#tw.obsession

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest work. You didn’t mind the grease that clung to your skin, the clatter of dishes, or the sting in your legs after double shifts. What mattered was that you were earning your keep—paying your bills, fixing up the wreck of a farmhouse your mother left behind, and doing it all without help.

You weren’t here to be rescued.

“You sure you’re not overworking yourself, sweetheart?” Gracie asked as you refilled the sugar jars. She was a woman who wore her sarcasm and worry with the same ease as her eyeliner.

“I’m fine,” you said with a smile, rolling your sleeves up higher. “Gotta pay for a new water heater somehow. Thing practically screamed when I tried to shower this morning.”

“Thought your neighbor offered to help with all that?”

You stiffened.

You remembered him well. Isaiah. The farmer with shoulders like barn doors and calloused hands that looked like they could crush rock. He came to welcome you on your first day with a crate of eggs and a bashful smile. In return, you gave him a plate of spaghetti you made that night, more out of politeness than interest.

You hadn't realized the way his eyes lingered as you handed him that plate.

That in his mind, that gesture sealed a bond deeper than you’d ever intended.

“I told him I had it under control,” you said simply.

Gracie gave you a look. “I know you city girls are all about that independence. Just be careful. Some men ‘round here get ideas.”

You laughed softly. “I can take care of myself.”

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Your shifts were long. The tips were modest. And the farmhouse was stubborn in its disrepair. But you were managing.

Until your truck died.

You were halfway down the lonely road toward your house after closing the diner when the engine sputtered and gave out. No signal. No cars. Nothing but the humming of bugs and the distant rustle of trees.

You grabbed your backpack and kicked the tire, muttering curses.

Then headlights pierced the dark.

Isaiah pulled up beside you, leaned out the window with a smile that looked just a bit too pleased.

“Well, now. Looks like you need a hand.”

You blinked. “Yeah… my truck just—stopped. No warning. Can I get a lift home?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Was just headin’ back from drinks with the boys.”

You got in.

The silence stretched as you talked. You were tired, but adrenaline kept you going. You talked about the renovations, your job at the diner, your plans to eventually turn the farmhouse into something self-sustaining. You didn’t notice the silence behind the wheel. Not really.

“I just think women shouldn’t have to rely on anyone,” you said, stretching. “It’s freeing, you know? To build something yourself.”

His hands clenched the steering wheel.

You didn't notice.

But he did.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Three days later, the farmhouse was broken into.

You came home after your shift and found everything ransacked. Nothing stolen—just destruction. Dishes shattered. Curtains torn. Couch cushions ripped open like animals had clawed them apart. Your knees gave out. You screamed.

Isaiah arrived before the sheriff.

“Jesus,” he said, crouching beside you. “You alright? You’re shaking.”

“I—yeah—I think—” You gasped. “They didn’t take anything. Just trashed it.”

“No way you’re sleeping here tonight,” he said. “Door’s broken. You’re vulnerable.”

“I’ll go to a motel—”

“They’re all booked for the rodeo this week,” he interrupted gently. “Look, I’ve got a guest room. Just for a night or two.”

You didn’t want to. But your nerves were shot, and there was nowhere else to go.

“Just a night,” you agreed, voice hollow.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

Isaiah’s house was too perfect.

Pristine. Polished floors. Dishes stacked in neat rows. A faint floral scent lingered—lavender, maybe.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Towels are clean. I’ll get the bed ready,” he said, walking away with your overnight bag like it already belonged there.

You spotted a mug on the counter with your name on it. Painted in soft pastel blue.

“You… had this?”

He smiled. “Felt right. Made it when I heard you took the old place.”

You tried to joke. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He smiled wider.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

You tried to offer him money the next morning, after breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Homemade biscuits. Too good.

“Don’t insult me,” he said quietly. “Just help out around the house, alright? You’re already doing so much.”

So you did. You swept. Cleaned. Cooked dinner once or twice. Anything to repay him for the roof over your head while you called contractors and scraped together the funds for repairs.

But the contractors never called back.

Your calls went unanswered.

The mechanic said your truck was totaled.

You didn’t realize someone else had made sure of that.

⋅ ─ ✧ ─ ⋅

It was a week later when you heard Isaiah on the phone.

The kettle had just started to scream when his voice reached you from down the hall, muffled but distinct. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop—not really—but something in his tone made your body freeze.

“…No, she hasn’t figured it out yet. Sweet thing still thinks this is charity.”

A low chuckle.

“I’ve been teaching her… slowly. She’s adjusting.”

A pause. His voice dropped lower.

“Not yet. But soon.”

You stood there for a second too long. Long enough for the kettle to whistle sharply, loud enough to cover the sound of the ceramic mug slipping from your hands and smashing against the floor.

The tea scalded your bare feet. You barely felt it.

Your breath hitched in your throat as his voice stopped mid-sentence. The sudden silence on his end was deafening.

You moved.

Bolted.

You didn’t think—just acted. Your legs carried you on instinct, slipping on the wet floor, catching yourself against the wall, fingers fumbling for balance. The hallway felt longer than usual. Your vision tunneled, the walls squeezing closer with every second.

You reached the back door.

Unlatched.

Unlocked.

Hope surged in your chest so violently it made you gasp.

You wrenched it open.

Cool air hit your face, the smell of soil and pine and freedom burning in your lungs. You were halfway out—one foot in the grass, fingers scraping the edge of the doorway—

And then a hand, large and brutal, slammed the door shut.

With you halfway through it.

You screamed.

The edge of the frame cracked against your ribs as Isaiah yanked you backward, one arm wrapping tight across your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You kicked, flailed, clawed at his skin, but he held you firm—an immovable wall of muscle and determination.

“I knew you’d run,” he muttered, breath hot against your ear. His voice had lost the syrupy sweetness he wore like a mask. Now it was raw, cracked, and furious. “Ungrateful little thing.”

He turned, carrying you effortlessly despite your thrashing.

“I’ve done everything for you. Gave you safety. Gave you warmth. A home.”

He slammed the door behind you both with his boot, the echo like a gunshot.

You fought harder.

“I was gonna ease you into it,” he snarled, dragging you past the kitchen. “Let you feel like you chose this. But you just had to snoop, didn’t you?”

He didn’t take you to the guest room.

He took you down the hall, past the door you’d never seen open. The one that was always locked.

He kicked it in.

And there it was.

The cradle. A handmade wooden crib, nestled in the center of a room painted in soft yellows and sage green. The mobile above it spun slowly, creaking on its hinges, casting distorted shadows across the walls.

Everything smelled like baby powder and lavender and something far too clean.

Your stomach turned.

“No—no, let me go—!”

“You’re mine,” Isaiah hissed, slamming the door shut behind you. He twisted the lock before pressing you against it, pinning you there with the full weight of his body. “You fed me that day. You smiled. You looked at me like I mattered. What the hell did you think that meant, huh?”

You shook your head, tears blurring your vision. “It was just dinner—it didn’t mean anything—”

“It meant everything,” he growled, gripping your chin so hard it ached. “It was a promise. A bond. You gave yourself to me when you fed me. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You whimpered as his hand dropped to your hip, then your wrist, guiding you toward the crib with terrifying tenderness.

“You’ll see. You don’t need that diner. You don’t need money or dreams or whatever garbage you believe in. You need me. You need this.”

He pressed your palm flat against the cradle’s wooden edge.

“You need to understand your place, wife.”

You sobbed, body trembling, but there was no more strength left to fight.

His voice dipped lower, reverent and sickeningly soft.

“…And maybe it’s time you give me what I’ve waited for.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Slowly, he lets you see parts of him that no one else has ever seen. His love is so overwhelming, and because it’s Satoru— with his sweet words and seemingly good intentions— he manages to have you fall for him too. And when he finally, officially has you (because let’s face it, he decided you were his long before that point), he manages to keep you under lock and key.

For your safety, he reasons.

After all— is he really the strongest if he doesn’t do what he can to keep you safe?

The rose colored glasses seem to wear off over time, and you start to see Gojo for the monster he really is.

It takes a few months of garnering courage to even attempt to begin planning your escape from him. You do it slowly, but carefully, calculating every step to make sure you don’t leave a trail behind.

You get one of the auxiliary managers to buy you a back up phone, set up a whole new bank account overseas, and eventually *secretly* book a ticket to a whole different country— one far from the grasp of Satoru Gojo.

Fate, by some miracle, seems to be on your side. Yaga calls both of you in for an emergency meeting. Gojo is being sent away on a week long mission abroad to snuff out a new curse user group that has connections to one here in Japan. You— a local mission to check out disappearances in a nearby town.

You can feel the hostility radiating from the man standing next to you. You dare to take a peek, and you see nothing but an airy smile. “Yaga, I’ll take care of their mission. It should be quick for me—“

“No, Satoru. They haven’t been on a mission in months, thanks to you being greedy and taking on everything. Being a good mentor means letting them take calculated risks.”

With that, both of you sign off on paperwork and begin to prepare for your respective missions. The atmosphere is tense in Gojo’s home— the same one he made you move into just a few months prior (“So you don’t have to worry about commuting so far. ‘Sides, there’s a lot of creeps lurking around out there, and I’m not talking about curses.”)

Gojo refuses to leave you until he makes sure that you’ll be safe. Borderline threatens Ijichi to keep a close eye on you, and the poor man is nothing short of pissing his pants.

He pulls you aside before Ijichi starts preparing the veil. One hand rests on your waist, squeezing almost a little bit too tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go, while the other tilts your chin up so you can meet his gaze.

He has his blindfold on, but you know all of his attention is on you. “I know you won’t have service inside the veil, but the second it gets lifted you’re going to call me.”

You nod, and listen like the good girl he likes you to be. With that, he gives you a kiss on the forehead before he leaves.

You manage to locate the missing victims and exorcise the curse in less than 48 hours. You do as you’re told and call Gojo. He picks up after the first ring, and you think you can hear a shuddered sigh of relief on the other line upon hearing your voice. He tells you he has to go, only because duty calls, and that he’ll talk to you soon. Be good. Update him. Don’t leave without permission.

As usual, you appease him.

You make it back home in record time, tell Ijichi to wait outside because you need him to take you somewhere.

You leave your phone behind— the one that Gojo has the location of— and shut the door with nothing but a small suitcase in tow.

Ijichi stammers, you want to go where? Alone? Does Gojo know about this?

You tell him there’s no time for questions and to start driving.

He drops you off at Narita, in the international terminal. He’s visibly sweating, no doubt fearing for both his life and yours once a certain white haired sorcerer gets back from his mission. You give him an easy smile and thank him, and he speeds off, probably to go into hiding as well.

Your hands are shaky as you hand the boarding pass to the flight crew, and the tremors don’t stop even as you take a seat inside the plane. Even when you arrive at your destination, lay down in your bed in what’s going to be your temporary home for who knows how long, does your anxiety fail to cease.

Gojo knows something is off. He’s blown up your phone with endless calls and texts, called Ijichi countless times, and even asked Yaga about your whereabouts. Nothing. Your radio silence confirms his intuition. He finishes up his mission quickly, before the one week allotment is up. The first thing he does when he steps foot in Japan is immediately teleport back home.

He’s met with silence, and hardly any trace of your cursed energy residuals to be seen. You’ve been gone for a few days, he deduces.

Anxiety starts to prickle the back of his neck, he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever felt this much concern for anyone. Are you hurt? He tries calling you again, until he hears it. The slight buzzing sound emanating from your shared bedroom.

He picks up the device and sees the log of notifications. You really were gone.

Satoru looks through your phone— messages, emails, camera roll, bank statements— anything, anything to give him a hint as to what you were up to. Nothing. That’s okay, onto the next plan, which is honestly what he should’ve done first.

Being the strongest sorcerer had its perks, but none of them were greater than his privilege to investigate into people’s background history.

You know deep down there really was no escape from Satoru Gojo. That no matter the distance, he’d find a way back to you.

So when you see Gojo sitting on your bed in your hotel room, a part of you isn’t that surprised. The rest of you is paralyzed with anxiety of what comes next. You want to run, but you can’t. Your eyes begin to shift towards the still open door, trying to assess your options, but you’re hardly given a chance to finish your thought before Gojo is in front of you, closing the door. Effectively shut away from the outside world.

He’s not wearing his blindfold, you noticed. Which means he’s probably been tracking the flow of your cursed energy the moment you stepped foot into the lobby.

His stormy gaze meets yours, and he smiles. Your stomach drops.

“So…” he starts, voice sinfully low, “thought you could get away, hm?” He’s backed you up against the door, his strong frame pressed against yours.

Words bubble up your throat but die as they reach the tip of your tongue. You don’t want to set him off. You’ve only been given small glimpses into Gojo’s more sadistic, domineering side, which he does on purpose to serve as warning. You’re not like anyone else, so I’ll be good to you. In return, you must be good for me.

You start to tremble, legs beginning to fail you— but Satoru’s there to hold you steady. He uses one hand to grip your face, squishing both of your cheeks until your lips are pursed. He watches with deep adoration and fascination at how pliant the flesh is between his fingers. It’s like you were made for him.

“I’m willing to forget that you did this,” he hums, placing a quick peck to the tip of your nose before he presses his forehead against yours. “If you promise to get in that bed with me until I’ve decided you’re forgiven.”

You remembered that day with unsettling clarity. It was a warm afternoon, and the city buzzed with its usual energy—street vendors calling out, children darting between pedestrians, the sound of distant construction. Amid the chaos, Victor’s voice rose like a beacon, cutting through the noise with its steady, commanding tone.

“Even in the darkness,” he proclaimed, his arms outstretched, “there is a light waiting to guide you home.”

You hesitated, drawn by the sheer magnetism of his presence. He stood on a makeshift platform in the plaza, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his smile serene but purposeful. People gathered around him, their expressions hopeful, their eyes fixed on his every move.

You hadn’t planned to stop, but you did. You lingered at the edge of the crowd, watching as Victor spoke with the kind of conviction that made you forget your doubts, even if just for a moment.

When the sermon ended, Victor’s gaze swept across the crowd, and his eyes landed on you. His smile softened, and he stepped down from the platform, weaving through the crowd until he stood before you.

“You,” he said, his voice rich and soothing, “carry a heavy burden. I can see it in your eyes.”

You blinked, startled. “What? I—how do you know that?”

Victor chuckled softly, as though amused by your confusion. “The divine has a way of revealing pain to those called to heal it. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

His words planted a seed of curiosity—and perhaps desperation—in your heart. Before you knew it, you were attending his gatherings, sitting quietly in the back as he delivered sermons that seemed to speak directly to your soul. The ministry became your refuge, a place where your grief felt less overwhelming.

At first, Victor was simply the leader of the movement—a charismatic figure who inspire hope in everyone he met. But over time, his attention turned toward you with an intensity that unnerved you. During sermons, his gaze would linger on you longer than necessary, his smile sharpening in ways you couldn’t explain. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. After all, you were just one among many in the ministry.

But today, everything changed.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The courtyard of the Celestial Ministry thrummed with energy, the chants of thousands rising in unison. You stood at the edge of it all, hidden in the shadows of the stone archways. This was where you belonged—on the periphery, unseen, unnoticed.

Victor Marlowe stood at the center of the courtyard, his arms raised as he addressed the congregation. His voice carried like a hymn, every word precise and calculated to stir the hearts of his followers.

“Love,” Victor declared, his tone imbued with passion, “is the foundation of truth. And truth… is the foundation of peace.”

The crowd erupted in applause, their devotion palpable.

You watched from the sidelines, as you always did. But today, something was different. Victor’s cadence slowed, his words becoming deliberate, almost reverent. The air shifted, heavy with anticipation.

“And truth requires… balance,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the crowd. “The light requires the moon, just as the sun requires the dawn. Today, I must share a revelation—a truth that has guided me since the beginning of this ministry.”

Victor descended the dais, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that rooted you in place. Panic clawed at your chest as he approached, his presence overwhelming.

He extended a hand, his palm upturned. “Take my hand, darling. It’s time.”

You recoiled, your voice barely above a whisper. “Victor… what are you doing?”

His smile widened, impossibly serene. “Trust me. You’ll understand soon.”

Before you could protest, his hand closed around your wrist, pulling you into the light. Gasps rippled through the crowd, followed by a deafening eruption of cheers.

Victor raised your hand above your heads, his voice resonating across the courtyard. “This woman has been chosen—not by me, but by the divine. She is my sacred counterpart, my guiding star. Together, we shall bring healing to the world!”

The crowd surged forward, their chants merging into a singular roar. Strangers reached out to touch your garments, tears streaming down their faces as they whispered your name like a prayer.

“Victor,” you said, your voice shaking. “Stop this. I don’t—”

He leaned close, his whisper brushing your ear. “All of this… was always for you.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The procession began soon after.

Victor led you through the streets on foot, his hand never leaving yours. The crowd lined the roads, their chants of adoration weaving a tapestry of madness. Flower petals rained down like a confetti, their scent cloying as it mixed with the heat of the afternoon.

“Victor,” you hissed, your voice swallowed by the noise. “Please, stop this. I can’t do this.”

He glanced at you, his expression softening into something almost tender. “They love you,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

“They don’t even know me,” you shot back, your voice rising despite yourself. “And I don’t want this. I didn’t choose this!”

Victor’s grip tightened, his smile fading. “You don’t need to choose, darling. The divine has already chosen for you.”

The procession slowed as you reached the towering gates of the Ministry’s private compound, the iron wrought with intricate designs that glinted in the sunlight. The crowd surged, their cheers reaching a fever pitch as Victor raised your hand one final time.

As the gates creaked open, you turned to him, desperation in your eyes. “Please, Victor. Let me go.”

He smiled again, that same serene, unreadable smile. “Soon, you’ll see. This is where you belong.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Inside the compound, the noise of the crowd faded replaced by an oppressive silence. Victor led you to a sunlit room adorned with ornate furnishings—your room, he called it.

“For your safety,” he explained, his tone gentle but unyielding. “The people’s love for you… it is boundless, but it is also overwhelming. You’ll need protection.”

“Protection from what?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Victor stepped closer, his presence filling the room. “From those who might harm you… and from yourself. You’re not yet accustomed to your role, but I will guide you.”

“I didn’t want this role,” you said, your voice cracking. “I just want to leave.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll understand in time, my darling. Rest now.”

You turned to the window, your heart sinking as the reality of your situation settled over you. Beyond the compound walls, the crowd’s chants were faint but relentless, their adoration a chain you couldn’t escape.

Victor’s voice broke the silence, soft and commanding. “All of this… was always for you.”

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

Rain slams against the sidewalks in sheets, relentless and metallic. Your breath fogs in front of your face, fingers gone numb from clutching the remains of your broken umbrella—its ribs twisted like bones, nylon clinging to the frame like a soaked shroud. A gust of wind steals it from your grasp, flipping it inside-out and sending it tumbling down the curb like trash. You let it go. You’re already drenched.

Desperation guides your steps more than logic. You duck into the nearest building without reading the plaque out front. Warm air brushes against your face the moment the heavy doors shut behind you, cocooning you in silence. The chill clinging to your clothes doesn’t leave, but the calm wraps around your spine like a soft-spoken command: Be still.

The lobby is grand—cathedral ceilings, dark wood paneling, gold inlays on marble floors so polished they gleam like oil-slick water. A single chandelier hangs above, its light diffused and low, almost reverent. No one’s rushing around. It’s not that kind of place.

And then you see him.

He stands by the reception desk, speaking quietly with a woman in a crisp blazer. He’s turned halfway toward her, posture regal and untouched by the mundanity of things like weather or chaos. His gloves—yes, gloves, even indoors—are black leather, unwrinkled and fitted like a second skin. Silver cufflinks wink at his wrists. His hair slicked back with the kind of discipline that demands hours, and not a strand is out of place. Everything about him is meticulous.

But it’s his eyes that still you.

Deep-set. Intense. Quietly devout.

They settle on you the way a confessional draws out sin.

You feel… seen.

Not noticed. Not admired. Seen, in the biblical sense—naked and bare and judged, all at once.

He takes a single step forward.

“Are you lost,” he asks, voice low and measured, “or just in need of sanctuary?”

The question is absurd. You’re dripping all over the imported marble. You look like a stray dog dragged in by the storm. But he speaks with a kind of weight that makes you want to answer. It’s not kindness. It’s invitation—solemn, unspoken, already half-written in your name.

Your lips part before your mind catches up. “Just… waiting for the rain to pass.”

He inclines his head, just slightly. “It always does. But in the meantime…” He gestures to a leather bench near the window. “No one deserves to weather a storm alone.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You return the next week.

This time, on purpose.

You tell yourself it’s because of the law library upstairs. Free to the public. That’s what the sign outside says. But you find yourself glancing down corridors you have no reason to explore, eyes searching for a flash of silver cufflink or a slow-turning silhouette.

And he’s there.

Desmond Vale. Defense attorney, philanthropist, local saint.

He greets you like you’re expected. Offers coffee in porcelain cups with saucers. Talks in low, thoughtful tones about justice, about morality, about the sacredness of truth.

“I defend the fallen,” he says one evening, as you sit with him in a small reading room that smells of old pages and cedarwood polish. “Even the guilty deserve someone who sees them.”

You nod. You don’t know what you’re agreeing with. But his voice threads through your chest like incense smoke, warm and dizzying.

You talk, and talk, and talk.

You don’t realize how much it’s too late.

You tell him about a professor who used to humiliate you in front of your peers. How he’d sneer at your work, call your insights “juvenile.” You laugh it off, say it’s in the past.

Desmond doesn’t laugh. He watches you, silent and still.

“Did he ever lay hands on you?” he asks.

You blink. “No. Nothing like that.”

He nods, slowly. “Pain doesn’t always bruise the skin.”

He doesn’t say anything else that night.

But two weeks later, your phone lights up with news alerts. The professor has resigned. Accusations of misconduct. Unverifiable claims. Whispers of scandal. Nothing that sticks.

No one can prove anything.

But he’s gone.

You sit there in your apartment, phone heavy in your hand, heartbeat drumming an unfamiliar rhythm.

When you bring it up to Desmond—half-laughing, half-nervous—he simply smiles.

“God works in mysterious ways,” he says.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

A pattern emerges, and you try not to see it.

A coworker teases you about your wardrobe. “Trying to dress up for someone? Someone important?” You roll your eyes and joke about it to Desmond that night over dinner—he started inviting you more regularly now, preparing candlelit meals in his unnervingly pristine townhouse.

“She mocks what she envies,” he says, carefully slicing into his food. “You wear your spirit plainly. It unsettles the weak.”

You smile, uncertain.

A week later, she’s gone. Fired. Some internal HR complaint. You never learn the details.

Then your friend Tara—sweet, messy, always late Tara—starts acting strange. She doesn’t return your calls. She avoids your eyes when you run into her on the street.

You remember the last time you saw her, how you’d told Desmond about her flaking on your birthday. You said it didn’t matter, but something in his eyes flared then—like a lit match held to wet paper.

Now Tara’s gone cold. You try to reach her again, but it’s like she disappeared.

“You’re too trusting,” Desmond says one evening as you sip wine by his fireplace. The flames reflect in his eyes, casting long shadows on his face. “You let the unworthy nest in your soul. I’ve simply… cleared the rot.”

You freeze, glass trembling in your hand.

He leans in.

“I’m just removing what doesn’t belong in your temple.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You try to distance yourself.

You make excuses. Say you’re busy. Say you’re reconnecting with other friends. You stop answering his texts right away. You shut your phone off one night and stay out late—something you haven’t done in weeks.

The next day, your friend tells you her apartment was broken into. Nothing taken. Just drawers ransacked. Underwear disturbed. Cabinets opened and left ajar like someone was cataloging her life.

You feel nausea twist through your gut.

Desmond shows up at your door that evening with white lilies and a look of quiet concern.

“Rebirth,” he says, handing you the bouquet. “It’s what comes after decay.”

You don’t speak. He kisses your forehead gently, and for a second, you think you might collapse in his arms from the sheer weight of everything you can’t prove.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

One night, you gather the courage.

You stand in his impossibly clean kitchen, heart in your throat, words buzzing like flies under your tongue.

“I need space.”

He doesn’t react at first. He’s polishing a wine glass, the sound of the cloth against crystal a soft, slow rhythm.

When he sets it down, he turns to you.

His face is unreadable. But not blank. Never blank. There’s always something simmering beneath—like embers under stone.

“Do you know what happens when you remove a candle from the sanctuary before it’s ready?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

“The flame weakens. Sputters.” His voice drops to a near-whisper. “Dies.”

Your mouth is dry. “I’m not a candle.”

“No,” he agrees. “You’re the altar. And I’ve scraped every blasphemy from your surface.”

You feel cornered. There are no locks on the door. No cages. And yet, when he takes a step closer, you feel the walls press in.

“You would desecrate your temple for them?” he breathes, hurt laced in his disappointment like barbed wire dipped in honey. “After all I’ve done to purify it?”

“I didn’t ask you to!” you snap, the words trembling out of you.

He cups your cheek, gloved thumb brushing your skin. “You didn’t need to. Deliverance is never begged for. It’s granted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You try to leave.

But your family misses your calls. Messages you swore you sent are never received. Friends forget plans. Doors close. Desmond’s world remains open—welcoming, warm, untouched by the static of outside life.

You sit in his garden one afternoon, surrounded by trimmed hedges and white roses that smell like cleanliness. He kneels nearby, trimming thorns with delicate precision.

You speak without looking at him.

“What if I’m still… tainted?”

He doesn’t pause.

He sets the sheards down, removes his gloves. His bare hands are scarred, as though he’s bled for you a hundred times over.

He kneels in front of you, lifting your hand to his lips. His kiss is featherlight.

“Then I will cleanse you too.”

You close your eyes.

And somewhere in the distance, in a place you’ve forgotten how to reach, a part of wails.

But here?

In his sanctified silence?

You let him pray.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

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“I’ve missed you so much, baby,” he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a chaste kiss on your plump skin.

The pet name makes you snap back to reality, with both arms trying to push your ex off. He doesn’t budge. He does pull away though, enough for you to see the unmasked disappointment and hurt in his cerulean orbs. Your heart aches, and you have to remind yourself that it’s not your place to comfort him anymore— even if you’re the source of his heartbreak.

Your hands grip at his biceps, in an attempt to both put even more distance between you two and to steady yourself. In return, he tightens the grip on your hips.

You’re trapped. With Gojo. The sensible part of you wants to run, to keep that distance between you both because you know the weaker, less rational side of you wants to curl up in his familiar and warm embrace.

“Gojo,” you begin with a sigh. “You can’t call me that. We’re not together anymore.”

“It’s Satoru to you, princess. And that’s why I’m here right now, I’m gonna change that,” he brings one hand to cup your cheek, and you have to will yourself not to melt into his warmth.

“You can’t change anything,” you whisper, though it sounds more like a plea. Don’t. I don’t think I’ll have the strength to keep refusing you.

“Shh..” he coos, his lips pressing another kiss, this time towards one corner of your mouth. You can practically feel yourself salivate from anticipation. “We did it your way the first time, but now you’ve gotta listen to me, ‘kay?”

You stare at him blankly, afraid that any word or action that comes out of you will betray what you’ve been so adamant about.

Your silence is telling, and Satoru can’t help but smile. He loves how stubborn you can be at times, because it makes the reward so much sweeter.

He kisses you, on the lips this time, with such gentleness that it makes your head spin. You stay that way for a few seconds before he pulls away. You find yourself craving his touch. He studies you for a second, azure orbs calculating before he pulls back in, this time with a more forceful kiss.

You let out a whine of surprise and he swallows it wholeheartedly. He brushes his tongue against your lower lip, urging you to let him in.

And you do.

Satoru moans the minute you part your lips for him, his tongue swiping against yours and easily overpowering it. He wedges one of his legs in between yours, muscular thigh pressing up against the slowly growing wet spot by your core.

Your mind starts to grow fuzzy at the edges because he hasn’t parted from you, and it’s only when both of you are gasping for breath does he pull away, but doesn’t let you go.

“Toru…” you whine.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to hear, baby.”

You want to curse yourself for being so weak for him. But with the way he looks at you, how it looks like he thinks you hung the moon, you feel a little bit better.

“You know what else I wanna hear?” His lips brush against your earlobe, and it feels like your entire body is on fire. He nips at the cartilage a bit. “Come back home with me, so you can find out.”