#dark content

It wasn’t bad music. You enjoyed his taste. You would just rather not hear it blasting through the walls at 2 am. 

A roommate disagreement. It’s the first one you’ve ever had. 

You want to do this right. Your biggest worry is offending him. You spend days figuring out the best way to approach him. You look up ways to gently bring up disagreements between your roommate. You fill a bag with treats and sweets–the kinds you’ve seen him munch on before. You even write a letter because you know how flighty you get in these situations, and you can’t thank him enough for all that he’s done for you, but if he could just maybe perhaps slightly–

“-So you just want me to turn the music down?” Gojo interrupts your rambling.

He’s sitting on the sofa, one leg across the other. You remain standing, too strung up to really relax. The paper you were reading out loud crinkles as you fold it back up. 

“Yeah.” You mumble. “If you can.” 

He takes another candy you’d gifted him, popping it in his mouth. 

“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs, as if it were hardly an inconvenience. 

You, on the other hand, nearly deflated in relief. You didn’t expect it to be so simple. You were half-preparing for the possibility that he’d blow up at you and go back to administration, demanding your eviction. Everything was resolved so easily. 

“Thank you.” A genuine smile graces your lips.

Gojo hums. The candy cracks between his teeth. 

“You’re pretty shy, huh?” He tilts his head, studying you.

A laugh escapes your throat. Nervous. 

“I just don’t like confrontation,” you admit. 

Gojo nods, returning your wave when you say your goodbyes. You think nothing of the exchange. Hours later, you’re still riding the high of how effortless it all went. 

⌂

Two things change today. 

First, Gojo is up this morning. 

He’s never up this early. Usually, you only hear him moving around at noon. You’re the early bird, not him. You never minded his routine. If anything, you appreciated that you ran on separate schedules. 

Second, he was naked. 

Gojo typically dresses conservatively: T-shirts, sweatpants, hoodies. He adorns the look of a typical college student most days. His tastes are a bit on the expensive side, considering how casually he wears luxury brands, but he’s mostly covered up.  

Today, Gojo walks around the kitchen in nothing but boxers.

You’re awkwardly standing in the hallway. You want to go back to your room and hide out until he leaves, but you’re already running late for class. Briefly, you think about keeping your head locked on the ground and slinking out the door. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he won’t notice you. 

You aren’t that lucky. 

Gojo looks at your miserable figure. There’s no embarrassment about how little he’s dressed. No apologies. No stutters that will make you feel the tiniest bit human. He bares his white teeth as he smiles. 

“‘Morning, roomie!” He chirps. 

You repeat the pleasantry with far less enthusiasm. You avoid looking at him directly, preferring to look at the counter, the floor, the refrigerator, anywhere that didn’t have Gojo in it. 

This was normal, you kept repeating to yourself. This is his house. You’re practically a squatter. He should be comfortable in his own home. He should wear whatever he wants. 

Besides, now you can make the most of your situation. You first considered skipping breakfast, given his situation. Now that the worst has happened, you could grab an apple or something. 

You slip past him. You think Gojo is making some type of smoothie, but you refuse to look directly at him to confirm. The fruit basket is right at your fingertips. You start to swipe the first one you can grab before making your escape.

Something presses against your back, caging you against the counter. You freeze. You feel hard muscle as Gojo reaches up to mess with the cabinets. 

“Sorry.” Gojo casually excuses, rifling through the shelves. “I’ll just be a second.”

One second. 

Five seconds. He’s still there. Your knuckles are white from how hard you’re gripping the counter. 

“Gojo–” 

“My music didn’t bother you last night, did it?” He asks. 

For a second, you wonder if that’s why he was doing this. Maybe you had offended him earlier with your complaint. But you don’t hear any resentment in his voice. He sounds cheerful. 

Delighted, even. 

“No,” you say, “it was fine.” 

He hums. When he finally pulls away, you get your autonomy back. You scramble away from the counter, not wanting to get caught again. 

“That’s good,” He says, “I’m glad you were upfront about this. We’re roommates! No use in hating eachother, right?” 

Temporary roommates, you correct in your head. 

“Also, we should use our first names from now on, roomie.” Gojo continues. “We should speak more comfortably.” 

Fine, whatever. You just wanted to leave. 

He suddenly leans in so he’s eye-to-eye with you. You hadn’t noticed it before, but his gaze is intense. You try to back away, but there’s nowhere to go. 

“Say it.” He lowers his voice. “Sa-to-ru.” 

It feels like he’s mocking you, but you can’t seem to find the joke. 

“Satoru,” you obey. 

He smiles. 

“Yeah.” He pulls away. “Just like that.” 

⌂

After a couple of washes, you finally notice its absence. 

It wasn’t the most expensive of your collection, but it was still pretty pricey. You liked the silk material and the dark red color. It was your favorite pair of panties. 

You skulk around the apartment, hoping it just fell from the basket. That, or the washer ate it. You tried not to think of the other option. 

 Days pass, and you give up searching. You decide to forget about it. You have other pairs. It’s not the end of the world. 

A part of you thinks about asking Satoru, but you’re quickly squashing it down. No way would you willingly ask him something so embarrassing. You just toss it to the back of your mind, hoping it will just show up again. 

And then, Satoru invites you into his room.

It’s not exactly an invitation. When you’re trudging home from class, he pops out from his room, excitedly telling you about a TV show before you’re being dragged inside. You’re not a big fan of the genre, and you have no interest in the show. It doesn’t matter to Satoru. You’re forced to sit on his bed as the characters on screen follow the script. 

He’s doing that a lot lately. Interrupting. Invading. You keep brushing off the thought that he’s testing you, somehow. 

“Roomie, this guy is so annoying.” Satoru comments. “Don’t worry, he dies in the next episode, so you don’t have to suffer for long.” 

You say nothing as he casually spoils the show for you. Honestly, you couldn’t care less. You were getting a little bored. Your eyes wander around his room. It’s cleaner than you thought it’d be. A few clothes are scattered around. A college hoodie hangs off the door. There are all sorts of papers on his desk, each is covered in meaningless algorithms you can’t decipher, and you suddenly remember he’s a physics major. You ask about maybe getting some math help from him later on, before you’re brushing that thought away. 

There’s a snap of fingers. Your gaze drifts back to Gojo. 

“Roomie, pay attention!” He whines, urging you back to the screen. 

There are only 10 minutes of the show left. Fine, you sit there, counting down the minutes until you can make your escape. 

Satoru’s hand brushes the edge of your bare thigh. 

He’s not exactly touching. You two are sitting pretty close. He was just sitting comfortably, resting his weight on his hands. It’s barely a touch, but it’s there. You can feel his fingers on your skin. 

He doesn’t move his hand back. It’s more likely because he doesn’t notice, you convince yourself. You’re overthinking things again. 

He shifts. His hand slips even closer. 

When you try to open your mouth, he hushes you with a, “This is the best part!” and all the courage leaves your body again. 

It feels like hours until the credits finally roll. Satoru steps off the bed to turn off the TV, and you make your move too, eager to find refuge in your room. 

“Oh yeah.” His voice stops you in your tracks. “What did you want to talk about earlier?” 

You stare. It feels crazy to bring up what happened just now. See? He didn’t even notice. 

But now, you have nothing to say, and saying nothing feels like a lie. 

“Did you see something in your laundry?” You blurt out before you can even think. 

Satoru encapsulates a picture-perfect replication of an innocent doe. He tilts his head in confusion. 

“Like what?” He asks. 

Dark red panties, with just the hint of lace. You can’t say it. You just can’t. 

“I think we might’ve swapped some clothes.” You unhelpfully murmur. “If you see anything…just let me know.” 

He nods. “Sure thing, Roomie!” He calls to you as you hurry back into your room and lock the door. 

Soon, Satoru’s actions turn less ambivalent. 

Sometimes, you’d hear him once or twice in the middle of the night. He’s loud. The walls thankfully muffle most of it, but you know what he’s doing. You usually just plug in your headphones and try not to look at him the next day. So far, things have worked out pretty well. 

Today, his door is wide open as he jerks off. 

You’re standing right next to your own door, mouth agape, forced to listen to his moans and babbles for five minutes. You’re already late for class.

But you can’t bring yourself to even open your door. 

To get out of the apartment, you’d have to cross Satoru’s room. The one that is currently open, where you’d see him stroking his dick. 

You know this is going too far. You needed to fucking do something already. There’s no way you can be kept a prisoner in your own home. 

And yet, you stay, forced to listen to him openly masturbate. 

“Fuck yes,” you can hear him say over and over again. “Just a little more, pretty girl. C’mon, just a bit–there we fucking go.” 

He’s talking to someone. No, that’s not right. He’s fantasizing about someone. 

More babblings and you’re squeezing your eyes shut as he comes. He curses again, and you stand there until you no longer want to melt into the floor. 

A few minutes later, you’re stomping around the room, trying to be as noisy as possible. You loudly adjust your bookbag and fiddle with your chair. You try to give him as much time as possible. 

By the time you come out, the apartment is back to normal. His door is still open. You stare straight ahead, ignoring the clear invitation to look as you pass his room. 

“Hey, Roomie.” Satoru casually calls from his place on the bed. 

You nearly trip over your own feet. Satoru gives a hiss. 

“You good?” He asks. 

No. 

“Yes.” You adjust your bag. “Just tripped.” 

“Okay.” You hear him shift. His bed creaks under the weight. “Have fun at class, pretty girl.” 

You slam the door a lot harder than you should. You were ten minutes late for class that day, but it doesn’t matter. As much as you tried to focus on your professor’s drones, your mind kept drifting to the name he called you right before you fled. 

No, no it couldn’t be. You needed to forget about it. 

Also, he was holding something in his hand. You didn’t know for sure, you didn’t want to stare but…

…it was a dark red piece of fabric. 

⌂

You like it when Satoru’s friends come over. They create a buffer between you and him. 

These days, you aren’t in the apartment as much. You’re out early. You come in late. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. You talk to him when he talks to you. You listen to whatever ramblings he has that day. You aren’t avoiding Satoru. 

Today is one of the few times he manages to catch you. Maybe you should count yourself lucky that he did it today, because Suguru was here. 

He lounges on the sofa as Satoru drags you behind him. Suguru barely glances up from his phone. He’s pretty used to Satoru’s antics. You aren’t. 

Satoru plops right next to his friend, picking up his remote. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” he says before frowning and glancing around. “There’s no more space.” 

He’s right. Both men are big, barely overcrowding the minuscule couch. You awkwardly loiter nearby as they both set up. You open your mouth, ready to say that you were fine with not joining, that you didn’t really care about a video game, no matter how awesomely Satoru described it. 

Satoru’s grin is filled with nothing but delight as he turns to you. 

“Here–” he eagerly pats his lap “–I've got plenty of space left, pretty girl.” 

You blanch, and his smile just grows wider. He starts to reach for you before his friend steps in. 

Suguru shoves him off the couch. Satoru dramatically collapses onto the floor. 

“Don’t be a dick.” Geto chides before motioning you to sit. 

You take a seat, with a relieved smile directed at Geto. Satoru grumbles from his spot on the floor, but he doesn’t try to move back as you thought he would. 

“I can’t believe you’re abusing me in my own home,” Satoru complains. “Where I pay rent.” 

“Your parents pay rent, you trust fund baby.” Geto is more than happy to refute. 

“Same thing.” Satoru rolls his eyes. “It’ll all go to me in the end.” 

Out of all of Satoru’s friends, Suguru seemed to have the biggest hold on his collar. They seemed close. Maybe their friendship had spanned years before college. You don’t know if anyone could bear to be around Satoru for that long, but maybe Suguru is that exception. 

You think you spend about an hour watching them play. You aren’t too interested in video games, much less combat games, but they seem to get a kick out of it. Eventually, Gojo demands to play with you. Geto relinquishes his remote to your reluctant hands, more than happy to go back to his phone. 

“Damn.” Satoru laughs as he kills you for the 4th time. “You’re bad at this.” 

You frown at the YOU LOSE on your side of the screen. 

“I haven’t played this before,” you respond. 

“I can tell.” 

He doesn’t seem particularly upset that his new gaming partner sucks. If anything, the more he kills you, the wider his smile gets. 

“We should place bets.” He suddenly pipes up. “However looses a round: strips.” 

You shrink. Geto rolls his eyes. 

“Satoru, stop bullying your roommate and play the game.” He leans back. “Let the poor thing breathe.” 

“Bullying?” Satoru sounds offended. “I’m joking. Y’know I’m joking, right?” 

He whirls around to look at you with wide eyes. You can’t tell whether he’s being genuine. You glance away. 

“Yeah.” You fiddle with the remote. “I know.” 

“See, it’s fine!” Instantly, Satoru forgets the game. He crowds into the couch to circle his arm around you, pulling you into his side. “You’re the only person who understands my humor, pretty girl.” He sighs. 

“This sounds more and more like a hostage situation.” Suguru idly comments. 

But when you look at him, really look at him, you can see the apathy clear in his eyes. 

Maybe that’s why they got along so well. 

“Shut up.” Satoru snaps. 

“You’ll tell me, though, right?” Satoru says as he snuggles even closer. “If I’m going too far?” 

You want him to get off of you. You know he knows, too. 

“I will.” You say instead. 

Satoru grins, continuing to swaddle you with his body. 

“See?” He blows a raspberry in Suguru’s direction. “My Roomie loves me.” 

⌂

Sometimes you prefer to be alone with Satoru. He just gets worse with more people around. 

The club he dragged you into was smoky, with the occasional lights that flicked and changed colors, illuminating the floor. It was crowded. Someone spilled a drink on the floor earlier that night. The sweet sticky scent lingered in the air. 

Satoru had brought a couple of other people too, more than happy to stuff the lot of you into his car before driving off. One of Satoru’s other friends, Shoko, was here somewhere. Suguru was here too, but you lost sight of him sometime back. You, standing against the wall, wonder if you could take a bus back to the apartment. 

The only person in your line of sight was Satoru. 

Earlier, he’d asked if you wanted to dance. You declined. You thought he’d make a bigger fuss out of it, like usually he does when you don’t fully accommodate him. Instead, he shrugged off your rejection, casually tossing over his shoulder to ‘join in at any time’. 

Someone else was with him. She was shorter than him, even with the heels. You watch as she drags manicured nails across his arms as he leans down to kiss her. You doubt they know each other. Satoru’s just like that. Overly friendly. 

It reminds you of all the people he brings over for ‘late-night study sessions’. Apart from the noise, you don’t mind the girls and guys. Most of them are pretty nice. They actually give you a lot of relief whenever you see them. For a second there, you thought that the reason Satoru was doing this to you was that he–

So yes, the people he brings over are a nice thing. 

Someone clears his throat. 

You don’t recognize him. His grin is sheepish. Polite, you smile back. 

The small talk is a bit awkward at first. It’s hard to hear him with the screaming crowd and music. You two exchange names. He comments on the phone case you have, claiming his sister likes that character too. He perks up when he says something that makes you laugh. 

“Did you come here with anyone?” He finally asks. 

“My roommate,” you offer, turning your head to point to Gojo. 

He isn’t there. Neither is the girl he danced with earlier. You wonder if he decided to ditch you and take her home. You don’t think you’d be surprised if he did. 

At the implication you aren’t seeing anyone, he asks: 

“Can I get you a drink?” 

You think you’re about to refuse. You know Satoru and the rest of his group will be drunk by the time the night ends. You’re pretty sure the only reason you were dragged along was to play babysitter and drive them home. 

You open your mouth for a polite rejection. 

Satoru does it for you. 

He was fast. You hadn’t noticed him until he was putting himself right between you and your conversational partner. 

Satoru’s smiling. It doesn’t look friendly. 

“Hey man,” Satoru casually says, “the fuck are you doing?” 

He can read between the lines, something you’re grateful for. Within seconds, the stranger is hurrying off. Lucky, you think to yourself, watching his back disappear into the crowd. Satoru lets him go so easily. 

Unlike you. 

He turns on you almost immediately. You want to sink into the wall. 

“We’re going.” He finally says. 

You pliantly nod, letting him lead you out the seedy club. Only when you get to his car do you realize he meant just you and him. 

“What about–” You cut yourself off when you see his eyes. 

Dark. They no longer resemble the color of cloudless skies. Now, they’re more like thunder and rain. 

You’ve never seen him more furious than the entire time you’ve known him. 

You remain silent as you slip into the passenger seat, tucking yourself into the seatbelt. Satoru starts the car with a distinct rumble. The locks click into place. 

You’ve always known Gojo to be an erratic driver. Tonight feels even worse. His knuckles are white from how hard he’s squeezing the steering wheel. The car keeps speeding up and up, careening past the speed limit. You can hear your heartbeat thudding in your chest. 

And Satoru? 

Satoru looks like he’s about to murder someone. 

“Who was that?” His voice is cold, devoid of all the playfulness he had earlier tonight. 

“I don’t–” 

“Who the fuck was he?” He demands. 

You flinch, and your hands curl into fists to keep them from shaking too much. You can’t do anything but stare into the window, watching the night sky dwindle past with all the other cars on the highway. 

“I didn’t know him.” You weakly tried to defend, even if you didn’t know why. Your instinct was to placate. “He just came up to me, and we started to talk.” 

He laughs. It’s dry, bitter, and sardonic. 

“Okay.” He tells you, turning the wheel so sharply that you press further into the door. “I let you outta’ my sight for two seconds, and you’re letting some fucker feel you up?” 

“I–” 

“What’d you two talk about?” He demands. “Did he ask if he could touch your pussy? If he did, you would’ve let him, right? I mean, you were practically throwing yourself at him like a slut, so maybe the guy thought he had a chance.” 

It hurts to breathe. Something stings in your eyes as your vision blurs. 

No one has ever said such horrible things to you before. 

“Nothing like that happened.” You insist. Why was he doing this? Why was he acting like this? “Please just–” 

“Shut up.” He snaps back. “What, you seriously thought anyone would fall for the shit you pull? You think he actually cared for you? Don’t make me laugh. He only wanted your tits and holes.” 

The words Satoru barks out are mean and vulgar. Your body freely shakes, you press yourself further up against the door, feeling tears stream down your cheeks. Satoru’s voice only softens when your hiccups and sobs fill the car. 

“Baby, no, I–I didn’t mean that shit.” His voice is oddly strained. You feel fingers brush against your neck, but you only shift away. 

You didn’t want to be in that club. You didn’t want to talk to that man. You didn’t want to get into Satoru’s car. You just wanted to go home. 

He can’t even let you have that. 

“No, pretty girl, it’s okay,” Satoru comforts, “Don’t–don’t cry–Fuck fuck.” 

The car slows to a stop right in an abandoned parking lot. Satoru kills the engine, letting the car hum into silence. Whatever happens, you think it will happen now. At this very moment. You prepare yourself for the worst, squeezing your eyes shut.

But it’s even worse. 

There’s a hiss of a zipper. Your eyes open just in time to see Satoru pull out his dripping cock. 

He’s already hard. His cock curves up, almost touching the steering wheel as he wraps his fingers around the base. The tip is painfully swollen as beads of pre-cum leak down his cock. Veins bulge against his skin as he frantically pushes his hand up and down. 

Your fear melts straight into horror as you stare at him. He’s staring right at you, desperately pumping his cock with his hand. The worst part is his eyes–wide, blown out like he’s high. He looks right at you like he wants to eat you alive. 

You’re immediately reaching for the handle. No matter how much you tug, the car won’t open. You’re trapped there, forced to watch as your roommate jerks himself off in front of you because your crying turned him on. 

Your sobs quieten. All you can hear in the car is his moans and the words he mouths, your name over and over again.

You think the worst part is that he still tries to talk to you, to comfort you. 

“You’re okay–you’re okay, baby.” He’s spitting the words out through his teeth as his hand throttles his pulsing dick. “Lemme–lemme–can’t help m’self–just–”, 

You flinch when he comes. His cock spurts white cum all over his hands. 

You’re fully silent. The only thing you can hear is his heavy breathing as he cleans up. 

You think he’s about to reach for you. His fingers never make contact. 

You stare out the window. Everything’s dark. Nobody was around. No one was around to see you. To hear you. 

Even if someone was around…what could you say? 

“Can we go home, please?” 

There’s a sharp inhale.

“Sure.”  The affection in his tone makes you nauseous. 

You close your eyes.

“Anything for you, pretty girl.” 

⌂

Ten minutes later, you’re still twiddling your fingers in the waiting room. 

Getting this appointment had been excruciatingly difficult. Constant last-minute cancellations. Reschedules. It felt like they were trying to deter you from entering the housing office. 

They promised you this was a temporary arrangement. You were only supposed to be at Satoru’s place for a month, maybe even less. But then one month turned to two. Two months turned to three. You don’t think you’d last another day in that apartment. 

He was getting worse each day. It was only a matter of them until he—

A man steps into the lounge. He’s tall and lanky, carrying a smile that screams dismissive. You perk up as he squints at you. When he calls your name, you immediately rise, following him into the back of his office. 

It’s stuffy. There are papers everywhere. You squish into a chair just before he starts talking. 

It’s the usual stuff. You spell out your name, and he pulls up your housing account. He squints at the computer. 

“You said this was a temporary assignment?” He asks. 

You eagerly nod, straightening your posture. 

“Yes,” you say. “My roommate wasn’t supposed to have another one, but there was a mix-up and—“

“No.” He taps on the screen. “You said it was temporary, but here it says it’s permanent.” 

You swallow. 

“What?” 

He messes around with his mouse for a bit. Your hands feel strangely clammy. 

“Ah, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “It says you came in a month ago wanting to make the change. I see your and your roommates' signatures. You must have come here a while ago.” 

You struggle to find the words. 

“I don’t—“ 

“In any case, it’s too late to change anything now. The deadline for reassignment passed weeks ago.” He gives you a sympathetic look that strangely cuts deep into your skin. 

“Are you and your roommate having issues?”

You think about the truth. 

“No,” you hear yourself say. “Everything is fine.” 

You don’t remember much after that. You think you were polite as you stood up. You think you shook his hand. You think you walked out of his stuffy office and out of that stifling building. Everything is a blur until you step into the sunlight, feeling it beat down your face. 

You don’t want to go back to the apartment. You still feel too raw, too fresh. 

You don’t have any classes left for today. You can’t hide out on campus. Satoru will find you. He always finds you. Maybe you should stay at a friend’s place and recuperate. 

Right, you don’t have any friends. Satoru made sure of that. 

Briefly, you think about going to the police. Could you maybe use them as a buffer somehow? At the very least, it might scare him from taking this any further. 

But then you glance over at the campus buildings. The name Gojo flashes brightly in the sun. 

You aren’t stupid. You may not know his family all that well, but you know the influence of his background. There is a reason his campus apartment is thrice the size of everyone else’s. There is a reason he wasn’t supposed to have a roommate in the first place. 

He is everything. He has everything. 

You are nothing. You have nothing. 

When you arrive at the apartment ten minutes later, Satoru is already lounging on the couch. 

He excitedly waves you over. When you get inside striking range, he reaches out, pulling you onto the cushions. You pretend not to notice the way he breathes in your scent as you settle on the sofa. An arm wraps around your body, pushing you into his side. 

“Where were you, roomie?” Satoru whines. “Didn’t class end an hour ago?” It would be a harmless question if his grip weren’t so tight. You won’t be surprised if you find a bruise there in a day or two. 

Something plays on the TV. Neither of you pays attention. 

“Sorry.” It’s all you can muster to say. 

He seems satisfied with your answer–the submission of it. You find yourself counting down the clock. Seven minutes go by before you speak up again. 

“Satoru?” You ask.

There’s a distant hum of an answer. 

“Did you tell Housing I was staying?” 

For the longest while, Satoru does not speak. Then, he relaxes. He groans, easily delving into your space. A hand rests on your thigh. 

“Oh, that.” There’s a yawn. “Yeah, I just went ahead and told them you didn’t need to move out. We were getting along so well, ‘makes no sense why you’d get a different apartment, right? Sounds like a hassle moving halfway through the semester.” 

Then he shifts. You can feel him stare right down at you. 

“Unless you have a problem with that?” 

He doesn’t even bother to hide it. Pure excitement. 

Was there ever a possibility you could’ve come out unscathed had you just stood up to him earlier? Maybe you should’ve been a bit less timid when speaking to him about his music. Maybe you should’ve commented on his lack of clothing around the house. 

Or maybe it was always going to end up this way. 

“No.” You tell him, staring straight at the TV. “I don’t have a problem with that.” 

A couple of days later, another pair of panties goes missing. 

Unlike last time, you don’t bother looking for it. 

⌂

You always locked your door at night, but looking back, it was stupid to assume Satoru didn’t have a spare key. 

This is his apartment, after all. 

The lock gives with barely a click. You’re already wide awake, body rigid, tucked underneath the covers as hallway light bleeds into the room. You’re facing the textured wall, watching as his shadow drifts into your bedroom. The door shuts in a way that sounds final. It’s dark again. 

He’s quiet. You can barely hear the sounds of his breath. There’s a footstep. Then, another. Eventually, he’s right behind you. 

You don’t know what he was doing. You’re too scared to turn and check. Naively, you think if you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

One minute. 

Two minutes. He’s so still, for a moment, you wonder if you imagined the whole thing. 

The edge of your blankets lifts. Your bed creaks under his weight. His chest presses against your back. Warm hands grasp your shoulders. 

He’ll leave eventually. If you pretend to be asleep, he’ll leave. 

You squeeze your eyes shut when his head nuzzles into the crook of your neck. He inhales. 

Fingers play with the ends of your shirt. 

He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave soon. He’ll leave–

“You’re not gonna stop me, are you?” His voice makes your shoulders tense. You can practically hear his smile. 

His fingers manage to slip under your shirt. You can barely hold in your gasp when he grabs a handful of your tits. He doesn’t even bother to be gentle, squeezing and pulling until you’re practically whining. 

“C’mon.” Satoru coos into your ear. There’s a kiss on your neck. “Say it. Tell me no.” 

He nibbles the skin right on your jawline. His hair tickles your cheek. 

Your hands reach out to grab his own. You squeeze, digging your nails into his skin. 

“Please stop.” 

He laughs–the kind of laugh you’d give to a toddler if they misbehave. It feels so mean. 

“You’re so cute.” Another kiss right at your ear.

“Stop.” You repeat. His hands don’t budge, not even when you start to draw blood. “Let go. Don’t–don’t touch me–” 

He flips you right on your back. From the streetlights peaking through the blinds, you can see his face. The widest smile is stretched over his pretty lips. It looks almost manic. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Can I kiss you?” He asks. It’s almost cruel how soft his voice is. 

You shake your head. His teeth gleam. 

“Please?” He leans closer. “Just one kiss?” 

It’s heartbreaking how sweet the kiss is. Soft, barely touching as he melds his lips with yours. He keeps a hand on your chin, holding you in place before the greed takes over and he ravages you. 

By the time he pulls away, your lips are bitten and bruised.

He sinks lower, face dipping into the skin of your neck as he makes himself home there. It’s laughingly pathetic how weak you were compared to him–how little you fare when he pulls off your shirt, then your shorts. Soon, his clothes join yours, leaving a small puddle of cloth at the foot of your bed. 

He pulls away from your body, looking over the whole of you. 

“Oh, baby.” His eyes are blown out like he’s high. “I…I just wanna do everything to you.” 

You can’t hold back the tears anymore. They drip down your face, sculpting your cheeks. He coos, sinking lower to pepper your face in kisses. 

“I’m sorry, baby.” The excitement in his voice betrays him. “Don’t cry. I won’t do anything bad, I promise.” 

Liar, you want to call him, but you don’t. You can’t. Your throat traps your voice as his fingers delve underneath your panties. 

There’s no tact as he presses into you, immediately filling you up with his finger. Your pussy can barely fit one of him, almost choking when he slips in another. There’s no rhythm, no grace for how fragile you are as he thrusts his fingers deeper and deeper. 

You can barely muffle your cries as he hits a spot deep inside you. 

“See?” he asks, toying with your clit. “Not bad things, right?” 

You don’t answer, barely able to keep the noises in check as he abruptly pulls out of you. His fingers are shiny from your pussy juices. He crudely wipes his fingers on your tits. 

You’ve seen his cock before, but it looks even bigger from this angle. It slaps against your inner thighs as he finishes yanking off your drenched panties. The mushroom-tipped head brushes against your slit. He tosses one of your legs over his shoulder, opening your hole just enough to get his cock in the perfect position. 

The fight comes in too late. You think you’re reaching up to claw at his face, those pretty blue eyes. 

It dies as he bottoms out inside your pussy in one thrust. 

He doesn’t wait for you to settle down; he’s not kind enough for that. As soon as his cock sits as deep as it can into your pussy, he’s immediately moving. Your abused cunt immediately tightens around his cock, almost like you’re trying to suck him back in. 

You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel Satoru collapse on top of you. His head drops into the crook of your neck. You can hear his ragged breaths as he fucks himself deeper and deeper into you. 

“‘need you to relax for me, baby.” He hisses like it’s your fault he can’t control himself. “Can–can barely fit into this cunt.” 

To emphasize his words, he reaches down. There’s a soft slap right on your clit. You yelp. He soothes you with gentle circles with his thumb. 

“Satoru,” you can barely get out from the pressure, “please just stop–” Another smack on your pussy. Harder. 

“Can’t stop.” His breaths are ragged, and his hips shift so he can plow into you at a different angle. “Can’t ever stop. Not when I know how good you feel.” 

There’s a rasp of a laugh as your own noises get louder and louder. Your back arches. Something hot writhes in your belly the more the fucks you. He’s gripping your waist so harshly that you know they’ll leave bruises. 

It’ll pair well with the clawmarks you leave on his back as you arch further into his raw cock. 

There’s a sharp hiss before he’s kissing you again. There’s a harsh thrust that makes you moan directly into his mouth. He reluctantly pulls away, licking the taste of you out of his mouth. 

“I’m so glad I found you.” He tells you, continuing to ram into your pussy. 

“Can’t even imagine how–how someone else would react to you just givin’ yourself to ‘em. Fuck, even thinkin’ about it makes me wanna kill someone.” 

Distantly, you think about all the times you could’ve stopped him. You think about what you could’ve done differently to never cross paths with a man like Gojo Satoru. 

“You’re all for me.” He sighs, leaning close so he’s whispering right in your ear. 

He wants you to hear this right before he makes you cum all over his cock. 

“It’s all you’ll ever be.” 

You're writhing against his cock as he forces you through an earth-shattering orgasm. Your pussy clenches hard around him, milking him for all he’s worth as your climax is reluctantly dragged out of your exhausted body. 

There’s a grunt, then a sigh as something fills you to the brim. His cock pumps his cum steadily into you. There’s so much your poor pussy can’t keep it all inside. It leaks crudely from your hole. 

He stays like that for a minute, breathing you in as you start to come down from your high. Then, Satoru flops to your side, gathering up in your arms. You’re forced to lie against his chest, listening to his quickening heartbeat. 

The anger comes too late to do anything about. 

“I hate you.” You hiss as he continues to cuddle you. “I hate you, I hate you–you sick, twisted–”

“Aw, you don’t gotta’ pretend to be mean with me, pretty girl.” Satoru coos, snuggling into your exhausted figure. You can feel the hard shape of his cock press right against your thigh. 

There’s a chaste kiss on the top of your head. 

***

He can't believe he's dating the cutest in the world. Everytime you scowl, show that adorable pout, he just wants to squish your cheeks together and kiss you plenty. Like a little kitty hissing when you sneer curses at him.

It's adorable really.

You'd say you didn't want to go to the movies he chose. Yet, you arrived earlier than expected, wearing a hint of makeup in that cute dress of yours. Makes him want to crush you. You put in the effort, took the time, even gave him the watch he'd been talking about—his favorite.

He really loves you. Really really loves you but why are you acting like he doesn't? He's confused. Hasn't he done enough to show you, tell how much he adores you? It makes him sad. Don't you know how much he's holding back? There's only so much he could take, you know. He could just take you everytime you run that cute foul mouth of you, shove his cock to make you shut up. But he's so patient with you because he loves you.

So don't push him too much, ok? Or else you might not like it when he finally show you his desire.

***

"You're late," you grumble, sending him a glare. Your arms are crossed, and your foot taps impatiently on the ground.

He chuckles, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I arrived just on time, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. "You're just too excited for our date, no?" His voice is teasing, but his eyes are warm, sparkling with affection.

You huff in response, but you can feel the corners of your mouth betraying you, tugging into a smile. He notices and takes your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"You're just so cute, you know? I really wanna crush— ow!" He hiss slightly as you swat his arm. He pouts a little, "You're strong, you're gonna leave a bruise."

You roll your eyes— as if that's gonna happen. Huffing you tug on his hand, "Let's go. I'm starving."

He smiles, looking at your back, "Ok, sweetie~."

Ah, you really are so cute.

He can't wait to fuck you.

***

"Why're you not eating, sweetie? Is the food not to your liking?"

Your appetite was gone the moment that waitress flirted with him, leaving you empty and bitter. This always happen. You're sick of it, sick of being jealous and feeling shitty for not looking like his girlfriend. Are you really worthless by his side? Do people not see you as his companion?

"Sweetie?"

You didn't want to lash out on him so you remained silent. Too bitter to talk. Even the food turned bitter, leaving you more upset.

He's such an idiot. But you're more of an idiot for being triggered by that stupid waitress, too much of a wuss to tell her he's taken, that he's yours. You're the idiot.

"I don't wanna eat anymore," you bitterly muttered, your face covered by the shadows of your hair, hiding that frown you wore he always seems to love on you.

He gets a sick twisted feeling in his guts, watching how jealous you get whenever some worthless wench tries to get his attention. It satisfies his urge, his sick thoughts hidden by his angelic face. You really love him, don't you? His lips curving into a sweet smile, eyes twinkling with desires. If only you know how much he gets off with you being jealous, you'd never doubted your pretty little self.

So… why are you saying such stupid things?

“Let’s break up.”

“Hm?”

“I said…” You take a breath, steadying your voice. “Let’s break up.”

For a moment, his smile wavers. Just a fraction. His right eye twitches ever so slightly, a crack in the carefully crafted mask he wears. But then, like a master of illusions, he recovers, his sweet facade sliding back into place, though something darker lingers beneath the surface.

“Now, now,” he says, his voice dripping with a saccharine softness that makes the hairs on your neck stand on end. “What’s the matter?” His tone is gentle, almost soothing, but there’s a sharp edge to it—a venomous undercurrent that cuts through the air.

You don’t answer immediately, your chest tightening under his unblinking stare. It’s as if he’s waiting, watching every little twitch of your expression, trying to peel you apart without lifting a finger.

“I just think…” you start, your voice faltering as his head tilts slightly, his smile remaining unnervingly intact. “I-I think we’re not… good for each other anymore.”

His smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, his gaze sharpens, a predator sizing up its prey. He takes a step closer, the air between you growing heavy. “Not good for each other?” he repeats, feigning confusion. “Sweetheart, where’s this nonsense coming from? Didn’t we promise forever?”

The sweetness in his tone sends a chill down your spine, but you hold your ground. “Forever shouldn’t feel like this,” you say, trying to steady your trembling hands.

It shouldn't make you feel bad about yourself, shouldn't make you anxious, shouldn't make feel... pressured.

For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes boring into yours. Then, his chuckle breaks the tension, soft and low. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for you to feel the weight of his presence. “You’re upset. That’s all. We’ll talk this through, won’t we?”

But his words aren’t a question—they’re a command, wrapped in the guise of concern. And as his smile lingers, you realize leaving might not be as simple as you hoped.

***

Why is this happening?

You thought he would accept and move on.

"Mmm, that's it sweetie. Take it deeper." He coaxes, his grip on your hair tightening. He starts to push forward, forcing more of his thick length past your stretched lips.

So why?

Your eyes squeeze shut tighter as he pushes in deeper, your throat convulsing around his invading cock. He throws his head back with a guttural moan.

"That's a good girl. Mhm, your throat feels so good wrapped around my dick." He grunts, starting to set a steady pace. Fucking into your mouth, using your face like a cock sleeve.

It was gross. He never did that to you.

Lewd, wet sounds fill the office as he picks up speed, his heavy balls slapping against your chin with each rough thrust. Drool escapes the seal of your lips, dripping down your chin and onto your messed up clothes.

He looks down, taking in the debauched sight of you on your knees, choking on his cock. His dick is spit-shined and glistening, streaked with their drool. Shit. The sight makes him thrust harder, faster, chasing his pleasure.

"Look at me," He demands breathlessly, wanting to see the tears and desperation in their eyes as he uses their mouth ruthlessly. He's close, so fucking close already from the intense, vice-like grip of your inexperienced throat. He grunts and curses, slamming forward one last time before pulling out abruptly.

Thick ropes of cum paint your face and hair, marking you as his. Some of it even lands in your eyes, making them sting and water.

"You're so pretty... You look so pretty covered in my cum," he whispers lovingly, smearing the head of his cock across your messy face, pushing the hot seed into their skin like makeup. "The prettiest girl in the world."

You were supposed to break up with him...

How did it escalated to this?

***

It's not like he's losing a lot... you aren't that special. So why is he acting this way? There are a lot of better options for him, prettier, smarter, and richer girls. Someone who can actually match him, who doesn't embarrass him, worthier to stand beside him.

Why is he fucking you like his life depends on it?

Your eyes already hazy and unfocused, breathing hard as you couldn't count how many times you've already come.

One of his hands snakes up your trembling body, finding a soft breast. He squeezes the supple mound roughly, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh as he kneads and gropes. He finds a pert nipple and pinches it cruelly between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until it stands stiff and aching in the cool air of the room.

"Hm? Are you already tired? We're just starting," he coo, his hips slamming forward with renewed vigor. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin. He bites and sucks, determined to leave his mark on you, to claim you as his own. His. He can feel his orgasm building, his heavy balls tightening as he ruts into your abused cunt. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling fill the room, punctuated by the creaking of the bed and your cries. He's close, so fucking close to filling your cunt with his seed.

"Gonna... hngh... fill this pussy..." He grunts between clenched teeth, slamming home one last time. His cock throbs and pulses as he starts to come, thick ropes of hot cum painting your inner walls. He grinds against them, making sure they take every last drop as he marks your womb with his essence.

Finally, with a last shuddering groan, he collapses on top of you, his softening cock still buried deep inside your tender, cream-filled pussy. He pants harshly against the shell of their ear, his hands still groping and fondling your sensitive body.

"Y-You're an idiot..." You sniffle, "Why me? There's a lot of—."

He cuts you off, "You know, I would never cheat on you, right?" He whispers tenderly, kissing your ears as if assuring. "No matter who comes to me, I would never pay attention to them. Never. You're the only one I want." His other hand comes up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his intense, burning gaze.

It was the first time you ever heard his voice to be so... vulnerable.

"The only girl I want... So..." You can hear his voice shake, "Don't break up with me, ok?"

Your eyes glaze with tears, your heart tugging at his words. No, it wasn't supposed to end up like this. You made up your mind a few weeks ago, always nagging at the back of your mind. Ending your relationship would be the best for you two—.

He kisses you then, any doubts in your mind disappearing as his mouth claiming theirs in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue pushes past your lips, plundering the warm cavern as he grinds his hips forward, rubbing his throbbing erection against your thigh.

Ah, you don't care anymore.

"Don't think anymore, ok? Just let me do it for you."

He starts to rub the broad head of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your combined juices. "Tell you what, sweetheart. I'll be gentle like the usual... for now." He promises darkly, his voice rough with restrained lust. "I'll make this first part nice and slow, nice and easy for you."

"H-Huh?"

With that, he starts to push forward, the thick length of his cock slowly sinking into your tight, clutching heat. He has to fight the urge to slam forward, to bury himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. But he resists, forcing himself to go slowly, to savor the exquisite feeling of your walls stretching around him.

"Ah, you're still so tight." He grits out through clenched teeth, his fingers flexing against your hips as he fights for control. "Such a perfect cunt."

"Too soon! I'm still... s-sensitive!" You cried out but he starts to move then, his hips rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm as he fucks into you with deep, deliberate strokes. Each thrust pushes him a little deeper, a little harder, until he's finally buried to the hilt inside you. He pauses for a moment, letting you feel the heavy weight of him, the way he's stretching you impossibly full.

"Hehe, sorry can't help it. Does that feel gentle enough for you, sweetie?" He asks, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, yet his angelic face covers it. "Or do you need me to be even more... careful?" He punctuates the word with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding his pelvis against your clit.

Your brain short circuit by the overstimulation, all you could think about was him, and his big cock, "A-Ah, you— ish... so good~!"

He snarls in feral pleasure as he feels your pussy clench and ripple around his pistoning cock. The way you are moaning and crying out, begging him not to stop... it's the headiest fucking thing he's ever heard. It makes him want to ruin you, to fuck you so hard and so deep that you'll never forget the feeling of his cock splitting you open.

You came in surprise, your eyes rolling in the back of your head, chest heaving, "C-Can't too much..!"

"You can do it," He growls, his voice a dark, distorted rumble. He can feel his own release building, his balls drawing up tight as he fucks into you with wild abandon, "A-ah~ clench this greedy cunt around my dick, dollface. Milk it for all it's worth.

You never saw this side of him before, a more vulgar side to him. Spouting dirty words that's the opposite of his facade. Maybe, you didn't know your boyfriend that well? He was always gentleman to you in bed, always going with your pace and being mindful about his words but now...

"N-No~ I really ah! Can't!" You shake your head frantically, having enough of the sensitivity.

"Yes, you can! You will, sweetie~!"

He buries his face in the crook of her neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin as he chases his pleasure. He wants to mark you, to leave his claim all over your body for everyone to see. He wants the whole world to know that you belong to him, that you're his to fuck and fill and love as he sees fit. The thought of another man putting his hand on you makes him mad, you're only his and he isn't afraid to take that way for you to be officially his.

"I'm gonna cum, sweetie." He grits out, his hips slamming forward with sharp, brutal thrusts. "I'm gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my seed, gonna breed this fucking cunt until it's dripping with my cum."

Breed?

He reaches down, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing mercilessly at the sensitive bundle of nerves. "I want to feel you cum on my cock, sweetheart. I want to feel you shake and quake as I fill you with my my child."

Wait...!

His other hand slides up, wrapping around your throat and squeezing lightly. It's enough to make you gasp for air, pulse jumping wildly beneath his touch. It's enough to make you even tighter, body instinctively clenching down around him as he fucks into you with short, vicious thrusts.

Too much!

"Now, sweetie~ cum. Now." He commands, his voice a dark and sinful. And with a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself balls deep inside her and starts to cum. His cock jerks and pulses as he paints your insides with thick ropes of his hot seed, filling you up just like he promised.

So full...

You gasp out, your skin flushed and damp with sweat. The room spins around you, his weight pressing you down into the mattress as you struggle to catch your breath. Body aches all over, especially between your legs. The feeling of his cum painting your insides is strange, unsettling.

Your vision having black spots, your consciousness fading as you hear him murmur promises to you.

"I'll take responsibility whether we have a child or not, we'll get married and have a cute child."

You feel a warm kiss on your forehead.

The first time it happened, you'd been mortified. It was a gorgeous, spring morning, and you'd entered the Church of Favonius with your head held high, cheeks sun-kissed and glowy like your content smile. You carried pages of the day's scripture readings, neatly organised into their respective orders, and ended with them scattered messily across the floor, swiftly forgotten.

Who could blame you when you were greeted with the sight your heart lurched at, and had you screaming til you were breathless?

It had been the third row from the front, and the second-to-last seat away from where you stood rock-solid in the aisle. Your eyes were puffy and as red as the blood splattered across the wooden seating and the grand marble tiles.

No amount of comforting from your fellow sisters would've expelled the morbid memory now engraved into your brain. They'd arrived moments after in a panicked frenzy upon hearing your scream to find you sobbing on the floor, your beloved scriptures in disarray around your kneeling figure, and your hand pressed so tightly to your mouth you were surprised your shock hadn't suffocated you.

They'd all paled even greater than you had when their eyes followed your shaky pointing.

The second time was the 48th day following; the morning of Mondstadt's Ludi Harpastum Festival. You'd screamed until your voice was hoarse, but you didn't fall to your knees this time. You'd also clung onto your scriptures (granted they were squeezed between your fingertips until they were practically unreadable), which had been such a pain to clear up last time. You were sure there was a little more blood than last time.

By the third and fourth, you didn't scream, but you still cried. You'd wondered what you did to deserve this; if perhaps you hadn't prayed the night before correctly, or had said something wrong to the other nuns, or thought something mean about the irritating man who lingered in Mondstadt's centre and always had something inappropriate to say to you and your lady friends.

You couldn't help the attacks from feeling personal—you were always the one to discover them. So, you were extra grateful and loving when you bowed your head at night, and you were careful with your words around your sisters, and you bit your tongue, averted your gaze and walked a little faster past the man in the centre.

It had worked, thankfully—until it hadn't, and three months had passed before the pew was red again. You didn't scream, didn't cry, and most certainly didn't ruin your scriptures this time. Instead, you'd stood numbly, expression remarkably blank, because you'd already known it was coming. You'd smelt the tangy, putrid stench the moment you'd stepped through the doors to the grandiose halls of the Church of Favonius; tasted the iron on your tongue until you felt like you were going to choke on it; noticed the atmosphere shift as if the Devil was having fun breaching the limits of where he didn't belong.

You'd informed the Knights stationed outside the entrance with only a couple of shaky breaths, and had even fought back the bile in your throat to help mop the floors of the grime afterwards.

Everybody questioned it, but nothing seemed to change. Seamus Pegg had issued wanted posters to be plastered across the city at every turn, but they'd only lasted for a day. There had been rumours of blackmail and deceit among the Church, and when Seamus had been questioned on the topic, he'd excused it as not wanting to dissuade the community from the safety of the House of Barbatos, and—more importantly—a job for the Knights of Favonius to handle. And so, it was kept quiet, a burden for the nuns and priests to bear alone.

But you were terrified. All of you were. You could tell by the way voices shook during readings; how many twitched and twiddled their thumbs anxiously, keeping their hands to themselves instead of holding their guests and each other welcomingly; and nobody ever held eye contact any longer than necessary.

That was exactly why you were here now, alone in the cathedral and running on a fraction of the sleep you deserve, with a blood-soaked rag clenched within your fist and an undeterrable will to rid the bench of its gore before anybody else entered the hall. You'd been dismissed as an incredibly committed member of the monasticism for your early arrivals, which you were happy with as long as it meant your brothers and sisters could sleep a little more peacefully at night. In their eyes, the stone-hearted monster hadn't struck the Church in six months; now a phantom memory that you'd heard a few of the priests remark as a 'plague sent by Lord Barbatos, as punishment for our sins'. 

Only you were aware that this was now his seventh morning in a row of defiling your Lord's name. A week straight. He'd never left his gifts so commonly before, and you would've wondered why if it weren't for fear of driving yourself crazy.

Frankly, it might've already been too late. You certainly felt crazy, with the way you spent your mornings frequently cleaning blood off the pews of Mondstadt's holiest venue rather than spreading teachings of joy and freedom of your faith to the citizens who needed it. Your fear had swiftly morphed into anger the longer the recurring nightmare continued, for all you could think now was how badly you wanted this villain to be caught and brought to justice under scrutiny of your trustworthy Knights of Favonius.

Perhaps that could be accompanied by a stern talking to of your own—you're sure Lord Barbatos wouldn't mind in this case.

Honestly, you weren't even supposed to know what the scent of blood sourced from the corpse of Archons knows what smells like!

And you certainly weren't supposed to be kneeling to anything other than your Lord; with a concoction of gore and soap trickling down the narrow bridge of your fingers and between your veins pulsing with life, as you rub and wipe and wash and cleanse the wood, up and down and round and round and round until—

"Are you trying to scrub a hole through that seat?"

You shoot backwards, ankle slipping from your control and knocking the soapy bucket to your right across the blood-dazzled marble. The alarm ignites your nerves; gasp robbing the breath from your lips as you quickly whip your head towards the knight you recognised well. He lingers in the aisle, and seems partly amused by your shock.

Lohen of the Fifth Company of the Knights of Favonius. A man of countless victories, fearsome bloodlust and an unjust, unchangeable loyalty to Mondstadt—a man you'd heard to most definitely stay away from. You clear your throat as the hem of your tunic soaks in your mess.

"Sir Lohen! Archons, you scared the life out of me! Forgive me, I... I was cleaning, and I guess I didn't hear the door open. Or close. I apologise." You must've looked foolishly ridiculous as you bow your head to the wet floors, the epitome of embarrassment which only seemed to amplify in the presence of a Vice Captain. "Is there anything I can help you with—"

You choke on your words when you notice Lohen, eyebrow raised and head tilted, curiously observing the pew beside you. Oh. Oh, no no no.

"Should I be asking you that?"

You stand in a hurry, gathering your tunic from the puddle and positioning yourself to block it from his view. You're grateful when he's distracted easily and his eyes abruptly begin following you like steel to a magnet, even if it does make your skin crawl. Lohen naturally exuded that effect, you imagine, since if it were anybody else, you would've approached with haste and taken their hand to lead them away from the brutal scene. You were supposed to be a guardian, after all.

Instead, you hover awkwardly in place, rag still clutched in the hand you kept rooted behind your back, because getting closer to the man you'd been warned about seemed like an invitation for trouble. You had enough of that in your life already.

"It isn't what it looks like, Sir Lohen, I swear. Father Pegg likes to paint, you see, and sometimes he gets these creative visions—like last night! A masterpiece, really, if he'd actually managed to keep his pigment on the canvas..." Lohen takes a step towards you, and you despise how it automatically has your words trailing off, point escaping you in the caution.

You hardly imagined Seamus ever having the time to pick up a paintbrush; unfortunately, it was too late for take-backs now.

There's an odd expression on Lohen's face—one that exhibits a mixture of amusement, intrigue and pity all in one, and compliments royal indigo swirled with rich magenta in the eyes currently staring you down. Then, he laughs.

"Miss [name], I can assure you I've won enough battles in my lifetime to recognise the splatter of blood shed when I see it." He speaks it like he's boasting. (Inwardly, you wonder how that's anything to be proud of, even if he is a knight. You also wonder how he knows your name.) "I take it he's returned, then."

You have the defensive urge to inquire who he means, though it hits you rather embarrassingly that, ah, of course, he is a Knight of Favonius, and they, bar the members of the Church, were the only citizens of Mondstadt who knew of the recurring vandalism. You nod your head, pressing your lips into a thin line.

"This is the seventh morning in a row that Devil has pulled this stunt." Lohen clicks his tongue in pity.

"Poor thing. You've been sitting here cleaning it all by yourself? Where are the other nuns?" Your eyebrows furrow when his tone portrays itself as demeaning you, but you excuse it as poor social skills. You'd heard of Lohen spending a lot more time on the battlefield than actually conversing with real humans.

"They don't arrive until seven, Sir."

"What makes you different?"

You don't respond. How in Tevyat were you meant to? You really didn't have a direct answer; you'd reasoned it down to a request from both Barbatos and your heart, yet now it seemed a little silly to admit that to Lohen for some reason. Luckily, he speaks for you, smiling so sweetly you could've been fooled to believe that the rumours of ruthless murder and endless carnage were only ever that—rumours.

"Kindness, [name]. You're too kind. It'll get you eaten one day." He scolds, running his gaze down, then up your figure as if he were the one who wanted to carry out that promise. He then hums thoughtfully. "Though I suppose that's your job, isn't it? To reassure? To please?"

"More so to teach, if anything." You correct, though you can't help but feel it falls on deaf ears as Lohen suddenly busies himself with studying the intricate architecture, bejewelled with sapphire and diamonds, arching above your heads like he's bored.

You'd never pictured a man like Lohen to be the religious type. It made it all the more confusing and difficult to work out why exactly he was here, though, of course, you'd never openly judge. "May I inquire why you're here, Sir Lohen?"

He sighs dramatically, shoulders slouched and eyebrows raised, his lips twitching down into a pitiful frown. Then, his eyes are back on you, and they don't leave for a second. "I have a problem, [name]. Truthfully, it's chewing me from the inside-out, and it's the worst. The Church is good for this stuff, right? I know I have these issues because of bottling them up, avoiding them, yada yada, I just..." He cocks his head to the side, though it's nothing innocent. "...I don't want you to gain a different impression of me."

Lohen slumps onto the pew dejectedly within a hairs breadth of the blood splatter, and your gaze switches between both him and the grime in apprehension. Did it not bother him? You must've been gawking, because the pout that had originally taunted you shamelessly swiftly converts to a wicked grin. His teeth sink into his bottom lip as he scrutinises you for all your worth; your fear feeling rather like a meal to him than an opportunity for reassurance.

You look at the clock. Ten minutes before Father Pegg and your sisters were due to arrive. You then look at the mess on the pew, and now the floor as well. Archons, you really were in over your head. There'd be no time to finish your cleaning and indulge the knight in his evident need for confession.

You wanted your heart to ache; to leap forward and snatch the misery from Lohen's, because that was your job. You didn't want anyone to suffer. And if Lohen's problem was significant enough to drag him away from his knightly duties all the way to the Church, then naturally, you should be jumping at the chance to aid him.

This was exactly why you felt guilt—since despite all this, even if it was small, there still lingered a nagging, unavoidable and annoying inkling of doubt for his true intentions.

And nuns should never doubt.

You finally look at Lohen, inhale deeply, and force the polite smile you'd rehearsed for situations exactly like this.

"If there is anything you need the Church to hear, we will always listen. Just because you are a Knight does not make you any less welcome in the Lord's home. I can't imagine we'd see you any differently than we do now, Sir Lohen."

He regards you with a soft smile, wrecked with pity and an unfamiliar stare of adoration, as if you're the equivalent to watching tiny puppies play. Why was he looking at you like that?

"You think it's because I'm a knight?"

"What else?" He snickers while you frown.

"Never mind. You're a pretty liar, [name]."

"What—?"

"Alright!" You think you'll develop whiplash from the speed Lohen shoots to his feet, clapping his hands together in satisfaction. You almost slip as you stumble a few steps away in a panic. Lohen cocks his head towards the gore. "I can see you have business to attend to in the mean time, so I'll come back later and take you up on your promise then. I won't judge upon whatever reason you have to sacrifice your happiness for your colleagues, but for the sake of your health, I promise I'll have this personally investigated and closed."

"You will?" Your voice is shaky with a mix of skepticism and hope.

"Mm-hmm! You won't have to worry about it anymore, Miss [name]. I swear."

Lohen clamps an enclosed fist over his heart—the Knights of Favonius' gesture of loyalty. You would've argued against the hassle, though realistically, it was a hassle worth taking if it meant the perpetrator would finally be caught. Lohen was certainly more than capable enough of tracking someone down (you almost felt sorry for the culprit for having such a terrifying knight on their trail now), and your shoulders tense a little less when hearing the promise.

"If—" You tense again. "—you're the nun to hear my confession when I'm back. Only you. I've got a tight schedule so I can't tell you exactly when that will be. But I'll make time. Promise me you'll be here?"

"Of course I'll be here. Where else would I be?" You attempt a joke to lighten the intoxicating tension overwhelming your senses, Lohen's sly fox-like eyes not helping in easing the promise that seemed a little too intimate than allowed.

"Attagirl. I'll catch you later then, dovey!" You linger idly beside the pew, watching Lohen saunter down the aisle with a spring in his step and far too happy a melody on his tongue. He throws a hand up, index finger extended to catch your attention one final time.

"Just a heads up—it'll probably take me at least a month to handle it, since I won't be in Mondstadt. Useless business trips and all that. If this idiot is anything unoriginal, you can expect him to follow the pattern and return tonight. Maybe he enjoys testing the limits, huh? I'll request guards to station the entrance overnight. Good luck with the service!"

You don't see Lohen again after he slips through the exit of the Church of Favonius.

. * , ' * .

You were smothered with a concoction of emotions for the rest of the day.

After Lohen's departure, you'd stood rather numb in place, almost still enough for someone to mistake your figure for one of the holy stone depictions scattered around Mondstadt. An entire month? You'd always tried your best to root gratefulness in your blood; to be thankful for what you're provided with, as that is the Lord's will.

And it wasn't that you weren't so incredibly appreciative of Lohen's gesture. He'd sacrificed his own precious time to investigate a wanted criminal and personally see to it that they atone for their sins, all to guide you and the Church from misery.

You were grateful—but you also weren't sure just how much longer of it you could take.

When your sisters and the priests had trickled in one by one, with not a word to say about the pew so clean it practically sparkled, you'd almost cried. It was pitiful. You were much stronger than this, and you weren't going to let it get you down again.

Even if it did suck a little soul from your belief in Lord Barbatos. It still felt as though He was punishing you, after all.

The service had progressed beautifully as usual, a perfect transition to the sunny afternoon which kissed your cheeks with soft breeze and warm rays of golden hue, yet it might as well have been a foggy, miserable storm with the way you couldn't bare to lift a smile to your lips. At least then the weather would've matched the turmoil your thoughts had created in your mind. They swirled in circles as if they were caught in a makeshift tornado, crashing down and destroying what little remnants of hope remained like a merciless tsunami the later into the day it got.

By evening, you sulked over your dinner, head and heart pounding twice as violently. At some point during the day, you'd realised something vital in Lohen's final words.

'If this idiot is anything unoriginal, you can expect him to follow the pattern and return tonight.'

You'd heard Lohen was crafty and careless, but you'd also heard he was rarely ever incorrect in his assumptions based on his targets. Once, he'd even cleared the entire southern border of Wolvendom of a pesky tribe of hilichurls that adventurers had been tracking for months. They were almost as shady as Lohen, sentient enough to hit the road often enough they'd keep hunters off their tails. Nobody knew exactly where they'd head to next—except the Vice Captain, who refused to share his secret knowledge and claimed the bonus consolation prize because he'd been 'bored'.

At least, so you've heard.

It was admirable in a way that had the hairs stand on the nape of your neck. The Knights of Favonius were so frighteningly brave—it was an utter shame they'd unfortunately proven so useless when it came to matters of the Church.

This was why you'd ultimately come to the conclusion that the solution had to fall into your own hands.

With Lohen, the more capable of the Knights apparently, away on expedition for at least a month, you saw no other choice than to at least explore the minute hint you'd been accidentally given. Besides, you wouldn't be entirely alone, and back-up would be called the moment you caught the Devil.

Lohen had said he'd request overnight guards!

Which was odd because—as silvery moonlight blanketed the cool concrete steps to the magnificent oak doors of the Church of Favonius, and your boots stifled pebbles beneath their soles with every slowing step you took—you didn't see anybody shielding the entrance.

The surroundings were deathly silent, in fact. Perhaps he'd forgotten.

For a moment, you're about to turn around. To abandon ship and run with your tail tucked between your legs before you could meet a grisly untimely doom. It was the sensible choice.

It didn't help that you weren't a quitter. It also didn't help when something crystal or porcelain smashes ahead of you from inside the Church's lobby; barely audible behind the thick walls but undeniably broken.

For the first time since you enrolled in the monasticism, you feel a sickly urge to curse. This was real. This was happening, and you needed to run and alert the guards, alert anyone, just run, run, run—

The door is slightly ajar.

It catches your eye the moment the universe realises you don't want it to. And this time, you do curse, even if it is feeble and mumbled under your breath, because your feet move before your head has a chance to stop them, and your heart beats a little faster the closer you approach the open door, a wordless invitation to quench curiosity.

Your fingers curl around the wooden frame, as silent as you've ever been; an attempt at evading the Reaper of Death, because if you were careful, you'd be able to spy a face detailed enough to describe to the Knights, and escape with your life still intact afterwards. That was all you needed, you remind yourself, as you pry the door to.

Inside, the Church feels otherworldly. It's unfamiliar and hellish, drowning in ink-black darkness without the warmth of the aureate chandeliers decorated with candles to guide the way. You'd always hated the dark. There's no love in the hall at night; no joy and no hope, freedom squashed between the fingertips of the void, stomped beneath the boot of the moonbeams which bore down onto the marble tiles, offering irritatingly minimal light for its extravagance. You regret to admit even the presence of Lord Barbatos himself appears to be lacking. You swallow a solid lump in your throat before you can choke.

You discern no evidence of broken shards scattered across the floors, much to your horror. Had your mind played tricks on you? No, surely not—you knew what you'd heard. But then, what had broken? And where was it?

Unfortunately, you don't have time to dwell on it further when your squinting eyes spot something far more troublesome in the dark. You wordlessly battle blurry vision when your body considers passing out.

There, beneath the arches bejewelled with sapphire and diamonds, perched a hunched figure, lifeless and still, upon the third pew from the front, second seat from the left. They were barely visible within the shadows, yet real enough to rob your heart of its ability to pump blood, and your lungs of their capacity to expand. Your body runs cold; ice cold, like an anaesthetic breaching the nerves from the nape of your neck, to the bridges of your fingers, and to the tips of your toes. You don't breathe; don't blink; don't move for fear of being heard, until by some miracle, the moonlight beams a little brighter on the individual, and the safety lock on your senses clicks off, refusing to release fire so soon because that head of earthy mint-green locks is frighteningly similar to—

"Lohen?" You feel as though your voice has sliced something invisible in the atmosphere of the aisle.

"Hmm? Miss [name]?" Yet again, your feet move first, with a speed your mind doesn't find reason to complain about by the time it's caught up. You hurry down the aisle, only stopping to tentatively peer over at the man still concealed in the shadows. Your chest rises and falls with the urgency of a hunted prey, and you don't need the light to recognise the hint of a smirk in Lohen's tone. "Oh! It is you!"

"Are you hurt? Did you catch him? Something smashed, did you hear it too—?" Your inquiries spill from your lips like water from a broken dam, unfiltered by your desperation and embarrassing you foolishly when the glint of a silver rosary, tangled between digits clasped together, causes you to falter mid-sentence. You gasp, fingers pressing to your lips in a manner of horrific disbelief, because you, a nun of the Church, had interrupted a guest from the midst of their prayers.

You'd never broken such a rule before, and even in the absurdity of the situation, rules still applied.

"Sir Lohen, please forgive me. I didn't realise you were—" Argent streams pour through the windows and pool at your feet, and you can just about catch Lohen's eyes regarding you from behind his fists, accompanied by the soft smirk you already knew was there. The rosary entangled within his palms is an Anemo sigil embalmed with teal crystals, attached to a woven chain of mauve beads that dip and hang between the veins painted beneath his skin. Something stains Lohen's hands the longer you stare, though you look away when he clears his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be ridiculous, [name]. I was only testing something out, anyway." His voice is uncharacteristically low, like he wanted to suit the aesthetic of the setting purposefully. You regain some missing remnants of your confidence as you linger in the aisle, taking a moment to control your breathing when you realise Lohen isn't the threat you'd imagined his shadow to be. You can't help but be drawn to the rosary again. It looks so perfectly natural in the fingers of a boastful murderer, and it sends your mind spiralling in confusion, because such juxtaposition shouldn't exist in the real world.

"Are you a follower of the Lord, Sir?" He scoffs behind his hands softly, like your question is amusing.

"Somewhat. Your God teaches ideas of freedom. I like to be free. I have a different opinion on such things I deem my own, though. Why should they be free while under my scrutiny? You get it?" You want to say no; that for someone who studies and teaches complicated holy scriptures daily, you'd never encountered something quite as cryptic as Lohen. Surely he'd mean his belongings; but then that would also mean they are inanimate objects, so how in Tevyat would they be free anyway?

He must've comprehended your confusion, perhaps from the way your lips twitched into an unpleasant frown, because he speaks again before you do. "Never mind. You'll understand soon enough. For now, I rather enjoy your naivety."

Lohen stretches languidly like a cat across the pew, unashamed to flaunt himself while your cheeks burn, because you'd then noticed he'd rid himself of his armour and instead lounged in his dress shirt like he were at home. To make matters worse, he'd taken the liberty of undoing the top three buttons (at least you assumed it was three, it wasn't like you were actually looking!), graciously exposing the bare expanse of his collarbone and sternum to virgin eyes.

He was littered in scars, some small and light where they'd faded with time, and some large and disturbingly new, still tainted with dried blood around the borders. You knew you shouldn't look any longer, even if a little part of you wanted to.

It's when your eyes pull away up to his face, that the blood floods from your cheeks and your heart misses a crucial beat.

In this position, the moon casts directly upon his face, and what was once clouded in darkness now illuminates and presents a vibrant, alarmingly fresh stripe of crimson across his cheek. Lohen was a fiend for battle—you knew this, and that's why you wouldn't have doubted the knight of his intentions once again because of a silly mishap on his face, had he not adjusted his grip on the cursed rosary and drawn your attention to the hands doused in matching blood.

Or brazenly revealed the human head on the pew beside him now he wasn't hunched forward, a stream of gore from where the rest of its body should've been splashing to the tiles and decorating them with droplets exactly like the ones you'd grown used to cleaning in the morning.

Archons above, have mercy.

You were speechless; afraid that if you tried to speak, bile would be the only thing to come out. You stumble away a single step, nausea spreading like wildfire and causing your vision to spin. It's only when you hiccup loudly through a sob that you realise you're crying.

"Oh? Is there a problem?" Lohen's grin is something of pure evil, too inhuman for man. "You told me so sweetly earlier that I'd always be welcome in the Church. That's still the case, right?"

Wicked teeth stretch wider, showcasing the fangs you wonder have ripped out necks.

And to your horror, he stands.

. * , ' * .

"What have you done?" Your voice trembles, unapologetically terrified of the man mere metres away. It's so heart-achingly adorable, Lohen's sure he feels his cock twitch.

He was already undeniably worked up the moment he'd seen the first tear trickle down your ghostly cheeks, yet for his ears to be blessed with the sound of your sweet voice, vulnerable and pleading for him to say something, anything that indicated it wasn't real—ah, that was true pleasure.

He stalks you like the prey you are, taking a step forward for every one you took back. Honestly, he was surprised (and a little disappointed) you hadn't attempted to run. He was a sucker for the chase—that much was known by everybody who'd heard of the man—yet here you stood, eyes gorgeously glossy and a pitiful tremble in your bottom lip, not retreating just yet like you were attempting to defend your territory.

Lohen supposed this was your home, after all. He'd intruded, of course, to achieve your attention. Countless times by now, in fact. He could argue that the pay off was well worth it. He tuts once, purses his lips to feign innocence, and smoothly curls his fingers into the scalp of the decapitated head, lifting it to present it to you fully and relishing in the way your face contorts into something of pure terror.

"What, this? Come on, don't tell me you don't recognise him. Take a good look, pretty." Oh, how beautifully you were obeying, fighting the urge to turn your gaze away completely as you study the displayed head through tears. The addictive realisation blossoms across your cheeks, shifts like a roaring fire in your eye, a drug for Lohen to soak up whole. "That's it, baby. You know him, don't you?"

He watches you with the manner of a hawk as your lips part and close like a fish out of water, yet no words come out. Now, it seems as though you find it easier to look at the damned head than Lohen himself as you fight to keep your expression steady, fixing him with a glare of tearful repulsion. It's adorable.

"Now, now, don't give me that look." Lohen's tone reeks of condescension and an eerie lust for humiliation. "This man caused you so much trouble, did he not? Disgusting behaviour, really—who even gave him the impression that lurking around Mondstadt's centre and preying on the poor, helpless women just trying to get on with their days was a good look?"

You must not have realised he was cornering you, based on the way your eyes shoot as wide as china saucers, until your back hits solid wall; a lost little doe, paralysed by the oncoming headlights. Lohen thinks he'd love to see you as roadkill. "I mean, God, the way he looked at you, [name]. It was so... so animalistic. Like he'd ravage you alive. Who in their right mind would ever believe that's an okay way to think?" He tilts his head, tongue running across his bottom lip.

"And the things he said, hah!" He laughs maniacally, unhinged and shameless but incredibly strained, like something had pained him detrimentally but he'd rather bleed out than establish weakness openly. "He's lucky I ended things for him nicely. You probably would've preferred for me to drag it out, huh? I know you've fantasised about it before in that pretty little head. Don't be too disappointed in me, angel."

The head crashes to the floor with a sickening splat when Lohen releases his hold, admiring the strength you had to still look at him while he approaches. His other hand lifts up; two fingers playfully tap the supple flesh of your cheek twice, leaving behind a generous coating of the dead man's blood. You flinch like a bunny in a trap, too stunned to push him away. Your nose scrunches with the gory stench so close, and Lohen disregards the temptation to smother your face in it entirely until you pass out.

"If it makes you feel better, this scumbag had no family, no friends, no nothing. It's the first thing I check. Nobody will even notice he's gone!" He's perfectly sincere, until his teeth sink into his bottom lip and he stifles a laugh behind a poorly mannered snort. "Well, besides you and me, I guess."

"There is something disturbingly wrong with you, Sir Lohen." His eyes burn a hole through your skull, surprised you'd found your will for speech.

"You still call me Sir. Cute." He only studies you for a moment, eyes devilishly narrow and smirk ghostly, haunting the crevices of his lips, before he pulls away from you abruptly, kicks the skull on the floor further down the aisle and relishes in the way you squeeze your eyes shut to avoid it. "Every man who yearns for confession has something wrong with them, though, otherwise why would they feel the need to confess? Surely you know this?"

He's not surprised when you don't reply.

Again, you don't make any move to run. It's like he'd glued you to the quartz pillar; a mere bystander to observe his gruesome antics.

"Also, if you're confused, I lied about the mission away. I know, it's abhorrently cruel of me and definitely not something to land me in the Lord's good books, and I promise I won't ever lie to you again. You see, I had a little extra time tonight, and thought what better way than to spend it confessing after I promised you I would. So this—" He jerks his head towards the grime splattered across the floor. "—is my confession. It's funny that you showed up when you did to hear it. Must be Barbatos' will, huh?"

"Never speak to me of the Lord's will. You are of the Devil's spawn, you monster!" Oh. There it is. The growing sparks of a raging inferno as it's taunted and teased by sticks and paper and unkind words. Lohen always knew you had it in you; it was exactly what had caught his attention in the first place.

Sweet, docile Sister [name] of the Church of Favonius—the one with the most inappropriate thoughts and needs of them all.

The one Lohen needed to see broken.

"And you aren't?"

"What do you mean?" You were exquisite with such steadfast determination, fists clenched to your side like you were ready to swing no matter how much your voice shook with trepidation.

"Come now. I already said I know about what you'd wanted to do to that man. I'm sure that couldn't have been the only case, baby. I mean, look—you still haven't bothered to wipe that blood from your cheek."

Surprisingly, you still don't, sniffling a pathetic sob when he reminds you it's there. You bristle as Lohen turns to you fully. "And you don't run. Why is that?"

"You'd catch me." Your throat bobs.

"True." His smile is wickedly proud.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No."

You blink, tongue pressing into the side of your blood-stained cheek while your eyes dart between left and right like you're weighing up options. "Then I'll report you to the Knights of Favonius and have you rot away for your crimes."

Lohen's laughter is explosive and immediate. "Go ahead. You think I don't have everyone in that damn institution wrapped around my finger? They are terrified of me, [name]. Terrified of what I do to our enemies, and what I could do to them. Terrified in exactly the way you are, though arguably not as sweet. Were you really stupid enough to believe the Knights hadn't been able to find a conclusion for your Church's mysterious killer?"

Lohen thinks you're about to burst into tears again by the way you squeeze your eyes shut like you had done before, and he's gutted when you don't. He thinks nothing would've satisfied him more than pushing you over that edge continuously; enough so to produce a pond of salty fluid for him to lap up to quench his thirst.

You shake your head as he nods his. "Oh, they knew. They just didn't care as long as I ordered them not to."

It finally looks as though you've snapped—tipped over the brink of exhaustion into pure delusion now as you wail and fall to your knees, soaking your tunic in the stream left behind from where the human head had skidded across the floor. You don't seem to care about it anymore, though, as you kneel before Lohen like he was your God instead.

He has to admit he much prefers it like this. You look divine from this view; he ponders if it's worth having the image painted and hung as the centrepiece of the Church of Favonius, a flawless example to your fellow sisters and believers on the right way to pray and beg.

And if he took you home with him, he'd undoubtedly wake up to the real thing every day. How poetic.

He nudges your chin up with his boot, humming in satisfaction when there is little resistance on your part. Blue and magenta meet your gaze, holding you captive within a silent dare to move.

You don't.

He absorbs the dark circles beneath your eyes; smiles because he knows he's the cause of your sleepless nights. He loves you tired enough to have your brain short circuiting. It makes you easy. Pliable. His.

He hums, crouching down to level his face with yours; brutal in the way his hand reaches out to cup your cheek, messily smearing the blood with his thumb across your skin until he's content with his artwork—the shape of a love heart, imprinted on your flesh like a tattoo.

And while admiring your hopeless despair, he speaks with heavy-weighted truth and deathly promise.

"Forgive me, Lord Barbatos. I'll have to take from you what's yours tonight. If she was ever yours to begin with."

∧ ,,, ∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ / づ♡

Satoru scoffs, dropping onto the couch like he owns the room.

“I’m never late. Everyone else is just early.” Suguru turns slightly, just enough to glance at him.

“You kept me waiting.”

Satoru grins.

“Yeah?” he says lazily. “Did you miss me?” Suguru doesn’t smile.

But his gaze lingers.

“You’re irritating,” he replies.

“Mm,” Satoru hums, stretching his arms behind his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Silence settles, but it’s not empty. It never is with them. Suguru finally moves, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. He stops in front of Satoru,Too close for anyone else.

Exactly right for them. “Your control is slipping,” Suguru says quietly.

Satoru’s grin sharpens.

“Is it?”

Suguru’s eyes flick briefly toward the faint distortion in the air, the subtle warping of space where Infinity hums just a little louder than necessary. “You’re restless.”

Satoru tilts his head.

“Maybe I’m bored.” Suguru’s gaze drops to Satoru’s wrist, the ink there is dark.

Permanent.

Unmistakable.

Geto Suguru. His own wrist burns faintly in response.

Not pain.

Recognition.

“You don’t get bored,” Suguru says.

Satoru’s expression flickers, just slightly.

Enough for Suguru to notice. “Everything else does,” Satoru corrects.

Suguru reaches out.

His fingers wrap around Satoru’s wrist without hesitation.

Without permission.

He never needs it. The moment skin meets skin that same sharp, electric pulse.

Familiar.

Grounding.

Satoru exhales slowly.

“…There it is.” Suguru’s grip tightens just a fraction.

“You’re drifting again.” Satoru looks up at him through lowered lashes, something unreadable settling behind his usual arrogance.

“And you’re pulling me back?” he asks. Suguru doesn’t let go.

“Someone has to,” he says. Satoru laughs softly, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Sounds like you need me.”

Suguru finally meets his gaze fully.

Steady.

Unwavering.

“I do.” The words land heavier than anything else in the room.

Satoru stills.

Just for a second. Then his grin returns, but slower this time. Sharper.

“Good,” he says. Suguru releases his wrist and  the absence lingers.

Like a missing weight. “They’ll start noticing,” Suguru says after a moment. Satoru leans forward slightly.

“Let them.”

“You’re not subtle.” 

“I’m not trying to be. Youn know troubles my middle name”

A pause. Suguru studies him.

Then—

“What did you do this time?”

Satoru’s smile widens.

Too pleased. “Nothing,” he says.

Suguru raises a brow.

“…Yet.”

Suguru exhales quietly, turning away again.

“You’re going to make a mess.” Satoru stands this time.

Steps closer. “I always do.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Satoru adds. “You’ll clean it up anyway.” Suguru glances back over his shoulder.

A small, knowing smile.

“Of course I will.”

Because that’s how it works.

Not balance.

Not equality.

A closed circuit.

One pulls.

One steadies.

Satoru and Suguru were a closed circuit. They had been since the day their skin first brushed in a crowded hallway during their first year the sharp, electric sting on their wrists followed by the black ink of each other's names blooming like a brand. Gojo Satoru on Suguru’s right wrist; Geto Suguru on Satoru’s left. It was a divine decree. They were the strongest, and they belonged to each other.

Until the Tuesday that tasted like copper and betrayal.

Suguru was mid-sentence, reaching for a porcelain teapot, when a sensation like a hot needle dragged across the underside of his left wrist. He hissed, the teapot shattering against the low table.

"Suguru?" Satoru was on his feet instantly, his blindfold pushed up, his Six Eyes scanning the room for a threat that wasn't there. "What happened? An attack?"

Suguru didn't answer. He was staring at his left wrist. Directly opposite the soulmate mark he shared with Satoru, a new line of script was rising through the skin. It wasn't the clean, bold ink of Satoru’s name. This was jagged, weeping a faint, translucent gold the sign of a Second Link. A rarity. A glitch in the universe.

Your name was etching itself into his marrow.

"I didn't touch anyone," Suguru whispered, his face going ghostly pale. "Satoru, I haven't left the room in four hours. I haven't... I don't even know who this is."

The cruelty of a Second Link was the "Passive Contact." Most soulmates required a touch to activate the mark, but for someone as powerful as the Twin Stars of Jujutsu, the universe sometimes skipped the formalities. Somewhere on campus, you had walked past a door he was behind or on a mission. You had breathed the same air. And the tether had snapped shut.

Satoru leaned over, his fingers gripping Suguru’s arm with a strength that would have crushed a normal man. He stared at your name. His jaw tightened, the air in the room beginning to vibrate with the sheer pressure of his Cursed Energy.

"A third," Satoru breathed, his voice devoid of its usual playfulness. It was hollow, dark, and predatory. "Someone thinks they can wedge themselves between us, Suguru."

"I don't even remember seeing them," Suguru said, his thumb brushing over your name. As he touched it, a wave of your emotions flooded him—loneliness, a quiet hunger for coffee, the slight chill of the hallway. It was nauseatingly intimate. "But I can feel them now. They’re... soft."

The atmosphere in the High-Rise suite didn’t just change; it curdled.

Satoru had been watching the gold script etch itself into Suguru’s left wrist with a detached, clinical fascination, a predator watching a new rival enter the territory. But then, the air in the room didn't just vibrate; it shattered. 

Satoru let out a strangled, jagged sound, his right hand flying to his own left wrist, clutching it so hard the skin turned deathly white.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was sharp, his own pain forgotten as he reached out.

Satoru didn’t answer. He ripped his hand away, baring his skin. There, directly parallel to the heavy black ink of Geto Suguru, a new name was burning its way into his flesh. It wasn't gold. For Satoru, the "Limitless" sorcerer, the mark was a violent, electric violet. It thrummed with a frequency that bypassed his Infinity, sinking straight into his nervous system.

Your name. Identical to the one on Suguru but on his right wrist.

The silence that followed was louder than an explosion. They stood in the center of the room, two gods suddenly tethered to a ghost. The "Closed Circuit" had been breached. The perfect binary of their existence had been forced into a trinity, and the sheer need that flooded them was instantaneous and total.

"It’s the same," Satoru whispered, his voice cracking, his Six Eyes dilated until the blue was almost swallowed by black. "Suguru, it’s the same name. They’re ours."

He wasn't just talking about a soulmate. He was talking about a missing piece of a weapon. As the marks finalized, a psychic bridge snapped open. They felt your heartbeat. Something they never even knew was missing.

For Gojo and Geto, the strongest who lived in a world of their own making, the "hole" was the isolation of their own ascension. They had spent years viewing the world from a height where no one else could breathe, mistaking the cold of the summit for a natural state of being. They were two halves of a whole who believed their circle was closed, their stillness absolute.

Then, your name appeared—a third ink-stain on the skin of their wrists, a rhythmic, phantom pulse under their own.

For Gojo, it is the sudden, violent shattering of the "Infinity" he keeps between himself and the world. He has spent his life seeing everything with his Six Eyes but feeling very little. To suddenly feel a third heart beating against his own ribs, someone who isn't Geto, someone he hasn't even fully met, who he doesn’t remember is like the first time he ever felt the bite of a blade. It is a resonance that bypasses his technique entirely. He realizes that for all his godhood, he has been a ghost haunting his own life, waiting for a frequency he didn’t know he was tuned to.

For Geto, it is an even more terrifying revelation. He is a man who swallowed the rot of the world to protect it, thinking his burden was shared only by Satoru. To feel the steady, unknowing pulse of a soulmate is to realize that the room he thought was full of only duty and blood actually had a door he never tried to open. It is the "ancient desire" finally being named: the need not just to be understood by a peer, but to be anchored by a third point, turning their fragile line into a stable foundation.

They look at their wrists, then at each other, and the realization is starving: they have been the strongest duo in history, yet they were both dying of a thirst they only just recognized.

The pain wasn't a pinch. For you, it was an absolute, white-hot evisceration of your senses.

You were tucked away in the back of the library, the quietest corner of Jujutsu High, when your right wrist suddenly felt like it had been dipped in molten lead. A scream died in your throat, stifled by the sudden, overwhelming pressure of two distinct, warring energies slamming into your soul. You clutched your arm, gasping for air as the skin bubbled and wept, the ink forcing its way up from the bone.

When the smoke cleared from your vision, you stared down at your skin in pure, unadulterated horror.

Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru.

The names were etched in a shimmering, violent violet and a deep, pulsing gold. They sat side-by-side, occupying your skin with a terrifying arrogance. You weren't just a soulmate; you were a bridge. A third point in a triangle that was never meant to have one.

The Instinct to Hide was immediate. 

You didn't feel chosen. You felt scared.

Everyone knew what they were. The Twin Stars. The pinnacle of the sorcery world. They were gods walking among mortals, and you? You were a Grade 4 anomaly, a "Shield" whose only talent was making yourself small and invisible. Your technique, Iron seclusion, allowed you to wrap a force field around your physical form so dense that even Cursed Energy struggled to permeate it. Coupled with your abnormal regenerative healing, you were the perfect survivor, but you were never meant to be a prize.

"No," you whispered, the word trembling in the stagnant library air. "Not them. Anyone but them."

You knew their reputations. Satoru was a void that consumed everything he touched; Suguru was a shadow that swallowed the world whole. To be tied to them wasn't a romance, it was an invitation to be erased.

The memory of your mother’s voice usually feels like a silk ribbon smooth, cooling, and easy to hold. But now, with the names Satoru and Suguru searing into your pulse, her words feel like a cruel irony, a fairy tale told to a child who was never meant to see the monster under the bed.

"A soulmate isn't just a partner, sweetheart," she had said, her fingers tracing the blank, expectant skin of your wrist while you were small. "They are the anchor to your storm. The world is loud and frightening for people like us, but when that name appears, the noise stops. It’s like finally finding the North Star after being lost at sea."

You remember the way she looked at your father a quiet, Grade 3 sorcerer with a softness that made the harshness of their profession disappear.

"It’s unconditional," she whispered, her eyes bright with a certainty you now find terrifying. "They won't just see your strength; they will cherish your shadows. They are the only ones who will truly let you thrive because they are the only ones who will truly know you. It is the greatest blessing the heavens can grant a sorcerer: to never truly be alone again."

In the suffocating silence of the library, you look at the violet and gold script. Her "North Star" was a gentle light; yours are two supernovas that threaten to incinerate everything you are. To your mother, a soulmate was a sanctuary. To you, looking at the names of the two most powerful, volatile men in existence, it feels like a sentence.

The First Pulse

Suddenly, a jolt of pure, manic need surged through your wrist. It wasn't your own. It was a projection a jagged, starving hunger that felt like a cold hand reaching through your chest.

They knew.

The psychic bridge had snapped open the moment the ink dried. They were feeling your heartbeat, your fear, the very scent of the old paper surrounding you. You could feel them, too two massive, celestial bodies suddenly pivoting in your direction, their intent so heavy it felt like the gravity in the library had doubled.

You scrambled to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had to go. You had to bury yourself so deep in your own technique that even the Six Eyes couldn't find the shimmer of your soul.

You wrap your fingers around your wrist, activating Iron Seclusion. The barrier snaps into place, a cold, dense weight that mimics the "stillness" you've lived in for years. You try to drown out the sudden, rhythmic double-thrum of their hearts against your own, desperate to believe that if you hide well enough, even the "blessing" of heaven won't be able to find you.

You pushed your Cursed Energy to its limit, pulling the invisible veil of your shield tight against your skin. Usually, your shield was a defensive bubble, but now you collapsed it inward, using it to mask your heat, your scent, and your energy signature. You became a black hole in the sensory world, a static-filled void.

You sprinted for the back exit, avoiding the main halls where the high-ranking students loitered. You didn't have classes with them, you were beneath their notice, a support-track student who spent her days healing minor bruises and reinforcing training barriers. You belonged in the background. You needed to stay in the background.

The library didn't just go quiet, it went dead.

For Satoru and Suguru, the sensation was like being plunged into an abyss. One second, the psychic bridge was a roaring torrent of your fear, your heat, and the frantic rhythm of your heart. It was the most intoxicating thing they had ever felt, a divine frequency that harmonized their own clashing powers.

And then, it was gone.

No heartbeat. No scent. No emotional residue. Even the violet and gold marks on their wrists, which had been glowing with a feverish light, suddenly turned a dull, matte grey. They didn't disappear, the ink was still there, but the life was gone.

"Satoru?" Suguru’s voice was a ragged whisper. He was clutching his left wrist, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches. "I can't... I can't feel them."

Satoru was standing in the middle of the hallway, his Six Eyes darting frantically, scanning every atom of the air. 

His Infinity was flickering, reacting to the sudden, violent spike in his blood pressure. "They didn't die," he spat, his voice trembling with a mix of fury and genuine terror. "People don't just die and leave no soul residue. They vanished. They’re still here, Suguru. Somewhere in this building... but they’re gone."

In the basement levels, you were curled into a ball behind a stack of rusted training equipment, your hands clamped over your mouth.

Your ability wasn't just a shield anymore; it was a sarcophagus. You had collapsed the force field so tightly against your skin that it was effectively acting as a second dermis, a layer of "non-existence" that blocked every signal your body produced. No heat signatures for Gojo’s Six Eyes. No cursed energy leaks for Geto’s spirits to track.

But the cost was agonizing.

To keep the Shell up 24/7 meant your Cursed Energy was constantly recycling, a closed loop that left you feeling cold, lightheaded, and perpetually exhausted. Your abnormal healing was the only thing keeping your organs from failing under the pressure of the constant reinforcement.

You just had to make it to graduation.

The campus of Tokyo Jujutsu High had become a graveyard of nerves. Without the stabilizing influence of their soulmate bond, Gojo and Geto hadn't just become restless—they had become volatile. 

The training grounds felt like a pressure cooker on the verge of exploding. The air was thick with Satoru’s unrefined Cursed Energy, snapping like static electricity against the stone. You pressed your back against the cold wood of the pagoda, your iron seclusion vibrating so hard it made your collarbone ache. You were a ghost, a glitch, a nothingness—but seeing them like this, seeing the "protectors" of the school unravel into something so fundamentally cruel, made the papers in your hand feel like a death warrant.

Satoru didn’t look like the untouchable god of Jujutsu High anymore. He looked like a man starving in a room full of plastic fruit. He grabbed the younger student by the collar, hoisting him up until the boy’s toes barely grazed the dirt.

"Think harder," Satoru hissed, his voice low and jagged. "The library. That Tuesday. Who ran? Who left in a hurry? I don't care if they were a Grade 1 or a window washer—who moved like they were terrified of being seen?"

"N-nobody, Gojo-senpai!" the boy stammered, tears tracking through the dust on his cheeks. "It was just the usual crowd... I didn't see anyone run. It was quiet. It was just quiet!"

Satoru’s grip tightened, his knuckles white. "Impossible. Someone walked past us. Someone took the air out of the room and then just... vanished." He dropped the boy, spinning around to face Geto, his movements twitchy and erratic. "Suguru, he’s useless. They're all useless. How can someone be so close I can feel their pulse under my skin one second, and then be absolutely invisible the next?"

Geto didn't offer a comforting word. He didn't even look at Satoru. He was staring at the palm of his left hand, tracing the grey, lifeless name of yours that sat like a scar on his wrist. The refined elegance he usually carried replaced by a cold, predatory stillness.

"Maybe they didn't run," Geto murmured, his voice sounding like a blade sliding over silk. He stepped toward the trembling student, his shadow stretching out like a many-limbed monster. "Maybe they're still here. Watching us. Hiding in plain sight while we rot."

He knelt beside the boy, his hand reaching out to brush a stray tear from the kid's face with a tenderness that was far more terrifying than Satoru’s rage. "Tell me, Kohai... have you noticed anyone lately who seems a bit too quiet? Someone who doesn't talk, doesn't eat, just... exists in the corners?"

"I... I don't know everyone's names, Geto-san," the boy whispered, trembling. "Please, I just want to go to my dorm."

Geto’s expression didn't change, but the air around him darkened. "Go then. But if you remember a face even a blur in the hallway you come to us first. Because if Satoru loses his patience before I find them... there won't be a dorm left for you to return to."

You didn't wait to see the boy scramble away. You turned and moved, a silent shadow within the shadows. Every step felt like walking through deep water; iron seclusion was draining you, pulling from your very life force to keep your presence at zero.

"They're looking for a ghost," you breathed, your lips barely moving behind the veil of your technique. You looked down at your wrist, where the names burned like brands under the heavy bandages. "They can't find what isn't there."

The encounter happens in the open air, where there is nowhere to hide and the sky feels too wide. You are crossing the training grounds, sticking to the shadows of the eaves, when the 

resonance hits so hard it physically staggers you. It’s like a tether snapping taut, pulling your chest toward the center of the courtyard.

They are standing there, the "Twin Stars," looking uncharacteristically frayed. Gojo has his blindfold shoved up, his Six Eyes scanning the air with a frantic, electrified energy. Geto has his hand clamped over his right wrist, his knuckles white, his usual composure replaced by a raw, searching hunger.

You keep your head down, clutching your books to your chest, and try to scuttle past like a ghost. You wrap Iron Seclusion around yourself so tightly it feels like wearing a lead suit, desperate to dampen the "scream" of your soul.

"Hey. You."

Gojo’s voice isn't breezy this time. It’s a command. He’s in front of you in a blink, the space between you warping as he forces the world to bring you closer.

You jump, dropping a notebook. "G-Gojo-senpai! Geto-senpai! I’m so sorry, was I in the way?" You scramble to pick up your things, keeping your marked wrist pressed firmly against your stomach.

"Did you see anyone else come through here?" Geto asks, his voice tight. He’s looking right at you, but he’s looking through you, searching for a "strong" sorcerer, someone who could possibly match the violent power he feels thrumming in his own veins. "Someone... significant?"

"Significant?" You blink, widening your eyes in a mask of dull, Grade 4 confusion. "I—I didn't see anyone. Just the usual cursed spirits near the gate. Is everything okay? You both look... a bit pale."

Gojo leans down, his face inches from yours. He’s trying to read your flow of Cursed Energy, but Iron Seclusion makes you look like a flat, grey stone in a river of light. "My head is ringing," he mutters, more to Geto than to you. "The frequency is right here, Suguru. It’s deafening."

"Maybe it's the heat?" you suggest, your voice small and trembling with perfectly faked intimidation. "The sun is really bright today. I get migraines sometimes too. Should I go get Shoko-san for you?"

Geto sighs, a sound of pure frustration, and rubs his temples. To him, you are just a flickering candle, and he is looking for a second sun. "No. Just go back to class."

"Yes, senpai! Sorry to bother you!"

You bow low and practically bolt, your heart hammering a frantic SOS that you know they can feel, even if they haven't realized yet that the "insignificant" girl is the one holding the other end of the chain.

The Department Head’s office is stifling, smelling of old paper and incense, but to you, it feels like an interrogation room. You keep your right hand buried in the pocket of your blazer, your thumb obsessively rubbing the spot where Satoru and Suguru are etched into your skin.

The Department Head a gray-haired, bureaucratic sorcerer who cared more for quotas than souls—had looked at your transfer papers with a bored flick of his wrist. 

"A transfer?" The official doesn't even look up from the papers. He sounds bored, which is exactly what you want. "To the Kyoto branch? "

“yes," you say, your voice a practiced, dull monotone. "My technique, Iron Seclusion... it’s not suited for the front lines. I’m just a Grade 4. I think I’d be more useful with the logistics team there."

The man sighs, finally marking a thick red line through a document. "The higher-ups don't like moving pieces mid-semester. If you want out of the active rotation, you have to fulfill the minimum requirement for the quarter. Three more missions. Complete them, and I’ll sign the papers."

A surge of pure, unadulterated relief washes over you. You almost want to thank him. 

Three missions. That was it. That was the price of your life.

As you walk out into the hallway, your heart is light for the first time since the names appeared. You’ve done the math. The school is a machine of logic and hierarchy. They would never pair a Grade 4 anomaly with the Special Grade duo. It would be a waste of their time and a death sentence for yours. To the school, you are a pebble; to them, they are the mountain. There is no reason for your orbits to ever cross again.

You check your phone. The notification for your first mission has already arrived.

Location: An abandoned textile factory in the outskirts of Saitama.

Grade: 4 (Low-level fly-heads and lingering shadows).

Assigned Sorcerer: [Name].

You are alone.

A small, giddy laugh bubbles up in your chest. No Gojo. No Geto. Just you, your "useless" shield, and a few weak curses. You can do this. You’ll be invisible, just like you’ve always been. You’ll finish these three jobs, get your transfer, and disappear into a cubicle in Kyoto where the violet and gold on your wrist can stay buried under long sleeves forever.

As you walked back to your dorm to pack your tactical gear for the first solo mission, you looked at the grey, silent marks on your wrist. For the first time, they didn't look like shackles; they looked like a bad dream you were finally waking up from.

"Just three," you whispered, your thumb tracing the edge of the bandage. "They won't even notice I'm gone until the bus crosses the prefectural line."

The mission was a joke. Three minor curses, a few sweeps of your Iron Seclusion to crush them against the concrete, and you were done in thirty minutes flat. You practically floated back to the dorms. One down. Two more, and you’d be a ghost in Kyoto, safe from the two suns that threatened to burn your world down.

The "best feeling ever" was a dangerous drug. You were so buzzed on your own relief that you didn't notice the resonance in your chest smoothing out into a low, contented huma purr that wasn't yours, but theirs.

You stepped into the common room, intent on grabbing a soda and vanishing, when you saw him.

Suguru Geto was draped over a sofa, a book open in his lap, but he wasn't reading. He was people-watching, his dark eyes tracking every student that walked by with a clinical, almost desperate intensity. He looked like a man trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

You stiffened, your "Shield" snapping into place instinctively. You kept your head down, your gait deliberate and heavy, trying to look as "Grade 4" as possible. You steered a wide, awkward arc around the couch, heading for the vending machine.

Don’t look. Don’t breathe. Just stay invisible.

"You're back early."

The voice was like silk sliding over a blade. You froze, your hand halfway to the coin slot. You didn't turn around. Maybe he was talking to someone else.

"The girl with the barrier technique," Geto continued, his voice tilting upward with a hint of genuine curiosity. "I don't think I caught your name the other day."

You slowly turned, your face a mask of wide-eyed, stuttering surprise. "O-Oh! Me? I’m... nobody, really. Just finishing a low-level sweep. I didn't think a Special Grade like you would notice someone like me, Geto-senpai."

Geto closed his book, leaning forward. His right hand—the one with your name—was resting on his knee, his fingers twitching in time with your frantic pulse. He looked at you, really looked at you, and for a second, the "ancient desire" flared in his eyes.

"You're very... contained," he mused, his gaze drifting to your covered wrist. "Most sorcerers leak cursed energy like a sieve. But you? You're like a vault. It’s quiet around you. Almost too quiet."

He stood up, the height difference immediately making the room feel smaller. He took a step toward you, his expression softening into something dangerously observant. "Tell me—did you feel anything strange out there? A change in rhythm? A... pulling sensation?"

You forced a self-deprecating, nervous laugh, the kind that made you look small and slightly pathetic. "Oh, Geto-senpai, I’m actually really embarrassed about it. My Iron Seclusion is... well, it’s a bit of a defect. It’s so thick it basically smothers my own senses. I couldn't feel a 'pull' if it hit me with a truck. I’m basically sensory-deprived whenever I use it."

Geto’s expression flickered—a flash of pity, perhaps, or just the disappointment of another dead end. He sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping. "I see. A defensive trade-off. That must be frustrating."

"It’s why I’m better suited for paperwork," you chirped, bowing quickly and scurrying away before he could ask anything else. You didn't stop running until you were behind your locked dorm door, clutching your wrist as if the names might leap off your skin.

The next week was blissfully quiet. You stayed under the radar, wore oversized hoodies, and successfully avoided the 'Twin Stars' by memorizing their training schedules. You were a ghost. A phantom. You were winning.

Then, the ping of a new mission notification hit your phone.

Location: Subterranean transit tunnels, Shinjuku.

Grade: 2 (Multiple sightings of high-output territorial curses).

Assigned Sorcerers: [You] & Kento Nanami.

Your heart did a strange little flip. Nanami. He was a Grade 1, stoic, professional, and most importantly not a soulmate. He wasn't one of the 'strongest' who moved like a whirlwind; he was a man who clocked in, did his job with surgical precision, and went home.

"Two out of three," you whispered to the empty room, a giddy smile breaking across your face.

Being paired with Nanami was the ultimate safety net. He was too disciplined to care about your personal life or your 'flow' of energy. He would expect you to put up your shield, stay out of the way, and let him handle the heavy lifting. To him, you would just be a tool, a 'Shield' to protect the perimeter while he worked the (7:3) ratio.

As you packed your gear, you felt a surge of triumphant joy. You were so close to the exit. You were almost to Kyoto. You were almost free.

You didn't realize that your sudden burst of happiness sent a sharp, intoxicating thrum through the bond. Somewhere in the school, Satoru Gojo tilted his head, a blindfolded grin spreading across his face as he felt a wave of "victory" that wasn't his own.

(Let me just say this while your ability blocks most things, a soulmate's bond is strong so without meaning some strong emotions can still filter through to your partners.)

The subterranean transit tunnels were a labyrinth of damp concrete and oppressive shadows. Nanami moved with his usual mechanical efficiency, his blunt blade finding the 7:3 ratio with every strike. You stayed back, your Iron Seclusion acting as a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the smaller, crawling curses from flanking him.

But the report was wrong. This wasn't a Grade 2 nest; it was a breeding ground for a Special Grade fetus that had begun to distort the very space of the tunnels.

A massive, multi-limbed curse surged from the ceiling, its sheer weight slamming into your barrier with the force of a falling skyscraper. The impact vibrated through your bones, the pressure so intense that for one flickering, agonizing second, your concentration snapped.

Iron Seclusion dropped.

It was only for a minute—maybe even less—as you scrambled back, gasping, and forced the barrier to knit itself back together. You felt exposed, naked, like a nerve ending stripped of its skin. You quickly reinforced the shield, the dense, cold energy snapping back into place, burying your presence once more.

It’s fine, you told yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs. I was only "visible" for a second. We’re deep underground. They’re miles away at the school.

You didn't realize that to a Six Eyes user, a second of your unfiltered soul is like a flare gun going off in a pitch-black room.

Up on the surface, in the middle of a bustling Shinjuku street, Satoru stopped mid-sentence. His blindfold didn't hide the way his head snapped toward the subway entrance, his breath hitching as if he’d just been punched. The "ghost" frequency he’d been chasing had finally, violently, become a signal.

Across town, in the quiet of a temple, Suguru dropped his tea. The phantom pulse on his wrist hadn't just thrummed; it had screamed. For that one minute, the hollow space in his chest had been filled with a terrifying, beautiful warmth—and then, just as quickly, it vanished back into the "stillness."

They both moved instantly, driven by a starving instinct they still didn't understand.

Down in the tunnels, Nanami finished off the curse and adjusted his tie, his expression unreadable behind his goggles. "That was a significant lapse," he said, his voice a calm, dry reprimand. "Are you injured?"

"No," you lied, your voice trembling as you clutched your wrist. "Just... lost my footing. I'm fine, Nanami-san. Let's just finish this. Please."

The subway air was thick with the smell of blood and damp concrete as you emerged, ducking your head and letting Nanami lead the way. You kept your jacket sleeves pulled low, your fingers white-knuckled around your wrists. You felt like a radio tower that had briefly broadcasted a signal to the entire world, and now you were desperately trying to cut the power.

Across the city, in a secluded corner of the Tokyo Jujutsu High courtyard, the two strongest sorcerers met. The air around them was electrified, distorted by the sheer output of their frustration.

Satoru was pacing, his blindfold discarded, his Six Eyes glowing with a manic, crystalline light. He looked like a live wire, sparking at the slightest touch. "It was right there, Suguru. For sixty seconds, it wasn't just a hum. It was a scream. It was loud."

Geto was leaning against a stone pillar, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his knuckles bruised from where he’d punched a training dummy into splinters. He wasn't smiling. The "gentle" philosopher was gone, replaced by a man who looked starved.

"I felt it too," Geto said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. "It wasn't a curse, and it wasn't a mistake. It was a soul. Our soul." He looked down at the gold-etched name on his wrist, his thumb tracing the letters with a possessive, aching intensity. "And then it just… went dark. Like someone slammed a door in our faces."

Satoru stopped pacing, turning to face his best friend. The realization hit them both at the same time, a cold, sharp clarity.

"They’re hiding," Satoru breathed, a dark, incredulous laugh bubbling in his throat. "Someone out there belongs to us—the two strongest people on the planet and their first instinct is to bury their presence so deep even I can't track it."

"They don't want to be found," Geto added, his eyes narrowing. The thought didn't just hurt; it offended him. He had spent his life protecting the weak, swallowing rot for a world that didn't love him back, and now the one person meant to be his "anchor" was treating him like a threat. "They’re using a barrier. A dense one. That flicker in the tunnels… they slipped. They lost control for a minute, and now they’ve bolted the door again."

Satoru’s grin turned into something predatory, something ancient. "Let them hide. They can't keep a seal like that up forever. Every time their heart jumps, I feel it. Every time they're scared, I know. We’re going to find our 'Shield,' Suguru. And when we do, I’m going to make sure they never feel the need to close that door again."