Promises to keep

Gojo woke to voices.

Not loud.

The kind people used when they thought someone was sleeping.

His Six Eyes registered movement before his mind fully surfaced.

Three presences. Familiar.

One pacing.

One sitting cross-legged on the floor.

One standing near the window.

Gojo kept his eyes closed.

"He's really asleep."

Yuji.

"I can see that."

Megumi.

"He looks terrible. Is he even breathing?"

Nobara.

"Hey, watch it, Kugisaki. It's Gojo sensei we're talking about. The strongest sorcerer of this generation!"

Yuji sounded so sincere Gojo immediately felt a surge of affection rising in his chest.

"He missed class," Nobara said.

"Maybe he's sick."

Then Yuji's voice came closer.

"Do you think he has a fever?"

Movement.

A hand reaching.

Gojo activated infinity instinctively.

The air hummed.

Yuji stopped.

"Ah."

Gojo opened one eye.

Three students froze like they'd been caught stealing candy from Gojo's secret hiding place.

"Planning my funeral already?" he asked.

Yuji immediately pointed at Nobara.

"She said it."

"Such a rat, Itadori!"

Gojo groaned dramatically and rolled onto his back.

"I leave you unsupervised for one morning."

"You skipped class."

"I overslept."

Megumi looked unconvinced.

"You barely sleep three hours every night," He frowned.

Gojo sat up slowly.

"Well, my bones are getting old,"

He cracked his neck with an exaggerated wince.

The room tilted.

Just slightly.

Enough that he regretted the motion immediately.

Three pairs of eyes narrowed.

Dangerous.

Far too observant.

Inside him, Sukuna stirred.

They're watching you.

Obviously.

Like hunting dogs.

They're worried.

A pause.

Strange creatures.

Gojo ignored him.

"Alright," he announced. "Emergency mission.

Yuji, get my wallet from that table, please."

He dug into his wallet and held out a handful of bills.

"Buy mochi for everyone. Consider it my personal apology for missing the class."

"That's not a mission. That's bribery."

Nobara fixed him with a disapproving glare.

"You want mochi or not?"

Yuji accepted the money instantly.

"Let's go, Kugisaki."

"You are so easy to buy."

"Free mochi."

"Huh."

They headed for the door.

Megumi didn't move.

"Fushiguro, you coming?" Yuji called.

"You go ahead. I'll join."

Yuji nodded. Nobara looked between Gojo and Megumi, then dragged Yuji out by his sleeve.

The door shut behind them.

Silence settled.

Megumi stood with his hands in his pockets.

Gojo sat on the edge of the bed.

For a moment neither spoke.

Then...

"Are you okay?"

Straight to the point, as always.

Gojo looked away.

"I've been better."

Megumi nodded once.

Like he'd expected exactly that answer.

"There was blood."

Gojo froze.

"Blood?"

"On the bathroom floor."

Gojo stared at him.

Megumi stared back.

Inside Gojo, Sukuna had gone very still.

He noticed.

Megumi notices everything.

That's irritating.

That's his way of caring.

Gojo rubbed his eyes.

"It wasn't serious."

"Gojo sensei..."

"Hmm?"

Megumi stepped closer.

His expression softened.

"You're a terrible liar."

Gojo lowered his gaze, unable to meet Megumi's clear, piercing eyes.

The floor suddenly seemed fascinating.

"Sensei, you've been acting strange."

His voice was quiet now.

Careful.

And somehow that hurt worse than anything Sukuna had said.

Gojo laughed weakly.

A terrible sound.

He sat quietly for a moment.

Then swallowed hard.

"Megumi chan, can you do something weird?"

"..."

Gojo looked down at his hands.

"Just once..."

A pause.

"Can you put your hand on my forehead?"

His voice sounded thin.

The room fell silent.

Megumi stared.

Confused.

Concerned.

Then he crossed the room, and slowly crouched in front of him.

His palm settled against Gojo's forehead.

Cool.

Steady.

Gojo shut his eyes immediately.

The contact lasted only seconds.

Yet it felt like standing in the sunlight after years underground.

Beneath the sensation was another awareness.

Sukuna feeling it too.

Not only the touch itself.

The meaning of it.

Someone reaching for Gojo without wanting anything.

Someone touching him simply because he was hurting.

Megumi frowned.

"You don't have a fever."

"No."

"Are you injured?"

"No."

"Then what's wrong?"

Gojo couldn't answer.

Because the truth was too large.

Too ugly.

Too complicated.

Megumi's hand lingered.

Then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward.

A brief kiss landed in Gojo's hair.

Nothing dramatic.

Just simple affection.

The kind children give to people they trust.

Megumi pulled back immediately, as though surprised by his own actions.

"Sensei, don't go crazy with all those powers," He murmured.

Gojo let out a shaky breath.

"Tsumiki needs you."

A brief pause.

"And me too."

Gojo couldn't speak.

Couldn't move.

Megumi stood.

The tip of his ears had turned red.

"Anyway, I better get going before Itadori and Kugisaki start another stupid fight over mochi flavors."

Then he retreated toward the door with as much dignity as the situation allowed.

The door clicked shut.

Gojo sat on the edge of the bed, motionless, for a long time.

🔗 Previous Part 2

Your students are strange, Sukuna said at last.

Gojo laughed once. Wet and broken.

"They're extraordinary."

Even bigger idiots than you are, Satoru.

Gojo bowed his head.

And to think that you made the ultimate sacrifice to protect these little brats! Offering your body as a vessel to me, the King of curses?

Tell me, Satoru... do they even know?

Gojo's fingers stilled.

Do they know what it's costing you to keep me here?

Silence.

Every day, your body resists mine. Every day, your soul grinds against my cursed energy. Even you can't win that battle forever.

Sukuna chuckled.

You'll last another year, perhaps. His eyes narrowed. Less, if you're careless.

He continued, vaguely amused.

And those precious students of yours will never even know why you're gone!

A drop of tear landed on Gojo's lap.

Then another.

Then another.

He pressed a hand over his eyes.

His shoulders shook.

"I don't deserve them," he whispered into the empty room.

"They deserve someone who stays."

Pathetic.

Sukuna let out a low scoff.

What happened to the Strongest, Satoru?

Gojo didn't answer.

Why do you need anyone at all?

Sukuna continued.

You've spent your entire life looking down at the world. Everyone else was too slow, too weak, too fragile to stand beside you.

His voice grew sharper.

And now you're crying because a handful of insignificant teenagers decided to show you a morsel of affection?

Gojo's jaw tightened.

Sukuna laughed.

You, of all people. The man who could bend the world to his will. Reduced to this.

Silence.

Tell me, Satoru... when did you become so desperate for crumbs?

Gojo didn't argue.

He simply lay down on the bed, turning onto his side.

A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, traced the curve of his temple, and disappeared into his hair.

He closed his eyes.

Minutes passed.

His breathing grew slow and even.

Sukuna clicked his tongue.

Tch.

The victory tasted strangely hollow.

For the first time, provoking Gojo felt less like entertainment and more like kicking at the ruins of something that refused to fight back.

How boring.

The cursed marks lingered around Gojo's chest, feeling the warmth beneath them, counting each heartbeat...

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

One day, the rhythm would falter.

The final beat would come.

The thought should have thrilled Sukuna.

Instead, it stirred an uneasy feeling in him he wasn't prepared to name.

Tch.

🔗 Part 3

The meeting with the higher-ups began at nine.

By nine-thirty, Gojo was considering homicide.

The elders sat behind their screens, hidden in the shadows.

Exactly where cowards preferred to be.

Gojo leaned back in his chair.

Smiling.

Listening.

Enduring.

"...your recent absences have been noted."

"Have they?" Gojo asked pleasantly.

Another elder cleared his throat.

"Your attitude remains a concern."

Inside his mind, laughter erupted.

Kill him.

Gojo ignored it.

"...and your students continue displaying troubling independence."

Definitely kill him.

His smile tightened.

"That's what happens when people think for themselves."

The room grew colder.

The elders did not appreciate jokes.

Unfortunately, Sukuna did.

You know, the curse mused lazily, I could solve this entire conflict in under a minute.

No.

Thirty seconds.

No.

Twenty.

Gojo folded his arms.

One elder was speaking again.

He hadn't heard a word.

Sukuna continued.

That one is afraid of you.

No response.

The one on the left hates you.

Still nothing.

The old man in the center dreams about your death.

A pause.

Gojo pinched the bridge of his nose.

The elders misinterpreted the gesture.

"Do you have something to say?"

So many things.

Most of them unsuitable for polite conversation.

Gojo smiled.

"No."

The answer came too quickly.

Several elders exchanged glances.

For a moment, the room fell silent.

Gojo's smile remained intact. Yet something in his eyes had changed.

The elders noticed.

One of them swallowed.

Another looked away.

Gojo saw it happen.

And so did Sukuna.

There.

The voice purred through his thoughts.

That's the face.

Gojo's jaw tightened.

The face they fear.

Stop.

The one that belongs to us.

The word struck like a blade.

Us.

Gojo rose abruptly.

The chair scraped across the floor.

Every eye in the room fixed on him.

"Meeting adjourned."

One elder sputtered.

"You cannot simply decide that.

"I just did."

His voice was calm.

Far too calm.

Nobody challenged him.

Gojo turned and walked away.

The elders watched him leave.

None noticed his hands trembling.

By the time he reached his room, his vision was blurring.

The walls stretched strangely around him.

As though he were viewing it through water.

The pressure inside his skull had become unbearable.

Every thought. Every emotion. Every instinct.

His and Sukuna's.

Grinding against one another.

Hour after hour.

Day after day.

Gojo stumbled through the door.

The moment it closed behind him, his knees gave way.

He caught himself against the desk.

Barely.

The room spun.

"Damn it..."

The taste of iron flooded his mouth.

A second later he lurched toward the bathroom.

Violently sick.

The force of it left him shaking.

One hand braced against the wall.

The other gripping the edge of the sink hard enough to crack porcelain.

Silence.

No laughter.

No mockery.

Gojo spat blood into the basin.

His breathing sounded ragged.

For several moments he simply stood there.

Waiting for the room to stop moving.

Waiting for his body to remember how to function.

Nothing happened.

Finally he slid down the wall and sat on the cold tile floor.

Exhaustion settled over him like a burial shroud.

Heavy.

The silence continued.

That frightened him more than the pain.

"Sukuna."

No answer.

His eyes drifted shut.

"Sukuna."

A long pause.

Then...

Idiot.

The voice was quieter than usual.

Gojo almost laughed.

You pushed too hard.

Gojo rested his head against the wall.

"Didn't have much choice."

Stop fighting me then.

The room faded in and out around him.

His breathing gradually slowed.

The pounding in his skull began to recede.

A little.

Not enough.

Another long silence.

Then, unexpectedly...

Sleep.

Gojo blinked.

"What?"

Sleep, Satoru.

The words sounded strange coming from Sukuna.

Gojo dragged himself to his feet and somehow reached the bed.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight.

His eyes closed immediately.

The darkness welcomed him.

Before sleep claimed him entirely, he heard Sukuna one last time.

Soft enough to almost be imagined.

You are no use to me broken.

Gojo smiled weakly.

"Too late for that."

For once, Sukuna didn't argue.

🔗 Part 1

🔗 Part 3

[It's gonna be a dark romance. Sukuna is in Gojo's body. The King of Curses has been detached from humanity for a thousand years. But after being one with Satoru, he's slowly learning the ways of the honored one. And Satoru, too, has found someone who sees him for who he is. A dangerous obsession begins...]

Megumi noticed it during third period.

No one else did.

Not Itadori, despite sitting in the front row for once.

Not Nobara, who was busy arguing with Gojo about a domain expansion technique.

Not even Maki.

Only Megumi.

Something was wrong.

Gojo-sensei stood at the front of the classroom, one hand tucked into his pocket, explaining domain refinement with the enthusiasm of a game show host.

"...and that's why blindly expanding your domain is a terrible idea."

He pointed at Yuji.

"Especially for people with the strategic depth of a goldfish."

"Hey!"

The class laughed.

Gojo laughed too.

The sound was perfect. The smile was perfect.

Everything was perfect.

That's the problem.

Megumi frowned.

Something felt... rehearsed.

As though Gojo was playing Gojo.

A flawless imitation. But an imitation nonetheless.

The realization unsettled him.

Gojo suddenly turned.

For a split second, the blindfold faced directly toward him.

Megumi froze.

"Fushiguro."

Megumi blinked

"What?"

"You're staring."

The class snickered.

Gojo grinned.

"If you're finally realizing how handsome I am, I'd appreciate a little warning."

A chorus of groans followed.

Normal.

Everything was normal again.

Megumi hated it.

Something was wrong.

He simply couldn't prove it.

By evening, Tokyo Jujutsu Academy had settled into silence.

Students returned to their dormitories.

Lights flickered on across the grounds.

The distant sound of training echoed through the trees.

Gojo walked alone.

Hands in his pockets.

Head slightly bowed.

The smile was gone.

No one saw him cross the courtyard.

No one saw him enter his room.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

For several seconds, he simply stood there.

Motionless.

Listening.

Then he removed the blindfold.

Brilliant blue eyes stared into the darkness.

Tired eyes.

A slow exhale escaped him.

Finally.

The uniform jacket landed on a chair.

The buttons of his shirt followed.

Then the shirt itself.

And the room seemed to darken.

Black markings stretched across his skin.

Not scars. Not wounds.

Ancient symbols twisted over his shoulders, his chest, his ribs.

Etched directly into flesh.

They wound around his body like chains pretending to be tattoos.

Alive.

Swirling slowly.

Gojo glanced down at them.

For a moment, he looked helpless.

Then exhaustion swallowed it.

He sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

The marks pulsed and throbbed like heartbeats.

A laugh echoed somewhere behind his thoughts.

Low.

Amused.

Gojo closed his eyes.

"Not now."

The laughter continued.

You spent all day pretending to be you.

Gojo's voice was quiet, even pleading when he said:

"Let me have tonight."

The marks along his chest shifted.

For an instant, one curled upward into something resembling a grin.

Gojo lay back against the mattress.

The springs creaked softly.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees.

Inside, the room remained silent, but Gojo's mind wasn't.

"Just a few hours."

His eyes drifted shut.

"I'm taking back control for a while, Sukuna."

Silence.

Then, from somewhere deep within his own body rose a voice.

Are you asking?

The voice was smooth.

Dangerous.

Gojo smiled faintly despite himself.

"No."

A pause.

"I'm informing you."

The answering laughter followed him into sleep.

(This is from a fic I'm drafting)

Sukuna looked at him and thought:

Magnificent.

Not because of his strength.

Not because he had broken Malevolent Shrine.

But because despite all that loneliness, all that grief, all that loss...

Gojo Satoru was still standing.

Still fighting.

Still refusing to break.

And suddenly, killing him no longer seemed enough.

Sukuna wanted something far more dangerous.

He wanted to possess him, body and soul.

Be unafraid to love 💖

[Dazai is 22 here, Oda is 27. Both old enough to consent. Both old enough to fall in love. Just saying 😉]

Rain followed them home.

Yokohama shimmered outside the taxi windows in wet neon streaks while silence settled comfortably between Dazai and Oda.

Not awkward silence.

Dangerous silence.

By the time they reached Oda's apartment, the whiskey warmth had faded into something quieter. Heavier.

Oda unlocked the door first.

Same apartment.

Same dim light over the kitchen sink.

Same faint scent of cigarettes and old books.

Home.

Dazai stepped inside behind him and shut the door softly with one hand. Neither immediately moved further.

Water dripped from the edge of Oda's coat onto the genkan tiles.

“You should sleep,” Oda said eventually.

Dazai hummed.

Didn't move.

Oda sighed faintly and shrugged off his coat, hanging it beside the door. Dazai watched him the entire time with that unreadable expression again. Dark eyes heavy-lidded from whiskey and exhaustion.

Oda could feel it.

That gaze.

Steady enough to make his pulse strange.

“I'll make tea,” Oda muttered.

“Feeling cold?"

“It's the rain.”

"Mhmm."

Oda moved into the kitchen, reaching for the kettle more out of instinct than thought.

Behind him, he could hear Dazai wandering slowly through the apartment, shoes abandoned carelessly halfway to the living room.

Familiar sounds.

Comforting sounds.

Then silence again.

Too quiet.

Oda turned slightly.

Dazai stood leaning against the kitchen doorway now, sleeves rolled past bruised wrists.

The marks from the restraints earlier had darkened purple on his pale skin.

Oda's expression tightened.

“Come here.”

Dazai blinked.

“What?”

“Your wrists.”

“It'll heal.”

“Dazai.”

That tone.

Dazai obeyed before realizing he was doing it.

He settled on a chair beside the low table while Oda disappeared briefly to grab the first aid kit.

When he returned, Dazai had already rested his chin against the tabletop, watching him lazily.

Like a sleepy cat.

Oda sat across from him.

Carefully took one wrist into his hand.

The apartment felt very small all of a sudden.

The kettle began to hum quietly in the background.

Oda cleaned the bruising with practiced gentleness, fingers warm against Dazai's skin.

Too warm.

Dazai stared at him.

No mask tonight. No teasing.

Just those dark eyes following every movement.

Oda's hands trembled once.

A tiny movement.

Dazai noticed immediately.

“You okay?" he asked in a soft voice.

Oda lowered his gaze.

“I thought...” He swallowed. “I thought I'd watch you die in front of me.”

Dazai's chest tightened painfully.

“You shouldn't care that much,” he whispered.

Oda let out a quiet breath that almost sounded frustrated.

“That's not something I can control anymore.”

The room went still.

Completely still.

Dazai looked at him for a long moment after that.

At the tired lines beneath Oda's eyes.

The damp hair falling slightly over his forehead.

The man who refused to kill for years, yet picked up a gun without hesitation when Dazai's life was threatened.

Because he couldn't lose him.

Something inside Dazai gave way quietly.

Slowly, he lifted his free hand.

Oda watched the movement, transfixed.

Dazai's fingers brushed against Oda's jaw first.

Gentle.

Tentative.

Nothing like the fearless executive the Mafia knew.

“Dazai,” Oda said softly. "What are you thinking?"

Dazai's smile flickered.

"Can't tell you that."

A beat of silence.

"Odasaku."

"Hm?"

"I can show you."

The words landed between them like a struck match.

Oda's brow furrowed slightly.

"Dazai..."

Dazai slowly leaned in.

Close enough to catch the lingering scent of whiskey on Odasaku's breath.

Smoke woven into his shirt.

"..."

"Don't freak out, okay?" Dazai whispered.

Something uncertain crossed Oda's face.

His hand shot out, fingers closing around Dazai's wrist before he could move any closer.

"Dazai. Look, we..."

Dazai could hear all the reasons hiding underneath it.

Age gap.

Morality.

The fact Oda had known him since fifteen.

The terrifying tenderness of this thing growing between them for years without permission.

Dazai glanced down at the hand around his wrist, then back up.

Odasaku finally met his eyes.

The concern.

The exhaustion.

The quiet affection he never seemed to realize was there.

Dazai's chest tightened.

Oda would never cross that line himself.

Dazai knew that.

Which meant if this happened, it had to be him.

His choice.

His sin.

His ruin.

He slipped his free hand into the front of Oda's damp shirt and pulled.

Oda's grip loosened in surprise.

"Daza..."

The rest of the sentence vanished.

Dazai kissed him.

Soft, cold lips.

A sharp intake of breath.

The faint taste of whiskey.

And one fractured heartbeat.

The conference hall emptied in fragments. Executives leaving too quickly, subordinates keeping their heads lowered, armed guards pretending they hadn't just witnessed the emotional collapse of Port Mafia's most terrifying executive.

Mori was still smiling to himself like he'd discovered a particularly interesting wound to poke later.

Dazai looked ready to commit several felonies simultaneously.

Oda looked pale.

“C'mon,” Chuuya muttered, grabbing Dazai by the back of his coat. “You two are giving me a migraine.”

Dazai didn't even argue.

That was alarming enough on its own.

Rain still poured over Yokohama by the time they reached bar Lupin.

The city outside glowed red and gold through wet streets while jazz drifted low through the old bar downstairs.

Familiar place.

Quiet place.

One of the few corners of the world that didn't demand anything from them.

Chuuya led them upstairs to one of the private rooms.

Small table.

Dim lamp.

Worn sofa near the window.

Safe enough.

Without a word, Chuuya placed a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table.

Then he looked between them.

Dazai had gone frighteningly quiet again, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his gaze lowered.

Oda remained standing near the window, still carrying the ghost of that gunshot in his eyes.

Chuuya sighed deeply.

“I can't believe I'm about to say something sincere. This is disgusting.”

Neither responded.

Chuuya pointed at Oda.

“You...”

Oda blinked.

“Dazai's ruined.”

Dazai finally looked up.

“Chuuya,” he warned softly.

“No, shut up.” Chuuya looked genuinely irritated now. “I'm serious.”

Then he turned fully toward Oda.

“He's fucking gone for you.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Chuuya shoved both hands into his pockets.

“And honestly?” he muttered. “It's painful to watch at this point.”

Oda stared at him speechlessly.

Dazai looked like he wanted the floorboards to open and swallow him whole.

Chuuya groaned at both of them.

“Do something already.”

Then, before either could respond, he left.

_______________________________________

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Neither man spoke.

Oda slowly removed his coat and sat opposite Dazai at the low table. Whiskey poured amber between them, catching gold beneath the dim light.

One glass.

Then another.

Dazai kept staring into his drink.

Usually, he'd joke by now. Deflect. Smile. Turn the whole disaster into something clever and untouchable.

Tonight he had nothing.

Because Mori had seen it.

Chuuya had seen it.

Worst of all, Oda had seen it.

The whiskey burned going down.

“You shouldn't have done it.”

Oda frowned faintly.

“You heard me.”

Dazai's voice stayed soft.

“That no-kill rule... It meant everything to you.”

His eyes finally lifted toward Oda.

“You held onto it all these years in the Mafia. That's practically a miracle.”

There was no teasing in him tonight. No irony.

Just something painfully sincere.

“And you almost broke it because of me.”

Oda looked at him like the answer should've been obvious.

“What was I supposed to do?”

Dazai said nothing.

Oda leaned back slowly in his chair, gaze darkening.

“Let you die?”

The words came out rougher now.

“I can't do that.”

Dazai's breath caught almost imperceptibly.

“Because it's...you.”

Silence settled heavily between them.

Oda laughed once under his breath, humorless and tired.

“God, Dazai...” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I've known you since you were fifteen years old.”

Dazai listened quietly.

“The night you showed up bleeding all over my doorsteps.”

“The nights you burned up with fever and refused to stay in bed.”

Dazai's eyes softened.

“The first time you drank alcohol and threw up entire night.”

“That was Chuuya's fault.”

“You challenged him to a drinking contest.”

Dazai huffed the faintest laugh.

And Oda kept going.

“The first girl you brought to Lupin.”

Dazai groaned softly into his sleeve.

“She liked me.”

“She stole your wallet.”

Dazai finally smiled properly then.

Small.

Crooked.

Dangerously fond.

Oda's expression softened watching it.

“The first time you fired a gun,” he continued quietly. “The first time you fell asleep at my apartment. The first time you looked at me like...” He stopped himself.

Dazai tilted his head slightly.

“Like what?”

Oda looked away immediately.

Then he exhaled.

“Dazai,” he said quietly, “do you understand what you mean to me?”

Rain tapped softly against the glass.

“In this bloody, godless world we live in...” Oda swallowed once. “You're the one thing I want to protect.”

Dazai went utterly motionless.

Because nobody had ever said something like that to him before.

Slowly, he lowered himself further against the table.

His dark hair fell messily across his eyes.

And gently, he slipped his fingers into Oda's resting hand.

Oda startled immediately.

Dazai's touch was warm from the whiskey.

Their fingers threaded together beneath the dim light.

Dazai watched Oda the entire time.

Softly.

Openly.

Then, he whispers...

“Wanna go home, Saku-san?”

Oda blinked.

Completely caught off guard by the name.

“W-what?”

Dazai's thumb brushed once against his knuckles.

"Home."

He says, closing his eyes.

(Links to Part 1 and Part 2 are added at the end of this chapter)

The gun aimed at Dazai's head trembled.

Just slightly.

Enough for everyone in the room to notice.

Dazai himself stayed unnaturally still beneath the hands pinning him down. Four men held his arms and shoulders now, gripping hard enough to bruise. Not one of them looked comfortable doing it.

Across from him, Oda stared at the handgun still extended toward him.

Like it was something rotten.

“Pick it up,” Mori said mildly.

Nobody moved. The conference hall had become terrifyingly quiet.

Oda spoke first.

“No.”

Simple again.

Steady again.

But Dazai could see it now. The minute tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers curled once at his sides.

Mori smiled faintly.

“How stubborn.”

“Odasaku.” Dazai's voice cut across the room immediately. “Don't touch the gun.”

Oda looked at him.

That was the dangerous part.

Not the gun.

Not Mori.

The way Oda looked at him.

Like Dazai mattered more than the line he'd drawn for himself.

Dazai felt cold all of a sudden.

“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “It's fine.”

It wasn't.

Everyone knew it wasn't.

But Dazai would rather die than watch Oda destroy the one thing still keeping him human.

Mori sighed theatrically.

“You're making this unnecessarily difficult.”

Then he nodded toward the Mafia member holding the gun to Dazai's head.

“Shoot him.”

The man flinched violently.

“Boss...”

“Shoot.”

The operative's face had gone pale.

“This is Executive Dazai,” he said hoarsely. “I can't just...”

Mori's smile vanished.

Instantly.

Like a candle blown out.

“If you fail to obey,” Mori said calmly, “I'll personally shoot you instead.”

The room chilled.

The operative looked sick.

His grip on the gun faltered visibly now, panic creeping into every movement. Sweat rolled down the side of his face.

Dazai barely noticed him.

His eyes locked on Oda.

“Odasaku,” he said again, softer this time. “Please.”

It stunned the room more than the gun did.

Because Executive Dazai didn't beg.

Not for mercy. Not for help.

Not for anything.

But here he was, held down like an animal before slaughter, looking only at Oda.

“Don't kill for me.”

Oda's jaw tightened.

Mori watched the exchange with open fascination.

“How beautiful,” he murmured. “Two men trying desperately to protect each other from themselves.”

“Shut up,” Dazai snapped.

Mori ignored him completely.

“Sakunosuke-kun, the answer is simple.” Mori tilted the gun slightly toward Oda again. “One death or two.”

The operative near Dazai looked moments from collapse.

“Boss, please...”

“Quiet.”

Dazai struggled suddenly, hard enough that the men restraining him nearly lost hold.

“Odasaku!”

For one terrible second, emotion cracked clean through his composure.

Raw and naked.

“Don't you dare!”

The room froze around the sound of it.

Because Dazai sounded terrified.

Oda closed his eyes briefly.

Just once.

Then he stepped forward.

And took the gun.

A collective breath caught across the conference hall.

Dazai went completely still.

Oda held the weapon awkwardly, like something dragged from an old grave.

Mori smiled slowly.

“There you are.”

Oda ignored him.

His gaze stayed fixed on Dazai.

Dazai shook his head immediately.

Tiny movement.

Desperate.

Oda raised the gun.

The operative pointing at Dazai jerked in alarm.

“W-wait—”

BANG.

The shot exploded through the room.

Several gang members flinched violently.

Dazai's restraints loosened instantly as the men holding him recoiled.

Then silence crashed down.

Dazai stared.

No blood.

No body falling.

Nothing.

Oda's gun had clicked empty after the blank shot.

At the same moment, the operative's gun lowered shakily.

Also empty.

Realization spread slowly across the room.

Mori laughed.

Soft at first.

Then openly.

“Well done,” he said almost cheerfully.

Dazai's expression turned murderous.

Oda stood frozen, staring at the gun in his hand like he'd only just realized what he'd done.

Mori leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming.

“You see?” he said smoothly. “You merely needed the proper motivation.”

Oda's fingers tightened around the weapon.

Mori's smile sharpened.

“A killer never truly forgets how to kill.”

(Part 1 link added at the end of this chapter)

Mori rested his folded hands beneath his chin, watching the room with quiet amusement while tension coiled tighter and tighter around the conference hall.

In front of him, Dazai stood beside Oda like a drawn blade ready to draw blood at any moment.

Mori sighed softly.

“Well. This complicates things.”

“You've become quite attached, Dazai-kun.” Mori's smile sharpened slightly.

“Unfortunately, attachment inside the Mafia tends to become... inconvenient.”

Dazai's gaze went flat.

“What are you trying to say, Boss?”

Mori looked toward Oda.

“Sakunosuke-kun may remain in the Port Mafia.”

Oda blinked once, surprised.

Then Mori continued.

“On one condition..."

"He abandons his no-kill principle.”

Silence.

Cold and immediate.

Oda answered first.

“No.”

No hesitation.

No uncertainty.

Mori regarded him calmly.

"Don't you think you spoke too soon, Sakunosuke?”

“I won't kill.”

Oda's voice stayed even, but his shoulders had gone subtly tense.

“And if that makes me a liability, then I'll leave the Mafia.”

Dazai turned sharply toward him.

“Odasaku.”

Oda didn't look at him.

“I mean it.”

There was no fear in his expression, just that quiet, immovable certainty that meant Oda would suffer willingly before compromising himself.

Mori hummed thoughtfully.

“How noble!”

The word sounded dangerous in his mouth.

Then he lifted one finger.

Several armed men moved instantly.

Too fast.

Before Dazai could react properly, half a dozen Mafia operatives seized him from behind

The room erupted.

“What the hell are you doing?” Chuuya barked, half-rising from his chair.

Dazai twisted violently, but the restraints tightened around his arms and shoulders. More men moved in immediately.

“Odasaku,” Dazai snapped.

Oda had already stepped forward.

“Boss.”

For the first time all evening, genuine warning entered his voice.

Mori ignored it.

One of the operatives handed Mori a handgun.

Mori turned it lazily in his gloved hand before offering it toward another Mafia member standing nearby.

A nervous-looking man accepted it with trembling hands.

Then Mori drew a second gun from the table drawer.

And held it out toward Oda.

Oda stared at the weapon.

Did not take it.

Mori's voice remained almost gentle.

“You dislike killing, Sakunosuke-kun. I understand.”

Then he nodded toward Dazai.

“So let's simplify matters.”

The armed Mafia member turned shakily toward Dazai.

Gun raised.

Directly at his head.

Every muscle in Dazai's body went taut.

Not with fear, but something far more dangerous.

Because Oda looked horrified.

Mori extended the second gun again.

“If you do nothing,” Mori said sweetly, “Dazai dies.”

The room stopped breathing.

Dazai's eyes locked onto Oda instantly.

Oda still hadn't taken the weapon.

“You only need to kill one man,” Mori continued softly. “Break your rule once. Save him.”

The guy pointing the gun at Dazai looked terrified now.

Because this wasn't a test anymore...

It has turned into psychological warfare, and nobody can beat a psychopath in his own game.

Oda's hands remained empty at his sides.

Dazai could see the conflict tearing through him in real time.

The horror.

The anger.

The impossible choice.

And suddenly Dazai hated everyone in the room.

Hated Mori.

Hated the Mafia.

Hated himself most of all for becoming something Oda could lose.

“Odasaku,” Dazai said quietly.

Oda looked at him immediately.

Dazai forced a small smile onto his face.

“Don't do it.”

The gun against his head clicked.

Safety off.

Odazai ficlet

“You broke both their hands?”

The disappointment in Oda's voice was quiet.

Which somehow made it worse.

Rain tapped softly against the apartment windows while evening settled blue and heavy across the room. Oda stood near the sink washing dishes, sleeves rolled to his elbows, cigarette balanced at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Dazai sat cross-legged on the floor pretending intense interest in the floor pattern.

“They were being annoying,” Dazai muttered.

“That doesn't answer my question."

Dazai fell silent.

Oda dried his hands slowly before turning around.

“You could've ignored them.”

No.

That was the problem.

Dazai could ignore insults toward himself. He'd been called monster, demon, lunatic, Mori's rabid prodigy. None of it mattered.

But Oda?

Every insult toward Oda lodged somewhere beneath Dazai's ribs like shrapnel.

Because the world already took enough from him.

Because people mistook kindness for weakness.

Because Oda survived in darkness without letting it rot him from the inside, and Dazai found that so unbearably precious it made violence bloom in his throat.

But he couldn't explain any of that.

Not without sounding insane.

So instead, Dazai lowered his eyes.

"...Sorry."

Oda blinked once.

Dazai rarely apologized sincerely. He lied, joked, manipulated, evaded. But this apology arrived strangely bare.

“I made Odasaku upset,” Dazai said quietly.

The irritation in Oda's expression softened immediately.

Which was unfair too.

Everything about this man was unfair.

A week later, the monthly executive meeting gathered in one of the Port Mafia's underground conference halls.

Long mahogany table.

Dim lighting.

Enough armed guards outside to invade a small country.

Mori sat at the head of the table smiling with the pleasantness of a scalpel.

Dazai knew that smile.

It meant Mori was curious.

And curiosity, in Mori, was rarely harmless.

Executives discussed territory disputes while lower-ranking members stood along the walls awaiting orders. Oda was among them, expression calm as ever, hands tucked inside his coat.

Invisible by choice.

Mori swirled wine lazily in his glass.

“I heard,” he said lightly, “that Dazai-kun broke two members' hands over Sakunosuke-kun.”

Silence immediately fell around the table.

Dazai didn't react.

Chuuya, however, looked exhausted already.

Mori continued pleasantly.

“How touching. Though I struggle to understand this... bond.”

Dazai remained still.

The Boss's eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly.

“A man without ambition. Without cruelty. A Port Mafia member who refuses to kill.” Mori smiled faintly. “An utterly useless dog who doesn't bite.”

Several executives looked down instantly.

Not out of pity for Oda.

Out of self-preservation.

Everyone knew Mori was baiting a tiger with a meat hook.

Dazai recognized it too.

That's why he stayed silent.

His fingers curled once against the armrest. Nothing more.

Mori watched him carefully.

Measuring.

Testing.

Then, suddenly, casually, Mori flicked his wrist.

Red wine splashed across the floor.

Across Oda's trouser leg.

Across the polished leather of his shoe.

The room froze.

It wasn't a dramatic act. Barely even aggressive.

Which somehow made it more humiliating.

Oda himself looked more startled than offended.

“Apologies,” Mori said smoothly, without sounding apologetic at all.

Dazai stood.

Every eye followed him instantly.

The air changed.

Dazai walks across the room in complete silence, his beige coat brushing against the floor behind him.

He stopped directly in front of Oda.

Then knelt.

The entire room held its breath.

Dazai removed a neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket.

And without hesitation, began wiping the wine from Oda's shoe.

Oda went visibly red almost immediately.

“Dazai,” he said under his breath.

Dazai ignored him.

The conference hall remained utterly silent except for the faint sound of cloth against leather.

No one in Port Mafia history had ever seen an executive kneel for someone lower-ranking.

When Dazai finally looked up, his gaze met Mori's directly.

Cold.

Steady.

The message was crystal clear.

You may insult me.

But you will not humiliate him.

For the first time that evening, Mori's smile faltered by a fraction.

And around the room, seasoned killers realized with dawning horror that the most dangerous thing in the Port Mafia was not Dazai's violence.

It was his beating, bleeding heart.

The veil pulsed like a living heart around them.

Inside it, the world no longer existed.

Only white infinity.

Only black ruin.

Only the space between Gojo Satoru and Ryomen Sukuna.

Gojo’s jaw tightened.

“Stop talking and do what you need to do.”

But Sukuna saw it now.

The fracture beneath the untouchable surface.

The exhaustion leaking through the cracks in divinity.

It fascinated him.

“You ask me for death,” Sukuna said softly, “yet your eyes are begging for something else entirely.”

Gojo’s power flared violently.

Blue lightning split the air.

“Kill me,” he snapped.

The command echoed like thunder.

Sukuna only smiled wider.

“No.”

The single word hit harder than any technique.

Gojo’s breathing sharpened.

For years, enemies had feared him. Revered him. Hated him. But eventually they all arrived at the same conclusion:

Gojo Satoru was untouchable.

But Sukuna?

Sukuna walked directly into the center of him.

“You disappoint me, Satoru.”

He takes another step forward.

Infinity screamed under the pressure.

“With power like yours, why are you hiding inside a school playing teacher?”

“You could have ruled nations. Torn apart the balance of heaven itself.”

Sukuna’s lower right hand rose, tracing the air near Gojo’s throat without touching.

“And instead you lecture children about teamwork.”

Gojo’s eyes darkened.

“Shut up.”

But Sukuna’s smile sharpened.

“Tell me something.”

His voice lowered into velvet danger.

“If you possessed more power…”

A beat.

“Could you have saved Suguru Geto?”

The name detonated inside the veil.

For the first time since Sukuna entered, Gojo visibly flinched.

Memories flashed behind his eyes.

Suguru laughing beside him beneath summer sunlight.

Suguru walking away.

Suguru becoming something monstrous because Gojo had failed to reach him in time.

Because the strongest could destroy armies…

…but not save the one person who understood him.

The silence afterward felt holy.

Sukuna inhaled slowly, savoring it.

“There it is.”

Gojo looked away.

And that, more than anything, thrilled Sukuna.

The honored one could not withstand his own heart.

“You stand at the pinnacle of existence,” Sukuna murmured, “yet your life reeks of restraint.”

His massive frame loomed closer now, cursed energy cascading around him like a crimson ocean.

“You deny desire.”

“You deny hunger.”

“You deny yourself.”

Gojo laughed suddenly.

A broken sound.

“And what? You think becoming like you fixes that?”

“Yes.”

The answer came instantly.

Sukuna’s four eyes burned into him.

“You fear your own nature, Satoru.”

The air grew heavier.

“You were born transcendent. But instead of ascending, you chained yourself to humanity because loneliness frightened you.”

Gojo’s voice dropped dangerously.

“You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough.”

Sukuna leaned closer.

Close enough now that Gojo could feel his breath through Infinity.

Ancient.

Predatory.

“You want love.”

The words nearly stopped Gojo’s heart.

“And you hate yourself for it.”

Gojo froze.

Sukuna laughed quietly at the silence that followed.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

His upper hand reached toward Gojo’s face again.

Infinity cracked louder this time.

A spiderweb fracture across reality itself.

“You carry the face of a celestial being,” Sukuna said.

“Magnificent eyes. Magnificent body. Even your cursed energy is beautiful.”

Gojo stared at him, stunned into stillness.

“You could have anyone,” Sukuna continued softly. “Yet you have no one.”

The words slid beneath Gojo’s ribs like blades.

“You save everyone.”

A beat.

“But who reaches for you?”

Gojo’s throat tightened.

The veil trembled violently around them, reacting to his unstable energy.

Sukuna’s gaze darkened with satisfaction.

“There.”

He could see it now.

The deepest wound.

Not death.

Not failure.

Abandonment.

The strongest man alive feared one thing above all else:

Dying untouched.

Dying unseen.

Trapped in his own infinity.

Sukuna’s hand pressed harder against the invisible barrier between them.

Cracks spread across space with a shriek.

“You beg me to kill you,” Sukuna whispered.

“But what you truly want…”

Another crack.

“…is for someone to finally reach you.”

“Why are you overreacting so strongly over Sakunosuke-kun?”

Dazai wasn't smiling anymore.

When he finally spoke, his voice had lost all theatricality.

“Odasaku,” he said quietly, “is the reason I'm standing here today.”

Nobody breathed.

Dazai's eyes remained on Mori's.

“Seven years ago, I arrived bleeding at his doorstep.” His tone stayed calm. “He let me in.”

“And if anyone,” Dazai continued softly, “lays a finger on him again, they'll regret it.”