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hime-k0 · 16 days ago

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the curious case of satoru gojo

pairing — scientist satoru x housewife reader

synopsis : satoru gojo is a nobel-nominated genius with three phds, a devoted wife, and one tiny problem: he's accidentally turned himself into his nineteen-year-old self. now locked out of his own house and mistaken for a very persistent stalker by the love of his life (that’s you), he has one mission—fix the time machine, reclaim his face, and survive your increasingly violent attempts to defend your marriage from... him.

tags — oneshot, porn with plot, established relationship, domestic fluff, crack treated seriously, age regression/de-aging, identity shenanigans, miscommunication but it’s technically quantum, time travel(?) shenanigans, idiots in love, emotional whiplash, romantic comedy, jealous of himself, satoru gojo is so down bad, penis in vagina sex, kitchen sex, breeding kink, mating press, praise kink, overstimulation, sexual overstimulation, multiple orgasms, multiple sex positions, satoru gojo worships you like a religion, slight size kink, he’s been deprived okay, smut happens after he fixes everything

wc — 20.1k | gen. masterlist | read on ao3?

a/n: yes i wrote this in one day. yes i wrote this instead of focusing on finishing the part two of my apothecary diaries au fic. please don’t get your pitchforks out (⁠•⁠ ⁠▽⁠ ⁠•⁠;⁠) if u see i typo, no u don’t.

two weeks.

fourteen days of existing as a walking contradiction—a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in the lanky, smooth-faced prison of his nineteen-year-old body. satoru adjusts his reading glasses (the same prescription, thankfully, because his eyesight had been terrible since childhood) and stares at your front door like it’s the gates of heaven guarded by the world’s most beautiful, most stubborn angel.

his hair catches the afternoon light, those fine strands the color of fresh snow that had turned this ethereal shade when he was four and his first chemistry set had gone spectacularly wrong. it had originally been a soft, milk-tea brown, the color of dusty books and early autumn. he’d tried to invent a hair-growth serum for his dad. instead, the mixture combusted, coated his scalp, and bleached every strand into something unnaturally pale. his parents had panicked, thinking he’d poisoned himself. little satoru, meanwhile, had stared into the mirror and grinned with gap-toothed delight.

now, at nineteen-again, it falls across his forehead in soft waves, glowing almost silver in the sunlight. he looks like a walking, talking academic heartthrob from a university romance novel—which would be flattering if his own wife didn’t look at him like he was an unsightly bug on her kitchen floor.

the irony tastes bitter on his tongue, metallic like blood and regret. he’d spent six years perfecting a device to slow down time—not for scientific glory or recognition, but because twenty-four hours with you had never felt like enough. he’d wanted to stretch lazy sunday mornings into eternities, to make your sleepy smiles and the way you hummed while making coffee last forever.

instead, he’d accidentally turned himself into a time paradox of the most pathetic variety. a cautionary tale about hubris wrapped in the body of a college freshman.

his phone buzzes somewhere in the basement lab, probably sending another automated message to your device: still working on the temporal displacement project. eating the sandwiches you left. miss you. love you. —satoru

the ai assistant he’d programmed to keep you from worrying had become his greatest enemy. every perfectly crafted message, every detail programmed to sound exactly like him, was another nail in the coffin of his credibility. he’d been too thorough, too careful, too much of a perfectionist even in his contingency planning.

because here he stands, looking like a college freshman who’d wandered into the wrong neighborhood, while you believe your husband is safely tucked away in his lab, probably elbow-deep in equations and caffeine addiction.

the thing is—and this is where his pride starts gnawing at his intestines like a particularly vindictive parasite—he doesn’t want to sneak into his own house. he’s the dr. satoru gojo, for crying out loud. he has three phds, a nobel prize nomination, and enough patents to wallpaper the entire first floor. he shouldn’t have to skulk through basement windows like some sort of lovesick cat burglar just to access his own laboratory.

he’s a dignified man of science. he has principles. standards. a reputation to maintain, even if that reputation is currently being dragged through the mud by his own temporal incompetence.

no, he’s going to do this the right way. he’s going to convince you, properly and thoroughly, that he is exactly who he claims to be. he’s going to walk through the front door like a civilized human being, kiss his wife hello, and pretend the last two weeks never happened.

this is a matter of scientific integrity. of personal dignity. of—

he rings the doorbell.

the sound of your footsteps approaching makes his heart perform some sort of olympic gymnastics routine, complete with triple axels and a dismount that leaves his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his ankles. even through the door, he can picture the way you move—that particular grace you’ve always had, like you’re dancing to music only you can hear. you’re probably wearing one of those sundresses he loves, the ones that make you look like you’ve stepped out of a 1950s magazine about perfect wives, except you’re real and warm and you smell like vanilla and clean laundry and home.

the door opens, and satoru’s brain promptly short-circuits.

you’re wearing the yellow dress. the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once, in passing, while distracted by a butterfly in the park, that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic. he’d remembered that throwaway comment for six months before finding the perfect dress, had it tailored to fit you exactly, had even added those hidden pockets because you always lost your keys.

your hair is pinned back with the butterfly clips he’d made for you—tiny mechanical marvels that flutter their wings when you laugh, solar-powered and calibrated to respond to the specific frequency of your joy. he’d spent three weeks perfecting the mechanism after you’d mentioned liking butterflies. three weeks of delicate gear work and programming, all for the chance to see you smile when the wings moved.

you look at him, and your expression shifts from hopeful to confused to absolutely murderous in the span of three seconds.

“oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

his heart skips a beat. maybe five. this is the part where he says something clever. this is the part where he charms you back into loving him. this is the part where his superior intellect saves the day and—

before he can open his mouth to explain, to plead, to grovel at your perfect feet, you’ve already produced what looks like a small silver device from somewhere in your dress. the hidden pocket in the seam, specifically—the one he’d reinforced with extra stitching because you had a tendency to overstuff it with lip balm and emergency snacks.

the device hums ominously, a sound that sends ice water through his veins because he recognizes it immediately. it’s the personal protection gadget he’d built for you last christmas, after you’d mentioned feeling nervous walking home from your book club in the dark. he’d spent a month perfecting it—a sleek little thing that could stun, disorient, or mildly embarrass an attacker depending on the setting.

and right now, you’re turning the dial past ‘warning shot’ and heading straight for ‘regret your life choices.’

“listen here, you little creep,” you say, and your voice is deadly sweet, like honey laced with cyanide. the juxtaposition of your floral sundress and the murder in your eyes is somehow the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, which probably says something deeply concerning about his psychology. “i don’t know who you think you are, but i’m a married woman. deeply, completely, utterly in love with my husband.”

the way you say ‘my husband’ makes something in his chest crack open like a fault line. there’s so much pride in your voice, so much fierce devotion, and he wants to bask in it except you’re not talking about him. you’re talking about him, but not him-him. you’re talking about the version of him you actually want to see walking through this door.

“so whatever pathetic attempt at impersonation this is,” you continue, and the weapon in your hand starts glowing a rather alarming shade of blue, “you can take it and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“wait, wait!” he holds up his hands, noting with growing horror how young they look, how smooth and unmarked by years of lab work. these hands haven’t built the music box that plays your wedding song. these fingers haven’t spent countless hours crafting the little inventions that make you smile. “i can explain! i know this looks bad, but i’m really—”

“satoru,” you finish, your eyes narrowing dangerously. “yes, i heard your little introduction yesterday. and the week before that. you know what? the name satoru only fits one person in this world, and he’s about a hundred times more attractive, intelligent, and charming than whatever discount walmart version you’re trying to pull off.”

the words hit him like a freight train loaded with emotional devastation and existential dread. discount walmart version. you—his wife, the love of his life, the woman who’s seen him drool on his pillow and still kisses him good morning—think he’s a cheap knockoff of himself.

“my husband,” you continue, and there’s that tone again, soft and dreamy and absolutely besotted, “is brilliant beyond measure. he’s kind and funny and makes me laugh every single day. he has these eyes that light up when he’s excited about something, and he gets this little crease between his eyebrows when he’s concentrating. he’s tall and gorgeous and perfect, and you...” you look him up and down with obvious disdain, “are none of those things.”

satoru feels something die inside his chest. possibly his will to live. definitely his ego.

because the thing is, you’re right. he doesn’t look like the man you married anymore. he looks like a college student, all gangly limbs and baby fat and skin that hasn’t been weathered by years of late nights in the lab. he looks like someone who might ask you for help with his homework, not someone who’s built you a smart house that anticipates your every need.

“but i know things!” he says desperately, his voice cracking in a way that makes him want to crawl into a hole and die. “i know about your scar from when you fell off your bike when you were seven! it’s shaped like a crescent moon and you hate it but i think it’s beautiful! i know you cry during dog food commercials but only the ones with golden retrievers! i know you keep our wedding photo in your recipe book, tucked between the pages for chocolate chip cookies and banana bread!”

your expression grows more dangerous with each word, and the weapon in your hand charges up another notch.

“you sick little stalker,” you hiss, and the venom in your voice could probably strip paint. “how dare you dig into our private life and try to use our precious memories against me! what kind of pathetic creep researches someone’s marriage just to play dress-up?”

“i’m not playing dress-up!” he protests, and he knows he sounds pathetic, knows he looks like exactly what you think he is—some obsessed fan who’s done way too much homework. “i know about the time you got food poisoning from that seafood place and i held your hair while you threw up! i know you have a freckle shaped like a heart on your left shoulder! i know you sing off-key in the shower but you think you sound like an angel!”

“stop it!” you snap, and your finger hovers over the trigger. “stop trying to soil our beautiful relationship with your creepy research!”

“i know about our first fight!” he rushes on, desperate now, sweat beading on his forehead. “it was about the thermostat because you like the house warm and i run hot! i know you forgave me by leaving little notes in my lab equipment! i know you doodle my name in the margins of your books when you’re daydreaming!”

each piece of intimate knowledge he reveals only seems to make you angrier, and satoru realizes with growing horror that he’s trapped in some sort of emotional paradox. the more he proves he knows you, the more you’re convinced he’s a stranger.

“and i know,” he adds, his voice dropping to something desperate and broken, “that you’re wearing the perfume i bought you for your birthday. the one that smells like vanilla and jasmine and makes me want to bury my face in your neck and never leave.”

you go very, very still.

“that’s enough,” you say quietly, and somehow that’s more terrifying than when you were shouting. “i don’t care how much you’ve stalked us, how many private details you’ve dug up, how perfectly you’ve copied his appearance. you are not my husband.”

“but—”

“my husband,” you continue, and your voice goes soft and dreamy again, like you’re talking about something holy, “is perfect. he’s brilliant and beautiful and kind, and he loves me exactly as much as i love him. he’s probably in his lab right now, working on something that’s going to change the world, missing me but dedicated to his research because that’s who he is. that’s the man i married.”

the weapon powers up another notch, and satoru is pretty sure it’s no longer set to ‘stun.’

“and you,” you say, looking him up and down with obvious disgust, “are just some sad little boy with a crush and too much time on your hands. so here’s what’s going to happen. you’re going to leave. now. and if i see you anywhere near our house again, i’m going to do something that will require a very good explanation to the police.”

satoru stares at you—really looks at you—and sees the fierce protectiveness in your eyes, the way you’re guarding not just your home but your marriage, your happiness, your love for a man you think is safely tucked away in his basement lab.

you’re magnificent. terrifying and beautiful and absolutely magnificent.

and you’re about to potentially murder him while defending his honor.

“i know about the night after our second anniversary,” he tries one more time, his voice breaking completely now. “when you wore that blue nightgown with the little ribbons, and we danced in the kitchen to that song you love, and then we—”

“that’s it.”

the blast catches him square in the chest, and suddenly satoru is airborne, flying backward off your porch and landing in the rose bushes he’d planted for your last birthday. the thorns are sharp, but not nearly as sharp as the look you’d given him right before pulling the trigger.

he lies there for a moment, stunned and possibly concussed, staring up at the sky and trying to process what just happened.

through the ringing in his ears, he hears you call out: “my husband is a genius with 845 patents and the most brilliant mind of our generation! you’re just some sad little boy who probably googled him! stay away from our house, or next time i’m setting this thing to something more permanent!”

the door slams with enough force to rattle the windows.

satoru continues lying in the roses, rose petals in his hair and thorns in his dignity, and tries to comprehend the fact that his own wife just threatened to potentially murder him while defending his honor with the very weapon he’d built to protect her.

somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps. a car drives by. the world continues spinning as if nothing momentous has just occurred.

he’s never been more in love in his entire life. which is probably a sign that he needs therapy. or a lobotomy. possibly both.

he lies there for a moment. processing. his ribs hurt. his pride hurts more. his entire soul aches in a way that is both deeply romantic and profoundly stupid.

“also!” you shout from the upstairs window, your voice carrying that indignant tone you get when you’re really worked up, “my husband has better hair! and better posture! and he’s taller! and he knows how to dress himself like an adult instead of a lost college freshman!”

each addition feels like salt in the wound. you’re systematically dismantling every aspect of his nineteen-year-old appearance while praising the twenty-nine-year-old version with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for describing paradise.

“and he smells better!” you continue, apparently not done with your character assassination. “like expensive cologne and coffee and home, not like... like drugstore body spray and desperation!”

satoru sniffs himself reflexively. he doesn’t smell like desperation. does he? the drugstore body spray comment is just mean, especially since he’d specifically chosen the brand you’d complimented on a stranger once.

“and his voice!” you’re really getting into it now, leaning out the window with the fervor of someone delivering a sermon. “his voice is deeper, and smoother, and when he says my name it sounds like music instead of like a squeaky toy!”

he touches his throat self-consciously. his voice had been deeper before the accident, richer, more confident. now he sounds like he’s going through puberty again, all cracks and uncertain intonation.

“and he would never be stupid enough to break into someone’s house like some kind of delinquent!” you conclude with devastating finality. “my husband is a gentleman and a scholar and the most wonderful man who ever lived, and you’re just some discount imposter who isn’t fit to shine his shoes!”

the window slams shut.

satoru groans. loud and dramatic and entirely justified.

he really should’ve just built a cloning machine. or left a video message in case of accidental de-aging. or tattooed a note to his own arm. but no, he had to get ambitious. he had to try and invent time-space atmospheric slowdown like a dumbass in love.

he drags himself up from the rosebush, brushing petals and leaves from his shirt. there’s one stuck in his hair, refusing to leave like it has a vendetta. his reflection in the front window shows a pathetic figure: clothes wrinkled, hair disheveled, a small cut on his cheek from the thorns, and an expression of profound defeat.

this is what rock bottom looks like, apparently. getting ejected from his own home by his own wife while she sings the praises of his other self.

the irony is suffocating. you love him so much that you’d attack anyone who even pretended to be him. your loyalty is absolute, your devotion unwavering, your protective instincts sharp enough to cut glass. it’s everything he’d ever wanted in a partner, everything he’d fallen in love with, turned against him in the cruelest possible way.

he presses his hand to his chest, where the stun device got him. it still tingles, a reminder of your precision, your preparedness, the way you’d defended your marriage without a moment’s hesitation. you’d been magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and he’d been the target.

satoru limps toward the sidewalk, his teenage body protesting every movement. his legs feel too long, his center of gravity all wrong. everything about this borrowed youth feels like wearing an ill-fitting costume to the most important performance of his life.

he looks back at the house—your house, his house, the home you’d built together—and feels the weight of his isolation settle around him like a heavy coat. inside, you’re probably making dinner, humming that song you always hum when you’re slightly stressed, maybe wondering why the strange boy keeps bothering you when your husband is working so hard in his lab.

the thought of you worrying, of you feeling unsafe in your own home because of his appearance, makes his chest tight with guilt. he’d never wanted to frighten you, never wanted to make you feel threatened or uncomfortable. he’d just wanted to come home.

but this isn’t working. two weeks of doorbell rejections, verbal demolitions, and physical removal have made it clear that the direct approach is a spectacular failure. you’re not going to believe him, not when he looks like this, not when every instinct you have is screaming that he’s an imposter.

he understands that you love your husband—him—so much that you’ll fight off anyone who threatens that love, even if it means breaking your own tender heart to do it. he understands that the depth of your devotion is exactly what makes this situation so impossible.

he also understands that his dignity, his principles, his stubborn refusal to sneak around his own house like a common criminal, has just officially been abandoned in your rose bushes along with his pride.

because two weeks without you is already too long, and the thought of spending even one more night in a hotel room that smells like industrial disinfectant instead of your vanilla perfume makes him want to invent a time machine just so he can go back and slap his past self for being such an arrogant idiot.

science is about adaptation. evolution. knowing when to abandon a failed hypothesis and try a new approach.

tonight, dr. satoru gojo, nobel prize winner and distinguished gentleman of science, is going to break into his own house like a lovesick teenager.

his dignity is already dead anyway. might as well bury it properly.

night falls like a heavy curtain draped by a particularly melodramatic theater director, and satoru crouches in the shadows of his own garden like some sort of discount romeo—if romeo had been a twenty-nine-year-old genius trapped in a nineteen-year-old’s body and juliet had been his own wife who’d recently threatened him with what appeared to be a weaponized jewelry box.

the irony tastes like burnt coffee and shattered dreams. he’s spent six years turning this place into fort knox’s prettier, more technologically advanced cousin, all in the name of protecting you from theoretical dangers that pale in comparison to the very real threat of his own stupidity. motion sensors that could detect a butterfly’s landing, cameras with night vision that would make the military weep with envy, locks that respond to seventeen different biometric markers—and here he is, plotting to break into his own fortress like the world’s most pathetic cat burglar.

the security system hums softly in the darkness, a technological lullaby he’d programmed himself. every blinking light, every nearly invisible laser grid, every pressure-sensitive tile in the walkway—his own paranoid genius, now turned against him like some sort of karmic boomerang wrapped in irony and spite.

he adjusts his reading glasses and studies the house like a general surveying a battlefield. except generals probably don’t usually have to factor in the devastating effects of seeing their beloved wearing pajamas into their strategic planning.

the kitchen window. salvation arrives in the form of his own procrastination—there’s a loose latch on the kitchen window that he’s been meaning to fix for approximately four months and seventeen days. not that he’s counting. you’d mentioned it in passing on a tuesday morning while making pancakes, your hair still mussed from sleep, wearing that ridiculous apron with the anthropomorphic strawberries that should have looked childish but instead made you look like some sort of domestic goddess descended from mount olympus to bless his unworthy kitchen with your presence.

he’d nodded and made appropriate husband noises about adding it to his mental to-do list, then promptly forgotten because you’d started humming that song—the one you always hum when you’re happy, the one that sounds like sunshine would if sunshine had a voice—and his brain had short-circuited somewhere between “fix window latch” and “marry this woman again immediately.”

procrastination, it turns out, has never felt so much like divine intervention.

satoru approaches the window with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much pressure the old frame can take before it creaks loud enough to wake the neighbors’ dog, which would start a chain reaction of barking that would inevitably lead to you investigating the commotion. his nineteen-year-old fingers work the latch with muscle memory that spans a decade—apparently some things transcend the space-time continuum, including his intimate knowledge of his own home’s structural weaknesses.

the window slides open with barely a whisper, and satoru feels a brief moment of triumph that’s immediately crushed under the weight of what he’s actually doing. breaking and entering. into his own house. to convince his own wife that he’s actually himself.

if there’s a support group for men who’ve been defeated by their own scientific brilliance, he’s definitely going to need the membership information.

he slips through the window with the fluid grace of his temporarily teenage body, and the contrast is jarring—he’d forgotten how easy movement used to be, before years of hunching over microscopes and circuit boards had given him the posture of a question mark and the flexibility of a particularly rigid breadstick. his nineteen-year-old joints don’t protest the maneuver, don’t crack ominously or require the careful choreography he’s grown accustomed to.

it’s like being a ghost haunting his own life, except ghosts probably don’t have to worry about whether their wives will recognize them.

the house settles around him in the darkness, familiar as his own heartbeat. every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the old ventilation system, every subtle shift of air that speaks of home and safety and belonging. the scent of dinner lingers in the air—something with garlic and herbs that makes his stomach growl traitorously, reminding him that nineteen-year-old metabolisms apparently require more fuel than whatever laboratory subsistence he’s been surviving on.

guilt tastes like copper pennies and regret as he imagines you eating alone, probably glancing at the basement door every few minutes, wondering if your husband remembered to eat anything more substantial than the sandwiches you’d left for him. the automated messages from his ai assistant feel like lead weights in his chest—every perfectly crafted lie, every synthetic expression of love and longing, every digital deception that kept you from worrying while the real satoru stumbled around in a teenage body like some sort of scientific cautionary tale.

his feet hit the kitchen floor with barely a whisper of sound, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. step one: infiltration successful. step two: somehow make it to the basement without triggering any of the—

the lights explode to life like the sun deciding to have a particularly vindictive tantrum.

“gotcha, you little creep.”

and there you are.

standing in the doorway like an avenging angel who’d decided that white cotton nightgowns were the appropriate battle attire for dealing with home invaders. the nightdress—the one with the lace trim that he’d bought you for your birthday because you’d mentioned once that you felt pretty in white—catches the harsh kitchen light and transforms you into something ethereal and terrifying in equal measure.

your hair spills over your shoulders in loose waves, the same waves he’s buried his fingers in countless times, that he’s watched catch morning sunlight during lazy weekend mornings when the world consisted of nothing but you and him and the space between heartbeats. but there’s steel in your posture now, a predatory grace that speaks of skills he’d never suspected, secrets kept with the casual competence of someone who’s been protecting others while letting them think they were doing the protecting.

satoru opens his mouth to explain, to plead, to throw himself at your mercy and grovel with the desperation of a man who’s spent two weeks learning exactly how much his life means nothing without you in it—

your hand moves faster than his genius brain can process, faster than the calculations that usually come as naturally as breathing, faster than any of the combat scenarios he’s ever run through his head during his more paranoid moments.

the karate chop catches him right at the base of his neck with surgical precision, and satoru’s world doesn’t just explode into stars—it becomes a supernova of sensation and realization and the most inappropriate surge of attraction he’s ever experienced.

because even as his vision goes blurry around the edges, even as his knees buckle and his carefully planned explanations scatter like startled birds, even as consciousness starts its tactical retreat from the battlefield of his skull—you’re beautiful.

devastatingly, impossibly, catastrophically beautiful.

he’d known you were deadly, in the abstract way that husbands know their wives are capable of anything. but seeing it, experiencing the controlled violence of someone who’s spent years learning how to end threats efficiently and effectively, watching the way you move with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted their ability to protect what matters—

it’s like falling in love all over again, except this time it’s happening while his nervous system stages a coup and his equilibrium files for immediate resignation.

the woman he’d married, the one who makes him sandwiches with the crusts cut off because you knows he eats more when food is convenient, the one who leaves little notes in his lab reminding him to drink water and take breaks, the one who hums while doing laundry and always smells like vanilla and clean cotton and home—you just incapacitated him with the casual efficiency of someone who’s been trained to handle much worse threats than lovesick scientists with poor life choices.

and he’s never been more attracted to another human being in his entire existence.

his vision swims, the edges of the world growing soft and fuzzy like someone’s smeared vaseline on the lens of reality. but even through the haze of imminent unconsciousness, he can see you clearly—the slight flush in your cheeks from adrenaline, the way your breathing has quickened just fractionally, the protective fire in your eyes that speaks of love fierce enough to level cities.

“you,” his mouth tries to form words, but his tongue feels like it’s been replaced with cotton batting soaked in novocaine. “you’re...”

“insane?” you supply helpfully, though your voice carries that particular note of concern that always appears when you think he might be hurt. “scary? criminally strong?”

“perfect,” he manages, and even slurred beyond recognition, the word carries every ounce of wonder and adoration and bone-deep reverence he feels.

you blink, clearly not expecting that response from your supposed stalker, and in that moment of confusion, satoru sees something shift in your expression. a flicker of uncertainty, a crack in the armor of your righteous fury that lets just a hint of the woman he knows peek through.

then the world tilts sideways, his legs forget how to function, and consciousness waves goodbye with all the dignity of a deflating balloon.

satoru surfaces from the depths of unconsciousness like a man drowning in reverse, fighting his way back to a reality that feels suspiciously soft and comfortable for someone who’d just been neutralized by his own wife.

the mother of all headaches pounds against his skull with the rhythm of a particularly enthusiastic drummer, and somewhere in the distance, birds are chirping with the sort of aggressive cheerfulness that makes him want to invent a device for negotiating with wildlife.

satoru opens his eyes to find himself on the porch—his porch, their porch, the one with the swing he’d installed because you’d mentioned once that you’d always wanted one—with a pillow tucked carefully under his head and a glass of water sitting nearby like a peace offering from the goddess of justified violence.

even while knocking him unconscious for breaking into his own home, you’d made sure he was comfortable.

the pillow smells like you—vanilla and that lavender fabric softener you use and something indefinably warm that he’s never been able to identify but would recognize anywhere. it’s the same scent that clings to his shirts when you do laundry, the same one that fills their bedroom in the mornings, the same one that he associates with safety and belonging and the radical concept that someone might actually love him enough to put up with his particular brand of brilliant stupidity.

he sits up slowly, his head spinning like a carnival ride operated by someone with a grudge against inner ears, and catches sight of a note tucked under the water glass. the handwriting is yours—neat, precise, with the same careful attention to detail you bring to everything from grocery lists to the birthday cards you make by hand because you say store-bought ones don’t carry enough love.

for the headache. next time, try using the front door like a normal stalker. —the wife of the REAL satoru gojo

despite everything—the splitting headache, the existential crisis, the fact that he’s been reduced to breaking into his own home like some sort of romantic criminal—he smiles. even your passive-aggressive notes are perfect. even when you’re threatening him with bodily harm, you’re taking care of him. even when you think he’s some delusional teenager with stalker tendencies, you’re making sure he’s hydrated and comfortable.

he’s never been more in love, which would be romantic if it weren’t so completely pathetic.

the front door opens with the sort of casual grace that suggests you’ve been watching him from inside, probably trying to determine whether he’s going to keel over again or attempt another round of breaking and entering. you step out wearing a blue sundress that makes his chest ache with longing so profound it feels like a physical injury—the one with tiny white flowers that he’d bought you for your second anniversary because you’d mentioned once that it reminded you of the field where you’d had your first picnic.

you’re carrying a plate of what looks like his favorite cookies, the ones you only make when you’re worried or upset, the ones that involve three different types of chocolate and a recipe you guard more jealously than state secrets. the fact that you’ve made them now, for what you think is a complete stranger, speaks to a kindness so fundamental that it makes his throat close up with emotion.

“you’re awake,” you observe, settling into the porch chair you’d insisted on buying last spring, the one he’d grumbled about because it didn’t match the aesthetic he’d carefully planned, the one that’s now his favorite spot in the world because it’s where you sit in the mornings with your coffee and your terrible romance novels and your complete contentment with the life you’ve built together. “good. i was starting to think i’d hit you too hard.”

there’s genuine concern in your voice, the same tone you use when he’s working too late and you’re worried he’s going to collapse from exhaustion, and satoru feels his dignity—what little remains of it—crumble into dust. his wife is worried about the wellbeing of someone she thinks is essentially a teenage stalker, because that’s the kind of person you are. that’s the kind of heart you have.

he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly as his nineteen-year-old equilibrium files a formal complaint about the abuse it’s recently endured. “you... you know karate?”

the question comes out slightly accusatory, tinged with the bewilderment of a man discovering that his beloved is capable of violence on a level he’d never imagined. six years of marriage, six years of thinking he knew everything about you, six years of believing he was the protector in this relationship—

“among other things.” you bite into a cookie with the satisfied air of someone who’s just discovered an interesting new fact about the world, watching him with the expression of someone observing a particularly fascinating specimen under laboratory conditions. “my husband doesn’t know. i like letting him think he needs to protect me. he makes the most adorable gadgets when he’s worried about my safety.”

the casual way you mention keeping an entire martial arts background secret from him makes satoru’s head spin worse than the concussion. not because you’ve hidden something from him—everyone deserves their secrets, their private spaces, their own mysteries to unfold in their own time—but because you’ve hidden it for the most fundamentally sweet reason imaginable.

you’ve been letting him play protector while being perfectly capable of protecting yourself, because you think his overprotectiveness is cute.

he falls in love with you all over again, which seems physically impossible given that he’s been operating at maximum love capacity for the better part of a decade, but apparently the human heart has hidden reserves for discovering new depths of adoration even when you think you’ve already catalogued every possible reason to worship someone.

“why didn’t you tell him?” he asks, genuinely curious despite the circumstances and the growing certainty that he’s about to learn something that will fundamentally reshape his understanding of the woman he married.

your expression softens in the way that always makes his chest tight with emotion, that particular look of fond exasperation mixed with infinite patience that you reserve for discussions of your husband’s more endearing quirks.

“because my satoru gojo is the smartest man alive,” you say, and the pride in your voice makes something warm and golden spread through his chest like sunrise, “but he’s also a complete idiot when it comes to the people he loves. he’d spend all his time trying to make sure i never had to use those skills instead of appreciating that i can take care of myself. this way, he gets to feel protective, i get beautiful functional jewelry and self-defense gadgets, and everyone’s happy.”

the way you say his name—their name, his name, the name you chose to take and make your own—carries so much love it’s like being hit by lightning made of pure affection. there’s pride and exasperation and devotion all wrapped up together, the voice of someone who sees all his flaws and brilliant strengths and loves him not despite them but because of the ridiculous, wonderful, impossible whole they create.

“he’s lucky,” satoru says quietly, his voice rough with emotions he can’t begin to untangle, “to have someone who understands him so well.”

“he is,” you agree, and your smile could power entire cities, could fuel space programs, could probably solve half the world’s energy crisis if properly harnessed. “he’s brilliant and kind and funny, and he makes me laugh every single day. he’s also terrible at remembering to eat when he’s working and has a tendency to forget that normal people need more than three hours of sleep, but he’s perfect. he’s mine.”

satoru has never experienced jealousy of himself before, but it turns out to be a unique form of psychological torture—listening to the woman he loves describe him with such complete adoration while being unable to claim that love for himself. it’s like being handed a gift and told you can look but never touch, like being shown paradise through bulletproof glass.

the domesticity of it, the casual way you catalogue his flaws alongside his strengths, the matter-of-fact possessiveness in that final declaration—it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he currently can’t have, all wrapped up in a blue sundress and served with homemade cookies.

“what if,” he tries carefully, his voice pitched to sound like idle curiosity rather than the desperate plea it actually is, “hypothetically, something happened to him? what if he was... changed somehow?”

your expression shifts faster than a summer storm, going from warm affection to arctic fury in the space between heartbeats. the cookie in your hand crumbles slightly from the sudden tension in your grip, chocolate chips scattering like the remains of his dignity.

“nothing’s going to happen to my husband,” you say, and your voice carries the kind of quiet menace that speaks of consequences beyond imagination. “and if someone tried to hurt him, they’d have to go through me first.”

the protective fire in your eyes makes something primal and deeply satisfied purr in his chest, even as his rational mind catalogs this as yet another example of how thoroughly he’s miscalculated this entire situation. you’d go to war for him. you’d fight gods and demons and the fundamental forces of the universe itself if it meant keeping him safe.

and here he is, the very person you’re trying to protect, being threatened by that same fierce love.

“but hypothetically—”

“no hypotheticals.” you stand up with sharp, efficient movements, smoothing your dress with the same precision you bring to everything, from folding fitted sheets to organizing his lab equipment when he’s too scattered to think straight. “my husband is in his lab, working on something that’s going to change the world, because that’s what he does. and you’re going to stop harassing us, because that’s what you’re going to do if you want to keep all your limbs attached.”

the dismissal is absolute, final, delivered with the authority of someone who’s never doubted their ability to follow through on threats. you disappear back into the house like an avenging angel returning to heaven, leaving satoru alone with his thoughts and the growing certainty that dignity is a luxury he can no longer afford.

he sits on the porch steps—his own porch steps, in front of his own house, locked out by his own security system and his own wife—and contemplates the spectacular wreckage of his scientific career. somewhere in that basement, his life’s work hums quietly, the temporal displacement device that was supposed to give him more time with you having instead stolen the time he already had.

the irony would be poetic if it weren’t so completely devastating.

satoru gojo, holder of 845 patents, winner of seventeen international scientific awards, the man who’d revolutionized three separate fields before his thirtieth birthday—reduced to breaking into his own home like a common criminal, only to be defeated by his wife’s previously unknown martial arts skills and her absolutely justified protective instincts.

he’s given up his dignity, his professional reputation, and apparently his door privileges, all because he’d been too excited about surprising you with a scientific breakthrough to properly test the safety protocols.

note to self: next time he wants to revolutionize temporal mechanics, maybe start with laboratory mice instead of jumping straight to human trials.

assuming there is a next time. assuming he can figure out how to convince you that the teenager on your porch is actually your husband without sounding like the world’s most delusional stalker.

the basement feels very far away suddenly, farther than when he’d been planning his infiltration, farther than the actual physical distance between the porch and the lab where his salvation waits. because now he understands the true scope of his problem: it’s not just about fixing the temporal displacement device.

it’s about rebuilding trust with someone who thinks he’s been safely contained in his laboratory while a dangerous stranger makes increasingly desperate attempts to insert himself into their life.

satoru sighs deeply like a man who has discovered that rock bottom has a basement, and that basement has a sub-basement, and he’s currently spelunking through the geological layers of his own humiliation. the pillow you’d left under his head when you dragged his unconscious body out here mocks him with its floral pattern—little daisies that seem to whisper pathetic in tiny flower voices.

his dignity lies somewhere in your rose bushes, probably fertilizing the begonias.

he stares hopelessly at his own house—the house he designed, built, and has been systematically locked out of by his own security measures. the irony tastes like pennies and poor life choices. somewhere in that house, you’re probably stress-baking again, creating cookies that could end world hunger while muttering about stalkers and the general incompetence of teenage boys who think they can impersonate geniuses.

the truly tragic part is that you’re not wrong. he is a teenage boy trying to impersonate a genius. the fact that he actually is that genius feels like a technicality that the universe is refusing to acknowledge.

satoru stands up, brushing pillow lint off his jeans (when had he started wearing jeans? his twenty-nine-year-old self exclusively wore slacks, but apparently his teenage body had different sartorial opinions). if he’s going to reclaim his life, his wife, and his chronological age, he needs to get into that lab.

the front door is obviously out of the question. you’ve made it abundantly clear that any further doorbell-related activities will result in weaponized consequences that his nineteen-year-old body might not survive. the back door is visible from the kitchen window, where you’re probably standing guard like a beautiful, homicidal sentinel.

which leaves him with the architectural equivalent of a hail mary: the basement windows.

he circles the house like a cat burglar who’s read too many heist novels and not enough actual breaking-and-entering manuals. the basement windows are small, the kind of windows that had seemed like a good idea when he was designing a lab and wanted natural light but not easy access. past-satoru had been worried about corporate espionage, not future-satoru trying to infiltrate his own laboratory while trapped in a temporal paradox of the most embarrassing variety.

the window on the east side looks promising. it’s partially hidden by the hydrangea bushes you’d planted last spring, the ones that bloom in impossible shades of blue because you’d somehow convinced them that regular hydrangea colors were beneath their potential. the glass is dirty enough to provide cover, and the latch looks old enough to have the structural integrity of a wet paper bag.

satoru crouches in the dirt, feeling like the world’s most pathetic ninja. his knees protest against the unfamiliar position—nineteen-year-old joints might be more flexible, but they’re also apparently more dramatic about being asked to crouch in garden soil.

the window latch gives way with the kind of rusty shriek that could wake the dead, the neighbors, and possibly several small woodland creatures. satoru freezes, waiting for the sound of your footsteps, the opening of doors, the general commotion that would signal his discovery and subsequent re-unconsciousness.

nothing.

either you didn’t hear it, or you’re currently sharpening something in the kitchen while humming ominously.

he slides the window open with the careful precision of someone who knows exactly how much the old frame can take before it decides to give up on life entirely. the basement yawns below him like the mouth of some scientific purgatory, all shadows and the faint hum of machines he’d built to make the world a better place.

getting through the window requires a level of physical coordination that his nineteen-year-old body possesses but his twenty-nine-year-old dignity abhors. he ends up sliding through headfirst, performing what could generously be called a controlled fall and more accurately described as a graceless tumble that would make circus performers weep.

his feet hit the concrete floor with all the stealth of a bag of hammers being dropped from a significant height.

the basement lab stretches before him like a technological cathedral, all gleaming surfaces and blinking lights that pulse in rhythm with machines whose purposes range from “revolutionary” to “probably shouldn’t exist but here we are anyway.” this is his domain, his kingdom, his sanctuary of scientific achievement and questionable decision-making.

it also feels like coming home and visiting a crime scene simultaneously.

everything is exactly as he’d left it two weeks ago, frozen in the moment when he’d stepped into the temporal field with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a twisted sense of humor. the half-finished temporal displacement device sits on the main workbench like an accusation, all smooth curves and innocent blinking lights that belie its capacity for chronological chaos.

coffee cups are scattered around like caffeinated archaeological artifacts, each one marking a different stage of his research. there’s the mug you’d given him for his birthday with “world’s okayest scientist” written in comic sans font—your little joke about his ego that he treasures more than his nobel prize nomination. there’s the plain white cup he uses when he’s really focused, the one with the chip on the handle from when he’d gotten excited about a breakthrough and gestured too enthusiastically. there’s even the fancy porcelain teacup his mother had given him, which he only uses when he’s feeling particularly pretentious about his discoveries.

each cup tells the story of late nights, early mornings, and the kind of obsessive focus that leads to temporal displacement incidents.

his phone sits on the desk, buzzing intermittently with notifications he can’t answer. the screen lights up every few minutes with incoming messages, calls from colleagues, reminders about appointments he’s apparently missing while trapped in his own temporal feedback loop. but it’s the outgoing messages that make his stomach twist into knots that could anchor ships.

the ai assistant is working with the efficiency of a swiss watch and the emotional intelligence of someone who actually knows him. every few hours, it crafts another perfect message to your phone, each one a masterpiece of his writing style mixed with the kind of scientific romanticism that had won your heart six years ago.

making progress on the quantum stabilization matrix. the equations are beautiful—almost as beautiful as you in that yellow dress this morning. did you eat lunch? —satoru

breakthrough with the temporal field generators! i think i can increase efficiency by 34%. also, i dreamed about that weekend in kyoto again. we should go back soon. —your devoted husband

minor setback with the power coupling, but nothing i can’t fix. missing your voice. send a voice message please? maybe hum that song you like while i work? it always helps me think. —satoru

each message is a perfect imitation of his writing style, his habits, his love for you wrapped in scientific progress reports. they capture the way he thinks, the way he speaks, the way he can’t seem to separate his work from his adoration of you because everything he creates is somehow inspired by your existence.

no wonder you believe he’s down here, buried in his work, missing you but dedicated to his research. the ai had done its job too well, creating a digital phantom that was more convincing than his actual de-aged presence.

reading them makes him want to punch his past self for being so thorough, so careful, so goddamn good at programming an assistant that could replicate his personality down to the way he signs his messages with scientific terminology and pet names in equal measure.

satoru rolls up his sleeves and approaches his workstation like a penitent approaching an altar.

the lab’s security system chirps softly as he moves through the space, sensors tracking his movement with the bored efficiency of technology that recognizes him but doesn’t particularly care about his current chronological displacement. red lights blink in sequence along the walls, a heartbeat of recognition that would normally make him feel secure and accomplished.

instead, it feels like the lab is mocking him. oh look, the blinking seems to say, it’s the genius who outsmarted himself into adolescence.

the temporal displacement device looks innocent enough sitting there on the main workbench—a sleek silver contraption about the size of a microwave, all smooth curves and the kind of blinking lights that movie audiences associate with either miracle cures or impending explosions. he’d been so proud of it when he’d finished the initial design, so excited to show you what he’d been working on for months.

the irony burns like acid in his chest: he’d built a machine to give himself more time with you, and instead, it had stolen the time he already had.

but now, looking at it with the clarity that comes from two weeks of enforced separation and multiple instances of being rendered unconscious by his own wife, he can see exactly what went wrong. the power coupling on the left side shows signs of overheating, the quantum stabilization matrix is operating at 73% efficiency instead of the required 89%, and the temporal field generators are displaying the kind of fluctuation patterns that suggest they’re one strong breeze away from turning him into quantum soup.

his nineteen-year-old hands remember the work even if they look different doing it—smoother, unlined, with calluses in different places that speak of a life not yet lived. muscle memory is a beautiful thing, and soon he’s lost in the familiar rhythm of calibration and adjustment, replacing the burnt-out components that had caused the initial malfunction.

the security system continues its soft surveillance, cameras tracking his movement as he works. somewhere in the house above, you’re probably going about your evening routine, maybe reading in the living room chair he’d bought specifically because it makes you look like a goddess of domestic tranquility, maybe taking a bath in the tub he’d designed with jets positioned exactly where you like them.

you think your husband is down here, safely contained in his laboratory, working on equations that could revolutionize temporal mechanics. you have no idea that your husband is actually down here, working on equations that could return him to the age where you might not instinctively try to karate chop him on sight.

hours pass in the peculiar way that time moves when you’re focused on something that requires every neuron in your brain to fire in perfect synchronization. his back aches from hunching over the workbench—some things never change, regardless of what decade your spine thinks it’s living in. his eyes water behind his reading glasses, the same prescription he’s had since childhood because apparently temporal displacement doesn’t fix astigmatism.

the basement air grows stale and recycled, nothing like the fresh scent of your perfume or the way the house smells when you’re baking. down here, everything smells like ozone and possibility, metal and dreams, the peculiar combination of scents that comes from trying to bend the universe to your will through applied science and stubborn determination.

component by component, equation by equation, he rebuilds what his hubris had broken. the quantum stabilization matrix purrs back to life, its efficiency climbing toward the magic number that means the difference between “successful temporal correction” and “decorating the lab walls with physicist.” the power coupling stops smoking, which he takes as a positive sign, though the bar for success has been dramatically lowered by recent events.

finally, blessedly, after what feels like several geological ages, the device hums to life with the soft blue glow that means everything is working properly. the sound it makes is almost musical, a harmony of frequencies that speaks to the part of his brain that understands how beautiful math can be when it’s applied to impossible problems.

satoru stares at it for a long moment, this machine that had caused so much chaos, so much pain, so much embarrassment. it looks the same as it had two weeks ago, before he’d stepped into it with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned that the universe has a deeply personal vendetta against his happiness.

but now it’s fixed. now it can undo what it had done, return him to the chronological age where his wife doesn’t look at him like he’s a particularly offensive piece of gum stuck to her shoe.

he takes a deep breath, tasting the metallic tang of possibility and ozone, and steps into the temporal field.

the world bends.

reality stretches like taffy in the hands of a cosmic confectioner who’s had too much caffeine and not enough sleep. colors bleed into each other, the visible spectrum having what appears to be a nervous breakdown while time folds backward on itself with the sensation of falling upward through a kaleidoscope made of mathematics and regret.

his bones feel like they’re growing, stretching, settling back into familiar patterns that his muscles remember even if his consciousness is currently experiencing what could best be described as temporal vertigo. his face reshapes itself like clay in the hands of chronology, features aging forward to match the man you’d fallen in love with, married, and spent six years learning to live with.

the sensation is indescribable and entirely uncomfortable, like being turned inside out by time itself while someone plays a symphony written in mathematical equations. his cells remember being twenty-nine, and they rush toward that memory with the enthusiasm of teenagers remembering they have a curfew.

when the light fades and the world stops doing its impression of a funhouse mirror designed by someone with a degree in theoretical physics, satoru catches sight of himself in the polished surface of another machine.

he looks like himself again. twenty-nine years old, tall and lean, with the same pale hair that had turned white when he was four and stayed that way out of what he suspects is pure stubbornness. the same eyes behind the same reading glasses, the same hands that you’ve memorized, the same face that you’ve kissed goodnight for six years.

the face you’d married, the body you’d mapped with your hands on lazy sunday mornings, the version of himself that you actually wanted to see walking through the door instead of some temporal impostor with the emotional maturity of a teenager and the physical appearance to match.

he runs his hands over his face, feeling the familiar planes and angles, the slight roughness of stubble that his nineteen-year-old self had been too optimistic to grow properly. these are the hands that have held you, touched you, built you impossibly complex gifts that serve no purpose other than making you smile.

satoru straightens his sweater and climbs the basement stairs like a man ascending to heaven, or at least to the ground floor where his wife is probably stress-baking cookies and muttering about the general incompetence of teenagers who think they can impersonate geniuses.

time to go home.

time to reclaim his life, his wife, and his dignity—though he suspects the dignity might be a lost cause at this point.

the basement door opens onto the kitchen, and the smell of home washes over him like a blessing from the domestic gods: vanilla and cinnamon, the lavender detergent you use on the dish towels, the faint scent of the coffee you’d made this morning before you knew your day would include multiple instances of assault and battery against your own husband.

he’s home. finally, truly, chronologically home.

you’re in the kitchen when he emerges, standing at the stove in that pink dress with the tiny pearl buttons he’s memorized but hasn’t seen in two weeks. your hair is twisted into a messy bun secured with one of his prototype hairpins—the ones that glow soft blue when you’re stressed. they’re glowing now, just barely, a testament to how worried you’ve been about his prolonged absence from the world above ground.

the wooden spoon moves in lazy circles through whatever you’re cooking, and the scent hits him like a physical force—garlic and herbs and that particular blend of spices you use when you’re making his favorite pasta. his stomach clenches with actual hunger for the first time in two weeks, nineteen-year-old metabolism finally giving way to twenty-nine-year-old appreciation for real food.

but it’s the humming that undoes him completely. that soft, unconscious melody you make when you think no one’s listening, the same tune he’d programmed into his ai messages because he’d been missing it so desperately. hearing it live, unfiltered, coming from your actual throat instead of his memory—

satoru doesn’t think. doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t announce himself like a civilized human being.

he launches himself across the kitchen like a man possessed, arms wrapping around your waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against your back as he buries his face in the curve of your neck. you smell like vanilla body lotion and that expensive shampoo he pretends not to notice the cost of, and underneath it all, just you. warm skin and the faint sweetness that clings to your hair, the scent that’s been haunting him for fourteen endless days.

“satoru!” you yelp, startled enough that the wooden spoon goes flying, clattering across the counter and leaving a trail of red sauce in its wake. “you absolute menace, you scared me half to death!”

he makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob, tightening his arms around you like you might evaporate if he loosens his grip even slightly. his reading glasses bump against your shoulder as he nuzzles deeper into your neck, and he can feel the butterfly clips in your hair tickling against his temple.

“missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words muffled and desperate. “missed you so much.”

“missed me?” your voice pitches higher, indignant and fond in equal measure. “satoru, you’ve been ten feet underground for two weeks! i’ve been cooking for you every single day, leaving plates outside your lab door, and what do i find when i check? cold food. stone cold. untouched.”

your hands come up to cover his where they’re locked around your middle, and even through your scolding, your fingers are gentle as they trace over his knuckles. “what have you even been eating? because i know it wasn’t my cooking, and if you tell me you’ve been surviving on coffee and those horrible protein bars, i’m going to—”

“also,” you continue without pausing for breath, your voice shifting into that particular tone you get when you’re gearing up for a proper lecture, ”you will not believe the past two weeks i’ve had. there’s someone who’s been lurking around our house and he who looks like some bizarre teenage version of you?”

satoru’s stomach drops. his grip on you tightens involuntarily, and he feels you notice the tension, your body shifting slightly in his arms.

“he’s been so persistent. yesterday he actually had the audacity to break into our house through the kitchen window—our kitchen window, satoru, the one with the broken latch you keep forgetting to fix.” your free hand gestures wildly, even though he can’t see it from his position behind you. “thankfully, all those self-defense gadgets you made me actually work. that little stun gun you built into my bracelet? absolutely perfect. sent him flying right off our porch.”

the embarrassment hits him like a physical weight. his face burns against your neck, and he has to resist the urge to groan out loud. you’re giving full credit to his inventions, protecting his ego even while describing how you’d defended yourself against him, and the sweetness of it makes his chest ache.

“and the motion sensors you installed last month caught him skulking around the garden at three in the morning,” you continue, oblivious to his mortification. ”honestly, the dedication is almost impressive. stalking behavior aside, you have to admire his commitment to the whole ‘young gojo’ aesthetic. though i have no idea why anyone would want to look like you did in college. you were such a baby-faced disaster back then.”

“i know you know karate,” he blurts out, the words tumbling from his mouth before he can stop them.

you go very still in his arms. the humming stops abruptly.

“what?” your voice is carefully neutral, but he can feel the way your shoulders tense, the slight shift in your breathing that means you’re calculating your next move.

“i know you know karate,” he repeats, his face burning hotter against your neck. ”you’ve been taking classes since you were twelve. you never told me because you like it when i worry about you enough to make you protection gadgets.”

the silence stretches long enough that he starts to panic. then you let out a long, shaky breath.

“how could you possibly know that?” your voice is small now, embarrassed in a way that makes him want to wrap you up and apologize for everything. “i never... i was so careful not to...”

your hands try to pull away from his, but he holds on, threading your fingers together. “because i’m the boy,” he says quietly. “the one who’s been trying to talk to you for two weeks. the one you stunned off the porch and knocked unconscious in our kitchen.”

he feels the exact moment understanding hits you. your entire body goes rigid, and then you’re spinning in his arms so fast he has to step back to avoid a collision with your elbow.

your eyes are wide, your mouth falling open in a perfect ’o’ of shock. the blush that spreads across your cheeks is magnificent and mortifying, and he watches you process the implications with the expression of someone who’s just realized they’ve been caught in the world’s most embarrassing misunderstanding.

“oh my god,” you whisper, your hands flying up to cover your face. “oh my god, satoru, i am so sorry. i thought—when he knew things about us, about our private moments, i assumed he was some kind of corporate spy, or maybe a rival scientist who’d done research on us, or—”

”a stalker,” he supplies gently, reaching up to pull your hands away from your face. “which was a completely reasonable assumption, given the circumstances.”

“i called you a discount version of yourself!” your voice cracks with horror. “i told you that you weren’t as attractive as my husband! to your face! while you were actually my husband!”

despite everything, satoru can’t help but smile at the outrage in your voice. “technically, you were defending my honor. it was actually incredibly sweet.”

“sweet?” you squeak, aghast, your palms flattening against his chest like you’re considering shoving him away. but you don’t. you stay pressed against him, trembling, overwhelmed.

“i knocked you unconscious with a karate chop!”

“you have excellent form,” he says solemnly, unable to suppress the tilt of his lips. the memory of you, so fierce, so protective, haunts him in the sweetest way—a blurred flash of your nightgown fluttering as you moved with such lethal grace. he remembers the precision, the practiced certainty in your strikes, remembers thinking you’d never looked more beautiful than in that moment where you saw him as a threat and chose violence to protect his memory.

it makes his pulse thrum in his throat. it makes him want to sink to his knees and kiss the hand that struck him.

and yet, here you are, groaning, humiliated, burying your face against his chest to escape him—as if he’s not already completely ensnared. his hands settle on your waist, loose but present, fingertips teasing over the soft fabric of your dress, as though reacquainting himself with the privilege of touching you.

he tilts his head, blue eyes gleaming behind his glasses, drinking you in with a reverence that borders on obsession. he catalogues the way you fidget, the way your lashes kiss your cheeks as you refuse to meet his gaze, the heat blooming under your skin.

there’s a little crease between your eyebrows now—he’s put it there, just as you’ve placed a permanent one on his.

his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw, coaxing you to look at him. “you kept it from me,” he murmurs, savoring the tremor that passes through you, ”because you wanted me to keep making you gadgets.”

it’s not a question. he already knows. you told him, so sweetly, so earnestly, when you believed he was a stranger, and he will hold that secret like a pressed flower tucked into the pages of his heart.

“you think my overprotectiveness is cute?” his voice softens into something breathless, incredulous, dripping with adoration. “you think it’s cute that i lose sleep making things to keep you safe? that i forget to eat because i’m too busy worrying about you?”

your blush deepens, scorching, and you tug at his shirt like you want to disappear into him. “you make me the most amazing things when you’re worried about me. and you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re focused, and you forget to eat or sleep, but you always remember exactly how i like my coffee, and—” he watches you falter, your words disintegrating into a strangled sound of mortification. “this is not making me sound less ridiculous. is it?”

“it’s making you sound perfect.” his forehead drops to yours, and he cradles your face like you’re breakable, like you’re the finest piece of machinery he’s ever built.“ it’s making you sound like the woman i fell in love with—the woman who’s been taking care of me, worrying about me, defending my honor against discount versions of myself.”

his grin sharpens, unable to resist, “and you defended me so well, baby. ‘not my husband.’ ‘my husband is a genius.’ ‘my husband smells better.’ ‘my husband has better posture.’”

he leans in, nipping at your bottom lip, playful, intoxicating. “my sweet wife. i’ve never felt so protected.”

your laugh bursts out of you, watery and full-bodied, your hands rising to cup his cheeks, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones in trembling circles. “i can’t believe i spent two weeks beating up my own husband.”

“i can’t believe i spent two weeks watching my wife talk about how amazing her husband is while she was actively rejecting me.” his lashes flutter as he leans into your touch, like a cat, like something basking in warmth it had been starved of. “do you have any idea how confusing that was? i was jealous of myself. i was genuinely, pathetically jealous of the man you married while being the man you married.”

it’s a confession scraped raw from his chest, but you’re laughing properly now, bright and breathless, like you’ve been untethered from something heavy. you pepper kisses over his face in rapid, dizzying succession, your lips skating over his brow, his temples, the tip of his nose.

“you’re such a dork,” you murmur, still cupping his face, like you can’t bear to let go of him.

“i’m your dork.”

his voice is rough with want, his pulse tripping over itself as he lets the weight of everything crash into him all at once. his mouth brushes over yours again, lingering, reverent. “and i missed you so much. missed being able to touch you. missed you looking at me like you’re looking at me right now instead of like i’m some creepy teenager with questionable motives.”

“you are a creepy teenager with questionable motives,” you shoot back, but your words crumble under the softness that creeps into your voice. ”you invented a time machine just so you could spend more time with me.”

“and then immediately wasted two weeks because i’m apparently the only genius in history stupid enough to de-age himself by accident.”

his thumb slides over your bottom lip, unable to resist, unable to stop touching you now that he’s allowed to. his whole body hums with the need to consume you, to drag you inside his bones, to make up for every second he’d lost.

“not wasted,” you whisper, fierce and tender all at once. “never wasted. not if it brought you back to me.”

those words detonate inside him, and suddenly the kitchen feels too small, the air too thin. he’s been existing on stolen glances and careful distance for two weeks, watching you from afar, aching with the need to touch you, to kiss you, to prove to himself that you’re real and his and finally within reach again.

“we’ve been trying for a baby,” he says hoarsely, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “for months, and i just—i wasted two weeks, and i can’t—i need—”

you silence him with a kiss, soft and desperate and tasting like the tears you’ve both been crying. your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by lifting you, setting you on the counter so you’re at eye level, his hands spanning your waist, thumbs tracing circles over the soft fabric of your dress.

“i love you,” you breathe against his mouth. “i love you so much, and i’m so sorry i hurt you, and i missed you, and—”

he kisses you again, deeper this time, pouring two weeks of longing and frustration and desperate love into the contact. you taste like home, like forgiveness, like everything he’s been craving. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he can feel the exact moment you stop thinking and start just feeling, your body melting against his.

his glasses fog up. he doesn’t care.

your hair comes loose from its bun, the mechanical clips clattering to the counter, and he tangles his fingers in the silky strands, angling your head to deepen the kiss. you make a soft sound that goes straight through him, and he’s just starting to contemplate the structural integrity of the kitchen counter when—

ding.

the oven timer cuts through the moment like a bucket of cold water.

you break apart, both breathing hard, your lips swollen and his hair thoroughly mussed. the pink dress is wrinkled where his hands have been gripping your waist, and there’s a dazed look in your eyes that makes him want to forget dinner entirely.

“the pasta,” you say faintly.

“forget the pasta,” he growls, leaning down to press kisses along your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you shiver.

ding. ding. ding.

“it’ll burn,” you protest, but your head tilts to give him better access, and your hands are still fisted in his shirt.

he doesn’t let you go. not when you say his name, not when you push at his shoulders, not when the oven timer chimes over and over like some petty background character begging for attention in a scene it no longer belongs to.

”don’t mind it,” he breathes against your throat, and it sounds less like a request, more like an instinct, as though there is nothing in this world more irrelevant than a meal when you’re in his arms again.

his lips move along the curve of your neck with reverence, brushing over your pulse, slow at first—a sweet drag of his mouth, the soft, wet pull of his tongue where your skin is most sensitive. he feels the flutter of your pulse beneath his lips, feels the way your body leans into his as though your bones have decided they’d rather trust him to hold you upright.

his breathing is uneven, shaky, like he’s on the edge of something he’s been chasing since the day he woke up in that younger body and couldn’t touch you the way he needed to. the memory claws at him now, vivid and bitter, that helpless ache of looking like himself and yet being nothing you would want to take in your arms.

you murmur something about the oven again, the protest barely formed, already dissolving into a sigh as he scrapes his teeth lightly along your skin. your hands remain curled in his shirt, not pushing anymore, just clutching—desperate, familiar, your fingers twisting into the fabric like you’re scared he might slip away again. his shirt bunches beneath your grip, your nails pressing half-moon shapes into his chest, but he craves the sting of it, the grounding pain of knowing you’re clinging to him, needing him just as much.

”it won’t burn,” he murmurs against your skin, his tongue following the line of your collarbone, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. ”it’s a timed self-shut. i programmed it myself. knew this might happen. knew i wouldn’t be able to let you go.”

he pushes his glasses up with a quick, practiced nudge of his wrist, never pulling his mouth too far from your skin. he needs to see you. needs to see every part of you. his hands are too busy, too greedy, sliding up the sides of your dress, pushing the soft fabric higher and higher until his fingertips brush the bare skin of your thighs. the dress pools around his wrists as though the fabric is surrendering to him, letting him through.

he feels you shudder when his thumbs trace slow, possessive circles just beneath the hem. he slides his hands further, the cotton dragging over your skin as if the dress itself is a barrier he’s grown to despise. ”been thinking about this for two weeks. touching you. feeling you. not some memory—you. this body.”

the tremble in your breath is sharp, palpable, sinking into his bones. your voice hitches when he catches your earlobe between his teeth, when he sucks lightly, as if tasting something he already knows belongs to him. his hands splay wide over your thighs, his touch more sure, more demanding now as though every second he isn’t inside you is unbearable. his fingertips trail along the curve of your legs, memorizing the heat and texture of your skin with the same focus he gives his research—meticulous, thorough, consumed by the need to understand everything.

he pushes his glasses up again, quick and automatic, the weight of them a familiar anchor as his vision sharpens, as though seeing you this clearly makes the need inside him all the more unbearable. he tilts his head just enough to see your lashes flutter, to watch your lips part around his name, and the sight burns into him with perfect clarity.

when his hands find your waist again, he isn’t gentle. his grip is firm, grounding, as though if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, you might vanish all over again. he tugs you back against him, hips flush to yours, and he can’t suppress the groan that punches out of him when he feels how warm you are, even through his jeans.

the heat of you burns into him, through the thin fabric, the kind of contact that makes his head spin. his cock twitches against the rough denim, aching, pulsing, a frustration that’s been building since the second he lost the chance to touch you properly.

“you’re not gonna let me feed you first?” you manage, but the breathless curl in your voice betrays you.

”you’re feeding me now,” he says, dragging his hands to your hips and grinding against you, slow and deliberate, a filthy drag of friction that has you gasping into his shoulder. he’s gone two weeks without this—without your heat, without your weight against him, without the sweetness of your mouth pressed to his.

his mouth captures yours again, the kiss messy and open-mouthed, his tongue chasing yours as though he might starve if he stops. he can’t get enough of you, can’t bear the distance, can’t stand the thought of pulling away, not even to breathe.

“but dinner—”

“it’s fine,” he murmurs, almost a laugh. “it’ll shut off on its own. you can’t burn anything while i’m loving you. made sure of it.”

his mouth moves lower, down the line of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin, the way you shiver when he noses along the curve of your shoulder. he kisses the delicate dip where your neck meets your shoulder, over and over, as though he could mark you with nothing but his mouth.

his hand slides beneath your dress again, impatient now, pushing your panties aside without ceremony. his fingertips graze your folds, and he sucks in a breath through his teeth—wet, already, and his chest tightens with something ugly and possessive because you’ve missed him just as much. the feel of you, the heat, the slick glide of his fingers dragging through your arousal—it short-circuits something in him. his jaw clenches, his breath stutters, and he presses his forehead to your shoulder to anchor himself.

“fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice breaking apart, “look at you. missed me that much? couldn’t wait?”

his touch lingers there, gentle for a moment, tracing, teasing, his middle finger dipping to circle where you’re already aching for him. his other arm curls around your waist, holding you firm against him when your knees nearly give out. he rubs slow circles until you’re grinding into his hand, chasing the friction like you can’t stand the distance anymore. you’re warm and soft and trembling under his touch, your hips rolling helplessly, your breath hitching every time he circles just a little harder.

“satoru,” you whimper, half a plea, half a warning, but you’re already folding into him, already falling apart.

“’m here now,” he murmurs, guiding you to turn around, pressing your hands to the countertop, his body crowding you from behind. “i’m right here. gonna take care of you. gonna fuck you just like you need.”

he kisses your shoulder, slow and lingering, as though tasting your skin could imprint you deeper into him. the curve of your spine rises beneath his mouth, the faint tremble under his lips pulling something raw and animal out of him. he presses into you, his chest solid to your back, his hands smoothing over the fabric of your dress as if his touch alone could brand you as his, as if holding you like this might anchor him to this moment forever.

his jeans rasp against the softness of your thighs, each rock of his hips a little rougher, a little more desperate as he grinds against you. the friction is maddening. it makes him hiss through his teeth, makes his fingers dig into your waist like he needs to memorize the shape of you beneath his palms. when he reaches for his belt, it’s with the shaky impatience of a man on the edge of breaking. the buckle fights him, the leather dragging through the loops in a way that feels insufferably slow, and his breathing stutters, uneven, desperate.

“hurry,” you pant, your voice wrecked and pleading, your hips grinding back against him in small, frantic circles. “please, satoru, please… i need you now.”

he lets out a low curse when he finally frees himself, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick folds with a helpless groan as though even that brief touch is too much, too good, too long overdue. “fuck, baby, you’re soaked,” he breathes, half-crazed, his chest pressed tight to your back. “missed me this much, huh?”

“missed everything,” you gasp, your hands fisting around the edge of the counter, nails digging into the wood. “missed you. your voice, your hands… your cock. please, please don’t tease.”

he doesn’t wait. he can’t. he pushes into you in one, long, slow thrust, inch by aching inch, feeling you stretch and give around him, until he’s seated as deep as you can take him. the tight, wet squeeze of you makes his breath falter, a shudder wracking his frame, his body folding over you as his hands scramble for your waist, clutching like you’re the only tether left holding him to the earth.

“fuck… so full,” you whimper, your voice breaking on a gasp. “god, satoru… so good… i needed this… i needed you.”

he adjusts his glasses with a quick, shaky push, his vision sharpening just in time to burn the sight of you into memory—the delicate arch of your spine, the way your fingers clench around the countertop, the way your hips fit perfectly in his hands like you were carved just for him. the view sears itself into him, and the weight of it nearly drives him to the edge.

“shit… you feel like home,” he rasps, his voice fraying at the edges, his hands tightening until his knuckles ache. he pulls out slow, savoring the sweet, unbearable friction that drags along every nerve in his cock, only to slam back in with a force that steals his breath. again. and again. a steady, greedy pace that grows frantic under the pressure of his need.

the wet slap of skin against skin fills the kitchen, tangled with his ragged breathing and the soft, gasping sounds you make beneath him, each one sinking into him, winding tighter and tighter inside his ribs.

“oh, fuck, satoru…” you cry out, each thrust knocking the air from your lungs, your body meeting his with a desperate rhythm. “don’t stop… please, don’t stop… you feel so good, so deep… i can’t think… i can’t think when you’re fucking me like this.”

he leans over you, his chest pressed to your back, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drives into you with desperate force. his lips brush over the shell of your ear, trailing kisses down your neck as though his mouth can’t bear to leave your skin for more than a second. he mutters your name between each kiss, like a mantra, like it might steady him.

“you’re mine,” he pants, his words shivering with the strain of holding himself together. he kisses along your shoulder, his pace only faltering when his hips grind deep, seeking more, always more. “i’m not wasting another second, baby. i’m gonna… fuck, i’m gonna… i’m gonna make you feel me for days.”

“i already do,” you sob, your head tipping back against his shoulder, tears blurring your vision as you clutch his hand where it grips your waist. “you’re everywhere… you’re all i can feel… all i want… please, satoru, please don’t stop…”

his hand snakes between your thighs, his fingers circling your clit with practiced pressure, coaxing you to squeeze around him, to shatter for him. “come on, baby… let me feel you… let me feel you fall apart for me.”

“satoru… satoru, please, i’m so close… fuck… fuck… don’t stop, i need… i need…”

he groans low in his throat when your walls pulse around him, his body bucking forward like the sensation has stolen the air from his lungs. his other hand glides over your stomach, over the dip of your waist, greedy for the heat of your skin beneath the thin barrier of your dress. he wants to memorize every inch of you, wants to claim you in ways his body can’t quite articulate.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, his lips brushing against the frantic pulse at your throat, his nose pressed against your skin as he breathes you in like oxygen. “talk to me,” he breathes, desperate, hoarse, the words scraping out like they cost him. “tell me you missed me. tell me i’m the only one who gets to touch you like this. tell me you’re mine.”

“yours,” you cry out, wrecked and breathless. “i’ve always been yours… satoru, fuck… you’re the only one… i missed you… i missed you so much… i can’t… i can’t do this without you… please, don’t let me go.”

“fuck, you’re so good for me,” he groans, the sound ragged and raw, and he ruts into you harder, the snap of his hips relentless as he chases you both toward the inevitable edge. “you’re perfect… fuck, baby, you’re perfect.”

“i’m… i’m coming… satoru, please… i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he can’t. not until he feels you clench around him, feels you fall apart, your body trembling as you come, your voice cracking on his name like it’s a prayer you’ve been holding in for days. the sensation of you pulsing around him, pulling him deeper, drags a broken groan from his chest, and only then does he finally let go.

he thrusts deep, emptying himself inside you with a raw, gasping sound, his entire body shivering with the force of it. his release comes in thick waves, like his body refuses to let you go, like it’s been waiting for this, for you, to finally come home to him.

“don’t… don’t pull out,” you whimper, your voice small and trembling, your hands covering his where he grips your hips. “please, i want… i want to feel you… please, satoru… please stay…”

he doesn’t pull out. not yet. he stays there, his chest heaving against your back, his hips pressing tight to yours, as though his body could fuse to yours if he just holds on long enough. his hand slides over your stomach, his thumb brushing the fabric of your dress, his heart thundering against your spine. he wants to stay connected, to keep his body wrapped around you until the heat subsides, until the trembling quiets.

he kisses you there, the soft curve of your shoulder, his lips dragging lazy, reverent paths over your skin, savoring the tremble still coursing through you. “gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, his voice low, thick with something that sounds almost reverent. “gonna keep you full, baby. not wasting anything.”

his hands rub slow, soothing circles into your hips, but his cock still twitches inside you, the heat of you pulling him under all over again. he presses his mouth to your spine, trailing soft, possessive kisses up to the back of your neck, his body vibrating with the hum of restless energy that refuses to ebb. it’s not enough. it’ll never be enough. he wants to keep going until the lines between you blur completely, until you forget where he ends and you begin.

he leans in, his voice breathless but steady now, a vow he lays against your skin. “this…” he pants, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, still buried deep inside you, “this is just the start. not letting you go. not for the rest of the night.”

“don’t let go,” you whisper, arching back into him, your fingers sliding over his as though you might trap him there. ”don’t stop… please, satoru… don’t stop…”

his grip tightens, grounding you to him like he’s afraid you might dissolve between his fingers. “baby, you don’t even know how much i’ve missed you yet.”

he rolls his hips again, savoring the drag, savoring the stretch, savoring the way you arch back into him like you’re already craving more. it’s a promise—a warning—that he isn’t stopping any time soon. his hands smooth over your sides, up to your ribs, coaxing more sounds from you, coaxing more of you to open for him. his lips hover just behind your ear, his breath brushing warm against your skin as he begins to move again, slowly building the next wave, chasing the next collapse.

he hums against you, pleased, almost smug, as you tremble beneath him. ”let me make up for lost time, baby. i’m not done. not even close.”

“please…” it’s the only thing you can form now—broken, breathless. your hands tremble as you try to hold onto him, your fingers sliding helplessly against his shirt like you might fall apart without the anchor of his touch.

he tilts his head just enough to kiss the hinge of your jaw, his pace unhurried but determined. “i’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice soft even as his body hums with something feral. “all night, baby. all night to love you, to fill you, to put our baby right where it belongs.”

he pulls out with a sharp, deliberate drag, leaving you clenching around nothing, and without giving you a moment to protest, he hauls you up, one arm locking under your thighs, the other cradling your back. you cling to him instinctively, barely able to breathe as he carries you to the bedroom, his grip rough, his breathing uneven, his jaw clenched tight with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

he drops you onto the bed, his hands instantly on you, yanking your dress up over your head in one swift, tearing motion, discarding it somewhere behind him. his glasses slip lower on his nose, his blue eyes molten and sharp behind the lenses, devouring the sight of you—messy, flushed, gasping. you reach for him, your lips parted, your throat working around the desperate sound that tumbles out—a soft, helpless “please…”

his hands slam your wrists to the mattress, his body caging you in, his cock thick and heavy as he grinds against your soaked entrance. “shh, baby,” he whispers, his voice trembling as he tries to gentle himself. “i’ve got you. you’re not going anywhere. i’m gonna take care of you.”

he refuses to take off his glasses. he wants to see everything—every tear that slips from your lashes, every tremble in your lips, every mindless sound that breaks from your throat. his gaze stays locked on you, even as his cock pushes inside you in one deep, devastating thrust.

“you’re mine,” he breathes, voice ragged, the words shivering apart as he bottoms out inside you. he can feel your walls flutter around him, clenching as though your body is desperate to hold him in, to keep him there. your body jolts beneath him, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, dragging him deeper. your moan punches out, breathless, pleading, the only thing you seem capable of now. your hands cling to him, fingers clawing at his shirt like you’re trying to root yourself to him, as if the only thing anchoring you to the world is the brutal drag of his cock inside you.

his glasses slip slightly down his nose, fogging at the edges, but he refuses to push them up. he needs to see you, needs to burn every detail into his memory—the way your eyes glaze over, the tremble in your lips, the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. he wants to remember this: the raw, unguarded way you fall apart for him, the mindless way you beg him, the frantic rise and fall of your chest as you gasp for breath.

he drives into you again, harder, faster, each brutal thrust forcing the breath from your lungs, forcing more of those broken, needy noises out of you. the sound of skin slapping against skin echoes in the room, tangled with the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the choked cries that tumble from your lips. your hands scramble at his arms, your nails clawing into his sleeves, but you can’t find the words anymore. all that’s left is “please…” and the sobs that fall apart between the sharp snaps of his hips.

“i know, baby,” he pants, his breath hot and frantic against your skin, his voice frayed with restraint that’s slipping fast. ”i know what you need. you need me to fuck my baby into you, right? need me to keep you so full you can’t think of anything else? need me to fill you until it’s all you can feel?”

“please…” it spills from your throat again, almost a cry, your body tightening around him as though your own muscles are begging him to stay.

“i’ll give it to you,” he promises, soft, reverent, though the brutal rhythm of his hips betrays him. “i’ll make you a mama, baby. gonna make sure you can’t hold anything but me. gonna make sure you’re mine forever.”

he shifts, pulling your knees up to your chest, folding you underneath him, locking you into a perfect mating press. the angle punches another sob from you, your back arching, your legs trembling around his ribs. he presses his chest to yours, his mouth dragging over your ear, your jaw, his voice trembling with sweetness that contrasts the feral rhythm of his body.

“you’re doing so good, baby,” he breathes, kissing your temple, tasting the salt of your tears. “taking me so well. you want it, don’t you? want me to fill you? wanna be round with my baby? wanna feel me every time you move?”

your answer is a mindless moan, another tear slipping from the corner of your eye, your lips barely able to shape the one word that’s left in you: “toru...”

he hums against your skin, his cock grinding impossibly deeper. “that’s it, sweet girl. i’ll fill you up… keep you so full you won’t even remember what it feels like to be empty. i’ll make sure you’re carrying me by the time i’m done. i’ll fuck you so deep that my baby won’t have anywhere else to go.”

his hips slam into you harder, faster, sharp and bruising. you sob beneath him, clutching him, helpless against the rhythm that’s shaking you apart. his voice stays painfully soft, cradling you through it. “not wasting a single drop. i’m gonna fuck you until you’re mine. until you’re pregnant. until there’s nothing left but me inside you.”

“want it…”

his mouth crashes over yours, swallowing your cries, his kiss frantic, messy, desperate. you’re shaking under him, the overstimulation shredding your mind, your body trembling violently, your sobs trapped against his tongue as you beg him wordlessly to keep going, to never stop.

“that’s it,” he whispers, his voice breaking as he chases his release. “that’s it, baby. take it. take it all. take everything i give you.”

he folds you even tighter, pressing so deep you can feel him in places you didn’t know could ache. your orgasm crashes over you again, sharp and blinding, your body convulsing around him, your voice lost to the desperate gasp that splits from your lips. and he breaks with you, thrusting deep as he spills inside you, his cock pulsing hard with every grind, his breath faltering, his voice catching as he pants, “gonna make you mine… gonna make you a mama… gonna keep you full… keep you right here… where you belong.”

but he doesn’t stop.

he keeps grinding, his cock still thick, twitching inside you, his hands trembling where they hold your legs open, determined to keep every drop right where it belongs.

“not done,” he breathes, kissing your cheek, your temple, his voice sweet and low, shaking with the weight of how much he still wants you. “not done with you yet, baby. not until i know. not until i’m sure. not until you’re really mine.”

he rolls his hips again, deliberately, drawing out the stretch, dragging out the feeling, coaxing more choked gasps from you. your body arches weakly into him, clinging, helpless to do anything but take him.

“shh, sweet girl, i’ve got you. i’ll give you everything. i’ll fill you over and over until you can’t hold anything but me. i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs when i finally let you go.”

he drags his cock out slowly, savoring the sensation, just to slam back in, forcing another sharp cry from you, your legs trembling where they bracket his ribs.

“you feel so good like this,” he murmurs, his words melting against your skin. “so good and warm and perfect. i’m gonna keep going, baby. you can take it, right? you’ll let me, won’t you? you’ll let me make you mine, over and over, until there’s no space left for anything else?”

a needy whine is all you can give him now, but it’s all he needs.

he smiles against your cheek, soft and breathless, his glasses slipping lower as he kisses you again, his lips trembling against yours. “i know, baby. i know. i’ll take care of everything. i’ll make sure our baby takes. i’ll make sure you’re mine… i’ll make sure you’re full. i’ll keep going until you can’t think about anything but me…”

his pace builds again, steady, deep, his hands stroking your sides, his voice staying low, unbearably tender as he destroys you beneath him.

“i’ll give you all of me, sweet girl,” he promises, his voice cracking even as he drives for more. “all of me. again and again. until you’re carrying me… until you’re round with our baby. until you can’t breathe without thinking about me inside you.”

he shifts his weight, dragging his cock out just enough to thrust deep again, coaxing more desperate cries from you, his breathing rough as his chest brushes yours, his glasses fogged and slipping. his hands tremble where they hold you open, where they keep you pinned beneath him, where they swear to never let you go, as if letting go would unravel him entirely.

“i’ll fill you until you can’t take anymore,” he whispers, his voice raw, his lips dragging along your jaw, his breath hot and uneven. “i’ll give you so much you’ll feel me for days, baby. you’ll feel me dripping out of you every time you stand, every time you move. you’ll feel me inside you every second, every breath, every heartbeat. there won’t be a moment you’re not full of me.”

he slows down just enough to let you breathe, just enough to kiss you, just enough to hear the soft, breathy whimpers that melt into his skin. his glasses are crooked, fogged, his hair clinging to his forehead in damp strands. his lips brush yours, tasting of desperation, tasting of love, tasting of the ache he’s carried through endless nights, his body pressed flush against yours as if he could sink into you, as if he could live inside you if he tried hard enough.

“baby,” he pants, voice trembling, his hand brushing your cheek, lingering there, “roll over for me, yeah? wanna see you all pretty on your hands and knees, wanna see your ass all messy for me, wanna watch you fall apart just for me.”

his words make you shudder beneath him, make your thighs twitch, but you listen, your limbs shaky as you roll over, his hands never leaving you, his palms gliding down your waist, over your hips, steady, grounding, helping you position yourself just right. he murmurs soft praises as he lines you up, kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, to the soft curve of your shoulder, to the swell of your back as you settle on all fours, your face buried in the pillows, your breath already ragged.

“that’s it, pretty girl,” he croons, his voice thick with awe, his eyes roving over your trembling form like he can’t believe you’re his. “look at you, taking me so well. made for me, baby, yeah? your body was made for me, just to take me, just to fall apart on my cock.”

his hand slips between your thighs, his long fingers gathering your slick, coating them generously before pressing two inside you alongside his cock, working you open, stretching you around him until the burn makes you sob into the sheets, makes your hips jerk helplessly, makes you whine from the fullness, from how stuffed you are, the overwhelming stretch making tears prick at your lashes.

your knuckles turn white where you grip the sheets, trembling under the weight of him, under the delicious ache of him, your breath hitching with every slow curl of his fingers inside you. your thighs twitch, thighs spread obediently despite the tremble overtaking them, your skin fever-hot where his palms ground you in place.

his other hand steadies your hips, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, his palm firm, his grip sinking into the plush of your waist like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he loosens it even for a second. his hair clings to his forehead in damp, clumpy strands, his cheeks flushed a lovely pink, his glasses slipping lower on his nose, fogged to uselessness but still perched stubbornly there, framing the feverish glint in his eyes.

his lips brush kisses to the curve of your spine, down to the small of your back, each press soft and lingering, like he’s tethering you to him with every touch, like he needs to brand himself into you, to make you feel him everywhere, in every breath, in every heartbeat.

“shh, you’re doing so good,” he breathes, his voice trembling with restraint, placing a tender kiss to the dip of your waist. “so good for me, baby. you’re perfect, y’know that? so perfect when you’re stuffed full of me. i love watching you stretch around me, love feeling you clench when i’m this deep inside you. it’s like your body was made to hold me. you were made to be mine.”

he slides his fingers out slowly, savoring the slick sound, savoring the way your walls flutter around him like you’re begging him to fill you again. your thighs tremble, your hips rocking back in search of him, your breath shuddering as you whine, pitiful and overwhelmed, lips parted, drooling onto the pillow.

the needy arch of your spine makes his chest squeeze, makes his cock throb painfully, makes him press flush against you as he grinds back in, deep and unhurried, pushing as far as he can go, his pace slow but devastating, each thrust a deliberate drag against every sensitive spot that makes you gasp, makes you sob into the pillows.

“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his head falling forward, his damp fringe sticking to his temple, his glasses slipping to the very tip of his nose before he finally pushes them off and tosses them blindly aside. “every time i fuck you like this, you just take me so good, like you’re meant to. you were made to take me, weren’t you? made to fall apart on my cock, yeah?”

his kisses grow more feverish, his lips dragging across your shoulders, the plane of your back, his tongue flicking along the salt of your skin as he grinds deeper, sinking lower with each thrust, each snap of his hips making you whine, making your hands claw weakly at the sheets. he listens to every gasp, every cry, every broken plea you bury into the pillows, savoring the tremble of your thighs, the collapse of your arms, the desperate way you push back into him, chasing the delicious pressure.

then he leans over, his chest pressing against your back until his lips find yours, capturing you in a desperate, clumsy kiss. it’s messy, wet, more panting and whining than kissing, but he drinks every sound from your lips like he’s starving, like he can’t bear to be separated from any part of you. his tongue traces yours, coaxing you into the kiss even as his hips grind into you harder, even as your knees threaten to buckle beneath him, your soft whimpers muffled against his mouth.

“don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot against your lips, his voice honey-sweet and reverent even as he rocks into you deeper. “wanna hear you, wanna feel you, wanna kiss you while you fall apart on me. every sound you make is mine. every little sob, every little plea, mine.”

he chases your orgasm with grinding thrusts, with soft praises that melt into your skin, with kisses that sear into you, that drag along the curve of your spine, that brand you as his. his hands roam across your waist, your sides, your belly, squeezing and caressing as if memorizing the softness of you. and when you come, when your body clamps down around him like a vice, when you tremble and sob against his mouth, he doesn’t stop. he swallows every desperate sound, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips tightening as he drives through the aftershocks, pulling even more cries from your swollen lips.

“you can take it,” he pants, fucking you through the tremors, his voice shaking with the force of his own unraveling. “you’re doing so good, baby, you’re perfect, you’re perfect, fuck, you’re made for me. made to take me, yeah? you can give me another, can’t you? just one more, pretty girl. just one more.”

his hips snap forward harder, more erratic, his sleeper build fully activated as his fingers dig bruises into your waist, as he holds you steady even as your arms give out, even as you collapse onto the bed, your cheek mashed against the pillow, your body trembling with every rough, desperate thrust. your breath hiccups, your body limp, overstimulated, but he keeps going, keeps coaxing more from you with each deep grind, dragging out your high until your thighs shake uncontrollably.

but he doesn’t stop. his grip doesn’t falter. his praises don’t cease.

he kisses the sweat-slick skin of your back, he whispers against your shoulder, he keeps telling you how good you are, how you were made for him, how he’ll fill you until you’re overflowing, until you’re leaking with him, until you can’t hold it all, until you feel him dripping down your thighs, until it’s all you can feel.

“so good, baby, you’re so good,” he breathes, his voice cracking on the edges, as if your name is the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment. “my sweet girl, my pretty baby, taking me so well. fuck, you’re made for me, you’re perfect.”

he chases his own end with frantic, desperate thrusts, with the wet, obscene slap of skin against skin, with the ragged breath of a man who has no intention of stopping until he’s poured every last drop of himself into you. his fingers flex against your waist, his lips never leaving you, his rhythm a frantic, beautiful mess, his voice breaking with every curse, every sweet nothing he pours into your skin.

and when he finally shatters, when his body tenses and he spills inside you, he groans your name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his kisses never stopping, his words still tumbling in a broken, reverent stream.

“so good, baby, you’re so good, you’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine. gonna keep you like this, gonna keep you full, just like this, just like you’re meant to be. wanna see it drip down those pretty thighs.”

his body finally stills, but his hands never leave you, his lips never stop pressing soft, lingering kisses to your back, to your shoulders, to your waist, holding you close as if you might slip away if he lets go.

he stays inside you, buried to the hilt, his breathing shaky, his heart hammering wildly against your spine, his hair clinging to his damp forehead, his cheeks flushed and glowing, his arms curling around your middle to hold you tight, to anchor himself to you, to prolong this feeling of being so deeply connected.

he whispers to you softly now, praises spilling between kisses, his touch gentle but insistent, a man desperate to stay connected, to stay tethered to you in every way he can. his fingertips trace slow, lazy circles against your belly, memorizing the feel of your skin, of your warmth, the little trembles that still ripple through you.

“i’ll fill you up again,” he promises, his voice hoarse and full of love. “i’ll give you more, baby. you can take it. you always take me so well. i’ll keep you like this all night if you let me. just wanna keep you close, keep you mine.”

slowly, he shifts, carefully pulling out, his breath catching at the sight of his spend slipping out of you, leaving a glistening trail along your thighs. he groans softly, pressing a kiss to your lower back, savoring the tremble that runs through you. his thumb brushes over the mark he left there, tracing lazy circles as if to soothe the ache, as if to seal his touch into your skin.

he gently turns you over, cradling your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing, his strong arms wrapping around you as if you’re something precious. he sits himself at the edge of the bed with you settled in his lap, your shaky thighs straddling him, your chest pressed to his, your breath still hitching as you try to find your footing in the aftermath, your arms barely strong enough to wrap around his shoulders.

his cock, still heavy, still hard, nudges against your entrance, and he shudders at the heat, at the way your body clings to him instinctively, like you never want to let him go. his hands slide over your hips, steadying you, his thumbs brushing slow circles into your skin, his touch reverent, patient, as if savoring the weight of you in his lap.

“come on, pretty girl,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your lips, his voice thick with sweetness and filth, his cerulean eyes glazed with adoration and hunger. “sit on me, yeah? just like this. let me keep you full a little longer. let me feel you, just a little more.”

he guides you down onto him, slow and patient, his large hands warm and steady on your waist as he lowers you inch by inch, savoring the sweet stretch, savoring the tremble that overtakes you as he fills you again, deeper this time, more deliberate, until his hips meet yours with a satisfying press.

your breath hitches, a sharp whimper escaping you, your head falling heavily to his shoulder as you struggle to accommodate him, your body straining around the overwhelming stretch, your fingers digging desperately into the firm muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him like you’ll drown without him.

his breath stutters at the heat of you, at how impossibly tight you are despite how many times he’s already filled you tonight. his pale hair clings damp to his temple, the ends curling from sweat, his cheeks flushed a tender pink, his lips parted and trembling as he exhales shaky, desperate breaths against your ear. his lashes flutter, his throat bobs with every ragged swallow, his entire frame taut, his biceps trembling where they hold you steady, straining to keep his composure, to keep his pace slow, to savor every second inside you.

his hands never leave you, one sliding to cradle your waist, the other splaying wide across your trembling back, as if to press you closer, to anchor you to him, to mold you to his body, to ensure that not even a breath of space separates you. he peppers kisses along your temple, the shell of your ear, your hairline, your jaw, his lips soft but insistent, his voice a low, reverent murmur that vibrates against your skin, as though he’s reciting a prayer only you can hear.

“look at you, baby,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to cradle your cheek in his palm, his thumb brushing away the stray tear that slips down your flushed skin. his ocean eyes are hazy, glassy with tenderness, with something so raw it tightens his throat and makes his breath stutter. “fuck, you’re so pretty when you’re falling apart for me. gonna let me keep you here all night, right? yeah? just like this, full of me. can’t let you go. don’t want to.”

his other hand curls into the nape of your neck, fingers threading through the damp strands of your hair, guiding your forehead to his, breath mingling, lips brushing as he steals soft, lingering kisses between his words, as if he can’t stop, as if he’s starving for you, as if kissing you is the only way he can breathe.

you can only whimper in response, the weight of him, the stretch of him, too much and not enough, your body trembling with the need to give him more, to feel him deeper, to be good for him, to make him proud, to belong to him.

his hands slide back to your waist, his grip steady but gentle as he begins to guide you, controlling your pace, moving you over him in slow, agonizing rolls. his thumbs draw slow, grounding circles into your heated skin, coaxing you to move, to ride him, to fall apart for him again. each time you rock your hips, you shudder, your breath catching on a sob, but he holds you steady, keeps you grounded, murmuring sweet words against your skin.

“shh, i’ve got you, baby. you’re doing so good,” he praises, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath shaky, his lips brushing yours between soft, trembling kisses. his silver lashes flutter with every slight tremble of his hips beneath you, his whole body trembling with restraint, with devotion, with the overwhelming need to stay inside you, to keep you close, to never let you go.

“you can do it, pretty girl,” he whispers, his voice low and rough, savoring every inch, every trembling grind of your hips. “just like that. take your time. i’ve got you. you’re mine. my sweet girl. let me take care of you. let me feel you just a little more.”

your thighs quiver, your movements sluggish and shaky, your whole body threatening to collapse from how sensitive you are, but he holds you, supports you, his hands never faltering as he coaxes you through it, guiding you with soft murmurs, with kisses pressed between your brows, against your fluttering eyelids, against the damp corner of your mouth. his hands roam your back, your ribs, your hips, memorizing the tremble of your skin, the heat of your body, the way you melt so completely into his lap, pliant and sweet.

he watches you, breathless, overwhelmed by how perfect you are, by how much he wants to keep you like this, forever tethered to him, wrapped around him, so utterly his. he savors the little gasps you give him, the soft hiccups in your breath, the desperate way you cling to him even when your body begs for rest, even when you sob softly into his shoulder, overwhelmed but unable to stop, unwilling to pull away.

when you finally falter, too sensitive, too overwhelmed to keep going, your movements slowing to weak, trembling shifts of your hips, he wraps his arms tightly around your waist and takes over, holding you close, keeping you flush against his chest as he grinds up into you in slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, savoring the sweet friction, savoring the little broken sounds you spill against his skin.

his pace is gentle but insistent, dragging sweet friction between your bodies, pulling broken moans from your lips, savoring the way you clutch at him, your fingers knotting in his damp hair, your head buried in his neck like he’s the only thing keeping you whole, the only place you feel safe, the only place you want to be. he feels your nails dig into his skin, your body trembling in his hold, but you don’t pull away. you press closer.

“that’s it, baby, i’ve got you,” he breathes, his voice cracking, trembling with the force of his own need, his own love. “just let me take care of you. just hold on to me. we’ll come together, okay? just like this. i’ve got you. i’ve always got you.”

his forehead presses to yours again, his lips parting to steal soft, desperate kisses, his hands trembling where they clutch you, his chest heaving as he rolls his hips deeper, slower, grinding against every sensitive spot inside you, savoring the desperate whines you spill against his mouth, savoring how you melt completely in his arms.

his voice is little more than a whisper now, ragged and broken, his praises melting into your skin as he rocks into you, chasing the edge with you pressed so sweetly against him, his breathing erratic, his kisses clumsy and endless.

“come with me, baby,” he pleads, his voice thick with love, with need, with desperation, his lips brushing yours as his hands tighten around your waist. “please. just like this. i need to feel you. i need you. just like this. don’t let go.”

you fall apart in his arms, your sobs trembling against his lips, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair as you cling to him, as you come so sweetly, so completely, your body shuddering in his hold, your thighs twitching, your hips stuttering as you grind against him, desperate to draw out the bliss.

he follows soon after, groaning your name like it’s a prayer, like it’s the only word he knows, his hips stuttering as he pours into you, as he holds you impossibly closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if he could keep you here forever.

when you finally go limp in his arms, when your soft, exhausted breath fans against his neck, he holds you there, cradling you against his chest, his fingers stroking soothing lines along your spine. his hands slide to your thighs, rubbing slow circles, grounding you, savoring the weight of you in his lap, the softness of you, the way you fit so perfectly in his hold, the way you feel like home.

he presses soft kisses to your temple, to your hairline, to your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin, his lips tender and slow, as if he could never kiss you enough, as if he could never hold you long enough.

“so good, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick with tenderness. “my pretty girl. my sweet girl. we can stay like this, yeah? just like this. just you and me. i don’t need anything else.”

he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing finally beginning to steady, his arms curling tighter around you, his whole body relaxing, melting into you as though he could sink into your skin and stay there forever.

you nod weakly, nuzzling into his neck, your lashes damp, your body pliant and warm against him. your arms loop lazily around his shoulders, fingers brushing the nape of his neck, and he presses one last kiss to your temple, one last kiss to your hairline, and he smiles against your skin, utterly content, utterly in love.

neither of you move. neither of you speak. you’re both too tired, too soft, too wrapped in each other to care about anything else, not even the cold dinner waiting in the kitchen.

“we’ll eat later,” he hums, his lips curling against your skin, his voice warm, tender, content. “just wanna stay here a little longer. just wanna keep you close. that’s all i need.”

his arms tighten around you as he buries his face in your shoulder, breathing you in, his body melting into yours, savoring the weight, the warmth, the softness of having you so completely, so entirely his.

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hime-k0 · 8 months ago

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seperation anxiety! a (clan head) gojo satoru fic

pairing ⸺ clan head!gojo x wife!reader

summary ⸺ satoru begs you to attend a meeting with the higher-ups, but not for the reasons you thought. inspired by this art by @/baobei-bu!

warnings ⸺ SMUT, gojo is a warning by himself, VERY public sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied, no penetration, fingering, fondling, making out, panty-ripping, exhibitionism, kinda cucking but the only ppl humiliated and humbled are the higher ups, porn no plot, but plot if you squint, reader is a strong independent woman (until gojo charms her, bc who wouldn't turn into a cockslut for gojo?), this took me at least five hours to write for no good reason?, not edited (like always....)

a/n pls enjoy and thank u to the queen for making such delicious art (p.s. go to their twitter for nsfw ver i squirted)

general masterlist

“Pleaseeeee,” Satoru has his face buried in your chest, nuzzling in further while complaining. It’s almost comical how he—head of the biggest clan in Jujutsu—is leaning down to match your height. You, meanwhile, stand firm, arms crossed, regarding him with a mix of exasperation and reluctant affection as he leans down to meet your gaze. “Will you come with me?”

The question comes as the dreaded meeting with the higher-ups looms, a gathering he's been dodging all day. It technically began ten minutes ago, and you barely managed to wrangle him into his formal kimono just twenty minutes earlier. You sigh, fingers brushing his hair. “Satoru, you know what they think of me. I'm not exactly their favorite person.” You’re both standing in the middle of your shared bedroom, you imploring him to be on time for his meeting to avoid getting even further shit from the higher-ups.

Mind you, you’re the more rational one between you and Satoru—in fact, most of the people who know you would agree that you’re a very mature, wise person in general (with the exception of some circumstances, of course). And despite the respect your skill commands, the higher-ups have never warmed to you, not since you refused to play a pawn in their games. Marrying Satoru, the one jujutsu sorcerer they could never control, only amplified their discontent. They see you both as threats—powerful sorcerers bonded in defiance.

At the mention of "higher-ups," Satoru's pout deepens, and his pleading voice grows more insistent. “Pleeeease,” he drags out, practically whining. “I have separation anxiety.”

You feel a pang of sympathy. These meetings are miserable for him—hours trapped in a room with men twice his age, trying to dictate his every move. “I don’t know, Satoru…” you murmur, hesitating.

But Satoru takes advantage of your softening resolve, hugging you tighter, his face pressing into you again. “Don’t make me go in there alone!” he says, his voice muffled. “You have no idea how much you silence them. One word from you, and they all think twice. I’m already one step away from wanting to kill them all.”

A sigh escapes you as you realize he’s not letting up. And while you’re reluctant, you know that your presence, your opinion—one of the few he truly values—might actually give him a sense of calm in that harsh room. “Alright, alright,” you concede finally, hand smoothing the fabric of his sleeve. "But no making a scene."

His answering smirk is smug, giving you a fat, sloppy kiss on your cheek that you’re not afraid to show your partial-disgust about. You all but have to wrestle him off of you white he’s smothering you in kisses, getting out something about how much loves you, oh so thankful to have such a wise wifey like you as you get ready in a kimono similar to his and head to the limo waiting outside of the manor you and Gojo reside in.

As soon as you get in, Gojo turns sharply to Ijichi, who’s shifting the gear. “Put the divider up.”

“O-Okay, Gojo-san.” A little intimidated by the commanding tone in your husband’s voice, he quickly presses the button to activate the screen, and Gojo pounces on you, grabbing you and hoisting you up by your sides to put you on his lap.

“Satoru!” you exclaim, surprised as he captures his lips with yours. His hands roam your body as he moans, almost obnoxiously, because he knows you’re always paranoid whenever he initiates anything in public. Your crotch aligns with his thigh, big and stuffed with muscle as he drives your hips to grind on him, and despite yourself and your circumstances, you find yourself leaning into his touch.

“My pretty wife,” he purrs, now trailing kisses down your jaw and into your neck. “So pretty, so supportive.”

Despite his dizzying movements, you try to get a hold of yourself. “Satoru, we shouldn’t be doing this here. We need to discuss what to sa—”

“Fuck that,” he sighs, so breathless that you want to cave in.

“No, but—”

His eyes darken, and his hands start creeping up your legs, going slowly and slowly closer to your pussy. “Baby, you know I value what you have to say,” and his fingers graze your folds, making you leak even more with his teasing, “but I wanna listen to something else.”

He drags his index finger up and down your slit, making you whimper. His fingers then prod into your hole, putting pressure there but not quite delving in. “Satoru,” you whine out, clutching his upper arms as he has his way while toying with you.

“Yea, that’s what I wanna hear,” he groans, giving you a kiss. It is then that he rewards you with inserting his digit in, curling to hit your spot as he fingers you. HIs other arm is around you, holding your panties’ crotch to the side to allow him to touch you. “My good girl.”

As he’s touching you, the squelching sounds fills the enclosure you’re in and you’re desperately praying to God Ijichi can’t hear the lewd things the both of you are doing in the back. You’re just reduced to whimpering, unable to reject Satoru’s dizzying touches, his free hand leaving your panties to grope at your inner thighs, ass, and breasts. It’s like he’s devouring you with his kisses, urgent, as he continues curling his fingers.

Between kisses, you try to get out a “Satoru—mmph,” smooch, “we shouldn’t be—mm” smooch, “shouldn’t be doing this here!”

“What,” he drawls, and with the glint in his eyes you know the fucker’s trying to toy with you, knows what he’s doing is mischievous. “I can’t touch my wife?”

Before you could utter a response, however, the limo suddenly slows, and the sensation of using the brakes to stop the car makes you sober up. “We’re here, Satoru we need to go—-” As you’re trying to rip yourself off his lap, he pulls out the finger that was inside you and uses his hand instead to entangle it with the crotch of your panties, pulling and pulling until the cloth is nothing but shreds, falling off your body.

Oh my god, you were not paid enough for this shit.

With his oh-so-irritating eyes—the same ones that you spent despising in your early school years—he looks at you through his pretty white lashes as he makes a show of sniffing the now tattered shreds that were your panties and putting them in his pocket. Under your kimono, you can feel your slick escaping your panties as the cool air wafts through it, landing on your pussy. You look at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

He giggles, giving you a kiss on the cheek while helping you off his lap, putting a hand on your head to make sure you didn’t bump your head against the car’s ceiling. “Let’s go and deal with those hags, my love.”

To be honest, you don’t really understand why Satoru is so handsy today. He’s on some sort of man-ovulation, you think, as you stride into the room. Even ripping off your panties was a bit excessive, if not out of pocket (no pun intended). Breaking out of your thoughts, you grounded yourself in the present, noticing hostile eyes turned towards your husband, and then you. You match their barely-subtle glares with a stink eye of your own, holding your chin up as you walk past them dismissively. Just as you’re about to take a seat next to Gojo—being mindful of your kimono so you don’t flash any of these old bastards—one of them speaks up.

“Gojo-sama, why is this woman here?”

You continue to take your seat, noticing Satoru’s jaw clenched. But right as he’s about to say something, you cut in for him. “This woman,” and you smile, deceptively sweet, “is the lady of the clan. It would do you well to remember the hierarchy of the Gojo clan.” You don’t need to turn to look at your husband to know he has a proud smile on his face, making no effort to hide his smugness. What shocks you instead is that he swings an arm around you, effectively dragging you closer to him until you’re basically sitting on his lap, and his hands go to roam your sides.

Now, some old grandpa starts talking, commencing the meeting, on their usual bullshit of the need for extermination of Sukuna’s vessel, but Satoru pays them no mind. Instead, what they receive in response is non-committal hums as his hands drag themselves up your stomach and down where your legs are crossed to the hem of your kimono, and then under.

Any semblance of paying attention to the meeting and responding to their infuriating beliefs leaves your mind as you blank out, panicking that Satoru is trying to commit public indecency with you. As an argument erupts between the higher ups about something, you turn to Gojo to furiously whisper, “What is wrong with you today?! Cut it out.”

In your life, you’ve fought many curses, first grade and even special grade included as you climbed up the ranks of Jujutsu sorcery despite having a non-sorcerer upbringing. What you will never be able to defeat, however, is your husband’s charm. Satoru knows what he’s doing as he lets out a deep moan in your ear, making you squeak and become even more flustered, as he continues to make lewd noises, puffs of his breath fanning across your neck.

a/n gojo the type to start moaning randomly to make you fold #sorrynotsorry

The indecency of all of it—-Gojo basically whimpering in your ear sweet nothings like good girl, that’s my wife, gonna let me finger you in front of all these ugly hags, right?—-being loud in your ear but also just quiet enough that you’d only hear made you so wet, heat throbbing between your thighs as Satoru’s hands start rubbing your fold. It’s a teasing touch, one not enough to satisfy you but to stimulate you nonetheless.

It’s just when his index finger starts slowly circling around your clit that you buck your hips slightly, making him look at you teasingly, peering down at you from above your shoulder. “Oh you liked that, didn’t you?”

“I hate you,” you puff out, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck as Satoru’s circles on your clit get more tangibly, simulating you oh so deliciously. To make sure you hold yourself up, you set your elbows down on the table, Satoru’s arms engulfing you as you’re forced to take whatever touches he’s giving you under the table.

“She’s so loud,” he whispers, pointing out the noises your pussy was making as his digits roved over your folds. The squelches were tangibly there, audible to anyone who would strain their ears. You could tell your lack of response to the meeting was catching attention, because there were several eyes towards you, waiting for something; it was then you realized that they had posed a question but were simply too fucked out to respond.

A voice comes out to reprimand your husband sharply. “Gojo-sama, this is hardly appropriate.”

Satoru chuckles, not stopping his ministrations as he picks up a cup filled with water, his smug gaze still turned towards you while observing and appreciating your every hiccup and reaction. “Can’t my spouse attend this meeting? I value her opinion above everyone else’s in this room, after all,” he drawls, lodging his chin in the curve of your neck. “Besides,” and he flashes a dangerous grin to the man who spoke out, “weren’t you the ones who were oh so worried about me not having an heir?”

At this point, you’ve filtered out all noises, focusing and honing in on the sensation of your orgasm coming. His digits are playful, curling up to hit your g-spot repeatedly, his palm tickling your clit. Each time he hits your spongy spot a bout of electricity runs up your body, pulling you closer and closer to your orgasm.

“But guess what,” and he gives you a kiss on the cheek, despite the aversion the rest of the higher ups have to any displays of affection, “we can solve that problem right here, right now.” He punctuates it with a harsh sink of his fingers into your plush cunt, and, with that, you finally cream his fingers, a result of Satoru teasing you all day now. You try to temper the shakes wracking your body by slamming your fist against the table, trying not to moan out.

It seems that no one’s seen you riding out your orgasm out so visible, because there are gasps around the room at how obscene Gojo’s suggestion was. “It is shameful of you to be saying such things, Gojo-sama!” one of them sputters out, red with anger and outrage.

Your husband not so subtly rolls his eyes. “Then don’t bring it up all the time, old man.” Satoru knows how touchy and vulnerable you are right after you cum, so he’s running his hands softly up and down your thighs to quell your quivers affectionately. “Actually, what about this? You all haven’t witnessed us consummate our marriage, correct?” He smirks. “What about witnessing the heir-making next time?”

general masterlist

a/n pls see the vision like i want gojo to claim me and rail me into next tuesday while the higher ups just watch uncomfortably like maybe i am a freak like that. like gojo would be so obsessed with how he's claiming you in front of the fuckers that piss him off so much...might do a part two if pookiesa like this :P

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots :3

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hime-k0 · 9 months ago

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Clan head!Gojo

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hime-k0 · 9 months ago

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hime-k0 · 11 months ago

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You have been visited by the twocumber. May you receive twofold luck in the coming days

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hime-k0 · 11 months ago

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You have been visited by the twocumber. May you receive twofold luck in the coming days

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hime-k0 · 1 year ago

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hime-k0 · 1 year ago

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quick sketch

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hime-k0 · 1 year ago

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Ghost of the strongest

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hime-k0 · 1 year ago

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-𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 ☆

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hime-k0 · 1 year ago

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The Earth Kills the Moon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word count: 6.3k

Part two of The Sun Eats the Moon

Synopsis: A retelling of The Sun Eats the Moon in Suguru's perspective

(Warnings: forced relationships, bullying, non con touching, non con kissing)

Suguru liked you.

It wasn't even a crush. A passing interest, maybe. You were pretty. You had a nice smile. Though, he'd never directly spoken to you, he could tell that you were kind. Not in the artificial cherry most people were. Natural, like honey, never spoiling. You share the same homeroom as Satoru, and he'd always tended to be observant, unlike his friend. One thing he liked about you was how observant you were. You were constantly looking out for your friends, mere acquaintances, and everyone in your vicinity. Often, Suguru wondered if being a people-pleaser was natural or from a fear of not fitting in.

Suguru is observant. He notices the lingering gaze Satoru gives you when you walk away, hurrying to catch up with the rest of your friends. Satoru then turns back to the carton of chocolate milk you'd left him.

"Cute," Satoru says after a minute. It's more of an afterthought than anything. He pops the carton open. Suguru hears the fabric tear. He hums in agreement. The topic switches to something else, a hot celebrity maybe? Suguru can't remember. That day had been so insignificant to him. It hadn’t mattered to him for Suguru to remember anything further.

A few days later, Suguru noticed Satoru was spending a lot more time with you.

It was hard not to notice, actually. His friend attached himself to you like he'd die if he couldn’t. Satoru went everywhere with you now. Suguru caught him walking you from school, offering you rides in his new car, following you to the lunch hall. And if he couldn’t go to where you were, he’d drag you back to him. Watching you and Satoru was a bit like watching two magnets. North pole and South pole. So different, yet constantly finding the other.

“Tryna’ run away from me, now?” Satoru asks, a teasing lilt in his voice as he watches you fiddle with your bag.

You laugh, continuing to fish out your lunch box. “Just grabbing lunch.”

“Eat with us,” Satoru insists, “we found a great spot up at the rooftop.”

You meet Suguru’s gaze just then. He’d been silently lounging on a nearby desk, observing the two of you. He gives a smile. You return it. Polite. He wonders if your mother taught you to smile like that.

“I thought students weren’t allowed up there?” You ask Satoru.

The boy rolls his eyes. “So, who cares? It’ll be fun.”

You pause, right then. The tiniest of hesitation. Suguru wonders if you’re noticing just how different you and Satoru were. You, the people pleaser, meek, always more than willing to bend towards authority. Satoru was rougher, more resilient, uncaring of signs and rules. The gap between the two of you is astronomical. Could you feel it as well?

Whatever you’re thinking, it’s gone in a moment. You rise, giving Satoru another laugh. To Suguru, it sounds pretty.

“Well, have fun for me. Besides, I can’t ditch my friends. They’re waiting for me.”

With that, you give both him and Satoru a tiny wave, before disappearing out of the classroom. Suguru waves back. Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on your back until he can’t see you anymore.

“Got ditched again, hm?” Suguru teases. Satoru only groans, tossing his head back as he leans dangerously on the chair.

“Always leavin’ me for ‘em, too,” he complains, “so fuckin’ annoyin’.”

Suguru can only smile, getting up to follow his friend out the door. He can barely count how many times he’d seen this before, each with a different person. It starts the same. Satoru will cling onto you for a couple more days, and then ask you out. When you say yes, he’d date you for a few weeks before eventually getting bored and dumping you.

It’s a cruel cycle, something that’s just an inevitability with Gojo Satoru. The boy can’t stay in one place, he’s constantly moving around, never one to stop. For Satoru, Suguru was the most permanent thing in his life. Which made sense, they were pretty similar in terms of ideals.

A cruel cycle, and Suguru feels a tiny bit of sympathy for you. You were sweet, unlike the type Satoru typically went for. Honey. Natural. Truthfully, Suguru was a little disappointed as well. The type of disappointment he’d feel when someone took the last crab stick before he could. A fleeting feeling, one that ultimately wouldn’t matter.

◉

From the day they first met, Suguru knew one thing: Gojo Satoru has never been told no before.

It made sense. He was the only child to one of the most powerful families in the country. Spoiled from day one, some could say. Satoru grew up knowing nothing but wealth and prosperity. They met when they were both still in elementary school, still with high-pitched voices and large eyes. Suguru’s family was fairly affluent as well. Now that Suguru thinks back, perhaps their meeting had been orchestrated by meddling parents in order to form more connected. It didn’t matter, either way. It had benefitted all three parties, after all.

Yes, Suguru knew from the moment Satoru pointed at him and declared him his ‘best friend’, that Satoru had never been told no before.

Satoru was the Sun. The universe revolved around him, catered to him. Suguru supposed he wasn't much better considering he too spoiled his best friend in that sense. They were different. They'd been born different, coming from families who cherish them with wealth and power. Suguru supposes it was natural for them to be so intertwined. Like calls for like.

Suguru isn’t aware of the exact details, but he knows you rejected Satoru.

The boy doesn’t have to tell him. His friend is uncharacteristically quiet during that weekend. He has no interest in the arcade, or the next basketball tournament his team is going to compete in. Satoru just sits on top of Suguru’s bed, casually sucking on a carton of chocolate milk. Suguru glanced down at the abandoned PlayStation remote. He’d lost yet another game against his dark-haired friend with no complaints. Satoru didn’t even play

You’d really done a number on him, Suguru thinks to himself. Suguru would assume it’s heartbreak, but he knows his friend better than that. Something burns in his chest, but he’s pushing it away before he can figure out why. Nipping it in the bud. It was a cruel thought. A bad one. He should ignore it.

Well, it’s done. It doesn’t matter anyway. Satoru would eventually get over it. He’s not known to sulk.

He’s not there to see what Satoru tells them, but he’s there to see the effects.

It starts out small. Or perhaps just not noticeable enough. Gojo Satoru has always attracted attention, whether it was satisfactory or not. Lackeys, Satoru often calls them because they're too far beneath him to even be called equals.

Suguru notices their sudden interest in you before even you can. A harsh word here and there. Giggling at the word 'easy'. You peacefully trek on, not noticing the abuse until it turns physical. That starts at the end of Monday.

By Tuesday, they're already shoving you down each chance they get. You get surprised when it happens the first time, then the second, then the third. You have soft skin, plushy, Suguru could tell. He wondered if it was getting marked now. He wonders if you go home, peeling of your uniform, staring at the bruises of hands on your skin because you’re so fragile.

(They never go too far, not enough to completely injure. Suguru knows this because one time, one of the idiots had pushed you too hard. You’d stumbled, nearly hitting the back of your head with a metal locker. Satoru had seen. Suguru doesn’t know what Satoru did, but that particular one was gone the next time and the rest got the memo to scare, not injure.)

Satoru never takes part in this, but he keeps an eye on you sometimes. Tuesday evening comes and they both silently watch you through a window. You move through an empty hall, before they arrive again, slapping your binders out of your hands, chortling with each other. They're too far away to hear, but Suguru could bet it would sound like nails scraping against a chalkboard.

Out of the corner of his eye, Suguru watches his best friend. Satoru looks impassive, face blank as he stares down at your figure. Akin to a child watching ants burning through a magnifying glass, instilled with that innate desire to see them explode into ash.

When the lackeys leave, you bend down on the floor, collecting your stuff. Your hair covers your eyes, so he can't see your expression, but he can see your shoulders tremble. Were you-

A corral of people run to you. They lean down, picking up the stuff you had missed. You look up, your eyes are shiny but you're laughing when they say something. You wipe at your eyes, standing up as they lead you out of the hallway. Suguru had seen them hanging out with you before. They all seemed like they supported each other, supported you.

Suguru feels his frown deepen, conflicted. He doesn’t like it.

"It's not nice to pick on the weak, Satoru," he quietly says.

Satoru's eyes trail your figure out the door. He gives a small hum.

By Wednesday, your friends disappear from your side.

The abuse is getting worse, noticeable to the point where the rest of the student body is heavily avoiding you. Teachers won't raise a finger at what's happening. As much as they like to preach about their 'zero tolerance for bullying', Suguru knows they'll willingly turn a blind eye when matters involve Gojo Satoru. No teacher wants to deal with the wrath the Gojo family is more than willing to unlease for the sake of their heir.

Yet, you aren't getting it. You don't break, don't bend. He can feel the humiliation roll off of you in waves, yet you don't react. Which was strange because he knew your archetype. A people-pleaser, constantly bending over backward for other's sake. You want nothing more than to become part of the crowd again, completely invisible. You’re community-oriented. You thrive off of companionship. This ostracization must be killing you. Suguru doesn't get it until he spots your face, just once, narrowed eyes, anger.

Pride. He'd forgotten other people had that too. Though, Suguru admires it, a part of him knows it shouldn’t last.

Suguru thinks he does it because he pities you. You're a little naive. Suguru has your thought process figured out. You think if you take the torment long enough, Satoru would eventually just forget about you all together. Once he's done with you, you'd focus on picking up the pieces that used to be your life. It's not a bad plan, if you weren't dealing with Gojo Satoru.

The boy is a hurricane. Fast, unrelenting, unforgiving. Satoru won't stop. He won't stop until you're ruined and broken. Turned into a mere asteroid of what you once were.

So, Suguru decides to give you a push in the right direction.

The students have already created a wide circle for you by the time he steps in, bending down, picking up the stuff you had dropped. You're silent until he hands you his pieces. He doesn't bother responding to your timid thanks.

"Give in," he tells you, watching the way your eyes widen as you look up at him.

You're weak. Physically, emotionally. He could easily pick you up with one hand, crush your body with his fist. Satoru could eviscerate your body from existence. You don't stand a chance with him. With either of them.

His advice to you is good. Reasonable. And yet, he sees the face you make, the way you slowly get up. You won’t listen. That same burning feeling in his chest starts. It's gotten more painful.

You don't listen to him until you lose nearly everything. Just as he warned you. Friday comes. You become Satoru's. And it's a little too late for everything.

◉

Suguru doesn't think you ever learn that Satoru loves messing with you.

Or, perhaps you do, but you can't help it. You're too honest, too open. He often wonders if that's how you were raised. To be honest, open, vulnerable. Your parents must have filled your thoughts with delusions, coddling you with words of cheap motivation. The world is your oyster. You just had to reach out and take it.

Maybe now you're finally realizing, sitting on Satoru's lap, that all men aren't created equal.

Clearly, you weren't happy about it. Yet, you aren't complaining, sitting there pliantly legs firmly crossed, hands curled into tiny fists, staring rigidly on the floor. The first few times Satoru had done this in public, you were always biting your lip, tears threatening to fall. Now, Suguru thinks you just dissociate, coming back when Satoru laughs at something, jostling you in his arms.

It's a bit like watching a helpless bird on the ground, twitching and spasming after it had just collided with a glass window. Pitiful, but there was nothing that could be done. It's the inevitability of it all that makes him pity you more than anything else, really.

Every so often, your eyes would catch his. It's a quick glance, as though you were wondering if he was watching. He can barely catch it, but Suguru is observant. Much like you. It's meaningless, and your gaze returns to the floor. Your fists tighten.

Granting you mercy, Suguru stops looking at you during those times.

He's not sure how Satoru sees you. Perhaps, you're akin to a dog for him. Though, that might not be very good for you. Satoru hadn't been very good with animals when he was younger. Satoru had always been rough with any pets he came into contact with, pushing and tugging. Suguru doubted that had changed.

Satoru's is your official title. It isn't a relationship. It's an ownership. Unequal from the start. The one who holds the leash in the end, will always be Satoru.

It took a while for you to fully learn that.

Suguru didn't mean to catch the two of you. Looking back, it was probably because Satoru couldn't care less if someone was watching. Maybe Satoru was being obvious on purpose. It was a little while after school had officially ended. Suguru knew your usual routine would place you right at the library, scrolling through books. Satoru would most likely be there too, pestering you about this and that. It's the scene Suguru prepares himself to walk into.

Instead, you're wedged in between the white-haired boy and the wall, there's no space for you to do anything but sink. You're already crying (when was the last time you smiled?), trying to pull away but Satoru isn't letting you. He's gripping you by the chin, forcing eye contact. His sunglasses are off, tucked on his collar.

Suguru's close enough to hear. You're begging. Apology after apology. It's barely a whisper, but they're spilling out of you like a prayer. He can't discern the context, but he knows enough.

You made Satoru angry.

He's still smiling, but it isn't sincere. Almost bordering on mania as he tightens his grip on you, forcing you further into the wall. Suguru doesn't think Satoru has ever hit you before, but now he's wondering if quick violence was preferable to this.

"Don't be like that," Satoru chides as another squeak leaves your lips, "Where was that smile you were givin' him, hm? C'mon, pretty girl. You were wearin' it just a second ago."

"It-it wasn't like that, I swear," you continue to plead, still not realizing that it's too late, "he was giving me his notes. Please-please Satoru-"

"Wrong answer," he cuts you off, you flinch at his harshness but Suguru decides Satoru's being nice to you. He's been known to do worse, "we've been over this before, haven't we? Or did your stupid brain forget?"

You're choking down another hiccup. It takes a minute for you to calm down enough to speak clearly. Ever impatient, Satoru's hand digs into your shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Satoru," you say, "it won't happen again."

He tilts his head, waiting. You wilt under his gaze.

"I'm sorry...’Toru."

Satoru gives a satisfied hum, pulling back and Suguru can practically see your lungs sag with relief. His mania is gone, replaced by something much more lighthearted and carefree. Suguru'd seen it before, but it was certainly something watching Satoru go from one high to the next. Even to Suguru, it's terrifying to witness.

Suguru decides to make himself known right then. He comes out of the shadows, acting as though he'd just arrived. His friend lazily gives him a wave, curling an arm around your waist. You try to scrub away your tears with your forearms, unaware of how much Suguru had seen. Another mercy Suguru grants you. He doesn't acknowledge it.

The three of you sit in the library for half an hour until you're done pretending that you're studying. When Satoru walks you home, Suguru follows. He notes that you barely hesitate to give Satoru a chaste kiss on the lips, and he wonders how often his friend has demanded one from you for you to be so casual about it.

He thinks he gets it when he and Satoru are walking on the street without you. To Satoru, you aren't a dog. You aren't a pet, something that he keeps to see bark.

No, you are just Satoru's.

◉

Towards the end of the year, Suguru realizes that Satoru loves you.

He's nicer to you, now. Suguru doesn't think you've realized how softer Satoru's gotten, but the change is there. He spots less marks on you now. The biggest evidence he has is that stolen moment of you and Satoru. You'd accidentally fallen asleep during lunch break, dozing off on your desk. Satoru was right next to you, gently pushing your hair out of your face. Satoru loves you.

You've changed too. Adapted, he should say. You cry less, now. Each time he sees you, you look more and more put together. As though, you're done mourning. The final stage of grief. Acceptance.

Despite how much nicer Satoru is to you, he's still just as clingy. Suguru notices that even now, none of your former friends speak to you. No one at school does. It's an unspoken rule to not mess with Satoru's things.

Suguru can still remember the last guy who hadn't gotten the memo. A new student. Freshly transferred. Suguru had heard the conversation. The guy was hardly interested in you. It was nothing more than small talk. The pat on your shoulder had been thoughtless at least, friendly at most.

Satoru beat him until the boy was bloody and had a broken nose. A week later, he'd transferred again.

You're off limits. To everyone but Suguru.

The Earth is the only planet capable of sustaining life within this cold solar system. It's close enough to the sun to feel the warmth, yet far enough so it doesn't burn. It's strong, too. A powerful magnetic forcefield, capable of shutting down the sun's cosmic radiation. Thus, the Earth spins happily around the Sun, surrounded by a sea of dead planets.

So, sometimes when Satoru can't walk you home. Suguru does.

It was just the beginning of spring. The school year was starting to end. The school itself was starting to slow down. Teachers were getting less and less strict, less work was given out. It didn't matter. Colleges had already been picked. They were all close to the end.

You don't say much when the two of you are alone. Suguru understands. It's hard to say much of anything when you're crushed by the weight of Gojo Satoru. But Suguru could have sworn he'd seen a flicker of relief when he came to pick you up and not his friend. You're clearly happier when it's him. Suguru decides he likes how that feels. It's a quick feeling of superiority. Something that quickly disappears when your eyes flick down.

He knows where your house is, but he lets you take the lead anyway. Suguru figures it's the least he can do, give you that sense of control when nothing you do ever really does anymore.

You and him have forged a shaky companionship. He's not sure what he is to you entirely, but you seem reliant on him in some way. it’s his fault, he thinks. He wonders if it has to do with the contraception he'd given you. He can still remember the trembling hands as you took it from him, curling the packet into your grip. That day he went home and his fingers felt strangely itchy.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

When he asks you a question, you answer. At least you aren't mute, though Suguru doesn't think he'd blame you if you ignored him. Your voice is stilted, with enough words to answer the question, but still not enough to fully sate him.

And then, you break.

Just a bit.

A tiny piece of you shatters, and you show yourself to him.

He'd been talking about something insignificant, college, his plans. Just ramblings. Somehow, Satoru comes into the conversation and he's talking about the area of his friend's college campus, how Satoru mentioned that he's looking for apartments for the two of you to stay in. And then, you're uncharacteristically scoffing.

"Right," you say, head faced down on the sidewalk as you kick a rock, "because I'm following him there."

Suguru can't help but place the sarcasm in your voice. The bitterness. He's heard it before, but it's a fascinating thing hearing it come from you. And then Suguru realizes that you accidentally gave something away.

You were leaving.

Somehow, it never crossed Suguru's mind that you were still rebelling, even now. And yet, he can't shake off the heat in your voice, your words.

You seem to realize this too, freezing.

He lets you falter for a few more moments before giving you a reprieve.

"Satoru's idealistic like that," he let out.

Your shoulders lower, and for the sake of both you and him, he doesn't press any further.

He doesn't let himself let it go, even when he drops you home, arriving to his own house. Always cold. The mansion's lights are always off. No one's ever home. And Satoru's out of town.

It's better this way, Suguru thinks as he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. No distractions, he can think better, as he replays your words over and over again. You were leaving. You were leaving. You were leaving Satoru.

The night passes. When Satoru comes back to town, he's joyful as always, an arm slung around your shoulders. Suguru watches the way he coos at you, saying how much he missed you. You take his affections the way you always do, with a strained smile and wavering eyes.

You glance at Suguru. Suguru stares right back.

For a moment, Suguru thinks he understands why people are so enthralled with solar eclipses. The moon is seen as an underdog in most instances. It must be thrilling when a weak satellite can cover the sun's rays. Even for just a little bit.

Suguru doesn't tell Satoru. He pushes the burning in his chest, ignoring the itchiness in his fingers. Things are better this way, right? After all, the two of you come from completely different worlds. It's nonsensical to think otherwise.

Two weeks before graduation, you disappear without a trace.

And Satoru breaks.

It's a slow dissent. It comes in stages. The boy is angry at first, searching for you at school, when he can't find you there he loses his facade and demands where you are from your parents. They can't give him a clear answer because you're an adult now and you barely told them a thing before moving out. Suguru doesn’t think they knew what Satoru was to you. He doesn’t think they ever will.

The heat fades day by day, Week by week. Satoru starts to deflate the longer you aren't in his hold, his to mangle, and grab, and keep. He stops taking care of himself. His skin became paler, cracked lips, hollow cheeks. His eyes turn into this grayish blue that Suguru can't bring himself to look at for too long. He loses weight day by day.

Suguru had never seen him react this way before. Satoru was always shining. He was the sun. Now, the center of the solar system was dying. He can feel himself dying with it.

Satoru hadn't just loved you. Satoru had been obsessed with you. He breathed you in, inhaled your essence like oxygen. You'd been a part of him; a necessity. And then, you tore yourself away, leaving him bleeding on the concrete.

Guilt. Suguru feels it in his stomach, rising to his throat, threatening to stain his clothes. It's too late to say anything now, so he keeps it huddled deep inside of him. Suguru hopes it'll never come out. He helps the best he can, being there for his friend, his best friend.

It takes a month for Satoru to start eating properly again. A few months later he starts regaining his usual physique. The gray in his eyes stays for a bit longer than Suguru likes. Suguru supposes he should take what he can get.

A year passes like that. The evidence of what you left behind fades, like bruises disappearing on skin. Suguru and Satoru become college students. Then, they graduate.

When Satoru joins the business, Suguru, his right-hand man, his second, his best friend, is right next to him. They’ve always worked well together, but that doesn’t change as they shift into adulthood. Despite how different Suguru and Satoru were, Suguru liked to think that their personalities were stagnant; unchanging even to the times.

What Satoru feels about you remains stagnant as well.

Suguru doesn’t think about you often, these days. Barely a few times a year, when he feels nostalgic enough to get out his old high school yearbook. He’d page through, spot your smiling portrait face. He’d find himself staring at you far longer than he liked too.

At first, Suguru thought Satoru was the same. Much like how one thinks about a lost toy they cherished when they were younger. The resentment would fade with time. Satoru didn’t speak about you for years.

Suguru hadn’t expected the girls, however.

He doesn’t notice the first one. He sees her, but he doesn’t internalize it. She’s hurriedly putting on her clothes after a clearly exciting night, so Suguru respectfully averts his gaze. He’s more focused on his exasperation at how Satoru had missed yet another meeting with the board. They would be less than pleased if they discovered Satoru didn’t show up because he was hungover.

The second time it happens, Suguru has a passing thought of how familiar the girl looked, despite being sure he’d never seen her in his life.

The third time it happens, Suguru realizes all the recent girls Satoru’s been bringing strike an uncanny resemblance towards you.

It’s not anything too obvious, but all of them would look a bit like you. Most would have your skin tone, your hair. One had your eyes, not the color, rather the shape of it. Satoru had kept her around the longest.

Suguru doesn’t say anything about it. Part of him wonders if Satoru is even doing it on purpose.

Suguru loves Satoru like he would his own brother, but his recent hobby was starting to get on his nerves a bit.

“So much work,” the man complains, “Why can’t we just send all this off to Ijichi?”

“He has his own work to complete,” Suguru reprimands, “the sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we can finish.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but moves to another page of meaningless paperwork; Something that would be scanned into their system and then tucked away into a random file cabinet. They currently sat in Satoru’s grand kitchen, lounging on the barstools after Suguru had pounded Satoru’s door in. Satoru had let him in with an irritated look, complaining that it was the weekend and he had ‘stuff’ to do.

“He’s my assistant,” Satoru retorts, “my work is his work.”

“The reason why we’re in this mess in the first place is because you kept pawning off your job to the poor man in the first place. You’ve given him wrinkles from just the stress of being in your vicinity.”

“That’s insulting,” Satoru counters, “my presence is nothing but calming.”

“You do the exact opposite, actually. A black hole that sucks the soul out of everyone who hangs around you.”

“You hang around me all the time and you don’t have wrinkles.”

Suguru smiles. “It’s because I don’t respect you enough to listen to anything you’re saying.”

Satoru’s about to respond, when another voice interrupts him. Alluring, feminine.

“Satoru,” she coos, “When are you getting back here?”

From his seat, Suguru has a clear view of Satoru’s bedroom. Only her head is peeked out, and Suguru notes her bare shoulders. Your eyes, and your lips this time. She’s tilting her head, mouth curved in a coy smile.

Of course. Suguru can only roll his eyes. There’s that same burning feeling in his chest. During the years, it hasn’t really gotten any better.

“Coming, coming,” Satoru calls back, “just a minute, babe.”

“Stuff to do, hm?” Suguru drawls with amusement. Satoru flips him off.

"Worry 'bout yourself," Satoru says, "when's the last time you got any, huh? Honestly, when's the last time you've taken a break? A vacation?"

"I can't," Suguru replies, "I'm always stuck babysitting you."

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour, ‘Toru." The woman interrupts. "Can’t you just do it later?”

Suguru hadn’t even noticed it. He brushed it off, barely hearing their conversation as he shuffled around the papers.

Satoru had.

He hums. Straightening his back.

“Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. You should head on home.”

At first, he thought Satoru was talking to him. Then, he hears the woman’s annoyed huff.

“Hold on, you’re kicking me out?” She asks.

“Yeah, sorry,” Satoru says, not sounding very apologetic, “I got a lotta’ stuff to do and you’re not gonna wanna stick around.”

His tone is light, but Suguru can’t help but place a sense of annoyance in them. The anger. His posture is stiff, almost like he’s primed for a fight.

‘Toru. She called him ‘Toru.

You used to call him ‘Toru.

“Seriously, I-”

“I hate repeating myself: Get the fuck out.”

There’s silence, and then Suguru can hear her mutter to herself as she shuffles inside the room. She comes out minutes later, not quite dressed, but presentable. She shoots Satoru a glare, to which he only waves off. The door shuts with a noticable thud.

“Back to work,” Satoru says, “do you feel hot? The AC has been acting up, lately.”

He carries on like that, back to normal, as though he wasn’t about to snap just a few minutes ago. Suguru follows suit, not aknowledging the outburst, much like he doesn’t aknowledge most things regarding you.

Later, Suguru laughs about the hypocrisy of it all. Satoru brings home physical reminders of you, but he refuses the remnants of you. The most intimate parts, he’d kept hidden away from his life, yet he still wishes to touch, to feel. He wonders how you’d feel if you knew that Gojo Satoru is wrapped around your finger, even now.

◉

Satoru had done something yet again. It's always something with Gojo Satoru. Suguru should have left him to deal with the legal team himself, but here he was, trailing beside the firm’s directors as the man droned on and on how well Mr.Gojo would be well taken care of how here our clients are family. He forces himself to push away that feeling in his chest, scorching his throat. He was getting sick of the constant blabbering. He’d glanced away for just a second.

And then he saw you.

You, not some remnant, not some picture, not someone similar. You. He knew it was you. A little older, a little taller. You’d switched the high school uniform for a blouse and a pencil skirt. Suguru stares. He’s tempted to say your name, seek you out, as though you’re old friends-

He reels himself back in.

You disappear through a frosted glass door, completely unaware of his gawking. You hadn’t seen him. Good. The firm’s director didn’t notice his pause, carrying on as though nothing happened. Suguru smiles and laughs at the horrible ice breakers, but he also steals a glance at the name of the door you went through.

Later, Suguru looks up Higuruma Hiromi. A well-established lawyer. Worked at the firm for nearly a decade.

You are his sole paralegal.

Law. He had never considered it for you. Now, he thinks it’s a little fitting. He can’t help it. He looks you up. You have no social media, most likely from a remnant fear, but he finds where you went to college, what your area of study was, where else you’d worked, your life. Questions he’d had for nearly a decade he finally has an answer.

Honestly, Suguru was a little mad it was all so easy.

He can’t see the entire scope of your life, but he knows you were happy after high school, away from Satoru. You seemed happy when he caught that glimpse of you. There was a slight smile on your face, you never did that with Satoru around.

Satoru’s a little pathetic, a thought he has to concede to. He’s still hung over you, while you clearly hadn’t thought of him in years.

Suguru stares at your picture a little more.

The burning feeling comes back again. Hotter, melting.

Oh.

Suguru is disgusted by you.

You, that bitch loitering in Satoru’s bedroom, that greedy firm director. Disgust, that sick feeling crawling down his stomach, seeping into his bones. He’s disgusted by the weak.

He’s even more disgusted when they think they can defeat the strong. Decieve them.

You always thought you were better than Satoru, better than Suguru, even from the beginning. Even when you rejected him. Even when Satoru’s goons were torturing you, you still thought you could get out of it somehow. Even when Satoru had his hand on your shoulder, claws sinking into your flesh, you were still looking for a way out. It was like watching a rat trapped in a cage, pathetically sniffing around for an exit.

The weak could never escape the whims of the strong. It was a truth of the world, something he’d always known and yet it’d take a decade for him to put the words together. The weak could never make a fool of the strong.

You are weak. A mere satellite floating along, before getting trapped in the Earth’s gravitational force. Suguru could crush you with one fist. Satoru could evisirate you to atoms.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

“I’ve put together a legal team that will represent you.”

Suguru places the neat stack of documents onto Satoru’s desk. The white-haired man barely gives them a glance. Suguru knows Satoru won’t ever look at them, even when your name is hidden somewhere within the sheets, along with Higuruma’s. Suguru wonders how long it’d take for Satoru to figure it out. It’s a shame he won’t be there to see it unfold in real-time, but perhaps, once Satoru puts the pieces together, he’ll thank him.

Here, in the present, Satoru types away at his computer, barely paying attention to Suguru’s words.

“Oh, great,” Satoru says off handedly, “thanks, man.”

Suguru sighs.

“Uh, I love you?” Satoru tries again.

“Never repeat those words to me ever again,” Suguru responds, “I wish you’d be a bit more interested in this, considering it’s your fault the company is in this mess in the first place.”

Satoru gives a hushed hum of agreement. Suguru smiles.

“In other news: I won’t be here next week.”

That catches his best friend’s attention. Satoru gapes at him.

“You’re quitting?”

“No, idiot. I’m taking your advice. I’m taking a few weeks off. I already put it in the calendar that you never check so why did I even bother.”

“A vacation? You never take vacations, even when I beg you to,” Satoru squints at him, “What’s the occasion?”

Eventually, Satoru will figure it out. For now, Suguru wants to enjoy this.

“I worked hard this year. I should reward myself, shouldn’t I?” He reasons, “oh, and I have a surprise for you showing up in a week or so. Let me know what you think of it.”

“A gift? For me?” Satoru beams. “You really do love me.”

“Don’t push it.”

If Satoru was the Sun, then Suguru supposed he would be the Earth. Close enough to receive the star's radiance, but with a strong enough magnetitic field to shield from solar winds.

If Suguru was the Earth, then Suguru supposed you would be the Moon. A tiny cratered satellite he tugs along with him, forever in sight of the burning sun.

2K notes · View notes

hime-k0 · 1 year ago

Text

In His Divine Gaze

Gojo Satoru x Reader

Can also be read here on AO3

Word Count: 20K

Synopsis- Following the traditions of your village, you become a Shrine Maiden. However, unlike most, you meet your shrine's God.

Content Tags: AFAB reader descriptions, Smut, penis in vagina sex, vaginal penetration, attempted assault (mahito is a creep)

Whether we like it or not, life tends to follow tradition. Old and dusty rituals followed by people to cling to the past. It ties people to their heritage, to their families. It has explanations for the unexplainable and gives a face to old superstitions. Tradition crossed time, mixing the past with the present, often in tiresome ways.

Your village had a rather odd tradition once someone reached the age of 18. Called the ‘Path of Three’ it was a replacement for a birthday celebration for the new adults. Dragged out in the middle of the town, the idea was to choose your path in life. With the celebration you could marry, become a trader or go work for the village shrine.

In almost all cases, young individuals chose to marry and live in the village. It was the easiest choice for most, guaranteeing them housing and in most cases a blessing from the village elders. Marrying was the choice that guaranteed safety and a full belly most nights. Despite being behind the times, the village had plenty to go around. And besides, propagation in a dying village was needed and highly encouraged. Each year another elder passed and the village numbers dwindled further. The eldest of the village clung to the shreds of the past, refusing to admit that with each year, the end of the village drew nearer.

Second choice was becoming a trader. That path meant a chance at leaving the old woods, of adventuring across the country. It carried with it whispers of riches, good food and escape from under the thumb of the elders. Being so sheltered within the pines however, made it a less popular path. The youth of the village tended to be wary of adventuring beyond the deep woods.

The final choice, the shrine meant servitude to the old gods. It was rarely picked, the choice meaning nothing but a life of celibacy and working yourself to the bone. It didn’t help that the shrine was led by the oldest and nastiest woman in the village. Because of this most avoided it like the plague. Your mother had once described it as a nest of disease, the quiet comment earning her the ire of the village elders. They would never admit it, but the shrine was like the rest of the village, becoming forgotten by the new world.

In your case you chose the shrine. Marrying wasn't something you had wanted. Not when the only eligible partner was 17 years older than you and had a penchant for being drunk. He had dropped heavy hints in the months leading up to your birthday, clumsily pawing at you as if you were livestock. No matter where you went, he was there, stinking and laughing. Your parents had encouraged him, their hints at wanting grandchildren much heavier handed. Gifts meant for fertility had greeted you a whole month before your 18th birthday, followed by the wide smiles of your parents. The thought alone made you want to vomit but you persisted. Ignoring him and them to the best of your ability.

When it was finally your birthday, the look on his face when you made your choice had been enough to make up for his disgusting behavior. A shrine maiden made sense for you. Being a wife held no interest. Not when it meant having as many babies as you could and spending your days gossiping with the other tired women of your village. Being a trader meant long periods of time away from the village. Much like the rest of the village, you liked the deep pines you lived in. They offered quiet and solitude that the rest of the world seemed adamant on moving away from.

So you chose the shrine much to your parents dismay.

Like most modern villages, old gods and their shrines were starting to become mere whispers. As the new age seeped across the land, the strings of tradition were starting to fray. Superstitions and reverence were fading to stories that were told to scare children and nothing more. Some villages had even had the arrogance to tear down old shrines. To rid themselves of the past in favor of the cold stone and metal of the future.

Because of this, the elders of your village approved of your choice heartly. It had earned you a bundle of fabric, a sack of rice and a small kitten. Gifts were not typically given to a new shrine keeper. But seeing as you were the second person in almost 19 years to do so, the village elders were ecstatic. They needed more people to keep tradition alive, especially since the old shrine keeper was getting up there in years.

So you left the warm and bustling village and found yourself in the woods that surround it. Your farewells had been bittersweet, your parents whispering that you could always change your mind. You didn’t however, heart thrumming slightly at the thought of finally being away from the watchful eyes of the village. Being alone in the woods sounded like a godsend.

So, kitten tucked in the front of your kimono and a cloth bag of your possessions on your back, you made the trek into the deep pines. Just over a day's walk from the village, the old shrine was nestled in a thick grove of pine. The stone and wood of its walls were decaying. Here in the deep woods, nature was adamant about overtaking everything. Deep emerald moss and prickly vines twisted over the hunched form of the shrine. Almost as if the forest were halfway through swallowing the old structure, it became impossible at some points to see where the shrine ended and the forest began. Wood shavings and bits of stone littered the mossy steps up to it, the building seeming to shed like an old dog. You carefully skirted around the larger chunks, knowing that if you tripped and broke anything, no one would be able to rescue you.

The once vibrant red paint of the shrine was peeling in thick chunks from the worn wood. Spread about the lush forest ground like strang blood flecks. There was something eerie about the building. Even the foundation was crumbling, cracks like spiderwebs spreading from stone to stone. Though you admittedly were not quite religious and weren’t sure how much you believed in the old gods, something about this building seemed alive. As if an unseen being sat at its middle, peeking over the crumbling walls at you with many eyes.

The shrine keeper, Ama, was much like the building. Hunched in her old age, her rough skin and dark eyes drew a picture of one who had been alive for centuries. Ama, of course, was only 83, a near miracle in the village. The old woman did not see it as such, living this long was a curse to her. She was old, unkind and foul tempered.

On your first day she had tried to send you back to the village, snapping that the youth like you just wanted to dilly dally in the forest like pigs. Though you towered over her, Ama scared you. She had a fierceness in her gaze that matched the unsettling aura of the shrine. You had stumbled over your words, sputtering like a fish as she glared. Her boney fists had been like knives in your hips as she pushed you from the shrine. And you had let her, eyes wide and mouth agape as she slammed the shrine doors behind you.

That night you had slept in the shrine steps, shivering and sneezing as the night winds ripped through the trees. In the dark, under a moonless sky, the pines weren’t as comforting as they were in the sun. And yet, you didn’t feel too afraid. Having the oddly watchful shrine at your back felt somewhat reassuring. And blessedly the kitten you had been given had remained on your chest, the little orange creature purring away through the night. He sat tucked in your kimono, brown eyes half closed in that sweet way cats did when sleepy and content. You decided that night to name him Yuji. The name was fitting. He was only a few months old and already had been more helpful than anyone else in your life.

Ama had let you stay after that, grumbling about having wasted enough energy to deter you. Under the morning sun you had given her a stiff smile, trying to ignore the fact that you could feel all of your bones from sleeping on stone. The old woman had given you a brief look of respect before covering it with her bristling glare. She was quick to thrust a broom in your hands, commenting that at least you had the decency to bring a shrine cat with you.

And so you had begun your days as a Shrine Maiden.

Other than her, the only other shrine worker was a man named Mahito. He was in his 30s and had picked the shrine as his place of work even before the age of 18. Being an orphan and having no home he had been left with little choice. Much like with the stray dogs that made their way in, the village had discarded him as soon as they were able.

Mahito was quiet and unsettling. He reminded you of stories of yokai for some reason, his gaze odd and piercing. Though you tried not to judge one by their appearance, there was something about his lank graying hair and scarred face that made your stomach churn. It was as if he were something pretending to be a man, his skin sitting strangely upon his bones. His voice didn’t help either, the man’s words seemed to twist like snakes. The air around him felt tainted by just a single word. You tried your best to avoid him as you carried out the various tasks Ama set for you each day. It was easy enough given that his daily tasks seem to pertain to the basement and inner courtyard. You happily avoided both and the bugs that seemed to thrive there. The few moments in which you had to interact with him were short enough that you were able to power through them with a forced smile. If he was aware of his effect on you, Mahito, thankfully gave no indication.

And time passed like this. One year became two, then 6 and you were still running about the shrine and its grounds, following Ama's raspy bark as she pointed to this and that. Over time you grew stronger, the coldness of winters and the sweltering summers having little effect with each year. It was a quiet life with just the three of you. Incredibly different from the village where everyone seemed to know what everyone else was doing.

The village life didn’t entirely leave you however. Despite liking being alone, you often found yourself trailing Ama on her daily rounds, not wanting to be caught alone by Mahito. The old woman seemed not to mind, happily giving you small tasks on the upkeep of the shrine.

Despite time’s instance of wearing the building down Ama kept it as clean and tidy as she could. The forest and the elements made the task difficult. It seemed nearly everyday there was some new part of the woods pushing its way past the old stone.

You assisted Ama silently, never complaining about any duties she gave you. Some days it was finding and tossing all the spiders in the shrine, others it was tying new talismans on the outer Tori gate. Ama would never admit it, but your silent acceptance seemed to please her.

Each morning she waited in the inner courtyard to bark the morning’s orders. In your 5th year she began following you about, glaring at your work. Ama offered no praise and no help. But you were quick to learn that didn’t mean she was unhappy.

In your 6th year some mornings Ama would give you nothing to do, simply asking you to watch the shrine as she took a walk. You spent those days on the front stairs with Yuji, sewing and waiting for Ama to reemerge from the deep pines. She never said where her walks took her, but she always appeared happy afterwards. Just for a moment, when she stepped from the trees to the stone, you caught a glimpse of the woman she once was. She would stand tall, a small smile upon her face and then she would step from beneath the last pine and once more she was a hunched and twisted old woman.

With these walks, the wall between you and Ama seemed to have lessened. The old shrine keeper slowly let you into her world. Her anger you learned was due to the villagers. Less offerings were being sent to the god. And no one showed up to the prayer ceremonies. Each ceremony she preferred, each ritual of offerings she held, Ama seemed angrier and older. Her chapped lips would offer curses to the village after each prayer. It was a sad sight that seemed to worsen through time.

You sat through all of them, offering your silent servitude to a nameless god. Despite your best efforts to pry, Ama didn’t produce a name for the god. And as time flew by, you began to think that the God was perhaps lost to time.

It wasn’t uncommon. As the new age filtered in, stories of gods abandoning their shrines grew in numbers. They went where the prayers were and here in the deep pines, only 2 offered prayer to the nameless god. You had noticed that Mahito never attended, the pale man always skulking away when Ama made her pre ceremony preparations.

As the years passed, Ama grew weaker. Her odd little walks took more and more time and you grew worried she was going to get lost in the deep pines. But she always returned and you kept your worries silent. You were curious of course, what could be so important in the woods that Ama would risk a fall over twisted roots to go each week?

But one glare from her wrinkled face was enough to wither the question in your throat. You pretended to not care, to not count the minutes until she returned.

Yuji had grown to be a big cat, spending his days napping in the sun on the shrine’s roof and following you about during your daily chores. He sat with Ama each morning, waiting for you to enter the main hall. Yuji was a funny cat, watching Ama bark her daily orders at you before following you to whichever end of the shrine you had been sent to. You appreciated his company and his funny little expressions. Life in the shrine was simple and yet complete. Not once did you think of returning to the village. Here your heart was fulfilled.

Then one day in the fall, Ama was not waiting in the main hall when you awoke. Waiting for a few moments you took note that Yuji was not in his usual spot either. You thought to ask Mahito, but his face in your mind made your anxiety deepen. You stood for a time, ignoring the chill wind as it ripped through your kimono. Worry took hold and you had made your way to her room, wincing at the heavy incense smell that seeped from it. Prayer incense, the ones she only used when offering words for the dead. You paused before the door, unsure if you should enter. Ama, despite opening up to you, was still incredibly private. Her room was the only spot in the shrine you had not yet seen. But despite your apprehension at being scolded, your anxiety at her wellbeing was stronger. The scent had your heart in your throat as you quietly entered her room, shutting the door behind you quietly.

"I knew it would be you " She rasped from her bed, the many blankets seeming to do nothing for her shivering. "Mahito is not to be trusted "

Ama looked withered, so small under the futon that you almost couldn’t believe it was her. At her side was Yuji, the big cat looking like a small tiger by her side. The old woman’s glare held no sharpness, her eyes half lidded as she stared. Sweat clung to her face and hair, shining strangely under the flickering candle light.

“I am not dead yet.” She rasped, brow furrowing further as she tried to level a glare at you. You had merely nodded at her words, fetching fresh water for her to drink. The old woman had become decrepit in the past few years. Her hands and back twisted by age to the point that she looked almost like a tree. Ama had allowed you to help her drink before swatting away your attempts to feed her a thin broth. Her fingers, you noted, seemed stuck, clawed like birds feet.

"You must carry out my duty now." She had pointed with one shaking hand at a small jade box. It sat, half hidden in the sleeve of a kimono. As if Ama had been halfway through stashing it away.

You opened it, finding a map. The paper was ancient, creased over a dozen times and torn around the edges. You held it carefully, squinting in the low light at the faint ink. The map detailed the main shrine and a smaller, hidden shrine in the woods. Just far enough from the main shrine that it couldn’t be seen even from the highest vantage point. It wasn't one you had ever heard her talk about before and you had thrown her a puzzled look. Ama had huffed, then coughed violently as she glared at you.

"Go to the tree burnt by lightning and stay there. When the bell rings follow the rope to the oldest tree. Then wait, with your eyes on the ground."

You knew better than to talk when Ama was, instead throwing her another questioning glance. Ama had paused for another coughing fit, allowing you to help her take another sip of water.

"The god of our forest is old and blind. He will not harm you."

Her words had you frozen, brow furrowing as you waited for further explanation. Ama gave none, merely stating that you were to follow a small stone path to a bathing pool. The god would put his hand on your shoulder for guidance. Again Ama expressed he was blind and that you must be slow and steady when walking.

“If he falls, you must NOT look at him. Help him up without using your sight.”

She added that once at the pool you were to shut your eyes and stand there, to wait for his hand on your shoulder again before making your way back to the first tree. You were to repeat this once a month, more if the god called on you.

“How will I know he’s calling for me?” It was the first question you dared to ask. Ama seemed to approve, coughing lightly into one crooked hand.

“You just will. You are his new keeper.” The sentence was tinged with sadness, Ama’s eyes glittering slightly in the dim light as tears welled in her old eyes. She did not cry however, the old woman turned her head from you and buried her face in Yuji’s side.

And with that, the conversation was over. You stuck the map in your kimono, bowing once to Ama before standing.

“Keep her safe.” You nodded at Yuji who let out a small meow in response. It wasn’t bandits or thieves you were worried about. No, leaving Ama alone with just Mahito seemed like a mistake. But Yuji disliked him as much as you and you knew the cat would do what it could to keep Ama safe. You just hoped it didn’t come to that.

That afternoon you paced outside of Ama’s room for a time. What she had shared was huge, but part of you couldn’t help but wonder if it was the dream of an old woman. A story she had clung to and now was passing to you.

Just once couldn’t hurt, you decided. One trip to this hidden area of the shrine just to see. And so you made the hour trek to the hidden shrine. The story explained the days Ama was gone for hours on end. You and Mahito had never asked her why she disappeared so much but now you knew she would have never told either of you.

Ama was dying. That was the only reason she had seen fit to tell you. In your heart you knew it to be true. But it saddened you. The old woman was snappish and callous. But she had given you a home for the past 6 years.

The walk to the tree struck by lightning was difficult. Though you were much younger than Ama, the twisted roots seemed to grab at your feet. More than once you tripped and fell, hands and knees scrapping painfully against the forest floor. How had Ama made it through this by herself? The woman couldn’t even stand up straight, much less fully lift her legs anymore. It was a miracle she hadn’t broken anything on her weekly trek. You were quick to discard your sandals, the shoes more of a hindrance than anything else. It left the mud seeping through your socks, cold and unpleasant. But you could walk easier, so you grit your teeth and pressed on.

After struggling through the pines, you finally made it to a clearing. It had you pause, the sight somehow more terrifying than anything you had ever seen.

A lone tree stood next to the burnt husk of a small shrine. Around them in a perfect circle was 12 feet of ashen ground. It was as if there was a perfectly controlled burn that ignited only there. The pines around the area stood tall and untouched. Massive wardens to this odd patch of forest. It was silent in this part of the woods. Unnaturally so. No birds whistled, not even the whisper of pine needles met your ears.

You held your breath as you walked to the tree, half expecting the ground to erupt with flames as you crossed. Only the crunch of ash beneath your feet greeted you, the sound unsettling. Your socks left muddy prints across the ash and you grimaced at how covered your feet had become. There was no saving these socks and if you tripped again, your kimono was sure to find a similar fate.

The burnt tree smelled. It was faint, only apparent when you were right next to the crumbling bark. It was acrid and dusty, the smell making the inside of your nose tickle. It was also a tad sweet, like spun sugar. You ignored the anxiety that churned in your stomach, determined to at least humor Ama. The ash on your socks was at least proof you could show her you came here. Even if it had been a waste of time.

As promised a rope was tied around the burnt tree. It was a thick, bright red cord that was tied almost delicately against the black wood. Unlike everything else it was incredibly clean. The bright red gleaming in stark contrast to the drab woods around it. Unlike the shimenawa at the shrine, this rope seemed rather expensive. You studied it, searching for a talisman or the mysterious bell Ama had mentioned. The crimson twist of silk contained neither however.

You frowned as you ran a hand against the silken rope. Ama had asked that you wait until you heard a bell. Glancing at the husk of the shrine, you noted no bell there either. Had it been lost? Fallen somewhere?

You chewed your bottom lip, hand steady against the rope as you thought. 10 minutes. You would give it 10 minutes and then walk back to the shrine. It had already been well over an hour as is to get here and you worried about leaving Ama alone. Mahito was there, the man a silent threat in your mind. While he had never done anything, his presence alone was like a thorn in your side. You weren’t superstitious, but you trusted your gut feelings. They had been right about the suitor in the village, they were right in this situation.

Gods what an idiot. You let out a huff of air. Only an idiot would leave a cat to protect someone. Maybe thats why Ama sent you on this goose chase. This was no doubt a lesson in being less naive. Certainly less cruel than you knew she could have been and for that you were grateful. Still, it didn’t make you feel any less stupid and you dreaded the lecture you knew was awaiting you back at the shrine.

A bell rang, the noise cutting through the silence like a knife. You flinched, eyes wide as you spun about, searching for the source. There was none, the sound again ringing out, seemingly from thin air. It was high and soft, a noise you might’ve found comforting had it not been in the middle of the pines.

Swallowing thickly, you dropped your gaze and took a step. Slowly, but surely, you followed the rope by feeling alone. The silk slid under your right hand smoothly, never catching on your palm. You weren’t sure how long you walked for, the light in this part of the woods was shielded by the trees. Had evening begun to set? You weren’t sure, your eyes locked firmly on your own feet as you walked. From the ashen ground, you stepped into the mossy mud of the pines. Again your feet became wet and you made a mental note that next time you should bring the damn sandals.

If there was a next time. A small part of you felt trapped, like a rabbit being led to a cage. Surely Ama wouldn’t have sent you to your death. Right?

Finally your hand hit the end of the rope. A smooth knot met your thumb, quickly followed by rough wood. You had made it to the other tree and the stone path. Right at your toe tips was the mossy stone, nearly swallowed by the forest floor. The bright moss stood in contrast with you muddied and ash dusted feet. Wiggling your toes, you wondered how far the path was to the bath, how long you would have to wait. You stood, chest tight as your mind buzzed. Perhaps you had imagined the bell? But it had been so clear, so loud. You smoothed your hand over the front of your kimono, dusting off a few errant pieces of ash.

Ama had been right about the bell, perhaps it wasn’t imagined and she was right about the old God?

You waited with baited breath, fighting the urge to look around you. Ama hadn't stated what would happen if you looked, but her warning had been clear. You must not look at the old God.

Beneath your hand, the tree you leaned against felt cool. The chill seeped into your skin, a dull ache radiating into your fingers as you stood still and listened.

The silence in the woods was deafening now. It made your heart race, body tensed as if ready to run at a moment's notice. You were terrified. Ama had never said which God lived in these woods. But the past few years she had asked him to curse so many of the villagers. Her old age had twisted not just her bones but her soul as well. You had heard the muttered prayers, the floods and fires she had wished for. Your throat felt dry, vision blurring slightly at the edges as you stared at your feet.

Maybe it needed a sacrifice before it would humor the old woman?

A warm hand slipped onto your shoulder and you jumped, a small yelp leaving your lips. You almost looked up, before fear set in and your gaze snapped to the forest floor again. Tears clung to your lower lashes as your heart thundered in your chest. For a moment all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears and your vision blurred as the hand tightened its grip slightly.

“You’re new.”

The God sounded young, like a man in his early 30s. The sound threw you off, mind reeling as you tried to rationalize the voice. He sounded human and again you were tempted to look.

Internally you battled yourself. To look and NOT to look. To speak and to keep silent. Your mind grappled with the conflicting urges, finally settling on a horrible combination. You gave a jerky nod and a grunt.

He is going to kill me for my rudeness. You could feel the blood leaving your face as the hand shifted slightly. But the God did nothing, a small chuckle making its way to your ears.

“You can speak to me. I don’t bite.”

The sentence was so normal. Casual and teasing. It made your stomach churn and you swiped one shaking hand across your forehead.

“Th-thank you My Lord.” You cringed as you spoke, your voice cracking horribly on the last word. The old God merely hummed, gently squeezing your shoulder.

Taking that as a command, you jerked forward, shakily stepping onto the stone path. The path was thankfully smooth and you walked slowly, each step careful as you tried to set an even pace. You shook violently, each step feeling as though you were fighting your way through water. Heart thundering in your head, you tried to keep the shaking rasp of your breath quiet, terrified that he would take your fear as an insult.

The God was obviously much taller than you, from the corner of your eye you caught a flash of a perfect, pale foot. You were worried however that a faster pace would cause the god to trip. The path, while smooth, was still irregular in places. You found yourself stumbling here and there despite having eyes on the path itself. Ama had indicated he was blind, an odd quality for a divine being, but you would keep him safe. Or die trying.

“Where is Ama?”

The God’s tone was light, but you could feel how his fingers tightened slightly when he spoke her name. You weren’t sure what to say at first, eyes locked on your feet as you carefully moved forward. The words churned in the back of your throat, sticking together until you had a painful lump in your throat. You didn’t want to admit the truth because it scared you. Ama was dying and that would leave the shrine to you. It would leave you alone with Mahito. For the first time in your adult life, you would be without an elder to guide you.

The God cleared his throat, tone teasing as he spoke, “It is rude to leave a god waiting.”

You nodded sharply, fingers playing with the edges of your sleeve as you spoke.

“Ama is dying.”

It was all you could get out. The rest of your fears twisted in your stomach, a ravenous beast chewing at your innards. For a moment you wondered if you would vomit but the feeling passed.

From behind you the God sighed, hand tightening again as he followed you.

The walk was silent, the path before you seeming to stretch on for miles. As you walked the sun barely shifted its position in the sky. Time was passing oddly, much more slowly than your body knew it should be. Perhaps a side effect of being near a divine being. Occasionally you felt the urge to speak, to break the deafening silence. But your fear would quickly wash the impulse away. The divine being was real, warm at your side. Your life quite literally was in the palm of his hand.

You shivered at the realization, again fighting the urge to peek over your shoulder. Even the small glimpses of his foot felt entirely wrong. As if you had committed some unspoken sin. You chewed at the inside of your cheek as you walked, mind flipping back and forth from the God at your shoulder and how fragile Ama had looked before you left.

Finally, after what felt like ages, the path stopped. The smooth stones went right up to the steaming water of the spring. You stopped, hands clasped at your waist and gaze locked on your feet. Ama hadn't really explained what to do at this point. Did he need help undressing? Did he need help bathing?

The God answered your unspoken questions for you, his hand slipping from your shoulder. From behind you, the sound of robes hitting dirt sounded out. You quickly shut your eyes, fingertips digging into the flesh of your palms as you tried to keep your breath steady.

“How many steps to the water?”

The question startled you and you shifted, sliding one eye open and searching until you found the pale foot. Beside it was a shimmering blue kimono, carelessly dropped on the moss and stone. From the foot to the bath was about 2 feet of space. You told the god as such, quickly closing your eyes again as he moved forward.

“You can look you know. I can’t tell either way.”

The god was teasing as he slipped into the water. But you frowned at his words.

“If you can’t tell either way then how do you know i haven’t been looking.”

The darkness behind your eyelids was strangely complete despite the sunlight filtering down from between the trees. You could hear water splashing and the God chuckling under his breath.

“Ama told you not to look right?”

Your brows furrowed and you resisted the urge to peek at him. For some reason you pictured a twisting smirk sitting on the god’s face. The man chuckled and you shifted uncomfortably.

“I bet she told you I'm old as well.”

That had you slowly opening your eyes, narrowed gaze slowly moving to the edge of the pool. He was right, Ama had called him old. But the foot you had seen was too youthful. Curiosity finally overpowered you, swelling until you could no longer ignore it.

You slid your gaze up and froze as you locked eyes with the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Water clung to his pale skin like translucent pearls, they glittered in his snowy hair and on his lashes like fragments of stars. Your breath hitched as met his gaze, feeling as if the god could see your very soul. His eyes were a brilliant blue, glittering like the sun on a bluejay’s wing. You had never seen anyone with such vibrantly colored eyes before.

A trader had once brought a shard of brilliant blue stone to the village. Aquamarine he had called it, chest puffed as he had described the difficulty he had obtaining it.

The God’s eyes looked as if they were cast in from that stone. So brilliant and bright that for a moment, you found yourself lost. And then he shifted and your slight trance was broken. Fear slithered into your heart and you tensed, half expecting for him to smite you where you stood.

“Do I still look handsome?” He asked in a teasing tone, one pale hand scooping water over his tousled hair. You licked your lips, throat feeling oddly dry as you fumbled for words.

“Um. Yes. You are truly beautiful.”

You flushed as you admitted it, internally cringing at your words. Surely that was some sort of blasphemy. You had ogled the man at his request, but what if it was a test. Ama had been so clear in you not looking and you had broken the rule almost immediately.

He rest his arms on the edge of the steaming pool, his gaze set slightly above your right shoulder. You tilted your head, quietly picking up one arm and waving it. He didn’t react, instead dunking his head beneath the water. For a moment you were flooded with shame for questioning the validity of his blindness. But Ama had been wrong about his age. You watched the surface of the water, picking at your thumb nail. Did she know? Or had she simply been following the rules of the shrine keeper before her?

You waited, watching nervously from the stone path as his shadow sunk deeper in the water. The steam blurred your vision slightly, warm tendrils brushing against your skin like a ghost

If he was blind how would he know which way was up? It felt like a stupid question but after a few moments had passed, your worry grew. Could a god drown?

You didn’t think so but you also didn’t think any would look so human. It was unsettling how human he looked. And yet there was that hint of otherworldly quality. As if someone had taken the purest snow from the tallest mountain peak and sculpted it into the shape of a man.

Another moment passed and you flinched a crow called out overhead. It snapped you out of the odd poetic reverie you had been in. Kneeling, you leaned over the water, trying to swallow the rising panic that was blooming in your chest.

The steam from the pool felt nice against your skin, the warmth welcome in the chill of the day. You couldn’t see him, the water was an odd greenish blue. The color was unnatural and too intense for you to see anything past shadows in the water.

Should I swim after him?

The color of the water was incredibly off putting, but if you let your local god drown, that was an ultimate sin wasn’t it?

“Worried?” He emerged from the water with a devious grin, wrapping one hand around your wrist. You let out a shriek in response, resisting the urge to smack him on the shoulder.

“You-you.” You began to sputter, mind fighting itself. On one hand you wanted to tell this divine being he was an idiot. On the other hand, you were terrified that at any moment, he would punish you for your impudence.

“Satoru.” He let your wrist go, sinking back into the water to his chin. His skin was flushed slightly, the heat giving him a nice rosy pink across his cheeks and tops of his ears. You frowned at him, waiting for further explanation on the name he just dropped. Was he calling me Satoru?

You chewed the inside of your cheek, scrubbing the water droplets off your wrist with a corner of your kimono sleeve.

“That’s not my name.” You finally gumbled quietly, warily watching the god as he lazily swam about the pool. The man laughed, shooting you a look.

“Of course it isn’t stupid. It’s my name.”

Your mouth fell open and you stared for a moment. “Is….Is that allowed?” You sputtered out. It felt wrong and entirely too intimate knowing his name. All the stories you had grown up with had painted the picture of gods who accepted perfect adoration. Of titles such as ‘your eminence’ and ‘honored one’ being used. Not actual names. It was an unspoken fact that any gods that did have names had given pseudonyms of sorts. Long gone were the days of knowing a god’s actual name. Names held power for beings such as them and there was no need for any mortal tongue to speak them.

Satoru was certainly his true name. It was too simple to be anything else. You recalled the stories traders would sometimes share when passing through the pine village. Of god’s with names, title really, like ‘Curse Devourer’ and ‘Blood Manipulator’. Names that made you wonder how kind these gods were. How cruel they might be.

Satoru snorted, shaking his wet hair from his eyes. “Am I not your god? Are the rules not for me to make?”

He made a good point. You hummed in response, pulling your knees to your chest as you thought. As the god bathed you pondered why Ama had put so many rules in place. Perhaps it wasn’t to protect you but to protect him?

Overhead the sky began to grow dark, the sun beginning its slow descent to kiss the earth. Purple and orange bloomed across the horizon as if a great paint brush were stirring the clouds. The beauty was simple, something you rarely noticed at the shrine with all the tall pines in the way. It was then that you realized just how long you had been away from Ama.

Was she alright?

You were so lost in thought you didn’t realize the god had finished his bath until he stood before you, unashamed at his nudity. You slapped a hand over your eyes, face burning as you stuttered out protests. Of course he was unabashed in his nudity. The man was the image of perfection. The small look you had gotten at his more, delicate part, left your mind in a very depraved place. It was unfair just how beautiful ALL of him was.

You stood silently, back to him until once more the warm hand was upon your shoulder. This time you glanced up at him, taking in his pale eyes and even paler hair up close. He was divine.

“Tell Ama I'd like to see her once more.”

You murmured that you would, turning and starting the slow walk back to the burnt tree. Satoru left how he had arrived, silently with the soft sound of bells ringing out. You waited for a moment, gaze locked on the sky until finally, you began walking again. Threading your way through the many trees you found yourself back at the shrine. The sun was low in the sky and in the pit of your stomach, fear twisted with sharp spines and teeth.

Ama was dead.

You found her, small and frail, where you had left her. It was as if she were asleep and initially you thought she was. But a shifting of the shadows in the room and you realized Mahito was sitting beside her.

The older man looked at you with his odd eyes, his face anything but mournful. You said nothing, biting back the sudden rage that filled your veins. There was no proof, no indication of the truth to your thoughts. But you knew he had ended her life. His pale, gray tinged hands sat on his lap like sickly spiders. They twitched under your gaze. Culprits. Yes Ama had been dying, but he had taken her last breath from her.

You carried out Ama’s funeral rites alone. Well, nearly alone. Yuji stayed plastered to your side, the cat was on edge. He was jumpy, fluffing up at the smallest sound. Mahito had been cruel to him in some way. Ama’s body had been alone save the creep at her side when you had come home, the cat hiding in your own room. You silently comforted the cat as you stood guard over Ama’s burial. Under your watchful gaze, you prayed for her soul. You hoped that in some way, with his divine powers, Satoru would see her one last time. That Ama would find the peace she had lost.

You didn’t sleep that night. Locked in your room, with Yuji on your lap, you sat and watched your door. The dark hours ticked by and you remained still. From various parts of the shrine, old wood settled and the wind found its way through cracks in the foundation. And from the hallways, foot steps. Slow and calculated. Each one placed just so to create the least amount of noise. You sat tense, hands gripping your knees as you waited.

That night nothing happened. Nothing but footsteps, pacing the hallway outside your room for hours.

“You seem tired” Satoru mused, he was half out of the bath, one finger running gently over the brightly coloured candies before him. Ama had been right, that you would just ‘know’ when Satoru needed you. It was an odd tickle in the back of your mind, like a ghostly finger was poking at your brain. Your second walk had included Yuji. The cat had thrilled Satoru, the god practically squealing over the softness of the tabby’s fur.

The baths occurred randomly, sometimes multiple times a week, sometimes nothing for two weeks. With each occurrence you learned more about the God. He liked sweets, he was apparently friends with the ‘Curse Devourer’ and he seemed to really like teasing you.

“You know that ignoring me does you no good.” Satoru was sitting, crossed legged and entirely nude. He was sitting right in front of the bathing pool, a teasing smile plastered across his face. You stared at a point slightly over his left shoulder, hands neatly clasped on your lap.

“I’m not ignoring you.” It was a partial truth. Today instead of talking with him, you were speaking when spoken to.

“You’re not looking at me.” He shifted, moving forward until one of his knees tapped yours. You flinched, feeling a blush spread across your face as he leaned close. He was determined to get you to look at his face and you were determined to not accidentally see his dick again.

“For a shrine maiden you’re rather bratty.” Satoru teased, on hand fiddling with the worn sleeve of your kimono. That caught your attention and your gaze shifted, a small burst of anger shooting through your veins. You met his gaze, ignoring the warm wave of emotion that curled in your abdomen. Satoru’s jewel-like eyes glittered with amusement. He was so close you could see his lashes, silver white and so fine that it looked almost as if he had snow stuck to his eyelids.

“What do you want?” You sighed, clenching your heads together in an attempt to suppress a shiver. Satoru’s gaze narrowed slightly, his playful look melting away and suddenly, you felt exposed. As if he had undressed you and were peering past your flesh and into your soul. The look stole your breath away.

“When are you going to tell me what's bothering you?” His voice was low, warm breath tickling your cheek as he leaned in and ran a finger from your shoulder to your elbow. The shiver rippled across your flesh accompanied by a burst of heat between your thighs. You flushed, resisting the urge to slap his hand away.

“You need to learn some decorum.” You muttered, shivering again as his large hand rested gently on top of yours. The concerned, piercing look vanished, replaced again by the teasing and idiotic grin of his. You were beginning to realize that his cheerful and annoying exterior was a mask. Despite being a divine being, he had the behavioral habits of a human. It was odd.

You let out an outrange gasp as suddenly Satoru pitched backwards, falling into the pool. The move gave you a clear eyeful of his nether region in all its glory. He cackled as he surfaced, flicking a handful of water towards you.

“You ass!” You sputtered, scooching backwards with a glare. Satoru shot you a grin that was beyond pleased.

“That’s no way to talk to your God now is it?”

“I am tired” You finally murmured, watching as Yuji batted a small blue candy across the path.

The day after Ama had been laid to rest, you had made the long trek back to the village. It was your duty after all. Mahito did not join you. The man had taken to skulking around the shrine, always just a few feet away. You could feel his gaze on your skin, the hidden intensity that was brewing just under his pallid flesh. It scared you. But you were alone and you had to be unshakable. You had to appear as Ama did, cold and hard in the light of the world.

The Village elders were not saddened by Ama’s passing. It had been expected and if they had been honest with you, they had been wanting it for some time. They hated Ama as much as she hated them. The follies of the elderly, holding onto grudges decades later.

You had merely nodded when they appointed you as the new Shrine keeper. It made sense, Mahito was still considered an outsider of sorts. You didn’t care either way. The village hadn’t changed since you had last seen it. Your parents were older, but still stuck in their ways. They had come to you, whispering about how it wasn’t too late to marry, to have offspring.

You had left without a word, stopping only once to buy a small canvas bag of candy.

“You could join me.” Satoru teased, flicking an orange candy towards you. Rolling your eyes, you took it, gently blowing a speck of dirt off before popping it in your mouth. The God pouted at you, cramming a handful of the sweets into his mouth before dipping beneath the steaming water. He was like a child sometimes, his cheerfully obstinate attitude boardline annoying at times.

That is why you didn’t tell him. Didn’t mention the footsteps that kept you awake. Didn’t tell him how sometimes, the door to your room would slide open just a crack. How one pale eye would press against the slit and watch you for hours. You didn’t tell him how you slept waiting for him after the bell tolled. How his hand on your shoulder woke you from the micro naps. Didn’t tell him how you napped in the forest, under fallen trees in beds of moss. Because the shrine wasn’t safe any more. A beast lurked within the halls, waiting for you to falter.

“I’m just saying.” Satoru reemerged, “Maybe the steam will wash away your stinking attitude.”

You leveled a glare at the man, grateful that he couldn’t see the action. It was for sure blasphemy to do so and you took a tiny amount of satisfaction in the action.

“You make ask one blasphemous question.” Satoru for once hadn’t jumped right into the bath. He sat in an ornate sky blue kimono adorned with golden cranes, propped on one elbow against a large rock. The look on his face spelled trouble, the man could barely contain the grin that spread across his face. The sunlight streaming through the pines tinted the tips of his hair a soft yellow. It gave him an oddly homely look, his face somehow softer when not framed in pure white. The look wasn’t enough to hide amusement that was slowly growing in intensity. He was baiting you, seemingly already knowing what you would want to ask.

You were tempted to make your question about his habit of wearing women’s kimonos. Part of you was curious if there was a Mrs. God of the bath. But another, smaller part of yourself didn’t want to ever find the answer to that question.

You sat, carefully tucking your legs beneath you as you mulled over what exactly to ask. Yuji flopped over next to Satoru, the orange tabby squirming about on the stone as he waited to be pet.

“Are you actually blind?” You tensed as you asked the question, fully expecting to have failed the test he put forward. Ama had misled you on the other facts about the God and you had been burning with curiosity about if his need for a guide was just another inaccuracy. It wasn’t a test however, Satoru merely tilted his head as he considered the question.

“No.” He looked serious for once, the expression killing the burst of irritation that threaded through your veins. Satoru drummed his fingers against the mossy stone path, stopping with a smile as Yuji butted his head against the god’s hand.

“I have sight, I just can’t bear to use it in your realm.” He gestured around the two of you, face half twisted in a grimace.

“It’s too much. There’s too much going on with you humans and your curses and prayers.”

Satoru ran a hand over his face, one glittering blue eye peeking out from between a crack in his fingers. You chewed at your bottom lip, unsure of how to respond. His answer really didn’t make sense.

“Look.” Satoru moved until he sat before you, hands on your knees as he leaned forward. You stiffened at his closeness, heart beat skyrocketing as his warm breath tickled your face. Even sitting he was taller than you.

“Look at me.” He took your face in his hands, directing your gaze. You held your breath, afraid to breathe on him. It was terrifying being so close to him.

This close you could see every long eyelash. They glittered, silvery white like the wings of a crane, so long that they touched his cheeks with each blink. Up this close you could smell him as well, the scent of bergamot and oranges filling your nose.

“For a few seconds, I’ll look.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that and nodded stiffly. All you could think about was his hands, thin fingers that sat on your cheeks, thumbs barely touching the corners of your lips. He was warm, his skin was soft. In that moment, Satoru felt human to you.

And in the next moment, you understood exactly what he meant.

As you stared, something changed and all of sudden his eyes were no longer shiny gems. He blinked and all of a sudden you were staring at stars. Satoru’s eyes were blue and radiant, clearer than the sky and deeper than the sea. They glitter as if filled with a thousand stars. As if someone had compressed all of the night sky beneath the sea.

It took your breath away. He was beautiful and terrifying all at once. And you felt utterly insignificant. He could see you, all of you.

And then he blinked again and you were staring at his jewel-like eyes. They seemed dull in comparison, still beautiful, yes. But so dull in comparison to the beauty he had shown you for just a moment.

“You have issues.” Satoru quipped, letting your face go. You scowled at him, rolling your eyes at his perfect ruining of the moment. Once again he was the flippant man who you could barely call a god. You looked away as he stood and stripped, the man jumping into the steaming pond with a laugh.

“No thank you, My Lord.” Your response dripped with sarcasm, the last two words twisting on your tongue slightly. Satoru frowned at that, eyes narrowing as he picked through the remaining candies.

“Careful there, human. I can hear your disdain.” He waggled a finger in your direction, an absolutely maniacal grin on his face, “I might have to punish your sinful mouth.”

You hoped he could feel the glare you leveled at him. His playful banter may have been welcome under better circumstances. But today, after weeks of practically no sleep, you were tired of the teasing.

Satoru seemed oblivious, popping the last of the candy into his mouth. He rested his chin on his arms, glittering eyes running over your form. For a moment you froze, certain he could see you. See the pain and exhaustion that sat on your shoulders. But no, it was the lack of sleep getting to you.

The walk back to the burnt tree was painful, you felt dizzy and all you could think of was your bed. You barely registered the warmth of his hand on your shoulder until it was gone. Satoru left without a word, fizzling from the mortal world as he always did.

You stood for a moment, swaying before you began the long walk back. Yuji followed you carefully. The cat had an easier time of traversing the twisting roots. He was kind to you however, sticking close as you stumbled clumsily back to the shrine.

“Where were you?” It was the person you least wanted to see. Mahito leaned against the entrance of the shrine. His black robes clung to his thin form like a death shroud. You felt a dull pang of anger. He must be sleeping whenever you were away from the shrine. His late night stalking seemed to have no effect on him, the man always alert, shiny eyes staring at you from beneath his lank gray hair.

Skirting around him, you scooped Yuji up, pointedly not looking at the man.

“Shrine duties.” You offered quietly over your shoulder. Mahito pushed off the wall, walking beside you as you slowly made your way deep into the shrine. He smelled odd, musty and wet as if he had spent the day in a basement. The smell filled your head, adding to the dizziness that already clung to your mind. You felt like passing out, but he was the last one you would let know that.

“I could help.” Mahito took a few rushed steps, standing before you and halting your path. You squinted at him, tightening on your grip on Yuji. In that moment you realized how much taller he was than you. That his form, as thin as it was, was muscled. He had one hand in his hair, allowing the sleeve of his robes to shift. You could see his hidden strength rippling under his plaid flesh.

“You haven’t been sleeping.” A statement, not a question. His eyes raked over your face, looking for the cracks in your exterior. You merely titled your head to one side, leveling glare at the man.

“I am the head of the shrine now. When I have something I’ll let you know.” You pushed past him, heading to your room without a glance backwards.

Months passed. Summer heat, then fall winds, until winter blanketed the pines in snow. Sleeping outside was no longer an option. Now you took rest at odd moments, hidden in the nooks and crannies of the shrine. Never a full sleep and never for more than 15 minutes at a time. You were becoming a husk.

Satoru knew it, the man’s teasing tone melting into concern. He was softer with you, gentle hand lingering longer than it usually did. You grew quiet, your energy focused on just existing.

And as a husk, you faltered.

One night in your room, on the soft blankets of your bed, your body finally caved. The need to sleep crashed into you like a tsunami, drowning you under the blanket of exhaustion. You fell asleep, alone in your room.

When you awoke it was a struggle to pull yourself from sleep. The sleep was so deep that it was as if you were trying to pull yourself from a pool of syrup. It coated the insides of your lungs and mind, trying to suffocate you back into the deep abyss of sleep. Your eyelids slipped open, the action achingly slow. It felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds. For a moment all you perceived was the deep darkness your room was cast in. The night had seeped in your room through the open door.

Open door.

The realization sent a jolt of panic through you, throwing off the last shreds of sleepiness from your mind. Clarity hit you like a bolt of lighting and it was then that you realized the predicament you were in.

A hand, cold and clammy, was pressed against your mouth.

You let out an enraged shriek, the sound muffled as the hand pressed harder against your mouth. The pressure was crushing, thumb digging painfully into the soft skin of your cheek. You struggled against Mahito, one hand coming up to swing at him. The pale man leered down at you, his other hand already beneath your kimono, thumb digging into the soft flesh of your left thigh.

He straddled your other thigh, erection straining against his robes and your skin.

You let out an indignant scream, teeth scraping at the skin of his palm.

“Shut up.” Mahito hissed, leaning in, his weight crushing as he put his face close to yours. You glared at him, raking your nails over his arms and shoulders. His clammy lips were on your skin, pressing against your neck as his warm breath stuttered out.

To your right, a loud hiss sounded. Yuji, back from one of his nighttime walks. The orange tabby ran at the man, hissing and spitting up a storm as he sunk his claws into the hand at your thigh. Mahito howled in pain, hand pulling away from your mouth as he backhanded Yuji. He hit the cat with such force that the small creature flew through the shoji screen to your room with a whimper.

You let out your own howl, anger and pain mixing in an animalistic noise. With his weight shifted, you were able to partially sit up, craning your neck back before whipping forward and headbutting the man. Mahito let out a gurgling cry, warm blood spattering on the front of your kimono as he fell backwards. With a cry, you kicked him off, heels connecting with his stomach and groin as you flailed about.

Without a second thought you were up, pushing through the remains of your door and picking up Yuji. The tabby was limp in your arms and a choking sob spilled from your lips as you fled from the shrine. Your feet stung against the rough stone and as you made it to the front entrance, the cold hit you, seeping into your skin.

“Wake up kitty.” Warm tears stained your cheeks as you ran, contrasting the freezing snow that fell silently around you. “Please.”

The world was silent except for your broken sobs as you fled into the pines. Your cries echoed off the tall pines, making the dark woods sound plagued by ghosts. The snow was heavy, thick flakes quickly covering your tracks as you weaved through the dark trees. It was a small blessing as from behind you, Mahito was yelling. Snarling for you to return to the shrine as he attempted to follow you through the storm. Unlike him, you didn’t need to see to know where the burnt tree was. It was second nature at this point.

Your bare feet slid through the snow, toes jamming against the hidden tree roots as you scrambled for the only place your mind could think of.

But he wasn’t there. The tree stood alone, a dark jagged line against the blinding white of the snow. Satoru hadn’t called for you, of course you were alone. Your god wasn’t in the shrine, wasn’t on this mortal plane. He had left you alone when you needed him most. Satoru had left Ama alone when she needed him most.

What use is the God of baths? The God of an empty shrine and a single shrine maiden. Am I merely a plaything for the divine?

The snow clung to your cheeks, the cold seeping into your skin, your bones. In your arms, Yuji lay limp, you couldn’t even tell if he was even breathing. Part of you refused to look, refused to acknowledge the possibility that he was gone. That you were completely alone.

From a distance, the muffled shouting from Mahito rang out across the snow. You turned slightly, squinting through the snow. The weather was complete, it was snow that you had loved to watch as a child from the comfort of a warm bed. Now it was swallowing you whole. The snow covered your feet, the limbs were numb and you knew that within a few more moments the damage to them would be complete. Your fingers had paled, tinged with the unnatural blueish gray of frost damage. And you were growing warm.

‘There was a name for it’, you thought faintly, letting yourself sink to your knees. The growing drifts of snow swallowed your hips as you slumped down. There had been a boy in your village who had gone out in a particularly bad storm. No one knew why he had gone out, perhaps to play. Regardless of the reason, he had died, found days later half undressed in the snow. His parents had been confused but the village healer had murmured something about snow delirium.

Mahito’s shouting grew fainter and you couldn’t decide if it was him moving away or your hearing somehow going. You buried your face in Yuji’s warm fur, tears prickling in the corner of your eyes. A dull ache burned in your chest, urging you to lie in the snow. To sleep, just for a moment.

“What have we here?” A low voice, smooth as silk and full of curiosity slid around you. It was soft and comforting in a way that was almost unsettling. With effort you looked up, brows furrowing as you took in the man who stood before you. Dressed in all black robes from head to toe, he stood out against the snow like a wraith. The wind seemed unable to touch him, the deep silk robes and his inky hair unnaturally still. He was like a statue, save for the occasional gentle brushing of snow from his robes. You blinked slowly up at him, taking in his fox like features, the long lashes that kissed his cheeks with each blink. He was the second most beautiful man you had ever seen.

Death has come to walk me away. You thought dully, standing with effort. Your limbs resisted you, joints stiff with the cold and groaning in protest. The man watched, his look a mix of mild curiosity and something that bordered on concern.

“You.” You began, voice hoarse and cracking with the effort, “You can take me but save him, please.” You held Yuji out with some effort, swaying as your breath stuttered in your chest. Your plea seemed to confuse the man, one thin eyebrow raising as he took in Yuji. You offered the cat to him, trying not to let the tears you felt dancing in your eyes fall. Your arms shook slightly, the cold full set in your muscles.

“You’re Satoru’s human.” It was a statement and a strange one at that. His words had you still, breath catching in your throat as finally, hot tears poured down your face.

“Yes. Yes, I am Satoru’s Human. His Shrine Maiden.” You sobbed, clutching Yuji to your chest again. The shadow of a man let out a low hum, eyes taking in your disheveled form. You knew he could see the blood, how your robes were hanging open in an unseemly way. Something in his eyes darkened and you flinched as his gaze suddenly snapped from you, fixing on a point over your right shoulder. Distantly, you could hear Mahito shouting, the words ‘Bitch’ and ‘Mine’ echoing faintly through the pines. The strange man heard it as well, his thin brows lowering until a thunderous scowl sat upon his face.

“A mortal dare lay hands upon a God’s possession?” His comment wasn’t for you, strangely enough it seemed directed at the sky. You felt a bit concerned at being called a possession. But the concern was faint, slowly fading as the last of the warmth seemed to drain from your limbs. With it went your strength and you found yourself crumpled in the snow again, arms locked in place as you cradled the limp form of Yuji. For a moment the world blurred, black spots popping across your field of vision as you went slightly limp.

“You’re safe now.”

A warm hand took yours, pulling you gently to your feet. And suddenly, the world was gone.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

The world fell away.

You both existed and didn’t, pulled into the great expanse that was the home of the stars. Earth as you knew it, the pines and the snow scattered into wisps akin to mist. The sky swelled around you and suddenly you saw it. The home of the divine. Beyond the clouds, twisted in among the stars. It glittered as the largest star itself, a shifting space. First a palace, then a planet, a forest, a shrine, then back to a palace.

There was no hot, no cold. You weren’t even sure you would call the state you found yourself in as ‘alive’. It was a state of existence that transcended the physical. Yuji was both his own bright soul and yet he was part of yours, intertwined in what was your chest.

The man in black robes was more physically there, he seemed able to keep his shape despite the odd ripples and the twisting urge to just…dissipate.

Your guide landed elegantly upon the shimmering marble floors, tugging your floating and dumb struck existence down. Warmth radiated from his hand, through you until suddenly you existed again.

You let out a sharp and startled gasp, fingers digging into Yuji’s fur as you reeled at the sight around you. It was beautiful, otherworldly and entirely too much. You faintly registered the existence of other beings passing by, their presence immense and overwhelming.

The floor was white, then gold, then shimmering like sunlight caught in a raindrop. Doors faded into existence and opened to reveal worlds beyond your comprehension. Beings that looked human stepped from them and down hallways that built themselves. This realm was never ending and never resting. It’s form twisted and bent to the needs of the individuals that traversed it.

The largest man you had ever seen stalked past. His hair was the color cherry blossoms and he had too many arms. You caught his eyes and shivered at the look of pure disgust that twisted his already mangled face. His form was familiar, something you had seen on a scrap of aged parchment. A demon that used to walk among men.

The realm was living. It’s consciousness touched yours, gently probing. Like a curious cat it was looking in every nook and cranny, quietly waiting for you to give it a nudge. If you so willed it, the realm would twist for you, become the path to wherever you needed.

A woman emerged from a door shaped like a coffin lid. It was almost too small for her to exit, and she had to twist herself like a cat to pull free. Her long white hair covered one eye, falling down her back in luscious waves. She paused at the sight of you, single dark brown eye taking you before she offered you a small nod. You found yourself compelled to nod back, watching as she turned and sauntered up a staircase made of stardust.

“Look at me.” It was the man in black robes, one pale hand lifting your chin. You shivered at his touch, brows furrowing as another wave of confusion rocked you. In your arms, Yuji stirred faintly, head lifting weakly. You blinked, gaze shifting from the cat, to the man in black, then back to the twisting palace around you.

Behind your guide was a new man, his tired eyes pinching in the corners as he came to a full stop to look at you. Unlike the other beings of this place, he was in a full western style suit. It was a dull gray, contrasting with the glimmering almost gold color of his hair. Exhaustion visibly clung to him, you could feel it through the realm’s odd connection. It made you sway slightly, lightheaded in its intensity. He let out a sigh, making a point to turn and walk in the opposite direction.

“You survived. Surprising given how close to death you were.” The man murmured, a strand of his dark hair falling in his face as he leaned closer. He ran one long finger down the side of your face, frowning slightly at something he saw.

“Did I die?” You asked weakly, afraid of the answer. Your odd companion raised one eyebrow, straightening as he tilted his head to shoot you a rather cold look.

“I’m the god of curses. Not death.” He paused, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “I suppose however I have assisted in cursing a human or ten to death.”

He saw your look of confused terror and offered you a comforting smile. “Suguru. Call me Suguru.”

You blinked, holding Yuji a little closer as you inhaled in an attempt to calm yourself. Everything was happening too fast. You were still reeling from Mahito’s attempted assault.

“Where is Satoru?” You almost didn’t dare to ask. Part of you was still full of dull anger at the fact that he hadn’t been there, that he hadn’t been the one to tug you into this divine realm. And a smaller, nasty part, was wondering if he had abandoned you. The final shrine maiden of the deep pines left to tend an empty shrine.

Suguru smiled and this time it was awful. A terrifying grin that made the corners of his dark eyes crinkle. It was as if all of a sudden you were an injured deer standing in front of a bear.

“He’s taking care of matters on the mortal plane.”

You knew without asking that Mahito was most likely facing a terrible terrible death. It made you feel small for some reason. Small and utterly human.

“I’ll take you to his realm.”

You blinked at that, slowly following him as Suguru made his way quickly through the shifting palace. The building seemed to understand that you were human, tiles of marble clicking into place before your very feet as you followed behind a God that had no need for such niceties. He walked across the bare expanse of space as if it were nothing. It most likely was, the man was divine.

Almost as divine as Satoru. You thought. As if he knew, Suguru’s head jerked, the man shooting a look over his shoulder. Surely he couldn’t read your mind.

‘I certainly can’ It was his voice, inside your mind and poking at the innermost expanse of your brain. You swallowed your thoughts, trying to keep your mind clear as you followed. It was easy enough to do, your mind drowning in anxiety as you tried to avoid the dark God’s glances.

In your arms, Yuji had fully awoken. He sat contently in your arms as if nothing had occurred. Looking down at him, you watched him blink back up at you, a small purring starting up in his chest as he settled deeper in your arms. The tabby seemed un-bothered by the shifting world around you. The marble floor, golden walls and plant life that seemed to blink in and out of existence. All of them ignored in favor of staring up at you. As if to the small orange cat, you were somehow above all else.

“One little jump.” Suguru turned, wrapping one arm around your waist as you came to a halt beside him. Before you was a door way and beyond it, a deep void of black littered by many stars. You shot him a questioning look, the hall you had been in simply ended. There was nowhere to jump to.

The smile Suguru gave you this time was not at all comforting. It was better than his vicious smile, but it still made your stomach churn as his grip tightened.

“Wh-” Your breath left your body before you could complete the word. Suguru had jumped, straight into the void and you were being sucked down. Faster than anything humanly possible. You would have screamed if it were possible, but the void was all around you, crushing you.

And then you were back on your feet in an endless field of soft white grass. Your vision swam for a moment and you struggled to stay upright. Yuji let out a little whine, the cat puffed up as he too fought the after effects of the jump.

“Tell Satoru he owes me.” And Suguru was gone. You stood for a moment, frowning at the space where he had left you. The field was silent, stretching on for miles. The grass moved in a warm breeze tickling your feet.

Everything was too informal. Your mind yelled at you that you must’ve died. Something had happened in the snow and now your mind was showing you a nice little fantasy before you died.

Perhaps you had died back in the forest when Ama had asked you to make the first trek to the bath. Tripped on a tree root and fell down the mountain side.

“Oh!” You blinked, backing up a step as a dark shape cut through the field. It was large and fast and on you before you could run.

“OH!” You let out a laugh that was a mix of relief and astonishment. A large black dog stood before you, intently sniffing the edges of your kimono. He was shaggy, fur sticking up oddly in places. The dog let out a small bark, nudging your hip with his nose. From your arms Yuji let out a meow, ears pulled back as he stared down at the dog. They stared at each other for a moment, a silent conversation rippling between them. Then they relaxed, Yuji settling in your arms and the dog wagging his tail happily.

He nudged your hand again, taking a step forward. When you didn’t follow he repeated the action, letting out a low ‘boof’ noise. You took a step forward, slowly following the large dog as he trotted across the field.

For a while there was nothing but the pale grass and the warm breeze. Occasionally you could hear things drifting through the lazy wind. Laughter, conversations, a whisper, all of them faint like memories you couldn’t quite recall. Despite the stress of being pulled to this place, you didn’t grow tired as you walked. It was as if time didn’t exist in this place, keeping the aches of mortal life at bay.

From the grass, a house arose. Logically you knew you should have been able to see the sprawling estate from where you entered the field. But like the great hall before it, the building seemed to materialize from the air, building itself stone by stone.

As the main door slid into place, a zen garden entrance built itself around you and your companion. You let out a small gasp as the grass slid away from your feet, small stone pebbles quickly taking its place. It made you stumble slightly and at your side, the dog quickly leaned into you to provide support.

You stared in awe at the tall stone walls and the deep blue tile of the roof. This estate was much like the ones in your world. Built normally for the lords of the land and something you had only observed in paintings. No one in your village was wealthy enough for an estate of any kind. Not even the elders who were born from old noble families. Like the traditions they clung to, they had become obsolete under the new world’s technology.

You stepped up to the door, murmuring a small ‘hello’ as you tentatively entered. The estate was silent, no servants it seemed and the master of the house had yet to appear.

Yuji lept from your arms, trotting down the long main hallway after the shaggy dog. You followed them nervously, wincing as your bruised and dirty feet touched the spotless flooring. It felt wrong to sully this grande estate with your mere presence.

But there was no one around to complain. You stepped carefully regardless, trailing past multiple sitting rooms, closets, open spaces you had no name for. There were rooms full of paintings and glass sculptures. Rooms full of the most beautiful kimonos you had ever seen, rooms filled with books and scrolls strewn about like small mountains made of paper. There were rooms that opened into the field again, the wood flooring twisting strangely into the pale field as if the world and the estate were one structure.

The shaggy dog stopped at one of the doorways, darting into the room and flopping onto a large futon. You stepped after him, smiling as you realized it was the dog’s room. There were ink portraits of the shaggy beast all over the wall, the scrolls hanging in a neat line.

“Are you Megumi?” You asked the dog. Megumi huffed in response, shifting to let Yuji sit on the futon next to him. His job seemed complete and now the dog was drifting off to sleep with your cat at his side. You watched them quietly for a moment before exiting the room.

The hallway of the estate seemed endless, stretching on impossibly long. Logically you knew there was no way it could fit inside the exterior estate you had seen. But like the rest of this realm, it seemed part of a large odd being.

You grimaced as you passed a mirror, stopping taking in the bags under your eyes. Bruises littered your exposed skin, in part from Mahito’s assault. But the blueish tint persisted in your fingers and toes. You wiggled your toes, wincing at the small twinge of pain that radiated up your legs. Leaning forward you took in the blood dried over your chest and kimono, grimacing as you scratched a nail over one patch.

I could use a shower. You thought sourly, flicking a pain needle from your shoulder. An odd warmth tickled the back of your mind and you flinched as next to the mirror, a doorway appeared. It was a plain sliding door, unassuming and entirely out of place in the luxurious hallway. You stared at it for a moment and then slid it open cautiously.

It was a bathing room. Much more luxurious than you had ever been in, but still simpler than the halls around you. White tile lined the wall, small pale blue flowers painted here and there. They led to a large stone bath inset in the floor, already filled to the brim with steaming water.

Stepping inside the room, you carefully slid the door closed before peeling your kimono off. It fell with a sad rustle onto the clean tile, looking like a rag more than an outfit.

Shuffling over to the bath, you leaned over it, taking in the crystal clear water. It poured quietly into the pool from a brass crane head. But it didn’t overfill, despite the constant flow, instead the water lapped at the stone edge of the bath.

Almost too clean, You mused, turning around to look for a container for some water. It felt rude to even think about stepping in the bath before attempting to scrub some of the grime off. The room was empty and you almost had time to frown. But the house knew what you wanted. You jumped as a small wooden bucket suddenly popped out of thin air, clattering to the floor and spilling a small vial onto the tile. You approached it slowly, picking both items up with hesitation. They appeared normal enough, smooth wood and beautiful ceramic. Filling the bucket with water, you twisted the vial open, sniffing it cautiously.

The smell of lychee and something else that was oddly sweet drifted from the neck of the bottle. It reminded you a bit of some of the candies Satoru had a fondness for. You sat on the floor and then paused. There was nothing to use to wash yourself with.

This time the house dropped a washcloth right on your face. You laughed at the magic and absurdity of it, trying your best to think thankful thoughts towards the house.

As quickly as you could you scrubbed your skin, praying for the sensation of Mahito’s hands to leave your skin. As much as you didn’t want to acknowledge it, his touch clung to you like ghostly hands.

Perhaps boiling water will do the job. You tossed the washcloth into the bucket, noting with a grimace how dirty the water within was. As you stepped into the warm water, the bucket vanished with a small pop. You stared for a moment in shock, one foot submerged.

“Thank you.” You slid into the water, looking up at the ceiling. A few of the tiles rippled, as if the estate were acknowledging your thanks.

The water, like the realm it was in, was divine. You let out a sigh, sinking to your chin and closing your eyes. The warm water seemed to seep into every pore, relaxing your muscles and pushing the sensation of your assault from your skin. You allowed yourself to sink under the water.

From head to toe, you were warm, you felt safe. Alone, but safe. Squeezing your eyes closed even tighter, you fought the tears that welled in your throat. A twisting mix of grief and anger sat in your throat and you fought to swallow it. Beneath the surface, you let out a silent scream of frustration.

You should have swallowed water with such a stupid action. But the house had shifted again and your head was above water, the bath suddenly less deep. You let out a small sigh, resting your chin on your knees. No hidden emotions it was, at least not beneath bath water.

Hours passed and still the water remained a consistent perfect temperature. In the steam you had time to ponder. To face the emotions that roiled beneath your skin. You had been assaulted, yanked into a realm you had no place in and now you were alone in a magical house.

What future was there for you? Could you even go back to the shrine, to the village?

No.

There was no one there for you. No one who wanted to take the long trek up to the shrine. Like the old temple, you were to be forgotten up on the mountain between the pines. As with the shrine keepers before you, your bones were meant to grow mossy beneath tree roots and the rubble of the temple as it moldered and fell.

Looking at your reflection, you thought about Satoru, of why he had even been in the mortal realm.

“Surely there are baths in the Divine realm?” You asked, watching as the god felt his way along the stone edge of the tub, the man slowly stalking after Yuji. The cat seemed amused, stepping just out of grasp but chirping to let Satoru know exactly how far off he was.

“Of course there are.” The look he shot over his shoulder told you exactly how stupid he found the question. You flushed, rolling your eyes as he ignored the unspoken question.

“Then why come here?” You moved closer to the edge of the pool, daring to dip your toes into the warm water. It was a move you would never do when he was closer, you had a feeling the god would find it funny to pull you in.

“How else can I answer prayers?” Satoru grabbed for Yuji, missing as the cat neatly jumped over his grasp and bolted back towards you. The little cat was triumphant, butting his head against your hip with a purr. You noted with amusement that he looked incredibly smug.

“If I never experience the simple tasks of humanity, how can I accurately gauge the urgency of a prayer?”

You were tempted to tell him that bathing was perhaps not the best thing to gauge prayers against. But your train of thought was interrupted as his hand landed on your foot. You froze, tensing as you waited to be pulled under the water. He had somehow moved faster and farther than was possible. You had blinked and he had moved.

Satoru didn’t pull you under however, his long fingers wrapping around your ankle as he stared up at you.

“I bathe here to listen to my shrine keepers. To hear about humanity from a human.”

You merely hummed in response, pulse thundering in your ear as his thumb gently rubbed against your skin. There was a heat in your veins, shooting from his touch to your abdomen, coiling and trembling as you stared into his eyes.

“What good is a God who can’t listen?”

You ruminated on the past until your skin grew pruney from sitting in the water for so long. The house in its odd connection with you had a towel and new kimono all ready before you even fully stepped from the bath.

The kimono, much like the house, was ridiculously luxurious. A light purple with hand stitched cranes across the bottom. They twisted across the purple in a long line, wings outstretched and in mid motion. You felt too plain and human to wear such a garment. Spun from the finest silk, it slid on like a second skin. Perfectly tailored to fit you. Even the obi, you found yourself in awe of the cream colored fabric and the literal thousands of tiny stitched sage green bamboo shoots. These were the clothing of a woman far more grand than yourself. Royalty wore such items, not humble shrine keepters. Sliding the obi into place you patted the fabric absentmindedly.

You had bathed, gotten rid of your ruined kimono and now had no idea what to do. It felt odd to be alone in such a vast estate. Yes Megumi and Yuji were with you, but if you had to guess, they would most likely be sleeping for a while. You weren’t sure how, but you were fairly certain Yuji had been brought back to life. The cat had been so still in your arms, yet this realm seemed to have given him a second chance. You were sure the small tabby must be exhausted from whatever blessing had brought him back.

You were alone, so you wandered. The hallway was never ending, twisting and turning here and there. You passed countless sitting rooms, kitchens and bathrooms that were larger than the entire shrine. There was no sense of time in this place. No need to eat nor to sleep. You existed in a way that was outside of being human. Still, the habits of humanity called to you. In one of the ornate kitchens you stopped and ate the small meal the house pulled into existence. Rice, miso soup and an egg. It was simple but the best meal you had eaten in ages. You cried as you ate, wiping tears away as you savored the food.

The house seemed to understand what you needed before you did. To your surprise you found a room opening soon after you finished eating. It was simple, the house seeming to know the luxurious rooms made you uncomfortable. This room was small, with a plush futon and blankets within. You were quick to drop to the futon, pulling the blankets around you. The room was warm and quiet. Despite being in a state without physical needs, the exhaustion from the mortal realm was still in your bones and you quickly drifted off to sleep.

You had no idea how long you slept for. All you knew is you awoke with a jerk, breath catching in your throat. For a second your brain grappled with the fact that you were not in the shrine, panic swelling in your chest. But the house creaked around you, the sound bringing the world into focus.

Satoru was crouched before you, chin in one hand as he seemingly watched you. He smiled as you sat up. His eyes were the incredible star like blue again, glittering as if lit from within. It was a tad unsettling, but for the most part you found yourself breathless, pinned by his gaze.

“Sleep well?” His hair was damp, laying flatter against his head than normal. You found yourself reaching out and flicking at one snowy strand with a frown. The man ducked away from your touch, grabbing your hand and pulling you up as he stood. He seemed freshly bathed and manic. The grin he normally wore when making teasing comments was plastered across his face. He was practically bouncing as he pulled you from the room.

“Have you seen the whole house?”

You stumbled after him sleepy, murmuring that you doubted you could if you tried. Satoru laughed at that, shooting you a brilliant smile. He pulled you excitedly from room to room and you realized that now the estate actually had a normal layout. It was a modest size, still littered with luxury, but you could actually make sense of it.

“Why does it look so different?” You stopped in your tracks, tugging your hand from Satoru’s. The man paused, running a hand through his snowy hair. He seemed surprised at the question, brilliant eyes roving over your form.

“I was away. The realm scatters a bit when I'm not here.”

The answer made some sense. From what little you could tell, you knew it was living. Perhaps not as you were but it existed as its own being in the realm of the gods.

Satoru gently grabbed your hand again, tugging you over to a large window. From here you could see the pale field and beyond it, a glittering blue sea. You had never had the chance to see the ocean when you were in the mortal realm. It was too far a trek, but the stories you had heard didn’t do the body of water justice.

“We can go there later, I can show you the prayers that wash ashore.” Satoru murmured. He was standing behind you, warm breath tickling your ear as he spoke. You shuddered slightly, leaning against him as you stared out across the field. He was warm, large form easily overshadowing yours. One hand came up, resting on your shoulder, much like he had just days ago. It was a familiar feeling and you felt yourself melting against him.

Emotions you had crushed and swallowed came bubbling to the surface. A burning ache coiled in your stomach, tangling with the heat that radiated from his touch on your shoulder. You tilted your head slightly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Satoru was staring at you intently, his gaze asking an unspoken question. He looked hungry. It both thrilled and scared you. A shudder ran through you as you turned back, looking at his reflection in the glass.

“Yes” You offered an answer to the question he had not yet asked. A thrill of heat rippling from your belly to your extremities.

His hand slid down your side, large fingers curling into the silk of your kimono. You shuddered, heat coiling in your stomach as his warm breath tickled your right ear. Satoru paused, his other hand gently holding your waist.

“Are you sure?” The question was spoken softly, his normal teasing tone replaced by something so gentle that for a moment you were speechless. But only a moment, you nodded, placing your hand over his, fingers sliding to his wrist in a silent gesture asking him to continue.

The hand that had been tangled in your kimono, dipped beneath it, pushing past the silk of your juban beneath and pausing as he touched the bare flesh of your thigh. Your breath hitched, face flushing as you realized that the house had never provided you undergarments other than the juban. If it could, you were sure the house would be chuckling, in perfect sync with its master.

Satoru was laughing, the sound low and breathy as he pulled you closer. Your back was pressed firmly against his broad chest and you let out a small gasp as you felt his erection press against your backside.

His hand moved to the juncture between your thighs, warm fingertips sliding over your clit and delving into your folds in an inquisitive motion. You shuddered, breath hitching as you struggled to stay upright. A few seconds pressed against him, that's all it had taken for you to become soaking wet. Satoru chuckled in your ear, lips pressing against the soft skin of your throat as he gently swirled his finger tip around your entrance. The muscles fluttered in response, clenching around nothing as he teased the opening. Your legs shook and you gripped the hand that held on your waist in a death grip. He was the only thing keeping you upright, his gentle actions somehow making your mind both empty and overstimulated all at once.

“Do I really have such an effect on you?” It was the teasing tone you were used to and you shot a look over your shoulder, knowing that your flushed face and parted lips did nothing to convey the small flame of irritation. The emotion dissolved as his lips captured yours. Your breath caught as you melted into the kiss, his lips were warm, sliding against yours with a barely contained hunger. Satoru was shaking slightly, breath puffing from his nose sharply as he licked against your lips.

The arm at your waist slid up, finding its way beneath your kimono and grasping your breast. You moaned against his lips, leaning into the touch as Satoru ran his thumb over the peak of your nipple. The moan granted him entry and you shuddered as his tongue ran over your teeth, tangling with your own as he deepened the kiss. It was desperate and feral, your teeth clinking together as each kiss grew sloppier and more hungry.

The hand on your breast tightened, steadying the both of you as Satoru plunged a finger into your entrance. There was a brief sharp pain and you froze for a moment before relaxing again. The sensation dissolved into pleasure as he gently delved deeper. The rough pad of his finger rubbed against the sensitive inner heat of your pussy. You shook in his grip, hips moving in sync with his finger thrusting. The man moaned into your mouth adding another finger. It stretched you, but felt divine. Satoru was blessed with long fingers, his touch reaching the deep sensitive parts within you. He curled his fingers, hitting a new, deeper spot that sent a wave of pleasure through your veins.

A low moan split the air as you broke the kiss, neck again slightly. You gripped his wrist in an attempt to steady yourself, hips grinding gently against his palm as Saturo continued his gentle finger fucking. The god shifted, knee nudging your right thigh aside and opening you wider to him, The action had your clit pressing against his palm, the warm skin rubbing gently with each thrust of his finger. It was delightful and too much. You squirmed, panting in his arms as he gently bit at your neck, tongue laving against your pulse.

“S-shouldn’t.” Your words stuck in your throat as you struggled to stay upright, “Shouldn’t we be in bed?”

Your flush deepend as Satoru let out a sharp laugh. It was no secret you were inexperienced, the life of a shrine maiden was one of celibacy. And he knew that, being one of the Gods who had no doubt set the rules for temples. You squirmed in his arms, mind fuzzy as his finger slipped from you, cunt suddenly clenching around nothing.

“We can.” Satoru lifted you easily, the quick action making you dizzy. You clutched your Kimono close, the garment mussed and only being held by your Obi. The room around you seemed to twist and then you gasped as suddenly you were in a different room. There was a lurch in your chest and for a moment you thought you might vomit.

“Sorry.” Satoru offered you a small grimace, gently setting you on a large plush bed. “First time is always unpleasant.”

How did we get here? You wondered, blinking up at the tall ceiling. This room was dark, the walls a blue that was almost black. Spots of glittering gold and white appeared here and there, vanishing almost as quickly as they appeared. You frowned, propping yourself up on your elbows as you took in the sight. Your first impression was wrong. The walls were clear. It was the night sky that twisted about you, the stars and clouds of dust playfully twisting about as small points of light.

“No one can see us here.” Saturo shed his own robes, the silk sliding off with a familiar noise. Just as on earth he was unabashed with his nudity. You might have thrown him a look had you not been in awe at the room around you. The bed, draped in warm furs, was the only furniture in the room. It was like a nest, slightly deeper in the center. You let yourself fall back, staring at the dancing space around you.

“How much can you see from here?” He had explained his ability to you and while you had an understanding, you had a feeling he had simplified it for you. Saturo grinned, stalking over to the bed and crawling onto it. He moved like a beast, each move calculated as he drew closer to his prey.

“I see everything.” It was a simple answer that implied such grandiosity that it was almost unimaginable. He crouched over you, a perfectly sculpted man. And he ignored the twisting beauty around him, instead focusing on you.

“Why me?” It was something that had been tugging at the back of your mind since he had first started teasing you. Without him ever stating it, you knew he was never like that with Ama and you had a feeling perhaps he had never been like that with any other mortal.

“Why not you?” The answer was followed by a grin that was so smug it was insufferable. You scoffed, lightly slapping his bicep. Saturo cackled, leaning in and capturing your lips. It was a non-answer and you decided you were fine with that. You melted against him, opening your thighs to allow his hips to grind against yours.

He was a man starved, one hand tangling in your hair as with the other he pinched and pulled at your left breast. You moaned against his lips, hips canting up against his. His cock slid against your wet folds, warm and stiff against your clit. The smooth skin gave way to the rough white thatch of hair at the base of his cock. It created a different kind of friction, one that sent lightning bolts of pleasure through you. The sensation made you shudder, hips shifting so you could open your legs wider. Satoru grunted in frustration at your kimono, tugging the silk roughly until the belt gave and you were able to slide your arms free. He slid his arms beneath you, mouth latching onto your breast as he lazy thrust against you.

It had you breathless, small choked moans leaving you as you grinded against him. There was a burning, tight sensation growing in your abdomen, building with each pass of your clit against his dripping cock. You chased it, slick folds pressing against his cock, creating a low lewd noise with each pass. Satoru moaned against your breast, the pace of his thrusting quickening as he matched your mindless desire. You threaded one hand through his hair, the other sliding over the expanse of his shoulders.

“So close.” You whispered, head falling back and eyes closing as you canted your hips against his.

Satoru let go of your breast with a small pop, leaning back and grinning down at you. A low whine of displeasure left you, lips pulling down in frustration as you panted up at him. He looked smug, one hand fisting around his cock as he gave it a quick pump, thumb smearing the mix of your juices and his precum over the head.

“Let me take you?” His voice was husky, the blue of his eye eclipsed by how blown his pupils were. You nodded, heart pounding in your ears. Excitement and lust coiled in your abdomen, you ached in a way you knew would only be satisfied once he was within you.

Satoru was not gentle you were coming to realize. He was careful, mindful of where each touch landed. But gentle was not a word you would use. He was hungry, impatient and feral in his need.

And you didn’t mind. His rough fingers dragged pleasure from deep within you. Each touch making your legs shake, back arch and moans slide from your throat. He was a beast but one that knew its prey well.

“Good.” Satoru huffed out. He remained as he was, kneeling, cock stiffly pointing upwards. You noted with a blush that his white patch of pubic hair was drenched from your earlier grinding.

Satoru shot you a grin that bordered on manic, taking your thighs in each hand and spreading them farther apart. You shivered slightly with the action, the wet between your thighs being brushed by cold. But only for an instant.

Satoru sheathed himself within you in one fluid motion. You let out a silent gasp, the air caught in your throat as the walls of your cunt fluttered about him. He stretched you completely, almost uncomfortably so. But the dull ache gave way to pleasure as he began to move.

Satoru seemed content to remain kneeling, his brilliant gaze locked on your face as he thrust into your warm heat. He looked powerful, muscles rippling with each thrust, an iron grip on your thighs. You shuddered beneath him, for a moment pleasure forgotten as you viewed the god above you. He was otherworldly. White hair shimmering as if made of stardust, blue eyes piercing your very soul.

The thoughts dissolved as he thrust again, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before plunging back into you. The pace he set was rough, each thrust pushed pleasure through you. Beneath him you were breathless, matching his roughness as best you could.

The pleasure was mind numbing, your legs shook in his grasp as the head of his member kissed deep within your heat, hitting your cervix with an aching accuracy. You arched, hips stuttering against his as you chased the heat coiling in your stomach. Each thrust built it higher and higher, a taut string close to snapping.

Faintly you registered that you were moaning, half words falling from your lips as you tried to ask him for more. To go faster.

Satoru laughed, the sound triumphant and breathless. He fell forward, capturing your lips with his, the hunger behind the action making his nose smash against yours. You didn’t mind the clumsiness and the slight pain. Arching against him, you panted against his mouth, arms sliding around his shoulders to pull him closer. Satoru’s kisses were sloppy, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip.

You moaned, hips canting against his as your clit caught against the rough hair at the base of his cock. It sent a thrill of pleasure through you and as you moaned, he thrust again, grinding his hips into you.

Breaking the kiss, Satoru moved his head to your neck, kissing the soft flesh beneath your ear.

“Cum for me.” The words were low and growled, sending a shiver down your spine. You huffed out a low moan, unable to respond. His hands were on your hips, the man kneeling again, lifting you on his lap as he thrusted up into your tight heat.

The change of position sent stars across your vision and finally, the heat in your abdomen snapped.

You came with a cry, hands clawing at Satoru’s back as he kept thrusting. The walls of your cunt squeezed and fluttered around him, your orgasm prolonged by the rough movements. You let your head nestle in the crook of his neck, panting as he kept going.

Satoru’s arms shook slightly, his movements becoming erratic as he fucked you. The grip on your hips was bruising as he drilled into you. Satoru shifted, his teeth catching on your shoulder as he let out a low snarl. You shivered as he finally came, the warmth of his release filling you completely.

For a moment the two of you remained locked in place. Satoru’s teeth in your shoulder, hands keeping your hips locked against his. Now, not trapped in the heat of lust, you felt hazy, mind reeling from the intensity of his actions.

“Sorry.” Satoru finally pulled back, gently lying you on the bed and rubbing his thumb over the red indents in your shoulder. You murmured that it was fine, arching with a gasp as he pulled his now flaccid cock from you.

Satoru disappeared for a moment, then was back, a towel in hand. You blinked, mouth parted to question him.

“Teleportation.” He muttered, concentrating on cleaning you, then himself before tossing the towel away. Satoru flopped next to you, tugging the blankets over the pair of you with a satisfied sigh.

You watched him, curled on your side. A sudden feeling of awkwardness suddenly filled you. What would happen to you now?

Satoru seemed unbothered, nestling close to you, one arm thrown casually over your waist.

“What now?” You asked, the words sticking slightly in your throat. You were afraid that he would tell you it was time to go back to the mortal realm. To the emptiness and lonely life.

Satoru’s eyes had closed, but he cracked one brilliant eye open, frowning.

“What do you mean?”

You bit your bottom lip, one hand coming up to pull the blanket closer to your chin.

“I’m human. I’m not meant to be here.”

Satoru hummed, opening his other eye to stare at you. His gaze seemed to read your soul and you shivered as his unblinking stare lingered.

“Do you want to go back?” His tone had a hidden emotion beneath it, something in his eyes making you hesitate before answering.

“No?”

He seemed pleased with that answer, the large grin you had come to secretly love. Satoru propped himself up on one below, looking down at you, expression becoming serious.

“Would you want to stay here forever?”

The question was odd but you nodded, hoping you understood him correctly. In the hours you had spent with him, you had come to enjoy Satoru’s teasing and playful nature. He was both a terrifyingly beautiful man and the biggest idiot you had ever met. An eternity with him, in the house surrounded by pale fields. You would enjoy that. Plus, Yuji would be safe, he wouldn’t know the pain that the mortal realm brought anymore.

Satoru sat up, blankets falling from him as he regarded you, face unreadable.

“You’re sure?”

You nodded again at his question, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket as you waited for whatever it was he was building to. Satoru was silent for a moment, then brought his hand to his mouth, biting down on his thumb.

You gasped at the dull noise it made, sitting up as you shot him a confused look. The man seemed unbothered, extending his hand to you as if offering you something.

“If you’re sure.” He was watching you closely, blue eyes following the slight changes in your body language as you glance at him, then his hand in confusion.

You blinked. Satoru’s blood was golden, beads that looked akin to jewelry sat neatly upon his skin. You glanced up at him again, eyes searching his face for an answer.

“I am sure.” You murmured, not quite understanding what he wanted you to do. Satoru smiled, lifting his thumb closer to your face and wiggling it.

“The blood of a god is coveted by some.” He looked strangely smug, “It contains the secret to immortality.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, waiting for the manic smile to hit and for the god to tell you it was a joke. But when he didn’t, you cautiously leaned forward, wrapping your lips around the digit.

His blood tasted of sunshine and yet was also nothing. You shuddered as you pulled back, nose wrinkling slightly as you licked your lips, swiping the remnants of the droplets. Nothing happened. You felt the same and you again waited for the infernal smile you knew he was going to throw your way.

“What would you like to be the goddess of?” Satoru asked, itching the thumb. You noted it was completely healed as if nothing had happened. For a moment you sat, mind racing as you struggled with the odd nothingness of what had occurred. Pondering the question, you flopped back down, pulling the blankets close as you thought. If he wasn’t playing a prank, what would you be best at?

You thought of the village that was your home and the gods they whispered about. Turning over different jobs, of things in nature you enjoyed. There were too many options. But finally, you thought of Ama, of the shrine. Of the loneliness the old woman had experienced.

“The goddess of forgotten shrines and their keepers.” You murmured. Satoru seemed surprised at your choice, humming as he thought.

“I think that one isn’t taken.” His brilliant blue gaze raked over your form and you shivered as a warmth spread through your limbs. It was as if you had gulped down sake, the sensation unlike anything else. A buzzing existed in your limbs, fizzing through your veins and nerves like sunlight itself was warming you from the inside out.

“There you are.” He laughed, reaching out with one long finger and tapping you on the nose. “It’ll be strange at first. Hearing them when they pray. But you’ll figure out how to filter it.”

You frowned at that, nestling deeper in the blankets as you concentrated.

Silence.

Then.

“Whoever resides here–”

“I’m sorry, I’m old–.”

“They forgot about this place, I hope my staying here doesn’t–”

“Are you still here? Can you —”

Fragments, barely whispers twisted through your mind. You sat upright, eyes unfocused as you tried to listen to them. There were too many and they were all so quiet.

“How many abandoned shrine keepers are there?” You turned, fighting back an odd sadness that swelled in your chest. Satoru hummed, leaning back on the plush pillows, fingers drumming lightly against his bare chest.

“Too many.” His piercing blue eyes fixed on the ceiling, “Plus the accidental shrines.”

You tilted your head at that, shivering slightly as another whisper danced through your mind.

“Humans create their own shrines without realizing it.” Satoru focused on you, reaching out to run a hand along your bare side.

“Children with sticks and plush toys. Adults with their particularly set up kitchens.” He shrugged, his expression one of amused resignation, “They don’t realize that they do it, that their thoughts are structured like prayers.”

Satoru’s gaze slid away from you, his expression becoming somber. “They tend to get ignored. None of us see merit in picking up their prayers.”

You swallowed the hurt and irritation that welled in your stomach. Satoru was a god, he had admitted to thinking something as simple as a bath let him see how humans lived. He and no doubt the others had such a removed view of how humanity lived. Human needs and emotions were foreign. Yes, Satoru had emotion. But it always seemed guarded or inappropriately placed.

You lay back in the blankets, dwelling on the echoed whispers in your mind.

“Will I disappear if they stop creating shrines? If they abandon the notion of gods?” You asked, eyes searching the dark expanse above. Satoru rolled over, slipping his arm over your waist and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“The last prayer Sukuna got was well over a thousand years ago. He’s become a bit of a recluse, but he’s still here.”

You had no idea who Sukuna was but the thought was comforting. Satoru rested his forehead against yours, flashing you a brilliant smile.

“You don’t have to worry.”

You raised an eyebrow at that, eyes searching his. The man snickered to himself as he continued “I’ll always be here to worship you.”

You rolled your eyes at that, letting a small puff of laughter out. His response tickled your mind however and a question arose.

“What are you even the god of?” You should have honestly asked sooner. With all his joking and lackadaisical attitude, you had assumed he was something soft and kind. But Satoru’s response about ignoring small shrines lended to a more arrogant nature under his cheerful facade.

The man grinned, the smile sharp and unlike anything you had seen before.

“I am the god of power.”

You quirked an eyebrow at that. “So, War, physical strength?”

He shook his head, then paused and nodded. “Yes and no.”

Satoru sat up, flexing his arms. You watched the muscles jump and ripple as he did so.

“There is also power in names, in blood ties. Power exists now in money and goods.”

He spread his arms wide, looking a tad manic.

“For humans, to feel powerful, look or sound powerful, they crave it.”

You shuddered as you listened, thinking of Mahito, of the village you had grown up in. Satoru looked at you, his gaze serious.

“I alone am a god ingrained in the nature of humans.”

You hummed at that, eyes shifting away from him and back to the great expanse of black. Whispers tickled the back of your mind, gentle wishes and murmured prayers for help twisting together into a droning hum.

“Ok not the only one but, the most powerful one.” You glanced back to see Satoru wiggling his eyebrows at you. Laughing, you pulled the blankets closer, peeking at him from around the soft fabric.

“The power god is the most powerful? How poetic.” Your tone was teasing and you let out a squeak as Satoru yanked the blankets up, sliding beneath with you. His face was close, the intense blue of his eyes drilling into your soul as he wagged a finger at you.

“New gods don’t get to be bratty to old gods.”

You snorted, “You’re right grandpa, I apologize.”

You shrieked as he started tickling you in response, Satoru cackling like a madman as he did so. While he might not have realized it, the interaction felt so human. It was a connection you had silently wished for while at the shrine. To have a friend to hold. One who you could laugh with.

“I’m going to do good for all of them.” You murmured when he finally stopped, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. Satoru raised one eyebrow in question, his hands pulling you closer beneath the warm blankets.

“My shrine keepers.” You elaborated, “I won’t abandon them.”

Satoru hummed at that, “You better do good.” His tone was teasing, but the look on his face was serious. It was your turn to raise an eyebrow, the man sighing as he fiddled with one strand of his pale hair.

“I may have broken a rule or two by bringing you here and letting you become a god.”

Your mouth dropped open at that and you sat up, heart racing. Satoru saw your panic and was quick to follow, pulling you into a hug.

“As I said. I’m the best. I get to break rules.” His tone was too casual for your liking and you shot him a glare, irritation swelling in your throat. Satoru could tell you were about to snap out something harsh, the man burying his face in your shoulder.

“They might be mad, might take you aside to make sure I didn’t pressure you.”

He shrugged, lifting his head to look at you. Part of you murmured that after haze of sex was a time when most people had lowered inhibitions. But it wasn’t like you could have just gone back. You had already committed to living with Satoru, even as just a human. The forever promise was a bonus.

“But that's all they can do.” He finished, flopping back onto the bed with an irritated sigh.

“The red tape bastard is going to have a fit and all that’ll be is annoying.”

You lay back down, pulling the blanket over the both of you. There was still no need for sleep in this realm. Even after the slight workout you and Satoru had done. But you felt mentally tired. You knew you would have to face the other gods, the consequences of Satoru’s actions. Warm and snuggled next to the man, your eyes slid shut. Sleep came easy. The prayers of your shrines lulling you into the deep abyss of slumber. You could deal with the outcome later. When you awoke, your first task would be tending the shrines.

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