YALA

Clearing your throat you jab a thumb to the stairs behind you. “Right- sooo, imma go… Y’know collect your kid’s tooth ‘n all. Tell your wife I’ll leave the tooth on the porch—in a baggie of course!”

The man just watches you, blue eyes piercing through your soul. There’s a hint of amusement swirling around in them, and they’re so pretty, you get lost in them for a moment too long.

Clearing your throat, you slowly step back—yes, actually step. You can’t let this stranger know that you can actually fly, and you can just hope that the guy didn’t see you clearly before—before going upstairs, collecting the kid’s tooth.

After placing the money under the pillow, you just awkwardly stand in the room for a moment longer.

With a heavy sigh you creep back downstairs. This is the first time in the many years of you being the Tooth fairy that someone has actually caught you, an uneasy feeling forming in your stomach.

It’s dark downstairs, making you look around a few times before you peek your head into the living room. No more Santa. Huh, weird. You didn’t hear him go upstairs, so where he went you have no idea, but that’s not something you should focus on right now.

Getting out of the house, you leave the bag with the kid’s tooth on the porch, tied off with a little ribbon. The feeling weighs heavy on you, because you’ve never had to do this before.

You were sure everyone was asleep. You’re careful, so incredibly careful. So how did it come to this? To you having to leave a tooth behind. It gleams up at you, a little bloodied still at the root, almost like it’s mocking you for leaving behind something that belongs to you.

Sighing, you rub your face a few times. Your wings flutter behind you slightly, almost as if they are urging you to pick it up and just… take it with you anyway—like you didn’t promise a parent that they would get to keep their kid’s tooth.

Fuck.

Taking a step back, you look at it one more time, think about how the pouch later will feel off, before taking off and going to the next residence that expects your visit for the night.

But even when you’re doing the rest of your shift, you can’t help but think of that one abandoned tooth laying in the cold night air. But there isn’t anything you can do about that right now, is there?

You always forget just how busy the streets of downtown Tokyo are. Luckily your wings only come out at night. People have no regard for personal space. Tourists. Commuters. You name it. They keep brushing against you, not even uttering a sorry.

There’s a prominent scowl on your face. Muttering under your breath about people being rude, you get interrupted. An arm swings around your shoulder. You instantly freeze.

Turning to look at the person who’s touching you, you’re met with a mop of white hair. The guy is tall, incredulously so. Eyes hidden by a pair of shades. He’s grinning down at you, as if the two of you have been friends forever.

Just who is this guy?

“Heyyyy,” the stranger drawls out. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stare at him. Your instincts say to flee, scream, push his arm off you, but a different part deep inside your brain says he’s harmless.

The two of you are standing still on the sidewalk. People around you are narrowly avoiding you, muttering about how rude it is to stand still in the middle of the sidewalk. You heed them no mind.

“Uhh- hi?” you question. Still thinking about the fact that this random guy just walked up to you and started talking to you. Stranger danger or something.

He just… looks at you for a little, grin still on his face as he assesses you from head to toe. Though you can’t see his eyes, you can feel them.

“I honestly didn’t think I would run into you this soon, but here you are!” He finally says, and it takes everything in you to not fucking bolt right now. Most people don’t even glance twice at the two of you, while there are a few who stare for a bit longer than necessary, wondering what’s going on before continuing with their day.

Luckily you don’t have to say anything, though, because the guy’s smile slips just slightly. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Biting on the inside of your cheek, you shake your head slightly. You have never met this person in your life, if you had, you would’ve remembered—it’s unusual to find someone here who is this tall, has stark white hair and has the prettiest teeth.

They really are pretty, and you can’t help but wonder if they are naturally like that, or if he had some work done. It pains you every time people shave down their natural teeth to get those veneers. You can’t even collect the scraps!

Realising you’re staring at his teeth, you look up at his eyes—shades, really—again. There’s a small crinkle to his nose and a small smile splayed on his lips instead of that smirk he had earlier.

“Didn’t know you also did this as your day-job,” he casually comments as he starts walking, dragging you alongside him. Why on God’s green earth haven’t you pushed him off , walked away yet?

The words catch you off-guard slightly. Day job would imply he would know of your ‘nighttime job’, which no one knows about, so maybe this is just a random guess? “Do what, exactly?”

His steps falter slightly at that, almost as if he didn’t expect you to question him about it. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, and you can finally see a hint of color—blue, incredibly so. Just like you saw last night.

Surely not, right?

“The whole teeth thing. I thought you only collected them.” Okay well, that confirms it. This is the same guy you met last night when he was dressed in a Santa costume.

Thinking back on it, you realise that he was indeed very tall, but it evened out with his proportions.

Wait… this is the guy’s house you practically broke into last night. The father who was setting out presents for his kid to find later that day. The one who saw you break in and only greeted you like it was something normal.

A nervous laugh bubbles up, and it slips out of you before you can clamp it down. “Yeah… I, uhhh, am a dentist!”

You’re not a dentist by a long shot. The only thing you do is collect teeth, you don’t even have a job—if you don’t count being the Tooth fairy as having a job. So you’re lying straight through your teeth right now, and this poor guy doesn’t know any better.

After hearing that, he practically perks up. “Really? I think I have a cavity, think you can maybe look at it some day?”

“Sure,” you force the words out, strained smile on your face as you try to look for an out. “I have to go now though. Y’know, gotta check out teeth to make sure they stay nice and healthy. Have a great—”

“Oh! That reminds me,” the guy cuts in, absolutely ignoring the fact that you’re trying to get away from him. He shoves his hand into his pocket, fingers absolutely digging into it as he tries to find something. A small ‘aha!’ falls from his lips as he holds up a baggie—tied at the top with a ribbon, completely see-through, and in it sits one, tiny teeth. The same baggie you left behind last night.

Your eyes widen as you whip your head around a few times, trying to see if people saw this guy holding up a bag with a random tooth in it. Snatching it out of his hand, you drag him to one of the alleyways. “What is your problem??”

He pouts at that, lower lip jutting out, as his arms hang beside him. Pushing up his shades into the ivory locks, he finally looks at you with those unobstructed eyes, and fuck, if they aren’t pretty.

Nope, nope, nope nope nope. You cannot think that way. This man is married, you know he’s married because you get all the info before entering a residence. Two adults and one kid.

“You left it behind last night, I just wanted to return it to you!” he almost whines? Why is he so hurt over the fact that you find it strange that he would just give you his child’s teeth to you?

Most parents who don’t believe in the Tooth Fairy keep their children’s teeth for sentimental value—something even you couldn’t understand why they would possibly do that. Sure, you take the teeth and give the kid money in return, but you don’t keep the teeth.

So why is this parent trying to give you—a total stranger—his child’s teeth?

“I left it there for you guys, why would you try to give it ‘back’ to me?” your voice is full of confusion. None of this makes any sense to you. First him finding you and being so friendly, as if he’s talking to a friend rather than a stranger that broke into his house, and then him giving you the tooth you purposefully left behind. You even told him you would do that!

“You’re the Tooth Fairy,” he says slowly, confusion starting to creep into his voice. “The one who collects people’s teeth and exchanges money for it.”

“I- huh?”

“Why are you so confused? You’re the literal Tooth Fairy who collects teeth. I saw you last night! You know, me, Santa. The guy with the big white beard and the red costume. I have a shed with reindeer. The one who delivers Christmas presents to people’s houses…”

He starts trailing off when he sees you furrow your brows together. Surely… surely you, the Tooth Fairy, would believe in Santa, wouldn’t you? The two of you have the same type of job, though his is only for one day out of the year whereas yours is every day.

But then again, it would explain why he wouldn’t be able to find your house. Sure, he hasn’t been doing this for many years—his father having died only a few years prior, making it so that he had to take over—but he knows everyone's address, well, everyone who beliefs anyway.

“…You don’t believe in Santa Claus?” His voice is edged with disbelief. “You sprout wings at night and steal children’s teeth, but a man delivering presents is too far for you?”

“Why would I believe in a myth when he never visited my house?” you ask him.

The two of you stare at each other for a while, blue eyes blinking down at you. His smile is long gone, replaced with something sadder. The bag in your hand feels heavier than it should. Clenching your hand around it, you can feel the way the tooth is leaving behind small indents into your skin.

Finally he laughs. It’s one of those laughs that doesn’t have any humour behind it, feeling rather hollow. “Santa isn’t gonna visit your house if you don’t believe in him. It’s the same for the Tooth Fairy, isn’t it?”

That’s something you’ve never thought about before. Of course it made sense to you that you wouldn’t visit people’s houses who don’t believe in you—normally you get a notification of whose tooth has fallen out that day—because they would absolutely freak out if the tooth was somehow gone.

But you never thought about the fact that it might be the same for Santa. Sure, you’ve waited next to your tree, fallen asleep waiting for the big man in red to come by and give you presents, but there was always a small voice in the back of your mind that told you he wasn’t real.

“No wonder I couldn’t find your residence last night. Hah, who would’ve thought? The Tooth Fairy herself doesn’t believe in Santa,” he mutters, not really directed at you.

Then he looks down at you, and you instinctively straighten up. “Even the Easter Bunny believes in Santa! I just… I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you don’t believe in me.”

Huffing, you turn around. There is no way you’re going to stand here and listen to Santa of all people be butt hurt over the fact that you don’t believe in him when he—or whoever came before him—didn’t even come by your house when you did believe.

“Thanks for the tooth,” you call out over your shoulder, waving around the pouch slightly. “Until next time, Santa. Oh, and don’t bother trying to find me, you’re not able to anyway.”

The sun shines down at you when you step out of the alleyway, busy street bustling with commotion. You’re about to disappear, blend in with the crowd, when you hear your name being called out from behind you.

Turning around, you see Santa—you really should get his name—sprint after you, long strides eating up distance in no time. He stops in front of you, smiling like he didn’t just almost cry about the fact that you didn’t believe in him—okay, maybe not cry, but he was still stupidly hurt over the whole thing.

“Why don’t you show me where you live? Y’know, so I can bring you presents next year now that you know I’m real and all of that.” He’s smiling down at you with those pearly whites, as if he isn’t asking you some insane question right now.

Raising your brow, you just stare at him for a little. “You wanna know where I live,” you slowly say. When he nods his head, white hair bobbing with the motion, you continue. “Do you realise how creepy that sounds?”

His smile falters at that, and you can almost see the way the cogs are turning in his head. “…Would it be less creepy if I treated you to some lunch first?”

You’re about to decline, saying that you’re not hungry or form some other excuse, when your stomach decides to betray you. A small rumble can be heard, and he perks up at the sound of it. Sighing, you reluctantly nod. “Well then, don’t just stand around there, lead the way.”

He loops his arm around yours and starts marching, already chattering your ear off about anything and everything, and it takes everything in you not to snap. Sure, it’s nice he gave you the tooth, but you didn’t plan on being out for this long.

Stopping at a small cafe, he ushers you to sit down while he orders for the two of you. You don’t have the energy to argue with him, so you just choose a small table as far away from the window as possible.

Putting your chin in your hand, you being to softly drum your fingers on the table. You should’ve been home by now, going to sleep before you had to do your shift later tonight, but of course you get looped into whatever the fuck this is.

Luckily, Santa doesn’t take too long, coming back with so much stuff, your eyes nearly bulge out of your head when you see it. And it isn’t just a lot of stuff, almost all of it are pastries with the sweetest fillings and toppings imaginable.

“Why would you ever order this much food?” you ask him when he sits down. It’s almost like he perks up at the mention of food—like a fucking dog—head snapping up.

“Oh! I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just chose everything I liked… and then a little bit more,” he isn’t even ashamed to say it, nor has any difficulties to throw away money like that.

Rolling your eyes, you just pick a sandwich up, while Santa is already halfway through a chocolate croissant—how he has scarfed down that much food already is a mystery to you.

“So, what about—”

“Shhhh, no talking during lunch,” you cut him off, closing your eyes as you slowly chew on your sandwich. When you peek one eye open, you see him pout but he mercifully stays quiet. Well, at least he can listen to a simple command. Again, like a dog.

The two of you sit in silence for a little while, before he carefully tries to strike up an conversation yet again. This time you let him, though he still does most of the talking.

At one point you find out his name is Gojo Satoru, and he was kind of flabbergasted that you didn’t know his name. Something about him having a whole toy company under him. That had made you laugh, of course Santa would have a daytime job as the CEO of a toy company.

When you’d asked him if all his employees were also his elves, he had pouted a little, telling you that the elves didn’t like him very much as a boss, so they didn’t want to work for his company during the remainder of the year. That caused you to raise a brow, but you decided not to poke into it too much because he seemed genuinely upset about it, even though he tried to play it off.

After eating your sandwich and one pastry Satoru had hyped up to the point you couldn’t not eat it, the two of you left. Satoru had eaten almost everything else, and you have to wonder how he’s still so lean.

You can feel your eyes start to get heavy the longer you’re awake, considering you haven’t slept yet, but you can’t exactly fall asleep while Gojo is chatting your ear off once more.

“Sooo,” Gojo Santa drawls out. “What do you do with the children's teeth?”

“Sell them on the black market,” you reply deadpan. A yawn escapes you ask you just continue walking. Baby blues are blinking down at you. Once. Twice. An awkward laugh tumbles out of him, not a jolly one this time.

Turning your head, you hold his stare for a few more seconds. You would’ve done more really, but the corner of your lip betrays you. “Kidding, I’ll show you once we get to my house.”

Gojo follows you with a bit more hesitancy in his step now, and it makes you want to laugh once again. Good thing you haven’t told him you’re the one who buys teeth off the black market—they’re a form of currency for you after all.

The busy streets of Tokyo start to get emptier and emptier the more the two of you walk, until you find yourself standing in front of a forest.

“Where even are we?” Gojo mutters, looking around him. It’s a valid question considering the fact that there are no houses nearby.

Smiling, you walk into the forest. “Almost home.”

A bit further down, you crouch next to a tree. Pulling out a different pouch from your pocket, you open it. Fairy dust sparkles up at you, glinting in the light that dares to penetrate through the tree tops. Pulling some of it out, you sprinkle it onto the bark.

You can feel the way Gojo is eyeing you, but you heed it no mind. Stepping back, you watch as the bark transforms into a door. Opening it, you gesture towards Gojo to go inside. “After you.”

“Right, okay then…” He ducks his head to go inside, and you follow not soon after, letting the door close behind you. Gojo jumps a bit at the sound of the door closing, but he starts looking around the room.

Hanging up your jacket, you quickly go to your workstation, bringing out your mortar and pestle. Dumping the tooth in, you quickly begin to crush it. Gojo peeks over your shoulder, hearing the crunch of the little tooth pieces getting ground up.

“Whatcha doing?” he murmurs, eyes transfixed on the way you’re trying to break one of the pieces up, but it clearly doesn’t work. “Let me help.”

Raising a brow, you look at him, but still let go of the tools. He quickly takes over, crushing the pieces in no time. It grinds down to that same glitter you just had in your pouch, which you put onto the workbench.

“It’s uhh, fairy dust. Basically my way of getting into people’s houses,” you explain, tongue peeking out from between your lips as you try to carefully transfer the dust into the pouch. “I was running low.”

“Wait wait wait, let me get this straight. You use the teeth you collect from houses to, what, break into houses to collect more teeth again?”

Swiveling on your chair, you look up at Satoru, who for some reason still hasn’t decided to sit down. “I never said that was all the teeth were used for.” And like the universe could hear you, a small ding grabs both your and Gojo’s attention. “Great timing!”

Walking over to the big press, you open it. Steam comes off, before you can see some bills. “Are you kidding me?! You’re printing money??”

That’s Satoru, who’s watching you in disbelief—his jaw is literally on the floor,eyes full of disbelief as you pull out a steamy fresh yen bill. Holding it out to him, you tilt your head. “Well duh, how else am I gonna pay these kids?”

“By getting a job?! Didn’t you say you were a dentist???”

“Ehhh, I lied about that. Remember, I didn’t think you were the real Santa, but rather a parent whose house I technically broke into the night before.”

Gojo blinks down at you, maybe he’s trying to gauge if you’re joking or not. You’re not. Being the Tooth Fairy is your job. It’s a lot of physical labour—hours of grinding down teeth into stardust, which you either use to make money or get into houses with, it also helps heal your wings whenever they do somehow end up damaged.

“The Tooth Fairy is a criminal. Oh my god, I can’t believe this. I’m in the house of a criminal— wait a minute, do you even pay taxes considering you live inside a tree?” He vaguely gestures around him, but then he finally looks around for the first time.

From the inside you wouldn’t know you’re inside a tree. It’s a normal house, a bit cramped maybe, but normal in the sense that the room is large and square. There’s electricity running, and there are even multiple stories.

It’s just that the room the two of you are in right now is a little odd in the sense that it’s your workspace. It’s filled with machines that look just like the one you opened to pull money from. And of course that workbench of yours.

“Why would I pay taxes in my own realm?” you ask, confused. Because why would you pay taxes over your own little realm that the Japanese government doesn’t even know about?

Satoru hums, looking around the room. “I mean, can’t fault you for that, but still, you can’t just print money— do you know how much trouble you could get into if people found that out?”

You snort at that. “Right, because people can totally find this place. Don’t you worry about that, the Tooth Fairy wont get arrested for something as silly as tax evasion. Also, I’m not a criminal. People should be glad about that, actually, because if we were criminals, people would never be able to catch us.”

“Now why are you bringing me into this? I just deliver presents to people on Christmas eve, I’m not sitting on the North Pole printing money in my hidden house—”

“So you do have a hidden house? Also you’re aware you break into people’s homes, just like I do, right?”

“I- no I don’t have a hidden house! Every present gets made in my toy factory here in Japan. And… okay well that last part might be true, but you didn’t have to put it like that.”

Smiling, you shake your head a bit. “Well c’mon then, I’ll show you the rest of my tax-free house.”

It’s not something you thought you would ever do—showing your house to someone else. It’s been decades since someone last was here, and that person was your own mother. At the time she was still the Tooth Fairy. She’s also the one who has taught you all about fairy dust and its usage.

If anyone was a criminal, it would’ve been the first Tooth Fairy who came up with stealing children’s teeth for money, not you.

The rest of the day passes in a blink, and before you even realise it, your wings sprout out of your shoulder blades. They unfurl, casting small shadows onto your kitchen floor, where you and Gojo were chatting over a cup of tea.

Shit, had you really wasted the day away like this— talking to Santa of all people? You haven’t even slept! And now you’re supposed to make your rounds again?

“Well, I guess duty calls.” you mumble as you stand up. Gojo looks a bit sad, but stands up as well. Digging into your pocket, you gently give him a small pouch with some Fairy Dust. He holds it up like it’s a foreign object—which it kinda is. “You can use that when you want to visit, or whatever.”

“Really, you’ll let me visit again?” There’s a small sparkle to his eyes that almost rivals the dust. It’s kinda cute, but you won’t ever tell him that. Humming, you open the front door. The forest having since darkened, the moonlight peeking through slightly. “I’ll see you soon, then.”

Waving, he walks back to civilisation as you take off to go to the first house of the night.

And he stays true to his word. The first time Gojo came to visit you, you were asleep. He’d at least looked apologetic about it, not having realised that you probably would be asleep until a bit later in the day. You’d waved him off and told him not to worry about it since you hadn’t told him.

After that, his visits were later, around seven or eight at night. He also always brought food with him, since he still had to eat dinner, and you your first meal of the day.

It was honestly scary how easy it was to become friends with him. You never really had any friends, much less people who even knew about you being the Tooth Fairy. Guess the two of you had that in common, though—the secret identities.

Sure, Gojo might be Santa, but he’s a normal guy 364 days out of the year, so he has more freedom with who he spends time with, and he has told you all about his friends. It was honestly cute how happy he is every time he talks about them, but part of you felt lonelier than ever when you heard him talk about it.

What would it be like to truly live a normal life, one where you don’t have to hide away because of the fact that you sprout wings at night and collect teeth?

Seems like you don’t have to dwell on that thought for long, because one day, after months of talking to Gojo, he asked you one simple question.

The two of you are sitting on your couch, watching TV. Gojo is uncharacteristically silent, and you have been side-eyeing him the entire time. After a good forty minutes of silence, you finally break. “What’s up with you?”

He jolts slightly, fingers slipping from the small takeout box he has in his hand, before they clamp around it again—slightly too hard, crinkling the plastic with it. His eyes find yours, and for the first time in forever, you see an emotion you haven’t seen in him before—uncertainty.

“Go out with me?” he finally blurts out, swallowing straight after. The words bounce off your walls and into your skull. Go out with me? He wants to go on a date? With you?

“Me?” you point at yourself, as if trying to confirm that he isn’t talking about anyone else.

He laughs, a bit awkwardly, as he scratches the back of his neck with one hand. “Who else?”

Biting down on your lip, you look down at the takeout in your lap. Why? Why would he ever want to go out with you out of everyone? You don’t have an interesting life, at all. You just… collect teeth and sleep. There’s not much else you do with your days. Looking up at him, you finally whisper, “Are you sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” and he does sound so sure, you can’t but help believe in him.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll go out with you.”

A/N: I'm honestly giggling even thinking about Santa and the Tooth Fairy being criminals. They somehow can enter people's residences and no one notices. Anyway, I hope you guys liked this!

Tags: @yoonsucks @etheralpanic @lilithkleia @dollieadored @starsforvia @iinvivible @saniiaa @marisacosm @tojiphoria @yorikae @coveexxx @yagirljelliedkiki @pingui0i @serpenttine @seueuq @mousedit @sugurusbadhabit @cactusvolumes @secretsofchance @lilslovesaizawa @satorusdollie @kcandy-flosz @galinathepanda

From: [email protected] Subject: email? really?

Dear Gojo Satoru,  Clearly you can’t take a hint. Let me spell it out for you. I. Am. Busy. Leave. Me. Alone. Unhappily,  Your girlfriend P.S. Do not call yourself ‘big-dicked daddy.’ It upsets me greatly.

From: [email protected] Subject: keep being mean to me please im close

Dear adorable goth baby,  You’re so hot when you’re being mean. I already know you’re frowning in that cute way that makes me want to smother you in kisses and you’re rolling your eyes so hard NGH! I already said I’m sorry.  Please give me another chance. I’m so damn bored I started playing spin the bottle alone in my room. I made out with that picture of you sleeping with drool down your chin. Picture You was even getting handsy. ‘Down girl!’ I said. ‘Bad!’ Stay tight,  Toru (not Gojo Satoru, that’s like a slur coming from you, very triggering stuff) P.S. I am your big-dicked daddy tho I’m confused?

From: [email protected] Subject: shut up

Satoru,  I gave you multiple chances when I asked you to stop and give me at least 5 hours to study before we go out for dinner and I entertain you, you giant freaking child. But no, you just had to hound me with your dick, like I was supposed to be dickmatised and persuaded to drop everything at your beck and call.  Fuck, I’m getting mad all over again.  Stop emailing me. You’re gonna see me at 7pm for our date anyways. You can last 4 more hours. Yours not for long,  Girl who just wants to pass

From: [email protected] Subject: my bad bro

Sweetiepie :( I’m sorry.  I thought it was gonna motivate you to work hard. Pwease forgive me. Pwease? Towu is vewy vewy sowwy.  In fact, I’m so so so sorry, I’ll pay for dinner tonight. Scout’s honour. Asking for mercy and forgiveness,  Your boyfriend no matter what

From: [email protected] Subject: dinner? that the best you can offer?

You always pay for dinner. Last time I offered, you damn near wrestled me in the middle of the restaurant so you could get your card out first. We’re still banned from there, remember? Btw, you were never a Scout, don’t play with me.

From: [email protected] Subject: you gotta address me and sign off!

Dear love of my life who doesn’t understand how email etiquette works,  Of course I always pay for dinner — you’re broke and your family is destitute, I remind you lovingly. But even if you were as rich as me, or even richer (which isn’t possible, not to flex), I would still pay every single time. It’s the least I can do for reparations for the violence committed by my gender against yours. Plus, that restaurant sucked anyway — the owner is problematic towards immigrants and the servers don’t even know if the meat is locally and ethically sourced, like hello??? In the big 2025?!? How’s studying going? Do you need a snack or a smoothie to boost you?  I can drop by. Promise I won’t linger. I just didn’t see a purchase on my card for breakfast or lunch. Please don’t starve. If I can’t watch your ass jiggle when I hit it from the back, I’m gonna be devastated.  Yours most sincerely,  Satoru P.S. You have to be a Scout to say Scout’s Honour? Crazyyyyyy

From: [email protected] Subject: so fucking bossy omg

Dear Satoru (happy now?), Please don’t remind me of my family’s shortcomings. You know I like to pretend I came from a normal background. And stop being more woke than me. It’s hot. Studying’s fine, I guess. I think I forgot how to study. I’ve missed a lot of content too. If a certain someone hadn’t been clinging to me so tightly every morning, maybe I wouldn’t be so behind. God, you make my life so hard.  A smoothie and pastry would be lovely, actually. I can’t be bothered leaving my room to get some food. Just drop it off outside and disappear by the time I open the door — if I see even a glimmer of white hair, I’m going to freak.  Thanks. Love begrudgingly, A girl who’s gonna fail her exam

From: [email protected] Subject: you're not gonna fail

Dear cutie,  I don’t cling to you that hard. You’re dramatic. I wonder where you got that from. And last I checked, we have a safeword you can use anytime to get me away from between your legs if you really wanted to get to class. But I like our game where you pretend you’re not just as obsessed with me as I am with you (I know you get all hot and bothered when I reference Marx, dirty girl) Food’s outside babe. The line was stupid long and I ran into Fushiguro — remember the guy I told you has the highest body count on campus? He’s in a relationship now and he’s so pussywhipped lmaoooo Couldn’t be me. Hoping you’ll stuff your face and get all the brain power you need,  Satoru

From: [email protected] Subject: not impressed

I told you to disappear before I could see you.  You didn’t have to kiss me and hump my leg you animal. My neighbours were NOT happy with the pornographic noises you made, asshole.  Yeah, I remember Toji. Cool dude. Always wearing gym wear no matter the weather and for some reason hates you. Don’t make fun of him for being loyal and loving to his girlfriend. You’re probably so much worse. I envy his girlfriend. She probably doesn’t have to put up with a yapper who spams her with dick pics. Thank you for the food though. Very appreciated. What I didn’t appreciate, however, was the number and the smiley face on my drink. I already told you, if someone tries to hit on you, bark at them and tell them you have a girlfriend you worship endlessly. 

From: [email protected] Subject: EMAIL. ETIQUETTE. COME ON.

Look: Dear angry girlfriend I do in fact worship endlessly and beyond,  I’m sorry I didn’t follow your exact orders but I desperately needed a kiss from my girl. If I don’t get my daily dose, I wilt, like a rose. You know this.  And disrespectfully, f your neighbours. It wasn’t anything they hadn't heard from us before. Sensitive ears ahhh About Fushiguro — he does not hate me. Why does everyone say that?  We’re actually besties. We’re like dumb and dumber, but dumber is him obvi. Plus, once he gets some shots in him, he’s super in love with me. I get more over the clothes action from him than from you lol You never need to thank me for feeding you. I fear that’s like bare minimum. Get those standards up girl. Oh and sorry about the drink. I didn’t even notice. Leave it outside your door and I’ll get you a new one. I’ll even make a scene and call the manager over. Maybe I’ll buy the store and get everyone fired. Just give me the word babe. Yours forever,  Satoru 

From: [email protected] Subject: YOU ARE EXHAUSTING

Dear my sweetest, most frustrating boyfriend, Fine, I’ll forgive the kiss (I might have needed it too). And yeah, f my neighbours because the guy on my left loves playing Doctor Who Season 8 on repeat and on full volume every night like clockwork. It’s not even the best season! Forget about the drink. Just don’t ever go back there again. Number and smiley face aside, the drink is abysmal and tastes like bog water. Pastry is great though. 10/10 You’d really make a scene for me? Yours occasionally,  No longer starving girlfriend

From: [email protected] Subject: awww I knew you loved me really

Dear the Morticia to my Gomez,  I’d make a scene for you at the drop of a hat. I’d serenade you in malls, on campus, in a Michelin star restaurant, and in a lecture. Heck, I’d yell ‘BOMB’ in an airport if you asked me to – just maybe not an airport we frequent. There’s quite literally nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If you didn’t know that already, then I’m not as great of a boyfriend as I thought I was. I will remedy that immediately, my goddess eternal. Obsessedly yours,  Your husband in every way but legally (we can fix that)

From: [email protected] Subject: ugh

Dear Toru,  Stop being sweet. It’s disgusting. Come inside already. I’m done pretending I’m getting anything from the textbooks. I’m only giving myself a headache.

From: [email protected] Subject: woahhhh

You can tell I’m outside???

From: [email protected] Subject: you're loud as hell

I can hear you giggling at my emails, Satoru. You’re probably sitting on the floor, leaning against my door. 

From: [email protected] Subject: just got shivers

Damnnnn are you sure you’re not a witch?

From: [email protected] Subject: well?

Are you coming in or what?

From: [email protected] Subject: yippeeeee

Okay okay, yes I am. LOVE YOU BABY <3

Even Yu’s ever-present puppy grin coin flips into a faltering press of teeth, sucking in a breath and murmuring out a painful, “oooh…”

Nanami clears his throat, the first to speak.

“Let’s not make her go through the trouble,” He found himself saying hastily, finger hooking to adjust his shirt collar in a rigid series of movements. “You should both relax. Besides, Gojo already offered to buy everyone dinner, it’d be rude to turn it down.”

Nanami? Concerned with disrespecting Gojo?? Suguru’s brows pull together and he glances towards the window minutely to make sure grass is still green.

Haibara’s quick to jump on that train, head nodding exuberantly as he claps his hands together— almost a pleading gesture. “Yeah! Let’s just all go out, chillax, grab a bite n’ few drinks and—“

“—HER FOOD TASTES LIKE HOW RARERAREMON LOOKS.” Satoru gags over Haibara’s placation, an overdramatic shudder causing him to spasm some weird little wriggle.

He squeezes his eyes shut, tongue lolling. “Guhhh, I feel sick just thinkin’ about it. There’s probably some curse out there manifested by fear of her cooking, blegh!”

Shoko pinches him, eyeing him disapprovingly with a scoff. “That’s not—“ True? “—the way you should say it.”

She shakes her head when Gojo poutily mutters something along the lines of we were all thinking it as he rubs his side, folding her arms as her lazily lidded gaze shifted to Suguru.

“Geto, I mean this as nicely as I can put it, because I love your wife more than you do.” She leveled dryly. “Girl can’t cook. Like, at all. Let’s give her a break and go karaoke.”

Nobody argues.

It’s probably not the feedback any husband wants to hear from his closest friends regarding his wife, but it’s not like Geto didn’t entirely expect this reaction.

He knows that— by traditional standards— you’re no critically acclaimed chef.

But in truth, he’s no critic either.

Suguru can’t remember exactly at what point his sense of taste diminished, it’s not one of those things you can pinpoint to an exact memory. It had to have been somewhere in his teens, just one day realizing his miso didn’t taste like miso.

No, now that he recalls, the taste of food had become the least of his concerns at that point, eclipsed entirely by the acrid sapor that was necessary for him to consume.

He used to take a bite, shift it around from one side of his mouth to the other, waiting for it. The comfort of a warm meal, of his most favorite indulgences to ground him. To remind him that just like everyone else he could still be pleased by something so simple. Food looked good, it smelled good. It looked familiar and weighed on a utensil like it was supposed to, but when it met his mouth he felt nothing. It mashed between his molars, diluted with his saliva and clung to the back of his throat like a weak perfume over the stench that was humanity’s worst.

Curses don’t go down like anything natural. They linger, make his body recoil on itself like anything that shouldn’t be inside it would. They coat his tongue, nestle into the soft parts of his mouth, make home in the cleaves of his teeth right near the gum. Smug and permanent. Kissing his taste buds like sulfur.

It’s not something he could ever rinse with water, brush raw, or floss away. They sat stubborn and stagnant as bristles scraped futilely, even when he couldn’t recognize the metallic tang of his own blood until he was spitting it into the cavern of the sink, ruddied foams of white swirled mockingly with a minty blue he imagined was spicy and fresh.

He used to gorge right after.

Shovel in as much as he could to overwrite the residue curses left. Salty, sweet, sour, savory, spicy, umami, bitter. All faint and trapped beneath the flavor of something wrong, until his stomach protested. A fruitless effort, he learned eventually.

It didn’t disappear all at once, but it eroded. Sanded down slowly, until the memory of eating and feeling sated afterward was more akin to something he’d read in a book than something he actually experienced. Rice became a warm weight on his tongue, soup eventually just heat that stung any open wound in his mouth. Salt? Meat was a texture, sweetness existed as a concept that Satoru indulged in constantly, and sourness only if it was aggressive enough to bite through the numb.

And then eating became mechanical. Habit instilled by repetition over days, and weeks, and months, and years— since when he was small and new. But in those days it became action without reward, cruelly melding with his newest habit of taking in curse after curse. Over days. Weeks. Months. Years. Meal and mission were one blurred definition, joint disgust.

But he’ll still eat. If not for fuel, then for the questions to stop.

“Suguruuu, h’ve you lost weight?”

“Woahhhh duuude, you’re thinnin’ out! You look like Nanami—”

“—Hey.”

“You all good?”

“You hungry? Did you eat yet?”

“You okay?”

Ate earlier. Heat fatigue. He’ll eat later.

It all came from a good place, he’s sure. But it feels more like probing fingers than an extended palm.

In a restaurant it was a performance, pretending to savor what he couldn’t remember he was chewing as friends around him still found space for those small, menial disappointments that had become myth.

“This is waaayyy too salty.”

“How many calories do you think is in this?”

“Ughhh, I wanted something sweet!”

“What’d you wanna order again, Geto?”

At his name, Suguru’s head lifted from where he’d been blankly staring at the menu— pages of symbols and pictures all running together that might as well be the same word printed in a threat.

EAT.

But there was Haibara, grinning and staring expectantly for his choice. He smiled, a stretch of lips rehearsed for moments like these.

“Choose for me. Anything’s fine.” Everything was a varying shade of tolerable. After a moment’s thought, he added, “something sweet, maybe.” Satoru would probably end up picking off his plate.

All of it made him acutely aware of his own charade, how far away he was from the people he was sitting right next to. People who’ve never tasted a cursed spirit, who were still human enough to eat, and enjoy it. Praise or complain about what was on their plates.

No matter what was sitting before him, on smooth ceramic or in his hand, on a fork, pooled in a spoon, between his chopsticks. All of it was beginning to provoke the same reaction within him.

Just gaping his jaw with the intent of filling his mouth with something rancid disguising itself in different textures and colors and ‘flavors’ was starting to make his gut churn. Lazy, nauseous rolls beneath his ribs, sloshing, trying to prod and rise up his throat in a rush as if to punish him a second time.

He didn’t feel particularly nourished anymore. Food sat like a pile of stones when he could remember to eat it and managed to keep it down. Every swallow was a mistake, absorption or meal, it didn’t matter. He dreaded both with exhaustion, with the heavy clarity that nothing good waited for him at the end of either one.

So what was he doing this for?

For people, non-sorcerers that would never know the cost or the day to day toll. Who would keep committing horrible acts under his protection, at the cost of his struggle and the lives of sorcerers around him.

There was no longer really a question of what he would eat, just the why.

Why was he doing this? For who?

You, of course, were none the wiser to the depth of this turmoil.

A dull clunk! reverberates throughout the aisle.

You muttered some curse under your breath as you dropped a can of soda, shiny red aluminum rolling beneath the shelf you were stocking. The last month or so had been a blur of hazy summer days with a persistent sun and by night even harsher fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with the sharp scent of floral disinfectant biting at your nostrils.

You’d been working a lot of nights at this little 24-hour convenience store, donning the hideously patchwork-colored polo shirt because you needed a summer job to keep you busy and rack up some cash. But sometimes you debated whether or not the ¥1,075 wages were more worth than lounging around in your fuzzy socks binging movies and shows to your heart’s content.

You mourned such as you lowered yourself to your hands and knees, one elbow digging into the grout between the cool tiles as you stretched the other below the shelf and— yeesh, maybe you really should clean under here instead of skipping it every few nights.

A couple frustrated grumbles escape you as you peered under, cheek hovering dangerously over the un-mopped floor and fingers groping just the air before the can, when the little ring ring! of the storefront door’s bell chimed. Beyond this shelf and the next’s, you see a familiar pair of socks and sandals lay foot on the doormat.

With a final stretch you graze the side of the can into rolling towards you, snatching it before it can stray again.

“Gotchya,” you mutter to no one as push yourself back to your feet and set the thing back on the shelf, fleetingly considering how shaken up it was. Someone was sure in for a surprise when they opened that.

Only then do you swing your head around the shelf to glance at the customer that had ambled in.

You’ve seen him here several times before, always at varying times of night during your shift. Tall, broad-shouldered, with deep ebony hair sometimes loose, sometimes loosely tied back with stubborn strands slinking out and crowding his temples. Head hung slightly downcast like keeping it upright was becoming too much an effort, white shirt hollowed a bit around his collar bones, as if it was a size or two too big. He’s handsome, don’t get it twisted, but every visit he just looks more worn.

The man’s narrow eyes befall the hot case, drift to the drink coolers, and then briefly to you.

“Welcome in,” you chirped automatically upon eye contact, like you always did after staring at him a bit too long (which happens often.) He muttered some noncommittal thanks with a nod before wading into the store, towards the refrigerated section.

Your interactions always followed a sort of formula.

He comes in, you welcome him, he wanders around the store for a while, and turns up with some items at register. There you make a little small talk that’s become increasingly less awkward, and you bid him a good night.

Which, arguably, is about the normal routine for any store regular, but you guess you pay special attention to him.

When you first noticed his visits he used to approach the counter bearing tons of snacks, a slurry of different flavors. Just a splurge of low effort indulgences that were pre-prepared, things you could eat and enjoy without really thinking much of it. You’d make a bad joke about it being one of those days that you felt terrible for making him pretend to laugh at, and send him on his merry way with handfuls of plastic bags.

But that was quite some time ago. Now his visits were more spotty, and he never brought more than an onigiri or nikuman to the counter. Maybe it was rude, but you wondered, from the looks of him, if he ever ate more than what he bought from here. It was like he showed up now only when he either remembered or was reminded by his body that he needed to eat at least something, and chose this sucky konbini for his collations.

You’re staring again, you realize when he finally chooses something that he doesn’t seem like he’s particularly interested in and starts walking towards the register.

“How’s your night going?” You blurt conversationally as he approaches, finding yourself behind the counter before he could beat you there. To which he hums.

“How it usually goes,” like usual, smiling a pull of lips that’s practiced. He places a pork bun on the counter. “Just this, please.”

As you ring him up, you sift through a catalog of mundane conversation topics to fill the silence between clacks of the cash register and rustling of coins. The weather maybe? Or how his troublesome egomaniac friend’s doing that he’d brought up in a couple past talks— him or that peppy kōhai he seemed to be fond of and worry over.

Somehow you find the gull to ask, “do you like cooking?”

You bite down on your tongue the second the question stumbles out your mouth. Hopefully it doesn’t sound as probing as you actually mean it to be. You can’t help it, really. Watching him meander around the store like a half rotted corpse so many times has really started twisting some anxious little knot behind your ribs. You suppose it’s a bit better than blurting out “who died?” or “are you okay??” like you really wanted to.

His glazed eyes slid up from the greasy quartz to your face, regarding you with the curiosity of an unamused feline. Okay, so today definitely wasn’t a small talk day. But he humored you still.

“Not often,” he admitted, in a blink his eyes on the counter again. “I suppose I don’t find the time to.”

“Ah.” Without thinking, you respond. Mostly because you know if you don’t, the conversation will die here. “I do. I mean, I’m trying to learn.”

Your cadence is crooked somehow, sounding like you meant to add something then lost the nerve as you spoke. The air feels as stiff as your holding your shoulders— with painful, unnecessary awkwardness that you’ve brought upon yourself. You’ve really got a knack for talking your way into a proverbial corner.

“I’m bad at it,” you add quickly, falling back on self deprecation to hopefully smooth over this situation. “Like, bad bad. Like burn water bad.”

His lips twitch, not into what you might call a smile, but the tightness behind his expression definitely eases a tad. When he blinks, interest flickers in the inky hues of his eyes. He huffs a breath through his nose.

“Is that so?”

You nod, a bit too eagerly, a whole lot relieved that he didn’t just push the steamed bun back across the counter and walk out the door to escape the situation— which you totally wouldn’t have blamed him for.

“Yeah. But it’s pretty fun. I think if I keep trying at it I’ll, like, get the rhythm down, y’know?” You prattle, fingers tapping at the counter as the receipt prints. When it does, you tear it and secure it over the pork bun’s packaging— no bag, because you remember he’s politely declined it in some previous visit, and slide it towards him.

“Even when it turns out bad, though, at least I can say I tried,” you continue like you’re talking yourself into that affirmation. “Like, it’s slop, but it’s my slop…plus I kinda need to cut down my spending, and it’s cheaper than take-out, sooo…”

He hums again, not particularly dismissive or indulgent. “I’m sure.”

You’re just saying “Yeah.” another one too many times when the bell jingles, signaling another customer walking in, the moment stretching thin.

“Well,” you default back to script, self-consciousness cresting on you ten times stronger now with some stranger milling about. “You have a good night.”

He looks like he hesitates a second, like he might apologize for something or explain himself or— god forbid— force you to make more awkward attempts at small talk. But mercifully, he turns to leave.

“You too,” he replies automatically, and the bell tolls again with his exit.

Without him realizing, his visits start taking an incline into earlier hours of the night, while the sky is still bruised purple instead of ink black. Sometimes you’re there, and sometimes you’re not. Absurdly when you’re not, he feels cheated, somehow.

When you are there, though, you talk. And he means that in a very one-sided manner.

You tend to talk a lot when you get nervous, but he doesn’t mind that about you. Rather likes it, actually, it’s nice. It’s like putting a few yen into a guarantee-win pachinko and watching the little marbles spill out tumbling over one another. He’d only ever have to say a couple words at a time, sometimes surprise you with a full sentence or two. He listens more than he responds, and you babble more than enough to fill in the spaces between without expecting too much of him, or ever questioning his purchases despite it being so painfully obvious you wanted to ask.

You regale him with tales of annoyingly ardent customers with expired coupons, how you have to poke a hole in the buns before you microwave them, because last week you found out the hard way when one exploded in the microwave. And of your cooking exploits— which admittedly, sound less than lackluster. Or dare he say plain disastrous, but you aren’t ever without a new story somehow.

When he jokes about paying respects to your poor kitchen that takes the brunt of your chef’s journey, you groan in embarrassment and press your fingers over your eyelids and palms over your burning face as you sputter something about how if you keep trying you’re bound to get better, practice makes perfect and all that.

Like he said, it’s nice. It’s cute. It turns into something similar to routine.

Until one day you produce a small, carefully wrapped box from under the counter. Your palms look tacky, like they have to peel away from the packaging when you set it down.

Despite your stilted motions and intense expression about yourself, you seem…proud? Or maybe just more anxious than usual.

“I made these,” you say too fast. It’s almost too easy to watch you and tell where you’re derailing from lines you’ve rehearsed in your head. It lightens the threat the cutely wrapped package on the counter between you imposes on him. “For you. Or I guess— I tried to make them. This batch looked pretty edible. I think, so, yeah.”

He stares at the box, something vile twisting low in his gut. Not hunger, but trepidation.

He should refuse it, and he knows that. Accepting it means performing, pretending to enjoy something he knows he can’t, to revisit the familiar hollow disappointment he so often did. He’d like to smile, deflect, retreat back into indifference.

But he doesn’t need to look at your eyes to read your thoughts.

You’re watching him with wide eyes he can feel like spotlights, your braced patience already half way to disappointment regardless of the way you're trying not to make it completely obvious. Like you already anticipated his rejection, convinced yourself you misread something or overstepped somewhere.

Distantly, the questions that’ve been gnawing at him for months loom overhead.

What was he doing this for? Why was he doing this?

“They’re cookies. You don’t have to take them. They’re kinda okay?” You blurt in a rush, not allowing his contemplative silence to settle lest you cave in on yourself completely. “I think I used tablespoons on accident when I was measuring the baking soda. Or is it baking powder?— whatever the one is that’s supposed to be in cookies. I hope.”

His hand moves before he has the chance to finish the thought.

The pads of his fingers brush the soft fibers of the cloth wrap, tracing where it creased at the corners.

“…Thank you,” he murmured quietly, and the look on your face is worth the wave of nausea gaining traction in his stomach.

You’re grinning like you’ve just been handed a passing grade you weren’t expecting, relieved and crooked. Like he’s doing something for you rather than you for him. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

He doesn’t eat the cookies right away. And honestly, didn’t plan to eat them at all.

He’d just dump them out, pretend he did, and tell you they were good. It’s an easy lie he tells himself, he’s practiced at it.

He cements the actions in his mind despite the way he walks through the streets with the box gingerly tucked under an arm.

At home he sets the box on the table as he strolls by it, and lets himself forget about it.

He showers, rinses the day off his skin until the water runs lukewarm and the sensation between clean and numb blurs. He changes, tries to tend to some things. Plants he needed to water, a surface he hasn’t dusted in awhile, texts that feel so burdensome to respond to. The trash isn’t full enough to take out. Nor are there dishes to be done in the sink.

However when he circles back around to the kitchen, the cloth clad cookie box is still there. A pop of color in the dim space, patient and unassuming on the tabletop. And he just can’t seem to distract himself from it, not when the image of you standing there behind the counter wringing your fingers that were so obviously riddled with little burns from hastily grabbing a baking tray, claiming that you’d made them for him was so fresh in his mind after hours. For him.

When he opens the cloth wrap, it’s out of guilt rather than hunger.

And when he opens the box he finds…cookies?

Objectively, they’re bad. Just looking at them he can tell— lumpy little discs that are darkened a hideous brown at the edges and a gooey, sickening pale in the middles. Chocolate chips are measured by heart and distributed by an oligarchal system, some ‘cookies’ with more chips than dough and some with none at all.

Everything about them looks wrong, and muddled, and…frankly a bit pathetic.

He exhales from his nose. You really, really tried. At least these ugly cookies don’t look at him like they’ll pretend to taste good.

As he lifts one to take a bite, he can almost see it: you overmixing, using the wrong measuring cups. Apron smudged white and puffed cheeks flour dusted too, frowning as your head whipped between a bowl and instructions, muttering curses directed towards whoever made their recipe blog ridiculously impossible to navigate, refusing to quit when the first batch failed.

When he finishes the cookie, and then another, terribly unique, simultaneously crumbly and goopy texture dissolving away in his mouth, they don’t taste good. I mean, duh, just look at the things.

But the putridness of curses that always so eagerly latched onto whatever landed on his tongue is white noise. There and constant, but not overwhelming for once. Sickness doesn’t even curl beneath his ribs. They taste just like everything else he’s eaten in the past several months, but there’s sentiment in them that makes them bearable, dulling the worst of the taste.

He ends up wrapping the rest up, slow and more reverent than necessary, and sets them aside. They stay where they are on the table, a visible and intentional reminder.

“I liked them.” Suguru graces you with a smile on his next visit. His clothes still hang a bit awkwardly but at least the darkness beneath his eyes is not so harsh, though maybe that’s because of how immediate his grin reaches them. Unpolished and wide, a kind of smile that made him look boyish. “They were good, you did a wonderful job.”

He really expected you to fluster under the praise, but much to his surprise you angle your head and squint, giving him a sideways glance. “…you’re lying.”

He sputtered, his eyebrows hiking up his forehead as he blinks. “I’m not?”

“There’s just no way you actually ate those!” You accuse with folded arms, incredulity tugging your bottom lip forward. “I tried one and even I thought they were bad, you’re so lying.”

“I’m not!” Suguru repeats again, this time his words filtering through a chuckle as he leans forward against the counter, elbows planted on the surface and palms loosely clasped. “I’m not lying. Believe me, you’d know if I was lying.”

His eyes drift a bit as he makes that statement. That’s a lie in and of itself. He thinks himself a fairly good liar.

Your eyes narrow though, so maybe you did catch on to that scant hint of arrogance. Maybe you truly would know if he was lying.

“I did like them. Please,” He drapes himself a bit more over the counter, lips spelling your name for possibly the first time since you’ve met him, and it sounds so pleading, too. A shock darts through your system, at his cadence, sure, but also because you completely forgot he even knew your name. That he cared to remember it from your first introductions months ago. (Later you’ll realize you’re very clearly wearing your name tag.) “You’ll make me more, won’t you?”

“…I mean— I guess.” You murmur, your nail digging at some worn price sticker that’s been stuck to the oily counter since forever, eyes bouncing from one corner of his face to the gauge in his ear to his shoulder and back again. Anywhere but his eyes. “I guess we’ll see how long it takes for my food to kill you.”

He smiles softly at that, and it makes you feel unchecked warmth everywhere under your skin. “We will, won’t we?”

It’s not that you held some miracle cure— you didn’t make rice taste like good ol’ bland rice again. Didn’t bring sweetness back to mochi. Didn’t take away the mildewed tang of curses. But you gave him a reason to want to keep trying.

Instead of laying awake at night dreading, am I going to have to eat again? How soon? He could close his eyes musing, Oh god, what’s she going to try to make next? Burnt or undercooked? Both?? a smirk ghosting his lips.

Because if you’re going to put in the effort to try to make a meal for him, just for him, the least he could do was try to eat it. And he’d like to wager he’s maybe the best at eating your food. If nothing else.

You’re worth the effort.

That’s why when he pushes himself up from the table and turns fully to his friends all gathered in the break room, his eyes are upturned in tight little crescents. Mouth curved in a sharp sickle of a smile that just really radiates love for his wife.

Love for his wife, and sinister intent directed towards whoever dares to oppose him.

“You’re all invited to my birthday dinner,” Suguru reasserts calmly, the tranquil rumble of his voice seeming to leer like a warning. “You’ll eat it, and you’ll like it.”

“Scary,” seems to be the telepathical thought that links Shoko, Satoru, Kento, and Yu. Suguru could be that way when he wanted to be.

So they all turn up on the 3rd of February to the Geto household's doorstep, knocking at 6:00pm sharp.

Mimiko stands there to greet them, a doll stuffed in the hollow of one elbow and other hand on the door handle. Nanako’s next to her, head craned down to the tablet between her palms, tip-tapping away at the screen and barely sparing them more than a glance. The collar of her shirt is hooked up over the tip of her nose, a makeshift mask.

“Hey, Uncle Ken. Auntie Shoko, Uncle Yu. Gojo.” The tween says flatly.

What’s truly noteworthy however is the fog, billowing out the opening the door made, thick and stinking like something evil just died in this house.

“Dad let Mom into the kitchen. Again.” Mimiko monotonously supplies the explanation that’s really not needed, but it doesn’t fail in inducing a fresh wave of apprehensive terror anyway.

Though it deters them, it doesn’t stop the group from depositing their shoes near the door. They’ll still find seats around the table, try to smile and not cry when you dish out servings of what looks like the uncensored version of dubious food from some video game.

It truly is impressive how consistently borderline inedible your cooking is even after years. Endearing to some, dreaded by others.

“Sorry, it’s not the best.” You apologize preemptively before they even lift their utensils, but that’s not gonna make any of the ‘food’ go down easier.

Everyone still thanks you, Nanami and Ieiri maybe a bit better at feigning gratitude than Haibara and Gojo. Yu tries, honestly really tries to look appreciative, but he looks more like he’s just been issued a suicide mission and trying to put on a brave face about it.

Satoru meanwhile tosses his eyes dramatically, muttering “no kidding,” under his breath— right before hissing sharply. Under the table, Shoko and Kento have crushed all ten of his piggies.

The girls duck under the table when neither you or Suguru are watching to scrape their portions off their plates and into the gaping mouth of the worm curse wriggling around on the floor, weaving through table and chair legs.

And when you threaten everyone with cake wearing a gentle smile, Satoru starts praying. Not for grace to any god, but that maybe by some slim chance the aforementioned dessert might be store bought. (It’s not.)

But it doesn’t really matter that by the end of the dinner everyone is looking green around the gills or that Nanako is already plotting her and Mimiko’s secret take-out order later in the night.

Suguru’s happy. Sitting at the head of the table like he’s hosting a perfectly ordinary birthday dinner and not an active biohazard. The way he’s situated with lax shoulders and chin propped in a palm after polishing off a second serving of what everyone else could barely stand to stomach a first of, speaks of fondness. And a touch of smugness, somehow.

He seems perfectly content letting everyone else at this table battle their own digestive systems, like he doesn’t even notice it.

But when Satoru’s literally muttering his first prayers (since last year’s birthday dinner at least) under his breath, you can’t help but notice. You lean towards your husband slightly, grimacing a bit in concern as you whisper.

“It’s not that bad this time, is it?” You wince. “…too much salt?”

The warmth of his hand covers yours, and without hesitancy he affirms, “it’s perfect,” tone gentle and sure, infinitely appreciative. “Thank you.”

ᥲᥒ 𓏲ּ𝄢 geunyang pogihae eochapi— eat it up, eat it eat it uuuup! I super headcanon geto having dysgeusia or hypogeusia (or combo of the two?) so I hope u enjoyed and see my vision! happy late birfdai to the princess himself <3

late + not proofread + I’m sick if this sucked pls dont kill me im new gennnn ૮ ྀིྀ◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ა but do not shy from sharing your thoughts, im eating the feedback like Geto ate those rank & stank cookies

m.list