke again. Hopelessly looking for a sign of life in a being who you still couldn't decipher. God or ghost? Perhaps both.

"I don't even know your name."

He stopped at the door. You chewed on regret.

His silence was always aching. Always bitter. A brittle bite at the gaps between your ribs.

A shard of blue cut over his shoulder. Sliced you still with his stare alone. Your tongue stirred to fill the quiet. To correct the wrong. Apologise for even breathing in his presence.

"Then we're even." He said.

The shoji clunked shut once more. Isolating you with beat of your racing heart and the blur of your rummaging thoughts.

Shaky hands took the yunomi into your palms. Sipped on the warmth and hoped it would ease the chill in your bones. As you sunk against the headboard and stared at the intricate ceiling. It collected dust. The patterns were faded. The wood was old— but still standing. Still holding the shrine up. A different definition of strength.

What were you?

An injured pawn in the bed of a man you didn't even know the name of. A soldier whose wounds weren't even from battle, but from rocks of cowardice that you scraped on when fled the fight. When you dared to allow yourself a break.

As your head limped on the headboard, you considered this rest that was forced upon you. And the guilt that ebbed at your heart because of it.

You would have to get up. You couldn't spend another day here.

Lest you went mad.

When you willed yourself from the bed and dared to venture out of the room, the halls were as haunted as you imagined them. Dark, save for the few, flickering lanterns that swayed from the roof beams. The corridors were long, with many doors. You hesitated at each. Speculating what you might find in every room. Contemplating your well-being.

But after two doors missed and one more half-opened, you turned down another hallway and took a breath as you grabbed the shoji handle. Muttered a prayer, braced yourself— then pulled it open.

You found a washroom. Lucky you.

You weren't sure how many times you looked over your shoulder. How many more times you jumped as you relieved and attempted to wash yourself. The water was warm. You wondered how. Distracted yourself with those thoughts rather than the paranoia telling you that you were being watched.

Once fresh, or as fresh as you could be, you pulled your clothes back on and hugged your arms. Pulling open the door and peeking. Just in case someone was waiting.

Nothing.

Your nerves eased for the moment, but not your heart.

Nevertheless, you forced yourself to explore the shrine. At least, that's what you told yourself. You stopped the second you found what seemed to be a living room of sorts, with a handmade, wooden table at the centre and four zabuton cushions on each side.

Why were there four if only one man, to your knowledge, resided here?

You shook the thought away. What drew your attention was the warmth pulling you through the threshold. A crackling fireplace with embers beckoning you closer. Offering comfort where your torn coat could no longer.

So you sat. Waited.

For minutes. For what felt like hours.

Where did the man go? Was he asleep?

No. You heard him earlier when he left your room. Stepping down the long corridor to what you assumed was the front entrance. The cruel wind bellowed for a second before it was shut out and muffled again.

The realisation tensed your shoulders.

He was out. In the cold. In this blistering blizzard that almost took your life. Bracing a storm with an easy strength that didn't shine from him— but simply was him.

Who was the man who saved you?

Someone who radiated cursed energy. No, someone who emblazed it. The cursed energy was him, as he was the cursed energy. Seemed your saviour was an oxymoron in it of himself. Strange.

Maybe he really was a god.

Or perhaps he truly was a ghost.

You contemplated the possibility as you stared into the dancing flames. You could very much have died and this was what waited on the other side. Something quiet, something cold. Maybe this was your punishment for running from a life you were sworn to simply because you were born with a gift. With assigned responsibility because you were born, not strong, but stronger than most.

Would your death be mourned?

Or would your family have seen it coming?

Would they have accepted it? Because this was the innate truth that every sorcerer knew in their hearts? That it was only a matter of time. That thousands would die and hundreds would take their place.

Rinse, repeat and relive the hell you were born into.

Your shoulders sagged as you drew a deep sigh. If you were still capable of such tousled thoughts then you doubted that you were dead.

Did that relieve or disappoint you?

You exchanged the weariness for the ache in your knees as you shoved yourself to stand and approached the window. Your injuries were healed, but this wretched cold sunk deep into your joints. Stirring misery with uncertainty in your soul.

Outside was a blur. A haze of white and grey. There went the hope of opening the front door and battling the winter yourself. You were not whoever that man was. Weren't as strong as him. You would actually find death in the snow. Weak and alone.

Instead, you turned your thoughts from escape to search. Where was he? Did he get caught in the storm? It looked worse than any of the other days. You could practically see the wind screeching and feel the frost biting into you.

You debated the possibilities. Especially the scenario in which you might have to bite the ice back and go looking for the man who saved you. After all, you now had a debt to repay. What if he really was lying somewhere, deep in the ice?

Thud!

A hand smacked on the glass.

You screamed. Scrambled back. Throat sore from the vow of silence you took over the past few days. Knees knocking together as you caught yourself on the table and kicked one of the cushions.

Clunk.

The front door slid open. Frozen. Stiff. You almost couldn't bring yourself to glance up through your ringing ears and racing heart.

"You're loud."

Not a fact. Not a tease. Maybe a complaint?

The man stood at the foot of the door. Covered in snow. Ice in his stare. Something large and limp hung over his shoulder. Your frazzled eyes darted all over him. Cursed energy spiked and your useless technique pricking at your fingertips.

Please. As if you could fight him off.

He arched a pale brow, one of the few expressions you've ever seen from him. Before he shut the blizzard out again and trekked further into the shrine. Dragging in snow on the creaking floorboards. Silent as ever. His mere presence demanded stillness.

And that's when you realised what the limp lump strewn over his shoulder actually was.

A spotted hide. Four hooves. A small pair of antlers. Dead eyes. There was no blood. No puncture wound. No knife, nor arrow. Just a dead animal. A deer to be precise.

Did he kill it with his bare hands?

You found your voice in spite of your unease. "You. . . hunt?"

Small. As if you were scared that you would be next if you were anything but. Your anxiety over being a bother had turned into a quiet fear. Fear for the man who needed no weapon to kill an animal almost his size.

Maybe his pale hands alone were the blades.

"What do you think you've been eating for the past few days? Sprinkles?" He scoffed as he stepped closer. Too close. Before he tossed the deer over the table. Its hooves knocked the floor and its antlers almost caught on your pants. Careless. As if it wasn't a carcass.

You scrambled back again. Stumbling away from the poor deer that slacked lifelessly over the wood. Its dead eyes reminded you of home.

You tried to find words. Tried to fill the silence. You weren't too sure how comfortable you were with staying in a shrine with a man who was capable of killing and barely batting an eye.

"What?" He asked, heading for the fire. He snatched the iron poker and prodded at the coal. Bursting embers into the cold air and illuminating half of his face, together with those dull blues.

"Does it bother you that much?"

"It doesn't bother me."

"What's with the stare then?"

"I just. . . didn't think you were hunting for the meat yourself."

You almost flinched at your own words. If he was in the middle of nowhere, how else would he get his food? Hunting and gathering seemed like the only option. But that wasn't exactly what you were hinting at either.

Your willed your stare to the carcass. Reluctantly studying its limp figure. Looking for a wound. For an ounce of blood. Anything other than the lifeless stare it burned into you.

Maybe the man was a mind reader. Or perhaps your thoughts were just that loud. He glanced at you over his shoulder and spoke, low.

"Don't you sorcerers hunt too? Chase down curses like it's your god-given duty."

You were once again left reeling at his words. His silence was eerie, but whenever he spoke, you scrambled to decipher whether he was joking or insulting. His tone remained ever as dull and gave you no indicators. His eyes were forever cold.

Something about the way he said you sorcerers snapped an uncomfortable chord within you. It's the second time he referenced to the term. And whenever he did, it sounded like a slight. If he bled cursed energy, but distanced himself from the name 'sorcerer', then. . .

"Are you a curse user?" You asked, eyes narrowed.

He didn't answer. Stood straight. Mimicked your stare. Was that a twitch in his brow? You continued, quick to correct a possible, dreadful mistake.

"Or do you just not call yourself a sorcerer?"

"Neither."

His voice pierced sharper than the ice growing on the windows. Never raised. He didn't need to shout to get his point across. His stare spoke for him: back off.

So you did. Because you never were good at standing your ground, especially when faced with strength. Even moreso when it came to whatever monstrous strength that he held. That's when it clicked for you.

Maybe he was no god.

No ghost.

Perhaps. Truthfully, frightfully, what stood before you was a cross between the two, and infinitely nothing like either.

Maybe he was a monster.

The thought tensed your shoulders. Froze your heart. Had your teeth chewing on chills. The possibility that you could be the one lying over that table, limp and dead-eyed, with just a flick of his wrist daunted you. The fact weighed heavy in the air. Thick, thorny miasma.

He stepped back towards you. Invading your space as you learnt he had an awful habit of doing. Now that the fear had wrung back up your neck— his closeness quivered your knees.

But then he spoke.

"I'm not catching anything else if this disturbs you. Eat what I give you, or starve. I don't care either way."

And reminded you that, yes, he killed something. Probably snatched its throat and twisted it with his bare, cold, pale hands. However.

It was to feed you.

He went out in that blistering blizzard. With no spear nor bow. No knife nor dagger. Lugged an animal that was almost his size all the way back to the shrine to feed you. The girl he saved in the snow. The girl he saved.

Saved.

You.

Yes, maybe he could be nicer. Maybe he could have given you a name. Maybe he didn't have to call you 'intrusion' as he did the first night you spent under his woolly blankets.

He might have been a threat, but for now, at least he was feeding you.

A lump swelled in your throat. Bitter and bleak. As you stared up at the man who gave you no name, but a place to stay. Who looked at you as if you were a bother, but still went out into the blizzard to hunt for you.

Truly. What kind of god— ghost— hell, monster was this?

"I'll eat it."

You assured. Unsure if you said it because the thought of being a bother to even a stranger disturbed you, or because a part of you wanted to show gratitude to the man who hauled you from the snow. After all, you had a debt to pay. Might as well start now.

"Can I cook tonight?" You asked, trying to meet his eyes.

You failed. Averted them to the floorboards and asked them to whisper to you their secrets. "It's the least I can do. If you hunted— then, let me cook. Please."

Silence.

What should you have expected? It seemed you exceeded his daily word limit. He'd probably scoff. Shake his head. Step away and haul the animal to whatever kitchen he had. You were acutely aware that your hands often offered little help. Especially not to ones as big as his, you're sure.

"What will you cook?" He surprised you again.

Your eyes snapped up, blinking rapidly. Debating if you heard an acceptance to your offer or a mockery to it. You answered anyway.

"Maybe a stew?"

"You know how to make that?"

"Who wouldn't? It's simple enough."

"So is hunting. But I doubt your fragile hands could do that, now could they?"

"They're not—"

"Fragile?"

His brow arched and head crooked. Maybe that was the only other expression he could muster if not the blank slate of snow. His blue stare dropped to your hands. Dragging shivers along them with a glance alone. You had the urge to hide them. "Are they not?"

"They're. . ." You hesitated. "Enough. I think."

There's that scoff you were expecting. Was this his way of rejecting your offer? His people skills were terrible.

You stood there. The silent one for once. Palms now clasped in front of you, as if timid now that he'd insulted them. He wasn't exactly wrong. They were fragile. But he didn't have to point it out.

"Will you skin it yourself?"

He nudged the deer's leg with his foot. Careless as ever.

The thought made you flinch. Your nails scrapping on your palms as your lips pressed together. Was this his crude humour again? Or a challenge? You never contemplated this much when it came to strangers.

"I. . ."

"Like I said. Fragile."

He stepped in front of the carcass and hoisted it back into his arms like it was weightless. Unblinking to the ugly way its neck twisted as its head fell limp. "I'll do it. You can cook after." He said, before he trudged to the doorway. Off into one of the corridors and opening another shoji.

Despite yourself, you followed. Ignoring the fact that you were quivering in the knees before him just a second ago. Your curiosity might just get you skinned.

He stepped into what looked like a kitchen. You followed.

It was humble. Wooden like everything else. There was a kamado, what looked like a counter top, and a few pots. Traditional, to say the least. The utensils were kept in a small basket on the counter, he snatched a large knife from it. There were also three larger baskets lined on the other side of the small room. You spotted what looked like a carrot stem dangling under the lid of one.

He hauled open yet another shoji on the far end of the kitchen. Welcoming in the winter and stepping out without looking back. The door slammed in your face before you could get any ideas of following him there too. Pest.

The window, however, gave you ample view of what he was up to.

A log. An axe.

He dropped the deer's body over the log. Snatched the axe like it was second nature. Raised it over his shoulder. Stared the body down like it was innate.

You looked away.

You should have covered your ears while you were at it.

Finally, you were grateful for the howling wind. It cushioned the sickening crack that pierced through the door. But not the wretched squelch that ripped through the air.

You flinched from the window. White-knuckling the clay counter top and squeezing your eyes shut. As the bellowing cleaves of the axe maced through the icy air:

Clunk!

Clunk!

Clunk!

A sickening shrill. A savage song.

And when you found it yourself to peek through the glass. All that waited for you?

Blood.

Deep, dark crimson, soaked in the snow. Stained on his hands. Splattered on a corner of his face. Death all around, but especially in his eyes. Dull, and dreary. A frozen abyss.

He was cold. He was clinical. Too clinical. As if the scene was home. It should be for you too. As a sorcerer, as a soldier.

But him.

You couldn't help but wonder as he snatched the knife and sat down on the log. As he pulled a chunk of meat over his lap and readied the blade.

Had he done this a hundred times before?

When did it start becoming easy?

And. . .

Were deer the only thing he hunted?

You looked at the deer as if its eyes mirrored your own.

What a strange woman. Satoru thought.

He thought that a lot in the few days you were bedridden. You clearly didn't trust him, not that he cared, but you didn't run. You didn't scream. You didn't try to fight him off.

As if you could. Weakness dripped from your veins. He saw it, felt it, even without his six eyes, it was easy to spot a sheep amongst wolves.

To be a sorcerer you must grow teeth. You must crave the taste of blood under your molars and sharpen your hands like steel. Like swords. There was no companionship in that world. Only the illusion of it. All that mattered was whether you were weak, whether you were strong, and how good of a soldier you truly were.

You looked like a diligent little war worker.

He recognised the fear in your eyes. The instilled hierarchy that was probably drilled into you as it was him. Pathetic, really. That all it took were a few rare techniques and maybe a clan's name attached to yours for you to be considered honoured in that world.

There was no honour in shaky hands stained in blood. In cold eyes that yearned for sleep. In the shrill of your heart as it worked, day in and day out, endless. Endless. Endless. A cog in a machine. Some big, some small. But cogs all the same.

He supposed, there was no honour in running away, either. He knew that well.

Still, that didn't stop him from considering you a strange woman as he leaned against the doorway of his kitchen. Watched as your shaky hands handled the meat that he skinned without a bat of an eye. When all your fingers knew was blood, your eyes grew blind to the colour.

But you.

You acted as if your hands weren't accustomed to the warmth of blood. As if your teeth hadn't sunk into curses and ripped them apart. As if red wasn't a staple colour beneath your nails.

Yet he could see the ache in your knuckles. The dried crimson between your teeth. The flakey maroon under your nails. You were familiar with blood. Only, you were the one who bled. Dripping cursed energy so strong, he might have considered you a low grade curse. Jujutsu sorcerers learnt from the moment they opened their eyes how to maintain that accursed energy. Did you miss that lesson?

What kind of sorcerer were you?

A weak one.

He didn't have time for weaklings.

Maybe he should have let you die in the snow. It wouldn't have been the first time. Sure wouldn't be the last. Guess he had that wretched muscle memory to blame.

Now here he was. Sharing his home with a woman who can't even bring herself to hunt. Let alone look at prey. His arms folded and head crooked as you worked. Slicing the meat into thinner pieces and collecting it in a pot.

"You leak cursed energy like a slit throat."

He said. Unblinking. His eyes hard and fixed on your every move. As if you were the one who couldn't be trusted.

You tensed. Like a deer in headlights. Then answered.

"Thanks for the diagnosis."

"Not a diagnosis. Just a complaint."

His voice bit like ice, but not once did he shiver. Yet he watched the chills crawl up your spine. Maybe you weren't a deer on shaky legs. More like a butterfly who fluttered and fumbled the second your wings were grazed.

Pathetic.

He returned to silence as did you. Watching as you handled the meat and looked around the kitchen for more ingredients. He didn't bother offering a hand nor showing you where anything was. You're the one who wanted to cook, he's sure you could work your way around a small kitchen all by yourself.

Or maybe it was because a part of him wanted to see how an actual human acted. Wanted to remember how hands could be gentle, and how eyes could be soft. How humans tended to conceal their exhaustion with work and will. As if death wasn't at everyone's doorstep. Whether you were diligent or dull.

You looked good at pretending. He wondered how long you'd last.

"Why did you save me?"

Especially when you asked questions like that.

Satoru swiped his stare to the ceiling. Perhaps it would give him more entertainment than the weak sorcerer in his kitchen. Who asked questions as though hope washed away all the blood on her teeth.

He found himself asking the same question. Why did he save you? You were just like the rest. Just like him. Helpless, defenceless. Weak to something as natural as the cold. You might have been better use as fertiliser for the grass suffocated beneath the snow. Maybe a good meal for the worms that went dormant in the ice.

He hated how the thought of that still skipped his heart.

Not because you were special. Not because you were anything worth saving.

But because you were breathing. Because he could hear your heartbeat. Because you were alive enough to fear him.

He hated himself for a part of him buried deep in his frigid heart. No, in his soul. He didn't have a heart. Swords could still have souls. But their only hearts were the ones they stabbed into.

"I didn't."

He said. Cut and dry. As if a library of answers stretched between those two words.

He expected you to tense. And tense you did. Your hands coiled around a set of carrots as you brought them to the counter. Cautiously raising the knife. Keeping your eye on him.

"You saved me." You repeated. You might have been weak, but it seemed you were stubborn, too.

"Muscle memory."

His response felt automated. Didn't sound like his voice. But really— when did he ever sound like anything remotely alive anymore?

He was no god. No monster. He couldn't give himself the title of ghost. Ghosts moved on. Ghosts let go.

Satoru was a walking corpse.

He didn't reply if you answered back. Didn't even hear it. Didn't really care. His gaze fixed to the ceiling. Numb to the smell of boiling vegetables and cooking meat. Deaf to the bubbling water. Null to the warmth that spilled into the room. No infinity, and yet it still didn't touch him. Nothing but ice ever did.

You spoke again. And he regretted, once more, not leaving you in the snow.

"Can't you take me to road yourself, if you can navigate the snow well?" Your voice was small. It barely sounded like a question, not even a plea. Both of which would be a bother.

He scoffed. As he always did. "No."

Flat and frigid. He pushed himself off of the doorway and slipped his hands into the sleeves of his haori as he turned to leave. He wasn't hungry.

"You can't just keep me here."

You said. Sounding like it took whatever little strength that you did have to even muster the words out.

"I'm not."

"Then why won't you let me leave?"

"I'm not."

He repeated. Already halfway down the hallway and uncaring whether you heard him or not. His voice didn't bother raising. He never had the energy for that anymore.

"If you wish to leave so bad, knock yourself out."

It wasn't a challenge, nor an offer. But a statement. A dismissal, if anything.

"If you want something, you fight for it. Don't you sorcerers know that?" He stopped at the foot of the hall, opening a shoji. "So if you want to leave, be my guest. I'm not stopping you."

If you could find your way out the shrine and into the winter— if you could stumble through the cutting wind and claw your way out of the barrier, then you earned your strength.

"Rot in the snow, for all I care."

And if you didn't, well, that wasn't his problem either. Not anymore.

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised. divider: @/zclhs. art cred: @/caramelsuguru ( twt )

♡ ₊˚‧ enjoyed this piece? consider joining my patreon or commissioning me <3 I appreciate all the support!

It was't like it used to be. Hybrids had all the same rights, worked and lived in all the same spaces, no longer made normal humans stop and stare when they were out on the street. And despite some of the, uh, anatomical differences, people still had sex and found partners regardless of their hybrid status.

But he couldn't convince himself to come clean and risk ruining your relationship when he didn't know if you'd ever be interested in being with someone like him. Who wasn't just burdened by the weight of the sorcery world but heat cycles and knotting too.

Especially when he didn't even have experience in, uh, relationships in general.

"Not sure yet," you hummed, shrugging your shoulders without a single clue what was rattling around in his head. "Hope it's good though."

His mouth opened and words he wasn't even fully aware of started spilling out, talking just to fill the air, his brain scrambling to come up with some excuse to get you to cancel no matter unfair he knew he was. Babbling some nonsense about how boring his day was without you, mumbling something about a late-night café that just opened nearby you would like, earning one of those smiles that stole his breath as you teasingly rolled your eyes.

"You don't have to pretend like you'll miss me," you lightly scoffed, reaching one finger out and pausing just before you could poke his cheek. You probably thought he had infinity on, didn't bother testing his technique, although if you had, you'd see that he turned it off just for these private moments with you. "You just don't want to be alone to fill all this stuff out."

"That's not-" He protested, but his sentence died in his throat when you turned away from him, teetering a little on your heels as you bent over to pick up your purse from the floor.

"I'll come in early tomorrow morning if you wanna call it a night too," you suggested, pulling out your phone without looking at him. His chest straining as he pulled his blindfold back over his eyes. Sensitive ears perking up at the vibrations of your phone, maybe your stupid date sending you something, his chest tight and stiff as your lips curled up higher at whatever was on screen.

"Yeah, sure," he heard himself say, like it didn't hurt at all.

You glanced back at him, grinning as you lifted your hand up in a little wave. "Wish me luck, okay?"

He wished your date would break his fucking legs, actually.

ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ

The man sitting across from you was no Satoru Gojo.

Didn't have his flawless complexion, the creamy skin or the sharp edges, his blue eyes dull, boring in comparison to the brilliant shade that seared through you, his lips not glossy or remotely close to the same shade of pink when he opened his mouth to say something about stocks you couldn't really care less about as you contemplated how far he was from his profile.

But the biggest difference was the pointy ears you could make out underneath his hair you spotted when you climbed in his car earlier, the tail that stuck out of his clothes.

You didn't care if he was a dog hybrid, couldn't give less of a shit what breed he was - but it was a little off-putting that he didn't disclose it at all online, went as far as to hide it in his photos.

The first day you met Gojo, he'd let his tail wrap around your leg, throwing you a cheeky smile as he cracked an awful joke about not using a litter box to lighten the mood.

"I mean, it might be a little too advanced for you-" He continued, and you nodded without really paying attention to what he was even referring to. You hadn't even gotten your drink order yet, but your foot was already anxiously tapping the ground, attention drifting towards the exit as your brain suggested that maybe your night would've been better spent doing paperwork with Satoru.

He was still cute, you supposed, but something else about him was off-putting, his gaze making your skin crawl when he openly stared at your cleavage before dragging it over the rest of you like you were something to assess. You felt more like a piece of meat he was only interested in devouring, something to chew up and spit out instead of savor.

"Huh," he muttered at the end of his spiel, your pride taking a hit at the hint of disappointment in his voice, like you hadn't lived up to his expectations as he practically squinted at your tits.

"What?" You defensively pressed, daring him to say it and give you an excuse to go.

"Were you wearing a push-up bra in your pictures?" He accused, your jaw dropping at his audacity.

"No," you quickly answered, bristling as you felt the heat crawling up your cheeks in embarrassment.

He didn't say anything back immediately, still obviously looking, and part of you wondered for a second if it was just his excuse to be sleazy, trying to neg you instead of just giving you a goddamn compliment.

"Are you actually 6'3'?" You curtly asked in return, stiffly squirming in your chair as your anger frosted over into something hard and thick lodged in the pit of your stomach. You knew the answer was no, considering you spent all day every day chasing after a man who was. But even with the lifts you had suspected were in his loafers, you didn't think your date came close.

"Of course I am," he disdainfully scoffed back at you, his brows pinching together dramatically.

Only one of you was lying, and you knew it wasn't you.

But before you could tell him to trick the next girl, an unsuspecting waitress approached, notepad in hand as she beamed at both of you.

And while she introduced herself, rattling off memorized specials, you caught the way he appraised her too, your annoyance reaching a new peak as you suffered this fresh humiliation.

"What can I get started for you guys?" She innocently asked, looking at you first, pen ready to write down whatever you wanted.

"She'll have a salad," he answered before you could, condescending and sharp, and your eye twitched.

Satoru would have suggested ordering dessert for an appetizer. Probably would have maimed the poor excuse of a man at the table with you for having the audacity to speak for you.

You wished you said no.

Swiped fucking left on his stupid smirk.

God, you were starting to consider the chance he used fucking AI to write all those seemingly sincere messages to you when he obviously lacked the basic manners to let you order your own meal.

"You know what, I'll actually be leaving now," you coldly cut him off, pushing back the chair before you snapped and threw your water in his face. Pretending not to feel the sudden stares and attention all directed your way as you snapped at your date. "Clearly, we're not compatible."

"It's because I'm a hybrid, isn't it?" He glared at you, as if it wasn't because he was a ginormous asshole.

"It's because you're a fucking dick," you hissed back at him, snagging your purse while he spat out more accusations that you were discriminating against him.

You didn't indulge him with responding.

Storming past tables of gawking couples and curious strangers, trying to make it out before anyone pulled out their phone to record it and your face was plastered on social media.

Of course, because tonight couldn't get worse, it was pouring outside, rain pelting your skin and plastering your dress to you as you stomped down the sidewalk in your teetering heels.

Murmuring under your breath about what a dumb mistake you made letting that prick pick you up and not driving yourself, teeth chattering as you folded your arms across your chest to try and stop shivering. You debated on calling Satoru, asking him to come get you at the risk of looking absolutely pathetic as you avoided the puddles in the cracked concrete.

You only looked back once, just to make sure that you weren't followed, although you were convinced your date was definitely busy hitting on the waitress by now before you slipped out your own phone. Quickly unlocking it, thumb tapping away at the screen with muscle memory before you nestled it between your ear and your shoulder at the first ring, sniffling in the chill.

For a man who did more stuff in a day than most people did in a year, it only took him two seconds to pick up.

"Hey, sweetheart, are you-"

"Um, a-are you busy?" You tentatively asked, cringing at the fact you were basically calling your boss just because you went on a bad date.

But then again, he'd always been more like a-

Well, you weren't sure what category to put him in, but you'd like to think you meant more than just a glorified secretary.

"You want me to come get you?" He preemptively asked without even answering your own question.

"I mean, if you wouldn't mind," you sighed, looking around for the nearest street sign, mumbling your location into the phone as you massaged the tension from your shoulders.

Too distracted to even sense the curse until it slithered out of the shadows, a tentacle wrapping around your ankle and sending you stumbling to the wet concrete, phone clattering the ground as you gasped in surprise.

The ache of the impact was quickly dulled by panic when you propped yourself off and saw the absurd-looking thing. A dark mass of movement, your eyes struggling to focus as you scrambled back on clumsy limbs, only for it to drag you closer with a harsh tug.

You weren't like Satoru.

Barely had enough cursed energy to be considered a sorcerer.

That was the entire fucking reason you stayed out of the field when you weren't by his side, sticking to paperwork and putting up veils rather than fighting yourself.

A sharp sting struck your ankle, white-hot pain racing up your calf as you realized the fucking thing bit you.

Something sickly sweet suddenly flooded your senses, fire burning underneath your skin like someone had fried every goddamn nerve ending as your chest strained and threatened to seize, a hundred little stars floating across your vision as you reached for your phone, desperate to tell Satoru that he needed to get here now.

Was it pheromones? Some kind of strange poison filtering in through

The curse was doing something to you, the tentacle curling tight as the world swam and swirled, unable to focus when you couldn't so much as move.

Was this it?

Did you have to get some dick so badly you were about to die for it?

Before another tentacle could wrap around your throat, suffocate you or condemn you to a fate of being splattered on the sidewalk, its grip on your ankle disappeared, releasing you as a horrifying squish resonated in your eardrums.

"Date sucked?" A warm voice chuckled, strong arms scooping you up as you faintly detected a hint of concern in his usually carefree voice.

"I'm, ah, more of a cat person," you breathed, but it hurt, lungs aching as your fingers clumsily clutched at his uniform.

You started to turn your head, but he blocked your vision before you could catch so much as a glimpse at what happened to the curse.

"Nuh-uh," he softly scolded. "No looking."

You made some sound, meant to be a laugh, or a huff, but it came out more like a whimper, the world all fuzzy as you curled up in his arms.

"It bit me," you breathed, wincing as he hummed appraisingly.

"Let's get you to Shoko, then, hm?" He asked, like everything was alright now, like it would all be okay now that he was holding you.

It was the easiest thing in the world to believe that.

He just had that sort of effect on you - made everything softer, sweeter when you existed in his space.

Even if your body still felt like it was on fire half an hour later, tossing and turning on Shoko's couch while she shined a light in your eyes to test their reaction, unable to understand anything that left her mouth until Satoru gently held your body down so she could put an IV in your arm without you moving around to mess it up.

Somewhere in the haze, you guessed you must have fallen asleep, exhausted yourself enough that you dozed off, waking up to the curtains pulled in her dim apartment, squinting as you sat up and realized Satoru had fallen asleep sitting next to you, head propped up on the cushion as he drooled onto the couch.

"Satoru," you murmured, throat itchy and dry as you blinked, vaguely aware that something was different as you shifted uncomfortably.

"Mm?" He yawned, sleepily sitting up and stretching as he wiped the spit from his mouth. Satoru glanced up at you, and in a single instant, he was wide awake, blue eyes locking onto you with shock. He reached out, fingers trembling in front of your face before he abruptly stopped, standing up and starting down towards the hall. "Um, Shoko?"

Maybe you should've known then.

Figured out that maybe more was wrong than you realized. Especially when she walked back out of her bedroom and froze when she saw you the same way Satoru did.

"Looks like whatever it put in your system turned you into a hybrid," she wryly assessed when she started walking back over, bending down to get a better look while your jaw dropped open, ready to protest until she pinched one of your now fuzzy ears. "It might be temporary."

Might.

You felt like an idiot stumbling up and starting for the bathroom in her hallway, pushing open the door and flicking on the suddenly too-bright lights only to see what they did.

Turning around only to find a pretty gray tail, discomfort swirling in your stomach as the idea of fate pulling a prank on you started to set in once you realized you'd been turned into a cat hybrid in particular.

"Oh," you murmured, unsure what to do or say when you stared at yourself in the reflection, fingers reaching around to feel how fluffy your new tail was, sticking awkwardly out from underneath your tight dress.

"Suits you," Satoru snapped you out of it, his voice low and soft, your eyes flicking over to find him leaning against the doorframe, his own tail lazily swishing back-and-forth as he studied your own. "Cute."

"You think so?" You hesitantly asked.

"Pinky promise," he winked, mouth curling up in a small smile as he nodded back towards the living room. "You should go back to sleep. Shoko says you need more rest."

"Okay," you agreed, mostly because you halfway thought that this might be some dream, or that whatever weird side effects you were going through would be gone when you woke back up.

But you were wrong, once again.

Blearily blinking just to feel for your ears through your hair to confirm that you were still stuck like this. For now. Maybe forever.

Shoko let both of you crash for the night, and despite you insisting to Satoru that you were fine, he insisted on sleeping on the floor, refusing to leave your side.

You rolled off Shoko's couch, creeping past Satoru's dozing body just to find her making coffee in her kitchen, sipping it with a borderline bored expression as you tried to ignore your tail moving while you walked.

"Mind giving me a ride back today?" You yawned, covering your mouth as you glanced at the pretty sleeping man sprawled out with a loose blanket tangled around his long legs. "Have a few things to catch up on."

You kept a change of clothes in the office anyway. Could shower and refresh yourself in the locker rooms by the gym too.

"Uh-huh," she hummed, snagging a mug on the shelf to pour you coffee too.

Although, it only took you an hour and a half to regret the caffeine, leg bouncing anxiously as you sorted through the stack of files in front of you in Satoru's office, heart beating too fast as you re-read the same line for the fifteenth time.

Struggling trying to clear the haze from your head by burying it in paperwork, staring at the still mostly full to-go cup Shoko dropped you off with despite how much pent-up energy was already pulsing in your chest.

You tail felt weird, hanging out of a skirt that hadn't been designed for it, your ears picking up more noises that you never noticed before, fingers tapping the desk in an unsteady rhythm.

And when your phone buzzed, you practically jumped, sucking in a sharp inhale as your hand shot out to check it just to see a message from Satoru complaining about you leaving without waking him.

It was completely normal.

The same sort of thing he'd sent you a thousand times before.

But why the fuck did the idea of him sitting there and typing it out for you with those long, thick fingers of his, a cute little pout pushed out on his pretty lips make you so goddamn horny now?

You'd always found him attractive. Who didn't?

But he always existed in a different league. Sitting pretty on top of a pedestal you'd never be able to climb up to. He could have anything he wanted. Anyone.

Untouchable.

But all your inhibitions, all the rules and regulations you'd set in stone and stuck to since he hired you, were suddenly slippery, failing you when you needed to cling to them the most.

Your brain conjuring up the world's most unhelpful images of how hot he'd look between your thighs, how sweet his lips would taste if they were pressed against yours, how he'd surely fill up the irritating emptiness you were now acutely aware of.

As if he'd even be interested in you.

You squirmed, thighs pressing together as you swallowed the thick spit that just seemed to keep pooling in the back of your mouth. Tail twitching and curling behind your seat as you struggled for some comfort.

Everything was too warm, sweat pricking at your brow as your breathing slowed, searching for some part of your body still in your control.

Maybe you should've just gone home.

At least there, you'd be able to rub one out and torture yourself over how wrong it was to want him in private.

Was this a part of your, ah, transformation?

Or was this all you?

The door swung open to Satoru's laughter, his white hair messy as he readjusted his blindfold, a second set of footsteps following him as you realized Nanami had accompanied him to argue about one of his students, your face heating up hotter at both of them about to catch you in this...state.

"Satoru," you murmured, your voice cracking as it came out uncertain, glancing up at him with wide, wavering eyes. Trying to choose your words carefully as you chewed on the inside of your cheek, "Something is happening to me."

He pulled down his blindfold, blue stare piercing straight through you with an expression you didn't recognize, jaw locking hard and tight.

You thought you knew him better than almost anyone. Cheeky and carefree. Cold and calculated. From clan meetings he sat at the head of to complaining about curses over ice cream, you sort of thought there wasn't a single side of him you hadn't seen.

But you had never seen him make that face before.

And honestly?

You never wanted him more.

"Nanami," he bluntly said, a harsh edge to his voice that sent an electric tingle down your spine. "Get the fuck out."

ʚ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ɞ

The only thing scarier than admitting he was an idiot obsessed with you was admitting he must have trigged your heat.

That in his desperation to stay by your side despite the fact you were like him, he forgot what all that meant. That just his presence could trigger a certain biological reaction for, ah, breeding purposes.

It wasn't like he ever had to do it before.

He'd never been through one of his own ruts with anyone. He'd never been with anyone at all.

Sure, he'd seen porn. Knew the mechanics of sex, what he was supposed to do.

"You should go home," he murmured, no matter how all his instincts were begging him to bury his cock inside you right here, right now.

"I-" You hesitated, squirming all cute in your seat, blinking and silently begging him to be the one to crack and do something first.

He didn't even know if you knew what was happening. What your body wanted - and if it was even him it wanted it from.

"You're about to go into heat. Take a few days off, and don't leave your place," he muttered, his throat constricting as he picked up on your scent, nails digging into his fist as he bottled up all his own cravings. Knowing every second he stayed, he risked his composure cracking.

He tried to put some space between you, forcing himself to stare at the ground as he walked over to his desk, half-collapsing into his seat and hiding his face in his hands so he wouldn't be tempted to peek thorough them.

"Heat," you echoed, all light and airy, his resolve crumbling with one soft syllable. "Can't you help me?"

God.

HIs cock throbbed in his slacks, a familiar ache blooming in his core as he heard the creak of your chair.

"Sweetheart," he started, the lump in his throat bobbing as he spoke. Could he? "You don't know what-"

"I don't know what?" You teased him, too fucking close, delicate fingers wrapping around his wrists and pulled his hands down so he had to look at you.

"If I-" He paused, swallowing hard as you rendered him as close to speechless as he'd ever come when you tilted your head all cute when you got down on your goddamn knees in front him. "I won't be able to stop myself."

Your palms slid over his muscled thighs, squeezing softly as he let out a low grunt he hardly recognized, gritting his teeth as he held back the urge to growl, to push his cock between your parted lips until it was bumping into the back of your throat.

"Do you want to?" You asked, morning light streaming in through the window and bathing your pretty face in the warm light.

You needed him. Fuck, you needed him, and he was desperately trying to not show how much he needed you too.

"What?" He asked, feeling like a fucking idiot as he blinked down at you right as you started toying with his zipper. Flicking it slowly, like you were waiting for him to grant you permission.

"Do you want to stop?" You asked, brow arching up, ears twitching. "Or do you want me?"

"You know I want you," he heard himself say, nearly trembling as he finally came clean, the words hanging in the air as your mouth turned up in his favorite smile.

"Yeah?"

And funnily enough, now that it was out, he felt like he could tell you a million more times without getting sick of it. Caving into the part of him that knew you were meant to be his from the first day he met you.

"Yeah," he murmured. "With or without the tail."

It was all you needed to hear, pulling down his zipper as he hurried to tug down his pants enough to tug his cock free, his heart slamming into his ribcage as he watched you bring the swollen tip of it to your mouth, offering little kitten licks like you were trying to drive him fucking crazy.

But it didn't take long for your own need to start getting to you too, your nails digging into his thighs like little claws as you took him deeper, tongue pressed against his pulsing vein as you fit inch after thick inch in, one hand readjusting to start stroking what you couldn't fit.

Your mouth was warm, but it was just the sight of you sucking, cheeks flushed and hollowed out, six eyes searching and studying every gorgeous detail of your face as you bobbed up-and-down on his cock that nearly had him cumming down your throat when you barely began.

It was a billion times better than his own hand.

His pride swelling at how eagerly you worked, your fingers looking so much fucking better than his own wrapped around the base of his shaft, drool dribbling at the corner of your mouth. Letting him tangle his fingers in your hair, gripping hard as he started guiding you faster, tempted to throw his head back and groan, but too enraptured by how pretty you looked like to move a single muscle.

"F-fuck, baby," he hissed, a fever building in his chest that he knew would bubble over soon, sweat he hadn't noticed before starting to get stuck in his own hair as he spread his legs further apart to let you scoot closer, acutely aware of how hard you were squeezing your own thighs. "Feel so fuckin' good, y'know that?"

You couldn't reply with a mouthful of cock, but your lashes fluttered, eyes darting up to him, nose crinkling up like you felt the same.

"Probably fucked my fist to the idea of us doing this a thousand times," he babbled, moaning loudly as his girth got pressed up against the roof of your mouth, hardly-aware of what he was saying until you pulled back, still pumping his cock when you popped off. Saliva connecting the two of you together until you wiped your lips off, an adorable smirk curling up on them now.

"You jerked off to me?" You asked, and he knew he should be embarrassed.

But he'd never been good at embarrassment. And really, he was so sick of playing it cool around you.

"A lot," he admitted, knowing he was grinning like an idiot just for you to giggle too. "Did you ever-"

"Maybe," you murmured, your fingers pausing mid-stroke to slip up high, tracing over his sensitive slit to collect where your spit and his pre-cum had mixed together.

He caught your wrist before you could test the limits of his patience, see how much teasing he'd let you get away with, pulling you up in one mean tug. In half a second, he had shoved everything off his desk, papers scattering to the ground as he twisted you around and pinned you flat against the wood.

Gasping as your cheek got squished against the cool surface, wrist flexing in his firm hold as he clicked his tongue. And then he was shoving your skirt up, bunching it around your hips and letting your tail hang free, already eagerly swishing in anticipation as he ripped your panties clean off.

You were drenched.

Slick sticking to your thighs as he nudged them further apart, his throat nearly closing as your scent flooded his nostrils, sweet and strong and all his.

He wanted to bite. Sink his teeth into your throat and claim you. Make sure you didn't go on any other stupid dates or give anyone else the chance to see how gorgeous you looked like this.

Squirming and shivering, pretty pussy exposed and waiting for him to put a cute little hybrid in your womb, roll the dice and see who it took after.

"Last chance," he warned, his fingers digging into your wrist as he expended a ridiculous amount of energy just to cling to his restraint.

You threw a dramatic pout over your shoulder at him, pushing out your bottom lip, clueless how badly he wanted to suck on it. "What else do I have to do to get you to finally fuck me?"

How the fuck could he hold back when you were here, waiting on him, wet and wiggling your ass?

"It hurts," you added in a soft whimper, like you knew it would make him break.

His cock bobbed up as he wrapped his sturdy fingers around it, gliding over your entrance just to make you whine before he started edging it in.

And fuck, it only took him a few seconds to hate himself for not having you far sooner.

Feeling you squeeze around his fat girth and suck him in so sinfully as he fucked you right there on his desk, watching himself disappear inside your pussy as he shoved himself deeper. Listening to the cute little noises currently being ripped from your throat as you clawed at the smooth surface, having a hard time staying in one place when he was doing his damndest to split you wide open.

Operating on pure reflexes, doing what his brain was programmed to do no matter how much his body was unaccustomed to these actions.

"It's-" You whimpered, cutting yourself off like you were trying not to feed his ego.

Which had never been bigger than it was right now, inflating by the second at seeing your face scrunched up in pleasure because of him.

"Just relax for me," he purred, putting more pressure on your wrist and keeping you pinned there as he pushed the last few inches in, your ragged little breaths ringing in his ears as he tried not to get lost in your scent. "Let me make it better."

He could feel himself nudging against your womb, his abs tensing as he ached to fill it with his sperm, to fuck you until it took, until he knew you'd be waddling around in seven months carrying the next Gojo heir.

"S-Satoru," you stammered his name, and his first thought was how long would it take to convince you to take his last name too. To wake up to hearing your pretty little whisper in his ear as his wife, pump you full and press your face into his pillow next.

"Mhm, sweetheart?" He asked, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his brain as he forced himself to slip out to fuck back into you, slow strokes at first, building up to a faster rhythm in response to your greedy cunt clamping down on him hard.

"M'full," you whimpered right as he grinded against that spongy little sweet spot to drag another moan out, lewd squelches echoing in the office as he pumped in-and-out.

Rutting into you with the faint fear that he really might never stop, not when it felt so fucking good, when it felt like home in your warmth.

Gojo laughed, high and airy, a crooked smile finding its way on his face when he thought about full you were about to be.

"If you want me to pull out, gotta do it now, baby," he murmured, hoping to whatever was out there that you'd tell him to cum inside you. To fill you up until you were dripping him all day long.

"Don't."

He nearly came on the spot.

Fucking into you faster, feeling more animal than human when his hips kept smacking into your ass, pressing his chest to your back as he wrapped his free hand around to fumble for your clit.

He knew it was clumsy, fingers twitching as he tried to massage it, reading your body language for some sign that you liked it, your body shuddering at the contact.

"I'm gonna fuckin' knock you up," he started rambling, leaning down even closer, sniffing your skin before dragging his tongue up your throat. "Put a litter in you."

Did that sound stupid?

He felt stupid saying it, self-conscious as a brief stab of anxiety struck his heart until you started nodding.

"P-please," you whined, like you might die if he didn't do precisely that. Thighs trembling as you tilted your head to the side to give him better access to your neck.

He couldn't help himself.

Not when it came to you.

The base of his cock swelling before he could so much as warn you, his mouth latching hard just above your collarbone as your body went stiff and rigid beneath him as the first spurts of warm cum started coming out in thick ropes, painting your insides while he claimed them for himself.

Would you consider being his mate an upgrade to his assistant?

Gojo sure fucking hoped so.

Biting harder as you moaned, toying with your clit as you twitched underneath him, some strangled sound that sort of resembled his name escaping right as the knot forced its way in, making sure no cum could leak out.

He hadn't even kissed you yet, but somehow managed to lose his virginity and possibly get you pregnant at the same time. You'd definitely say yes if he asked you on a date, right? To be his fiancé girlfriend?

"Am I living up to your fantasy?" You panted, and he was sure he was blushing, heat going straight to his head as he helplessly nodded.

"Better than my wildest dreams, baby," he promised when he finally broke the bite, voice painfully tight as his knot kept you locked together.

He kept painting circles over your sensitive bundle, picking up the pace as he tried to coax you through the tight fit, your walls squeezing him just right while he desperately tried to make you cum too.

"A-are you close?" He stammered, hating how lame he sounded, unlike the great Gojo he tried to make you think he was, swallowing hard as your head bobbed.

"Mm, harder," you half-whimpered, drool leaking out of your lips and collecting on your desk as your muscles tensed.

He might be part snow leopard, but he could listen to you like a dog. Wag his tail and obey, rubbing harder, applying just enough pressure to make you unravel for him.

His knot held tight while you came, bracing you through it as your body gave into him. He licked over the bruise blooming on your throat, soothing the sore spot as he murmured sweet nothings into your skin.

You were babbling now too, crying out his name as real tears rolled down your cheeks, ones he wanted to lap up too. You looked so beautiful like this, furry ears pinned back as his cock split you open, his swollen base preventing you from doing anything other than squirming as you came back down from your own climax.

Gojo already knew one round wouldn't be enough.

That he needed at least two more to satisfy the heat coiling tight in his own stomach, that he'd only feel better if he spent all day fucking you into overstimulation and he burned every little expression and moan of yours into his brain to replay whenever he wanted.

"Satoru," you breathed his name like it was all the air you needed, and he snapped from the spell your pussy had casted on him.

"Y-yeah, sweetheart?" He stuttered, hoping you didn't notice.

"Does this, um, mean we're like, dating now?" You asked, blinking fast as you managed to glance back at him with glossy eyes.

"This," he hummed, poking at the bite mark on your throat. "Means you're mine forever."

reblogs + comments are always appreciated adore you all :3