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q-library · 18 days ago

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𝐈 · 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐒.

fem reader x mydei · words 10.7k MASTERLIST | NEXT PART (tba)

𐂥 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 · · · the one and only paradise left in all amphoreus — the holy city of okhema — at last welcomes you within its borders. but even what’s made of pure alabaster and gemstones, up close is marred with imperfections. and you become one of those as well.

𐂥 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 · · · sort of prologue, switching perspectives, the story here is tame but still veiled with themes of discrimination, dealing with a crisis in the city, political corruption, workplace abuse, and more…

𐂥 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 · · · hello! the first chapter is finally out and i pray i won’t die trying to write the ones that follow. i hope anyone who decides to read it ends up enjoying it! i’d appreciate being gentle with any feedback as i’ve poured blood, sweat and tears into this story, and i hold it close to my heart due to personal reasons. thank you!

Fed on stories of the Holy City for your entire journey, you can’t help but feel excited. As the caravan passes the last hill and the wheels rattle onto smoother stone, the quiet night starts to brighten. From behind the curtain of clouds and dark fog, a globe of light resting atop the Worldbearing Titan, on Kephale’s shoulders, welcomes all weary travellers with its warmth and hope to see one more sunny day. It does not pierce the darkness — it invites it to soften.

Looking at the Dawn Device for the very first time marks the first dawn of a new life as well. With mouth agape, you watch as the divine gift grows and grows with each passed road sign, and you wonder if it covers the whole sky over Okhema.

“The golden city,” the man beside you says, his voice already changed by nostalgia. “You will fall in love there, this I can promise. The world outside may be corrupted, but… no, everything in Okhema is how it was. As if Era Chrystea has never ended.”

“I don’t believe you, sir!” you laugh, a rare moment of lightness.

“You don’t have to, hah! You’ll see it with your own eyes tomorrow, maybe in two days at most.”

As the first day fades, the delay begins to stir unease.

You arrive to find the outer city burning.

The attack had happened just a few hours earlier — creatures blackened by corruption, hunched and warped like failed sculptures of man and beast, stormed through the outer districts, clawing into stone and flesh alike.

What greets your group from outside the walls is chaos. Soldiers pick through the wreckage for survivors, charred items, stray talons. Caravans are left overturned, flames licking at the forgotten shipments, and refugees wander in circles as if trying to reassemble their lives from fragments on the ground.

People rush through the open gates in the mountain in both directions. Some try to flee. Some try to return. Scattered citizens collect dropped goods, and others call out for friends and family. Water is thrown on small fires and it shimmers like liquid crystals. (You’ve never seen water so clear in your life, not even when passing over the streams in the mountains.)

You stay close to your companion, following him towards the main road and the large marble bridge — one built to trace a rainbow’s curve into the city’s centre. The colours are faded because of the smoke, but it still glows under the Dawn Device’s radiance.

“How could that happen?!” you ask, trying to match his fast pace.

“It’s not unusual… although rare.”

“You haven’t said anything about it…!” Your voice cracks slightly. You’re trying not to look too shaken, but your steps falter. It’s not that you’ve never seen worse, but you didn’t expect to see it in the Holy City. Not so close, not while still catching breath after stepping from the road.

“Everything beautiful that I said about Okhema is true, and I will stand by those words even now.” The man doesn’t stop, but he glances at you with something like an apology tugging at his brow. “We are blessed that this was but a surge of lost black tide creatures and not a coordinated attack of the Titankin.”

You don’t know whether his reassurance is meant for you or for himself.

“Will these people be alright?”

“Okhema is still the safest place in all Amphoreus. People get hurt more tripping over ditched carts in panic than because of the black tide monsters.” Your companion forces a dry chuckle, flattening the crease on his sleeve. “The city always finds its balance again — you’ll see. We’re just in the noisy part of the fall before everyone remembers how to stand upright.”

You see a giant — a real Mountain Dweller — kneeling beside a group of children, one massive arm curved gently around them like a wall. His calm presence seems to hush their restlessness and weepy hiccups. A golden bell hums from a small roof above them — the dromas caravan stop, its beams askew but still standing. You were meant to disembark there if not for the chaos outside the first gate. Now it’s a landmark you pass by quickly, one that has turned into a place of improvised shelter. The bench is crooked, scorched at one corner, but the kids sit in a row as if waiting for something ordinary to resume.

Before you can peek behind you again, the grim parade of returning soldiers, draped in crimson robes and clad in golden armour, enters the passage soon after the crowd. Their rounded shields, burnished though battered and chipped at the edges, gleam faintly beneath the layer of dust, while swords and spears are at last laid down. They look every bit as if the battlefield still clung to them.

Now they come back not as conquerors but as guardians — just like Nikador, Titan of Strife, had once protected the land before he descended into madness and turned his blade against Amphoreus. Protection is a word heavy with honour, but where there should have been gratitude, there’s unease. The people gathering at the sides of the main road cheer only faintly; more they gossip and cast judgemental gazes instead. The battle-ready soldiers of Kremnos bring a dread that no chivalry could dispel, regardless of how many lives they saved.

The man at their head walks differently, like he’s carrying something far heavier than his own armour. Something in your body shrinks at the sight of him. He looks even more frightening than any black tide creature: his clothes are half-stiff with dried blood, both red and black, and a glimmer of gold sprinkled over his face. His hair is matted, lumped together with mud and ichor from…

“… Wounds that heal on his body faster than one could inflict another.” You hear people behind your back gossiping to each other. You don’t want to believe them, but looking back at the warrior, if anyone here could challenge death itself, it would be him.

You’ve heard many stories on your way to Okhema. Everyone has talked about Chrystos Heirs like they’re sent by the heavens to save the world. It’s been years since one more member joined their group, though for many people, mere years mean nothing as they live long enough to count in centuries.

There’s one tale already known from one shore to another — about the glorious combat challenge between the two gold-blooded heroes. One called the Deliverer — Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, who bears the colours of Okhema and claims victory wherever he goes. The other one, Mydeimos — the crowned prince of Castrum Kremnos, the ruined citadel from the south, once hailed as a boy of war. No one knows if the Kremnoan Detachment was marching to doom anyone on their path or to bring salvation. However, the evenly matched fight between two Chrystos Heirs stopped it altogether — that is exactly why many are still uncertain if Prince Mydeimos is a welcome guest. Some say that if he was sent to save them, the gods must’ve grown tired of mercy.

The man you’d been travelling with was positively odd, kind, and a little too chatty for someone his age throughout the journey. You wouldn’t suspect him to be any disrespectful… until you saw him join the commotion and throw overripe fruits at the Kremnoan legion returning from the wide bridge.

“Sir, what are you doing?” you half-whisper through gritted teeth, grabbing his sleeve.

“This is what happens when you let Kremnoans into the city,” he snarls, fingers dripping with fig syrup, eyes flashing.

“What did they do?” you ask, panicked and confused. “Didn’t they just save those people?”

“Who knows? In that chaos?! We open the gate, they pretend to save us, and the next thing you know, they steal and rape!”

“Sir, it’s not okay to say those things!” you try to reason, but as it seems, Nikador and Cerces speak different languages.

“This is how they are. They smile while they set your house on fire.”

You want to argue. You really do. But your words catch behind your tongue because the man’s voice isn’t the only one anymore. Chatter and agitation grow together around you, formed from ill wishes and fuelled by hysteria that still remains after the attack. You hear all kinds of curses, confessions, and accusations.

“That witch will get us all killed,” someone mutters — they mean Aglaea, the city’s ruler. “We will see her dead sooner than later!”

“She’s not even mortal anymore…”

“She let a lion loose and now expects him to sit quietly by her throne.” Apparently, some believe that the Kremnoan Detachment plans to take over Aglaea’s position and influence.

“A witch and a lion! What will become of this city during Lord Phainon’s absence…?”

“He will be back soon!”

“If he’s saving people somewhere else, surely he will come to aid us, too!”

It startles you how easily comfort breeds contempt. From what you understand, people in Okhema live conveniently, which means that as soon as that nicety is taken away from them, they start arguing. It’s bizarre to someone like you who has just joined them after a long struggle on the road. You’ve come from the darkness high up north. You’ve walked over the bones of emptied cities, trying to escape the black tide. To you, this place still looks like salvation — but to its people, even salvation needs scapegoats.

The legion passes, unamused and unfazed. Their backs are straight, and their silence is somehow louder than the crowd.

Your companion finally calms down. He exhales hard, wiping his sticky hand on his coat with a hushed curse meant only for himself. Then he swings his bag over his shoulder and glances your way.

“Come on,” he says, gentler now. “My place isn’t far — just past the mural gate and left of one of the shrines. You’ll be safe there tonight.”

You’ll be safe, you repeat in your mind, as if that’s something people mean permanently. You hesitate only a moment before following.

But the moment you turn past the corner, whatever sense of safety his words gave you crumbles.

There is no house.

There is rubble, still licked by a dying fire that glows faintly beneath splintered beams. You can tell the mansion had once stood tall, opulent and with many rooms. A garden had trailed down into what must have been a shopfront, now blackened and half-buried in dirt. The twisted remains of ceramic tiles glitter like scattered jewels. He must have been a successful merchant here, you think.

Now all of it is gone.

Your companion drops his bag without a word and sprints ahead. His voice rises quickly, breaking into raw shouts. You watch him scream at the few pale figures who stumble from the nearby archway — housemates, business partners, staff, maybe even family, who knows. He demands an explanation for the charred walls, the scorched stone. His words are too tangled to catch. All you can do is stand there, heavy with someone else’s grief.

Eventually, he drags his feet back towards you again.

“You must forgive me,” he says, brushing ash from his sleeve with a hand that still smells of figs and smoke. “There’s nothing I can offer you right now.”

You feel disappointment stir in your chest, but you don’t want to burden the man. After all, he’s a stranger, and you shouldn’t ask for more from someone who’s just lost everything.

“I understand,” you say, quietly. “Good luck, sir.”

“Thank you. I’m sure you’ll make it.” He smiles, half-honest, half-trained. “Please look for the instructions on the murals. You’ll find the place where refugees can register and receive basic help.”

“Thank you. Are you going there, too?”

“I will, I will… I just want to see if there’s anything here worth saving. But you should go! There might be a queue.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

And then you leave him, with your reluctance slowing your feet. You think about turning back and offering to help. Staying. But something tells you it would only make things worse.

The streets are quieter now, and the panic that swelled through the gates like fever starts to thin. Besides a mess on the streets, the inner districts of the city barely look like they suffered an unexpected blow. You think of the ruined mansion as you pass the gossiping crowd — how easily things fall apart, whether built on stone or trust.

Following the overly elegant instructions along the stone walls, you make your way towards the Marmoreal Palace. It towers above the valley and layers of smaller houses, a monolith of white marble and golden ornaments, elegant and pristine even beneath the air that still smells faintly of rust. The banners with symbols of each Titan, painted with purpura, the imperial dye, sway from the azurite columns. It’s said the palace has always served a dual purpose — both as the governing residence and as a place of healing. And today, it lives up to the title.

People stream in and out of its open baths and long halls — hurried, uneven, with the little space between the masses filled with voices and the tang of sweat, ash, and ointments. There’s a rhythm to the disarray, like a city breathing too fast. Volunteers — mostly medical scholars from the Grove — move between groups to offer water, bandages, and fresh clothes folded with rushed care. Some kneel beside soldiers in crimson, wiping blood from their brows or helping them out of the tightened metal pieces. These are the same soldiers who were jeered at earlier, but no one mocks them now.

You join the line that curves around the entrance and spell your name to have it written on a scroll. No one asks where you’ve come from, your past left unquestioned. You’re given a blanket and two cloth bags: one with dried fruit, hard oval bread and simple produce; the other with a change of tunic and a set of self-care tools still wrapped in linen, though the bundle seems smaller than what others received.

It’s difficult not to stare when the grand pool casts iridescent shimmer on the sapphire walls and turquoise silks draped around rings high above your head. For a brief moment there, you’re nearly certain there’s a golden figure standing at the edge of the hanging bath that overlooks the entire gallery, but with another glimmer of passing lights, the presence is gone. The Overflowing Bath seems too beautiful to be accessible to all civilians, but it’s true, if you believe what you overhear from mingled conversations. You do not wish to participate, too overwhelmed by today’s events to even think of starting a dialogue.

You wash your face in the fountain basin just off the main courtyard. The water is colder than expected, but clear and refreshing. The baths are closed for today and will probably be for the next day as well, but you wouldn’t use them anyway, too unsure about stepping into a vast space full of people with but a towel to yourself.

The flowers growing on the other side of the polished balustrade are almost glowing with their intense purple shade, and you cannot see the part of the city that was attacked from the alcove. It seems peaceful, almost perfect, and the Dawn Device casts an orange light announcing changing hours. For the first time in months, it’s silent enough around you to hear the wind and subtle songs of birds and nymphs living high up the lakes from where the water flows into the bathhouse.

Without anything better to do with yourself, you roam around for the next few days, getting to know the layout of the streets and gardens, which paths are easy to walk and which curl towards steep hills.

The best place to draw is the flat shore of one of the shallow ponds nestled between the Marmoreal Palace and the market square. You don’t mean to attract attention — it’s just something to do with your hands, lines and spirals sketched idly with a stick into damp sand while your thoughts drift. But someone notices. You think he must be rich — his robes are deep indigo, stitched with the patterns only worn by those who worship Phagousa, and his speech carries the smooth accent of southern courts. He watches you for a while before casually asking if you know how to paint. You do.

The job he offers is strange, maybe even absurd. Something about restoring murals in a forgotten house or painting symbols onto imported silk. He omits the details, but you accept it, curious and having no better alternative.

(For a time, it will be decent work.)

Later the same day, you sit on the stone wall near the gardens and wag your legs mindlessly. The sky shines like burnt peach above you, unmarred by clouds. The sun is gently warming your skin, local food between your fingers and on your tongue.

You will eventually have to settle down like a proper citizen, but maybe that man — the one throwing figs who lost his mansion — was right, after all.

Any worries weigh less in Okhema.

(You see him a few weeks later, wearing golden earrings and bracelets around his wrists. By either luck or the generous help of the ruling party, the man has reclaimed a portion of his wealth — maybe not everything, but from just a glance certainly enough not to mourn. But he’s forgotten you, and something tells you that even if you approached him, he would not remember.)

One quiet truth about peace is that it makes government meetings feel unnecessary — a chore endlessly postponed, filled with the invention of problems where none exist. That’s what many in the Council of Elders murmur behind a neatly folded edges of their chitons. With the last real threat to the city now a distant memory from years ago, there’s little to do. Bored politicians nod off in their seats or look away from petty crimes below their status, half-irritated, half-relieved that Lady Aglaea has kept order all this time. For generations now — and with each passing year more than the last — she has extended her reach, her web of omnipresent eyes tightening patiently across Okhema. What is hidden from others is never hidden from her.

But the gatherings of those who follow the Flame-Chase Journey do not falter.

The day is bright, and the aquamarine sky above the Holy City seems to shimmer just a little more than usual with the breeze of the gentle west wind. Aglaea stands near the edge of the golden bath, sunlight clinging to the folds of her white dress. She watches the departing backs of the Chrystos Heirs in silence, not much different than the statues holding the columns; already having said enough during the discussion, she’s quieter than the water licking the mosaic, until one of the group in particular steps into the descending lift.

“Mydeimos,” she calls, not loud, but it halts him all the same — she has never needed to raise her voice to command attention.

He turns at once.

“Yes, Lady Aglaea?”

“Has Okhema been kind to you and your people?”

There’s a pause before he responds — calculating what is right to tell her and what is not. “The city has offered us shelter. Work. A future, of sorts. But many remember what Kremnoans once did to their cities.”

Aglaea finally stops gazing at the sky to meet his eyes and asks, “Do you blame them?”

“No,” Mydei says. “We did invade. We took what wasn’t ours. We brought fear, and now we live among those who remember it. I understand. But my people are not the same men who carried weapons. Most of them had not even been born yet. Still… peace takes longer to teach than war.”

A slow nod from her, as if she’s weighing not only his answer but his efforts. “And you? Can you call Okhema your home?”

Mydei hesitates at her question. It’s hidden in the narrowing of his eyes, in the faint shift of his posture — but it betrays the ripple of discomfort.

“Kremnos is our home,” he replies, clearly puzzled. “And I try not to think about myself before others. My people… still face much. Not violence, not outright, but…” He exhales, glancing aside. “We aren’t easily forgotten, not in a city full of survivors.”

“Perhaps,” she murmurs, “the answer will come in time. If not for them, then for you.”

He says nothing, but she catches the way his gaze lingers — thoughtful, maybe grateful, maybe only more burdened.

“Do you still struggle with debates and diplomacy here?”

A faint, rueful smile touches his lips. “I’m learning. From watching you, mostly.”

She accepts the compliment without a word, simply folding her hands at her waist, golden fingers briefly brushing over the frills.

“I want you to investigate one place,” she tells him at last.

Mydei straightens. “What place?”

Aglaea lowers her chin just slightly, opal eyes reflecting the sun-drenched water at her feet.

“There’s a workshop up the southwestern hill. It handles storage and distribution of goods for refugees. Donations, emergency supplies, trades authorised by the Council of Elders.

“It’s a little more than a lattice of greed,” she continues. “The owner takes what is freely given, sells it for profit… or worse. Some people never see what they were promised. Others are coerced, indebted, or simply disappear.”

“Disappear how?” Mydei’s jaw tenses.

“There are links to brothels. The kind even the Council won’t acknowledge. I suspect some of the missing end up there — traded like coins. I need to prove their wrongdoings. Enough to dissolve the business by law, not merely by force.”

“What should I do once I arrive there?”

“I made an order, listed as intended for the Council of Elders. I have reasons to believe that within the crates should be hidden evidence — unedited documents and payments, unlike the official ones. That’s what I need.”

“Wouldn’t Phainon be a better choice to—”

“He won’t,” she cuts in smoothly. “Not this time. He’s directly under my care and associated with me too closely. If they realise I’m sending my messenger, they’ll react. You’ll go as allied with the Council of Elders — as cruel as it is, I must use the fact that Kremnoans are not fond of me.”

“So this is why you’ve remained indifferent to the offences my people and I face on the streets. It is cruel… but I understand.”

“Do not lose your composure, Mydeimos.” Her tone softens, though her eyes remain sharp. “We’re not confronting a merchant. We’re confronting someone who profits from desperation — and people like that, as you know, are rarely easy targets.”

“So I might meet innocent workers there, ones who know little of the scheme.”

“Many of them may be underpaid, misled, or too frightened. They may believe they are helping others — and in a small way, they are. The goods do flow outward. But not to the right people.”

Mydei nods slowly.

“It’s the right moment for you to change and let your weapons rest in times of peace. You are not there to punish the unwitting,” Aglaea affirms. “I will take care of the rest once you succeed with retrieving the order.”

Under the canopy of blossoming trees, where dappled sunlight spills liquid gold onto the dusty path, one could believe that the world is not ending. You secure another freshly washed canvas on the wooden loom to stretch it, the damp fabric cool against your fingertips. Amidst the heavy scent from the flowerbeds and the gentle rustle of olive leaves, the pale light of Okhema’s Dawn Device feels softer, less demanding.

Yet, peace is a fragile thing…

A shadow falls beside yours, and the man standing there — arms crossed, brow furrowed like he’s been stewing in his own discontent since waking up — judges your movements with undisguised disapproval. He scrunches his nose and huffs, as though your simple act of labour is a personal affront.

“These tasks aren’t meant for someone like you.”

You barely glance up, pinning the canvas corner. Your gut warns against stirring the fire, but Elpenor is always like this, just getting on your nerves while all you do is mind your own business.

“Someone like me?”

“Weren’t you supposed to be working on our production instead?” He ignores your question.

“It’s busy there now. I’m still working, though!”

“You carry yourself as if you belong among the city’s true craftsmen and scribes, handling materials meant for record and art,” he clarifies, spitting the word as if it tastes foul.

“Are you jealous…?”

His gaze sweeps dismissively over your practical tunic and the row of drying canvases. “Of what? Of an unwed woman in rags?”

Unwed. He’s poking needles under your skin. That much, at least, confirms you were right — he sees you as a threat.

“You’re not even getting paid for this. What’s the point?” he snorts.

Dust motes dance in the shafts of light between you.

“I’m only volunteering to help those in need on Lady Aglaea’s official request.”

“The Council will pull those banners down soon enough — they always do. And you… now you’re playing the saint? With your salary? When other Okhemans keep their heads down and do what’s assigned?”

A flicker of annoyance stirs inside, but you tamp it down. The Librarium at the Marmoreal Market is almost certainly about to accept you as the apprentice in the upcoming days, and you’ll leave this poisonous place.

Just give yourself some patience. It will soon be over…

You wipe your damp hands on the cloth tied at your waist and curl a bit into yourself, meeting his resentful gaze. Your voice remains quiet, yet holds a subtle edge, like wind whistling through brittle parchment,

“I’m not from Okhema.”

“You live in Okhema now,” he hisses. “And being an unmarried woman is enough to silence your tongue,” he sneers, lips twisting in contempt. “Yes, I’ve heard you had declined the proposal from our boss.”

So he has heard…

You wish Elpenor could break his leg one day on the way to the workshop and not pester you or the boss just to gleen useless information.

“I don’t think it’s proper to accept a marriage offer when one works for the other,” you say, your voice indifferent as you return to your paused activity. It’s the truth, but you don’t mention the whole truth.

“He won’t take a second refusal, you know. Or are you really that naive?” Elpenor’s voice drops low, almost conspiratorial, as he rests his arm on his hip. “He had to leave to take care of more important matters, but you won’t escape your duty another time.”

“There’s no value in me as a wife.” You shrug.

“You should be grateful he even considered taking a sickly woman as his wife!” He says it as if unaware that it was meant as ownership. But he is stupid. And you know that all too well.

“I would only disappoint him, more than I already disappoint him as an employee.”

“Well, then surely there’s still some use for you in the brothels.” Elpenor eyes your whole body, and you shudder, trying not to gag.

His face twists, ready to continue, but his tirade dies in his throat as another presence joins you beneath the olive trees, silent and sudden as a hawk’s descent.

Towering over both of you stands a man seemingly forged from sunlight and bronze. The crown prince of Kremnos, Mydeimos. Known here as the warrior of Okhema, Mydei. You’ve seen him before from afar — a radiant but terrifying figure often standing near Lady Aglaea during the public debates.

Up close, his presence is overwhelming. Scarlet markings, akin to ritual scars, run through his exposed chest and beneath the crimson robe that hangs loosely on his shoulders. His hair, the colour of bright honey, is messily brushed behind his ear, revealing the proud, sharp lines of his face. And his eyes — molten amber, currently fixed on Elpenor with a look that could curdle milk.

He doesn’t speak or move aggressively, yet the sheer, coiled power emanating from him makes the air crisp, silencing even the lingering buzz of insects, such as your supervisor.

“Lord Mydei! H-here?!” Elpenor stammers, his voice jumping an octave as he straightens abruptly and wipes his hands on his tunic like a child caught stealing figs.

“Here, indeed,” Mydei replies, and his tone doesn’t fit this place, like he’s announcing himself in a court chamber rather than a quiet garden path. “May Kephale bless your day.”

“Ah, your arrival must’ve been brought by the generous west wind! Elpenor, at your service!” He bows, a taut string let loose. “How can I help you today?”

“I’m meant to collect the order commissioned by the Council of Elders.”

“Ah, right, that one! I know which one! Please give me a moment; I will get it ready!”

The rat of a man mutters an excuse, nearly tripping over a tree root in his haste to leave immediately.

Please, break your leg…

Silence returns, punctuated only by the murmur of the production on the other side of the wooden fence and the distant chatter of the city. Mydei’s intense gaze shifts from the retreating figure, lingers for a moment on the drying canvases swaying gently in the breeze, and then settles on you. He takes in your dishevelled state, the faint flush on your cheeks, and the determined look despite the argument. His expression remains impassive, perhaps but a fraction less stern than when confronting the other man.

His voice is rough and resonant. It carries easily even when nearly whispering, “Are you alright? You seem a moment away from crying.”

You startle slightly and smooth down your tunic for no reason other than just to pull your eyes away from him.

“I’m sorry— I, well, didn’t expect any of it.”

“Rest assured.”

“Just in time. I appreciate your intervention, O Chrysos Heir Mydei,” you manage, the formal title awkward yet necessary on your tongue. “But you shouldn’t concern yourself. I’m but a mere part-time worker here and a volunteer for Lady Aglaea’s initiative.”

A flicker of something — perhaps impatience, perhaps mild offence — crosses his features.

“I am not ordering you around,” he states, his tone level but firm. “And I wish you to respect my judgement all the same. Do not tell me what concerns should or shouldn’t capture my attention.”

“My apologies!” You dip your head slightly, feeling thoroughly chastened. “My words were unbecoming. Please, allow me to repay your kindness and reward your visit here. Perhaps… perhaps you would accept a small token? A crafted trinket from the workshop, maybe?” You gesture vaguely towards the nearby building, a part of the business you work for.

Mydei’s gaze follows your gesture, then returns to the drying plaster dolia near the kiln and the canvases, his eyes briefly focusing on the clean cut, the sturdy weave. He adjusts the strap of his pauldron, though it clearly needs no fixing.

“You artists master the fine arts, shape beauty from clay and pigment, weave tales into thread. Your gifts are often pleasing to the eye…” he pauses, his gaze becoming distant, pragmatic. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I cannot help but wonder how many of these delicate skills prove useful when dire times truly descend upon us.”

“Oh,” you say softly, taken aback by his bluntness. “I suppose… I suppose many hope there will be no such dire times.”

“Foolish,” he clicks his tongue, though without malice. “The dire times have already begun. But,” a subtle shift in his mien, a softening almost imperceptible, “I hope you, at least, face no evil greater than the insolence of that man.”

If only…

But Lord Mydei doesn’t know you or anything about your life.

For a while there, you play with the embroidered hem, unable to face him fully, merely stealing glances. His intimidating aura is undeniable, yet beneath the surface there’s…

A strange tenderness hiding in the mane of a lion, the thought flits through your mind.

“Speak up if you have something to add.”

Nothing gets past his sharp eyes. Nothing. Pinned in place by the quiet command, you sigh and reply with a wavering courage,

“You appear formidable, lord. Intimidating, even. But the way you speak…” You gesture uncertainly. “You care deeply about the people around you, even strangers. I… I hope you don’t have to worry about your companions in real battles.”

“Hmph.” A scoff rumbles in his chest, not exactly what one might expect from a prince. His voice returns after a moment, shedding the earlier hint of softness, regaining its confident edge. “Fear not — my companions are no less capable than I. We look forward to victory, never dwell on the possibility of a defeat.”

“That is good to hear. I wish you all the success.”

“Appreciated. What a—”

“Lord Mydei, please come this way! The order is ready to be collected!” Elpenor calls him from under the arch of the entrance to the warehouse.

Mydei glances your way one last time, a farewell both fierce and calming, like he’s trying to believe you’ll be alright once left alone. You lower your head before he can read anything else from your face. And just in the blink of an eye, his entire presence is gone from your orbit, following his original mission of visiting the supplier.

With a slow stride, he joins the manager beneath the arch and vanishes into the shadows of the warehouse, the sunlight glinting once more on his golden hair before he disappears inside.

Elpenor frowns at you behind Lord Mydei’s back, and you purse your lips before returning to your canvases. Anxious, because you know your supervisor will nag you further, just not personally, but probably by sending you a rotten apple for dinner. However, you still prefer skipping one meal if it means he won’t be complaining about you to your current boss, the one who had proposed to you before.

Just give yourself some patience. It will soon be over…

It starts with screaming and complaining, the usual. Then, a tug at your hair, not enough to hurt, but enough to fray your nerves. To make sure you’re not too calm in your steps, what Elpenor often says. To test it, he pushes you, just to see if you can save the thing you were just carrying in your hands. If not — if you dropped it — you’re forced on the ground to clean it up with vulgarisms lisped above your head.

Sometimes you regret leaving the job before this one — better pay, more stimulating work, and fewer intrusive supervisors. But even passion for art can erode under enough pressure, and the man from back then, the one dressed in robes with Phagousa’s patterns, did omit important details. The danger wasn’t loud or obvious, but it lurked in every corner, whispering that your safety was conditional, your freedom fragile. Comfort came at a cost you couldn’t afford.

(You buried those memories for a reason. To deal with none of them ever again.)

You try to argue with yourself that you need money, but earning so little is not worth what you have to endure here day by day. Alas, ending up unemployed scares you more than dealing with Elpenor’s weak attempts at intimidating you — it hurts when he’s using violence against you, but it rarely puts more pressure on your body than the everyday work. What is more worrying is that running away would certainly bring the attention of your boss.

Because what a man fears more than himself is another man. Rarely a woman. Unless she is claimed by another, but even then, her safety is merely borrowed. Your only shield against Elpenor’s worst was the boss’s unwanted interest in you. A hollow sort of protection, but enough to keep the exhaustion from getting worse.

You drop the small dolium, its warmth from drying in the sun slipping through your fingers. With the clink of shattered clay, you wake up, sweaty and startled.

No, it happened in a dream.

You’re no longer there, no longer having a reason for a restless sleep. In the stillness, you reach out in the dark, your fingers brushing the rim of the clay bowl kept beside your bed. The water inside is lukewarm and helps you settle back into reality.

The room is shadowed, curtains drawn thick against the eternal daylight. The sun never sets here, not fully. The Dawn Device only shifts its hue from pale blush through bright gold to amber haze. You had to pin the fabric carefully, double the layers, to mimic the night you were raised in. You lie back, not sure if sleep will come again, but comforted by the hush of the Curtain-Fall Hour.

You don’t miss your previous occupation.

An illegal business it was, sure something you had suspected but could never prove. You didn’t want to lose a job either; failing to report without enough evidence would mean being thrown out or even beaten up. Nothing you wouldn’t survive, perhaps, but had it really been an illegal business, you would also pose no threat to a smuggler or two.

It would be unwise to expect a lavish life. You wish to think not long after arriving to Okhema, but you know a lavish life is not meant for you. Ever. This is fine, though. As long as you can keep yourself happy and healthy, you ask for no luxuries. And, hopefully, such a goal is realistic enough, even in the city that devours itself despite the peace at first glance.

Although crimes officially do not exist here, sometimes it takes a while before they are discovered: small theft, assaults of many causes and consequences, exploitation. And being poor is not a crime. The city goes through difficult seasons when new refugees from places that fell to the black tide join the population. And while you know that the Council of Elders tries its best to provide, it’s not enough for everyone. Brothels, shady trades, questionable prices for goods that were supposed to be delivered free, unfair fights and deals — all are always present in the bleak shadows under the Dawn Device’s perpetual glow.

It’s been a few months since you started your new job at the Librarium. It is not just a repository of knowledge; it is said to have been established from the very instant the concept of books was created. Shelves fill every corner in the cramped space, laden with scrolls, tablets, and books that whisper forgotten histories to those willing to listen. The scent of aged parchment mingles with the faint tang of ink.

Your days now follow a predictable rhythm — and for once, that’s a blessing. You walk down to the first floor early, just as the morning haze begins to lift from the cobbled streets as you first unlock the windows and sweep the floors. The tasks are repetitive: sorting scrolls by era, restocking tablets on the lower shelves, and assisting an occasional scholar or wandering customer with their search. You don’t speak much. Most people don’t expect you to.

There’s no shouting here. No thinly veiled threats, no bribes disguised as pay bonuses, no stomach-gnawing dread every time someone’s shadow loomed over your crouching figure. There’s no boss who has never heard ‘no’ in his life. You are not watched like a potential traitor or worse — a prize. You are allowed to be tired, but you do not feel too exhausted, for once. You’re not thriving, perhaps, but at least you can do more than just survive.

Here is better.

Archilochus, the current owner, is intelligent. Though his old age and a past incident left his speech rather insignificant, slurred, you can sense great knowledge behind each sentence. He is also considerate, allowing you to work though you’re not a part of his family. His son is an archivist, promoted to sort the scrolls at the Bathhouse Library and spending less time behind the counter. A spare pair of hands turned out quite useful, especially now when the shop receives more and more products to sell or to borrow.

“You came here from the production workshop up the southwestern hill?” Archilochus asks one slow morning, squinting at a faded paint on the stone tablet as he dusts the shelf. He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Did you know it was under investigation for a few weeks and closed on the Month of Balance?”

“Wait— you’re certain?” you ask, peering over the counter.

“Was Lord Mydei himself who shut it down. I thought someone like him wouldn’t bother with little liars.”

“W-why? How did you learn about it?”

“Couple of guards from the gate to the market passed the news. They said it was Lady Aglaea’s own voice that ordered the seals on the door. All official. But quietly.”

You slump against the wood, playing with the pen in your hands. “No one told me anything.”

“You’d already quit,” he shrugs. “You weren’t working there legally, I assume? No surprise there’s hardly anyone to associate you with that place. But maybe that’s a good thing.” His dry voice mellows down at the end.

“I just— I wish I’d known. I’d suspected things weren’t… right.”

“It was not your job to play investigator. You did the smart thing. Got out before the storm.”

You nod slowly, heart thudding with quiet disbelief. “And Elpenor?”

“Oh, and who was that?”

“The manager. Not the boss, but bossy for two.”

“Ah, the one you said that was closer to a rat than a human!” Archilochus lets out a soft laugh. “Dead, from what I heard. Fought the arrest, broke his leg while escaping and fell on the lower street. Foolish.”

You have to take a deep breath before your next question. “And the boss?”

“What a good question. I wonder myself… if it’s better to end up in the caged cell or be trialled by Lady Aglaea herself. Perhaps a lifetime in prison is kinder than the judgement of the Goldweaver.”

Archilochus returns to dusting without much more ceremony, leaving you to sit with the news in the hush of the Librarium, ink-stained fingers pressed to your lips.

Dead. The finality of that word scares you because you haven’t thought about the possibility of getting out of that unfortunate place without anything as impossible as a miracle. And yet it happened. Peace. The finality of that word scares you as well, even if peace is rarely something to last long. But now it is peaceful in your life, and the punishment from the boss will never arrive. You will not be forced into a marriage, then. Something you thought of as slavery without calling it one.

(Despite your love for arts, many Okheman traditions, though artistic at first sight, have never aligned with your beliefs, especially not given the treatment of women.)

A reason for your nightmares gone, because you were dreading each day, worried that your new reality would disappear and he would want you — his property — back.

You smile. You’re free to do whatever you want. Okhema gives you another chance to start life anew. Failure after failure, you don’t know how to experience true joy anymore. But you’re happy, even if for a moment before the usual fatigue overwhelms all positive emotions.

In the weeks that follow, you often catch the old man watching you out of the corner of his eye, like he wants to say something else but thought better of it.

The workshop has been abandoned ever since Elpenor’s death, then. The boss wasn’t directly involved with that place, and although he played his pawns, you’ve remembered Elpenor as the one who wasted the potential of that building and the small land attached to it. People who had worked there scattered all around Okhema, and you rarely see familiar faces anymore. Or you don’t remember them, really…

You feel alone again, with only scrolls and tablets to keep you company. Yet in their silence, they offer more comfort than the false warmth of your old workplace ever had.

It starts with a simple exchange — a man searching for a chronicle of his vanished town north of Dolos. He cannot remember the name of the river that once fed its fields. You help him comb through a stack of migration records and land surveys, and when nothing comes up, you scribble a note to ask the archivist on the next shift.

Then a woman from the southern deltas of Aristia arrives, her robes adorned with crystals and her voice like the waves. She tells you, unprompted, while packing cooking recipes, that she once saw a temple sink into the earth in a single day, the marsh reclaiming the Phagousa’s sanctuary without warning. Her people believed it was a punishment. You find her a scroll about flood myths and write down her version in the margins.

It becomes a habit. You start keeping a journal of everything they tell you — fragmentary songs, forgotten holidays, festival customs that no longer have altars to be danced upon. You scramble through old books even off the clock, trying to match their memories to surviving records. When the trail runs cold, you forward them to someone else, an elder from across the street or the client from two days before, anyone familiar from their city-state perhaps, or a linguist who might remember the dialect, or a baker who still knows how to pound the batter the right way to get the regional speciality.

And though you rarely speak about yourself, people begin to trust you. They return, sometimes just to sit and talk. You nod, listen, and file away each tale like a rare relic. Every day you learn how little of the world has remained — and how fiercely people hold onto what still lingers.

It’s already difficult to store all the sheets of the handmade paper under the countertop; it’s too bothersome to bring them back to your room. Located on the first floor, a small lodging above the shop that is not pleasant enough to become permanent but better than any of your previous bedrooms.

Kremnoans rarely visit. Either out of spite and unhealed resentment against Okhema, or because they’re not too interested in reading. Some of them come, speak loudly and proudly, and you jump in your chair but end up fascinated by the energy they’re able to convey through just words. Children are more curious than adults. They point their fingers at tablets and scrolls, ask if you have any legends and stories about their heroes. Some want to learn their language, but the Kremnoan tales in Okhema are told only verbally. Despite being a straightforward language, its alphabet is oddly complex. Moreover, you’ve never encountered a preserved piece that could teach you more than a few phrases.

“Everything from academic classics to popular novellas is included here,” you repeat to a new client what Archilochus always brags about, proud of his business, and then you smile.

But the client is not here for books. The messenger of an utterly forgettable face calls your name instead and says, “I’m glad that I didn’t have to look for you for too long. An invitation to the scroll reading at the Bathhouse Library has been sent to you.”

Though the initial message surprises you, you guess it’s a part of your apprenticeship training. It excites you, but you don’t show it, still too suspicious. Is Archilochus that generous? He’s not known for wasting resources, especially on newcomers. Maybe this is just another task meant to test your memory and manners in public.

“If you wish to participate, be ready on the first day of the Month of Joy.”

You recite the description of the fifth month in your head, having forgotten what it’s like to care for the routines written in the calendar (what a blessing that one copy always stands close to the corner you sit in) and not those pushed onto you through your occupation.

The month when spring cultivation ends. During this month, spring waters flow, and fishermen flourish. The heaviest workload for the year ended last month, and everyone is revelling in the atmosphere of festivity. This is the best month for brewing and holding celebrations, when people wake up, massage their temples in a daze, then shake their heads and go back to sleep.

“Next week, then…”

You bring it up with Archilochus in the late afternoon, while he’s sweeping the front step off the dust and pebbles. He raises an eyebrow at the invitation held before his eyes, but the surprise doesn’t last.

“Not from me,” he says, tapping the side of his nose. “But go. It won’t hurt you. Might even help.” Then he smirks, crooked and sly. “And if you see my son there, remind him to visit his father and the Librarium. He forgets sometimes.”

Not knowing how to prepare, you pack a bag and linger over the choices more than needed. In the end, you slip in parchment and a charcoal set wrapped in a piece of leather, a habit you picked up from collecting tales. Perhaps you’ll take notes, or perhaps you’ll sketch someone’s face if the story grows too dull. You hesitate over a change of clothes (not that you have a difficult choice between one simple dress and another) and then decide against it.

When the day arrives, you walk towards the Marmoreal Palace for the second time in your life. Not to bathe — you’ve never done that there, not once, despite the years spent in Okhema — but to visit the Bathhouse Library. It stands open to all citizens who seek mindful enrichment after taking care of their bodies, but you walk slowly, unsure if you’re not intruding.

The marble of the threshold shines too white. You remember standing here once before, clutching a cloth bag with your name on a scroll. That was the day you first registered in the city. Now, the air is perfumed and clean, smelling of Dawncloud Peach. Attendees move in pairs, dressed in soft fabrics the colour of almonds and sea foam. You keep your gaze low and your stride quiet, trailing your fingers along the outer pillars until the inner hall draws you in.

The library wing diverges to the right of the bath chambers. Inside, light seeps through the compluvium in the flat ceiling, ribs of lacquered wood and plaster holding the vines and hanging flowers above tall shelves. Scrolls rest in shallow alcoves that line the walls, guarded by red columns and muted bronze of balustrades. Soft cushions have been scattered around the reading space, and some already sit, murmuring low greetings to one another. You recognise none of them, though most are not dressed that much finer than you.

A pair of musicians tune their instruments near a small fountain where, usually, everyday prayers are performed, and their hushed notes float like threads of warm air. You take your place on the edge of one cushion, trying to seem at ease, though your heart stirs fast beneath your hand when you check it. A faint zephyr from the outside stirs the hem of your tunic, bringing in a cooler scent of flowers.

Soon after, the reading begins.

It’s not Archilochus’s son who speaks first — rather, a scholarly woman with a voice low and clear as a bird’s song. She reads from a scroll so old the ink flakes slightly at its edges. You try to listen closely, but your thoughts catch outside the paper’s margins: the way the candlelight flickers against polished stone, the shape of someone’s wrist as they take notes, the gentle shifts of people settling deeper into the room.

You manage to focus at last when a familiar name is mentioned — not yours, of course, but a character from one of the oral tales you’d overheard seasons ago on your journey here. It’s different. In the version you know, the character dies alone by the riverbank after getting lost in the darkness of the Evernight, pursued by monsters. A warning for children not to roam far away from their homes when the times are so dangerous. But in this one, dating back to Era Chrystea, the protagonist befriends the beast after tending to its wounds, and it transforms into a beautiful human, offering their love in return. It makes you wonder what tales have changed through the retellings and whether there’s truth in any version or only what’s needed at the time.

At some point, someone brings clay cups filled with water infused with Sagelore Fruit to further stimulate one’s mind. It’s bittersweet on your tongue, but refreshing. When Archilochus’s son finally speaks, his commentary is more precise than inspiring, but still you listen, even sketch his profile with soft lines on a scrap of parchment.

You linger longer than expected, even after speaking to the archivist to visit the Librarium (you had to reintroduce yourself, for he had forgotten that you work for his father). A few participants cluster in discussion, but you hang back, content to observe. No one approaches you. That’s all right and means you can still come off as invisible. The walls hum faintly, as if the stone itself remembers each voice that passed through it.

The Bathhouse Library has emptied without your notice, the rustle of pages and shuffling of feet fading into silence. You remain seated, hunched over an open scroll, blocking the light from the overhead crystals. Then — there’s a movement. A shimmer. The sound like butterfly wings unfurling mid-air.

You glance up, and there she is.

Lady Aglaea.

Leaning across the long table, as if she’d always been part of the scenery. Her features glow as if shaped from sunlight and memory — beautiful, golden but cold, warm but unreachable, like a reflection in the mirror that smiles back with a secret. She watches you with the calm patience of someone used to being revered.

“I saw you looking at the scrolls with admirable passion. It’s quite endearing. Why the fascination?”

“I— uh, it’s an interest of mine. Lady.”

You fumble with your posture, trying to sit straighter, unsure if you should bow or speak more formally. Her presence presses into your bones, not crushing, but impossible to ignore — like stepping into a sacred place with muddy shoes. You’re aware of your worn tunic, your hands ink-stained and dry from work. It’s not shame exactly, but you feel oddly transparent.

“Curious. Just what I’ve been looking for.”

“What…?”

“Please, tell me what is the purpose of those marginalia you so diligently fill in between hearing the anecdotes?”

“Oh, you know about this. I didn’t… didn’t think you would be aware, Lady.”

“I do, and I am. But rest assured — it’s not an interest that you should be hiding.”

Her presence is like the golden Hero’s Bath itself (what you imagine it to be, since no ordinary person can take the lift to see it with their own eyes), bringing solace to your soul. Not without a sting when the healing water gets into the wounds — just like her eyes, the colour of dulled opal, looking at you with deadly precision, getting under your skin. You know she could cut your heart open, but you wish to believe she would do it out of her goodwill. You want to trust her because she’s veiled with warmth. So when her beautiful hand extends to you, almost as if glad to hold yours (hurt, with chipped nails and scrapes from work that you cannot quite get rid of despite trying to take care), you reciprocate and let yourself be guided.

“Lady Aglaea, please excuse me, but… what does it mean?”

“I have been collecting memories of Amphoreus. Perhaps not the land as it was, but how it is remembered — imperfect, fragmented, but real in its sentiment. Unfortunately, many of the current researchers are… tired. Or old. Or worse, following the Council’s rigid rules.”

She begins to pace slowly beside the table, her sleeves brushing the polished floor, her voice smooth as poured oil.

“They erase the ugly parts. They trim the wild branches of history. Leave out what is indecent, inappropriate, or unflattering. But I know too well — what is omitted, dies. And I am not ready to bury cultures simply because they do not align with the Okheman one.”

You watch her fingers twist a ring absentmindedly.

“Besides, I find myself in need of someone who can walk where I cannot. Some streets are not kind to noble footsteps. Some names close doors, but new faces can keep them open. If you go on my behalf, they will not question your purpose. They may fear it. That is the power I offer.”

“I know nothing about courtesy.”

“Yet I do not find your presence displeasing. And anything can be learnt if given enough time, which you do possess in abundance, am I right?” She comes closer and examines you.

Her touch is barely there, but it lifts your chin, and you forget how to breathe. She observes you like a sculptor studies a stone — curious, assessing, not unkind. Your heartbeat flutters against your ribs, trapped. Not a butterfly, nothing quite as graceful.

“If I recognise you without a fault, you haven’t changed even though it’s already been years since your arrival to Okhema. You are blessed with longevity.”

Not a question, but you still answer, “Yes.”

Then she lets go and strolls away, already in quiet discussion with her servant — a silent mannequin, dressed in shimmering silks, moving under a spell with mechanical elegance, golden threads floating in the air like it’s water. Aglaea turns her head, the corners of her mouth softened by something wistful.

“And to speak truthfully… It’s been a while since I made a younger soul my guest, too. I hope you forgive me the sentimentality, it’s perhaps a small display of my weakness.”

It’s not meant as a confession. It’s control.

She says it because she doesn’t fear you. She considers you harmless. Enough to lift the veil of mystery off her face, just a tiny corner, and lure you in with honesty. And you, the gullible creature you are, charmed by her beauty and ethereal disposition, follow her honeyed voice.

“I do not wish to bribe you, but it is within my power that if you agree…” She places a golden apple in front of you, its sweet colour like the sun and solidified syrup. “There will not be any more rotten apples for dinner.”

You stare at it.

Just do what you can, help where you can, and stay out of the affairs.

You’re still not sure you should even be part of this conversation — sitting across from the most powerful woman in Okhema, a demigod holding the Coreflame of Romance who has lived for centuries and risen to her station through equal parts cunning and grace.

You’ve never needed to think about her beyond the vague whispers that brush the lips of commoners. You’ve heard her name spoken with awe and scorn alike. She’s but a gossip among merchants, refugees, nobles, street performers, soldiers.

Depending on who you ask, she is either a saviour or a tyrant, a blessing or a curse, who makes veiled decisions behind closed doors and controls everything through her webs. Everyone in Okhema has something to say about Aglaea. And most of it contradicts. But there’s one truth hard to deny — that under her guidance, the city has grown quieter, safer, more stable than it ever was under the corrupted rule of the Council of Elders.

You’ve never met her personally before today.

You never expected to.

And yet here she stands, speaking as though you matter, as though your agreement could tip the balance of something you don’t even understand.

You hesitate, the golden apple still between you. “I’ll… think about it,” you say finally, your throat dry. “But I’d like to know more. What exactly would I be—”

She interrupts, gentle but firm, “The answers will come to you. In time.”

You blink. She’s already turned, hands returning to her scrolls, as though nothing has changed — as though your whole life hasn’t just been quietly tilted sideways.

You murmur a thank you that barely has the strength to leave your lips and turn to go, the tides of anxiety tying your ankles together to make walking difficult.

The heavy door groans under your hand — old wood, well-oiled hinges, resisting at first and then shifting with a sigh. But before it swings fully open, before you can slip out into solitude, something pulls from the other side.

You stagger back a half-step, startled, and then freeze entirely.

“Lady Aglaea!”

“We were looking for you!”

There they are.

Lord Mydei and Lord Phainon.

The other Chrystos Heirs. One a blue sky of kind intensity, the other a scorching flame with a piercing gaze. You’ve seen them in passing, through whispers, behind the crowd. But this is different. They’re here. Now.

Mydei’s eyes are the first to meet yours — steady, a flicker of recognition stirring behind their golden shade. As if he’s seen you somewhere before and is now trying to align the pieces. But the flicker does not flare into speech.

Behind him, Phainon leans slightly, curious as always, like the sun itself trying to peek over a mountain. He’s the more visible of the two, the one who walks among people, always smiling, often joking. You once saw him catch a falling bag of oranges and charm an old vendor into laughter. You hadn’t expected his gaze to be so direct now, or for it to settle on you.

You lower your head before either can speak, your movement a reflex — partly submission, partly protection. There’s no place for you in the kind of look they give you, no answer you’re ready to offer to the heroes.

You slip with a polite nod through the narrow gap between Lord Mydei’s shoulder and the doorframe, careful not to brush against him. Their presence lingers on your skin like heat from a fire passed too closely. You barely breathe until the marble steps cool the bottom of your shoes again.

The door closes behind you, sealing the library’s chamber and the weight of their stares.

Inside, your absence leaves a silence that settles strangely in the air. Phainon is the first to speak, casting a look over his shoulder as though trying to follow your shadow even after it’s vanished, almost disappointed he didn’t get to greet you.

“Who was that?”

“We will see, soon…” Aglaea says, and a gentle smile tugs at her lips — one that reveals nothing but promises everything.

𐂥 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 · · · i?????sdhfuvsdofiuoeigy??????? <- this is my brain after trying to post it for two days straight and still finding an excuse to add one more sentence or another whole paragraph just to run away from bragging about my fic. this is the most stressful moment of my life fr please at least ignore this fic if it wasn’t up your taste BUT i personally am happy with myself for finishing the first chapter and somehow managing to write the eughhhm… an actual plot. for once. though i believe my writing voice might be all over the place trying to navigate new themes and a lengthy chapter. i’ve been writing this for quite a while now and will continue to write for much longer (rest in peace my sanity), even if i battle hating being incapable of conveying what i want through words 24/7 owwie i apologise for the unserious afterword T-T lmao i need to cope okayy if i give up on writing the continuation please forget about this title haha ^^; <3

#tbr #SCREAMING AND SHAKING AAHHHDHDHXHSHDHDHDH

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q-library · 19 days ago

Text

WHAT A FOOL CANNOT KNOW ABOUT ﾉ YANDERE DR. RATIO

Summary: Trying to break up with Veritas proves to be impossible to accomplish. You provide sound arguments, but he knows how to shoot them down. Unfortunately, he needs you, just as much as you need him — whether you have yet to discover this truth or not.

cw: gn!reader, controlling relationship, dubcon-esque touch, manipulation and coercion, coddling and overprotectiveness, possessiveness, love bombing, diet restrictions, suggestiveness. word count: 5.5k.

Note: Divider by @/saradika-graphics.

“You ought to do what?” Veritas’s stern voice expresses derision, as if scolding you for yet another idiotic idea of yours.

“I want to break up with you, Veritas,” you repeat yourself grimly. Your arms are crossed as you try to keep yourself standing, feet firmly glued to the floor to demonstrate your oath to your decision and avoid susceptibility to his upcoming counterarguments. The light colors of your living room, carefully designed to be a peaceful mood maker, are also incapable of soothing your ‘wrath.’

He knows what you’re doing – spilling on the floor in front of you are packed bags, you have your shoes on, those two things meant to signal you are supposedly unswerving in your conviction about leaving. All because of one suggestion your closest friend has made: something about your genius boyfriend Veritas Ratio being controlling. He finds your delusions to be laughable, but also in need of being eradicated by a firm hand.

“Well, in such predicaments, one usually provides enough arguments explaining their decision. Care to elaborate?” the taunt in his voice is sufficient enough to amplify your angry fervent.

You inhale deeply through your nose; you are well aware of the obligation to argue your case well enough for it to be taken seriously, based upon logic — not foolish. Your first thought is to make an (objectively reasonable) accusation, but you know better than make yourself appear hasty. “I’ve been concerned about the way you treat me. I cannot help but fee—notice that you tend to make a lot of choices for me or question my own. It feels like I am deprived of autonomy and am being patronized. I recognize your good intentions,” no, you don’t, “but there’s still limits of mine, that if they are being crossed, they will make your behavior unhealthy.”

His behaviour is pretty confusing to your person who’s supposed to know him well as his partner. It is pretty much the antithesis of his persona — the real Dr. Ratio doesn’t serve answers on the silver platter. He’s used to steering people towards right directions by putting them through challenges so they can actually digest their situation, derive conclusions, and learn.

With you, it’s as if he views your independence differently — you stubbornly stick to your ideas, have your own ways of dealing with issues, faulty or not, as they make you, so there’s not much hope for your improvement. You don’t want to be perfect or participate in some unspoken race — and so he makes ideal choices for you, so as to not let his ‘ignorant’ partner lose on any opportunity, or even hurt themselves.

(From what you eat, and wear for the weather; through checking your locations and asking overly intimate questions; to speaking for you during bigger decisions and choosing which activities are better for your brain.)

This ‘guidance’ is a form of benevolence in his dictionary, as he’d typically judge any other individual like you a lost cause, and unworthy of his patronage. To you, it’s only about being in the palm of his hand, and you’ve suffered enough from his iron grip in the last couple of months — you felt trapped, caged, and so out of control it made you claustrophobic.

Veritas sighs with exasperation; it’s evident he doesn’t share your precarious sentiment, and while you don’t know that, needs to breathe the same air you do. “When I take the wheel, it is not inaugurated with the intention to control you, as you probably assume. The blame about you needing it so often is not to be placed on me, but your disinclination to self-realization, and tendency to risk taking and sacrificing your health. And when I debate the choices you’ve made, it’s out of worry and care. I can shape the delineation of the consequences of your decisions before they’re even made,” he informs you with a rather… chiding tone.��

“Oh, so you think you always know better than me, about you?” you finally snap with indignation. This is all so… humiliating and infantilizing to hear — perhaps he can’t accept you for who you are, or is overprotective — as you can’t possibly be such a failure of a person! You make no more mistakes than others, and not willing to incessantly think about a better life is you saving yourself from the stressful pressure; you’re just being a human.

“Statistically, I’ve managed to reach safer conclusions in the past than you would,” he smiles a little as he says that. He sits down on the couch, subtly showing you he’s still in control, as he’s not scared of putting himself in a vulnerable spot. You wouldn’t be surprised if he were to pull out some sheet with such statistics right now and put his doctorates to a good use.

You have enough of his murky righteousness, walking to be in front of him and shove your accusatory finger in his face. “You can’t know me better than I know myself! And regardless of your supposedly caring intentions, are you going to ignore the unhealthy part? How all of this is coddling, patronizing, dehumanizing about basic freedom?! Because even if I make bad choices and mistakes, this is how I learn!”

You’ve been feeling so suffocated in this relationship, and you find his treatment detestable; if there’s anyone ignorant, it’s him not acknowledging your suffering and anxiety.

He scoffs. “You are also no child. You had your entire life frame to ponder over your mistakes and align yourself to do better. If you still make minor and, frankly speaking, blunders on a daily basis, I’m afraid you might be the problem, and so it becomes my responsibility as your boyfriend to safekeep you from such.

You put yourself in unnecessary stressful situations, make choices that are bad for your health, and refuse to see outside of your stubborn scope, obstructing better opportunities — all which I help you avoid when I lead you.”

You are no child yet he treats you like one.

You decide to trail off of the wagon of logic. This isn’t even logic. OF COURSE you are not a perfect human with no fault, yet so is anyone else! Perhaps you do create mishaps and cling to what’s not good sometimes; however, you doubt this ever justifies the controlling and coddling dynamic he’s been serving you for the duration of your entire relationship, foretelling you reaching anti-mundane, anti-ignorant magnificence, in a safe environment. That’s why the universe allows you to operate every right to unleash your dissatisfaction — simply cut him off and leave.

“I’m leaving. I have enough of you, of your reign, of your superiority—” you seethe when you turn around to pick up your bags and march out of the living room on your way to the new life, but then arms wrap around your torso and draw you close to the autonomy sucking ghoul’s chest.

“Where do you think you’re going?” surprisingly, your theoretically ex-boyfriend doesn’t sound angry when he murmurs that into your ear — it’s more like a velvet, comforting whisper of a peaceful sea. Your back is pressed against his chest and he keeps you caged to him.

“Let me go, Veritas!” you exclaim all ardent with panic, struggling in his arms.

“I’m afraid my lover isn’t in the right headspace to be using their mind with dexterity. You’re making a big decision when you’re upset at me — not to mention addled with the agitation — whilst without trying to resolve the issue first… even you can admit it’s not the wisest idea, hm?” his voice speaks egregiously for him softly, the juxtaposition to his previous spitfire-scholar manner and vernacular vocabulary.

You don’t like where this farce is heading — he’s not usually this lenient, even if he’s not necessarily cold like a bad boyfriend would be (he does realize the inclination to be affectionate), and his temper eager to prove you wrong is gone…

“Veri, this decision has been made based on many accumulated memories, not just now,” you deflect, the craving to indulge in his warmth keeping you somewhat calmer. You still squirm in his arms but he doesn’t budge.

“Yes, but even those moments you recall have been potent with big emotions. Since you came to me to express your issue with me only just now, about the break up, I had never seen a chance to fix it. I don’t think such an omission is fair.”

As you stare at the spacious window facing the darkening evening sky busying itself with lighting on the awful neons only overstimulating your muzzy mind, you think he’s partially correct — you haven’t been most straightforward about his overwhelming behavior, but what was there to discuss? If he proclaims to know you well, so you possess knowledge about his game: as long as you wouldn’t try to leave him, he’d do nothing about your complaints, only hold a clincher over your head to say you’re ungrateful.

If someone is willing to control you for all there is about you, grabbing your stems to make you grow towards completely different directions, you doubt this gardener can ever change. His feelings about how you live come first, ignoring your angst that comes from the dehumanization and your relationship’s enclosure of control has been bringing.

“There’s nothing to fix! You’re just stuck up on being as much in control of my life as possible! I don’t care whether choices I make are more or less stupid than the ones I’d make! You can’t take away my autonomy because you’re bothered by me not being perfect! Do you know how suffocating and overbearing you were to me lately!” the volume of your voice is raised to almost deafening decibels. You trash in his arms again, finally hitting his body with yours so hard that he trips and falls back onto the couch… with you — a mishandled move, as you’re now trapped again, on his lap.

Veritas is momentarily taken aback by the new position, but he then proceeds to take advantage of it, also soaking in your misapprehension of his character. “Being perfect?” his arms tighten around your midriff, and one of his hands cups your throat, not yet squeezing. If he was angry before, he’s raging now.

Your interpretation of his intentions, whether objectively correct or not, feels like the biggest insult to his feelings and ambitions. He’s assured he hasn’t been trying to make you perfect or control you — instead, his goal was to protect you from your own stupidity and to take care of you and your health… if it helps you reach the best of your potentials, that’s only a bonus. “What you claim is utterly disrespectful, and for how shameful it makes you, expresses your lack of gratitude,” he hisses, as his fingers are beginning to dig into your neck a bit too hard to be considered safe. No, you’re not allowed to leave—

He realizes his mistake when you stiffen up under him and from the angle of his eyes, he can observe some fear — his mind tells himself how asinine he is to let his emotions control him, even if he’s actually afraid of losing you. He lets go of your throat and cups your face instead, the other hand soothing your waist, this time opting for a more gentle voice again, “Look at me.”

He delicately cranes your head to the side, until you’re meeting with a sight of his face and are resting the back of your head on his shoulder — he peers at you with something pensive yet intense dirty lover’s ownership it’s unsettling to witness. His breath is grazing your skin and you feel inappropriate (involuntary included) for this situation’s arousal.

“What do you want from me? I have told you, your intentions don’t conceal or fix the unhealthy effects your leadership causes,” you heave a sigh, suddenly feeling exhausted, to the point where you no longer are trying to leave his unwelcome hold — you’re assuming he’ll get weary eventually as well. You really wish you could just grab your things that are now taunting you by lying just a few feet away, but are so unreachable in your position. “You’re too damn pushy. I can’t even eat what I want.” You know you’ll binge on nice snacks once you’re gone.

“Have I ever hurt you?” he asks smoothly, the husky voice spreading vibrations down your torso. You don’t like how the forced proximity is built with the suave tone falling straight into your ear canal. His thumb moves from your jaw to stroke your lower lip, causing it to tremble against your good conscience.

The question still manages to throw you off, and is not incentivizing you when he’s ignoring your main concern. “Not in the most straightforward way. You haven’t physically or verbally abused me; however, this doesn’t mean I feel comfortable or happy with what you do to me,” you say hesitantly, staying vigilant.

“I see. Does your unhappiness imply you weren’t content with me for our entire relationship?” there’s an odd sadness in his tone and eyes. It’s something you haven’t seen in him before, even in his rare but happening moments of failure; you have to dig your feet hard into the floor to not let it sway your perception and make you pity him.

Unlike him, you’re not heartless.

“Of course not,” you scoff, not realizing you’re subconsciously resting your body on his with less tension in your muscles. “I’m not saying you were a bad or neglectful partner. But it wasn’t rainbows and unicorns in the moments I highlighted!”

Your words seem to create something even more wistful in him, a force powerful enough he glides your hair back with a gentle hand. His voice gets even quieter, “I never intended them to feel that way. However, can anyone postulate about their relationship out there having its moments be one hundred percent idyllic?”

You can’t gauge if his proposed perspective is manipulative or he genuinely feels sorry. The question makes you assess your previously stated claims again for a second, but you’re still not giving up. “No, that’d be an utopian dream. Still… if there’s behavior that can be described as unhealthy, it should be taken care of. For me to stay with you, you’d have to leave my own choices for me. You should be allowed to go no further than to counsel me.”

There’s an almost indistinguishable twitch in his eye, but he doesn’t let go of his disposition. He finally grants his hand a fall back onto your waist again, and you look ahead of yourself, not willing to strain your neck. It is when you try to pry off his arms once more, wanting to at once face him properly.

He stops you, infuriating as he ignores your lack of consent to be held for nth momentum; this time it’s worse, as his hands wander across your hips and stroke them, as if possessively. If you could see his face, you’d notice the slightly obsessive hunger for not much of your body, if not keeping you — he really can’t let you get away from him, for he might lose his mind.

(Emotional disturbances due to breaking up would affect his work anyway.)

Your body stills, and you curse him when his action spills sensitivity in that lower area, an unthinking sparkle of something pleasant you are familiar with — he’s always been skilled and dedicated in making you feel good, physically. He also knows how to notice you, all the good parts others can’t, and what sort of worship to indulge them with. Not to mention, his immerse knowledge gives him enough of bargaining chips to manoeuvre your life, body, and mind with ease. “Let me go—” your demand comes with a quiver.

“Haven’t you noticed something?” Veritas interrupts your bewilderment with an inquiry, and his right hand dips under your shirt, teasing the soft skin of your stomach, while the other goes up from your hip till the dip of your waist. Both the touch and question stops you in your tracks, as your skin is ignited and screaming for more.

“N-noticed what?” your tone is of a squeak, embarrassingly highly enough. You force yourself to cover his hands with yours, pausing their work.

He doesn’t swat your hands away; he moves his with yours, slyly forcing you to map your own body. “That the quality of your life has significantly improved after you entered the relationship with me, not degraded. Your health included. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”

You realize that he is right, as your life indeed is now technically better than it had been before — you score better opportunities, you have someone you can depend on, your life is quite comfortable financially, you feel good physically, and you are loved. He doesn’t do worse things than those occasional instances of dictating. For a moment, your motivation wavers; but then you remember how he’s made you feel for past months, and also, your friend’s words.

(“Some men are like this. They lure you in with affection, undivided attention, and luxuries, so once they know you’re too attached to leave, they can do anything to you.”)

Right, his suggestive touch — it has no place to exist when you’re having such an important conversation! You trash with all the vigor you could muster. “You’re just manipulating me! You’re suddenly being all soft and groping me when I’m trying to talk to you seriously!”

Veritas only sighs, exasperated, muttering, “It was to help you relax, so you can take a more conscious approach. But if you insist…” Surprisingly, he lets you go — even that is up to be questioned, if him respecting your boundaries isn’t some scheme either.

You quickly stand up back on your feet and turn around, not hiding that you’re fuming again. He stands up too and your heart skips a beat. What he says next throws you off.

“Please, give me your hand,” Veritas requests politely, using proper etiquette. So unusual. Typically, his requests are orders, as he finds them to be absolute in their vital importance.

Is he trying to be nicer to you, for you? Is he finally regretting his treatment, once you scared him with the possibility of leaving?

“For what?” you ask with suspicion, tapping your foot with impatience. Perhaps you should just make a run for the door and leave, even if it wouldn’t be most mature-sounding. You’re further dissatisfied at the thought of running into him as your ex at your workplace.

“I want to show you something. It might clear any false conjectures that you seemingly have about me,” he informs curtly. It raises your interest just as he anticipated — of course curiosity can be a strong force, that is, a useful tool for his grasp over you.

He thrives with satisfaction when you submit by raising your hand in the air. He cups it in his, gently as if it’s a brittle porcelain (affectionately like he knows you secretly crave him to be), and places it over his heart — it’s a horse running a race, thrumming and threatening to escape his chest. “Can you palpate how fast my heart is under your fingers? Does that sound like the heart of a man indifferent to you or your misery?”

Your stance on accusing him of malicious conduct has been slightly faltering the entire conversation, as you can’t deny that Veritas is a good debater, knowing how to make you look at things from a different angle — his proof is extremely flattering to you especially. Or rather not as much flattering, as romantically gratifying — to be loved is a most wonderful feeling. The little show is made to be even better when you’re the only person he ever becomes vulnerable with — starting with something simple as you having a chance to see him without his plaster head on, daily at that.

Your friend’s words still ring in your head, however. Your almost-ex is still a genius and he’d definitely know all about what heart tempo expresses what; therefore, maybe know how to adjust its pace to the perfect tune… “You… could be faking it. To make me forgive you.” Yet your fingers twitch on his chest, desperate to give him some pleasure too.

You want to touch him. It is easy to dream of being back in his arms, safe and loved, saved and loving, be the fool indifferent to his misbehaving — it’s the only way a heart knows how to protect itself from being shattered.

It is only just now that you realize how scared you are to be on your own in the wild again — the truth about how he had made you dependent on him for choosing the safest and most convenient life is terrifying and disturbing. You were forcefully ripped away from the feeling of danger or bigger perturbation in your daily situations, it is easy to feel out of tune with the rhythm of the world. It’s as if you need to go back to baby steps to know how to function properly again.

Going to work, you can handle it. Shopping, you can handle it. But what if one day, you’ll somehow mess up filling the tax form, and you’ll be accused of fraud, and then thrown into jail— you need him to keep you protected. Or something happens at the guild, and you need him to vouch for you.

You don’t even think it’s his fault you feel that way — you’ve been manipulated into thinking you were simply living in the dark, your back turned against those dangers, and he has opened your eyes to notice what could have happened due to your irresponsible choices.

Veritas’s eagle eyes notice your discernment and irrationality; still, he only lets out a sigh for what feels like a thousandth time, knowing admitting he has this advantage over you will further frighten you. His hand squeezes on your and actually trembles, unused to being so open, and afraid to let it go should you choose to walk away from his life. “What will it take for you to believe me? Should I ask another genius, maybe Ruan Mei, to prepare a truth serum for me to confess, no matter how… embarrassing it could be for me? Because a lie detector certainly is faulty.”

Your face scrunches and you barely hit his chest as a protest. Lower in the hierarchy of the Intelligentsia Guild, you still had a (dis)pleasure of working with that shady woman too many times. “I wouldn’t trust that woman, so I would have no guarantee you’re not making some deal behind my back,” you rebut.

“Then Screwllum. You find that man to be trustworthy, no?” his fingers steeple together with yours and your heart jumps — it’s such a feeble and shaky movement you cannot believe he’s being soft. And him willing to make himself exposed in his proposed method…

You do trust Screwllum. He’s strict but fair.

“You… you’re serious, aren’t you? You would go that far in order to prove your affections for me?” you can no longer hide your hopes in your voice. Amid your anger and wanting to leave, it was easy for not-at-all-old feelings to resurface, mixing into poison with your fear of dealing with things on your own — new for you separation anxiety. Leaving is easy, but dealing with the sadness and paranoia after isn’t. While his questionable behavior is not making you happy, you can’t say the latter of the two is worse.

Maybe, you really have been too harsh on him. Maybe he can compromise about his control, if he does care.

“Yes. If this is the only way, I won’t hesitate to do it, no matter how hard it could be for me to attempt something so… hazardous,” he claims with determination.

You exhale out a shaky and overly carbonated with the previous concerns breath; if he would subject himself to being under the influence of some truth substance, your logic tells you there’s no reason to doubt his love, especially with his heart’s behavior around you. If he wanted you trapped, wouldn’t he have done so easily a long time ago?

“No… you don’t need to. I believe you, Veritas,” you admit with a forced smile. There’s still something that feels off about the situation, the lingering intensity of his gaze, pushiness, and aversion to acknowledging less healthy monuments of your relationship; but you also have more arguments towards pro than against, and assume he’s willing to ease on his tendencies, as he did admit he didn’t mean to be controlling. A man who loves you, would he really want to hurt you so much? He’s never outright hurt you — and what made you uncomfortable can be negotiated.

You see a tension disappear in his shoulders and he lets go of your hand in pursuit of your face. With that, it’s clear he doesn’t want to say anything else that’s embarrassing, assuming you’re back in his arm — or rather, have never left. But as he’s leaning in for a kiss to seal the deal and let it speak for him and his vulnerable soul, you stop him, “But can you promise me you’ll interfere with my decisions less from now on? It’s still overwhelming.”

Your voice sounds awfully positive, as if you think you’ve got him wrapped around your fingers now, enough for him to regret his actions; it irks him. “Love, we have just discussed that. I’m not doing this to control you nor patronize you. The issue instead is you not being used to being taken care of and stubbornly clinging to your independence,” his voice becomes stern again, but he’s making sure to maintain understanding and some warmth in it. You’re much more volatile now.

“What? No! It’s not a matter of independence but you stealing my autonomy,” you’re up in arms again and he knows he has to soothe you. “I could be more dependent on you and I’d still want you to let me choose. It’s about the principle, a basic human right—”

“Which one of your friends has filled your head with such crafty and repugnant designs?” he suddenly asks and your eyes widen.

“Huh? It’s my own conclusion…” you say defensively. It’s true that it was your friend’s bystander perspective that allowed you to perceive the mistakes of his you failed to see on your own; however, after this one conversation you had, you couldn’t help but agree. “If others notice that you’re wrong, there must be something true about it…” Sure, some of the choices he’s made for you have improved your life, but it’s about lack of consent here. Not to mention, not allowing you to make errors like any other human is surprisingly more negative than the modus operandi of perfect life, as it takes away from the human experience.

“And I think your friend is just jealous that you are lucky enough to be dating a handsome genius and they aren’t,” he states bluntly.

The suggestion immediately brings up different memories where your friend would have passively joked about how lucky you are, or complaining how there's little of charming, interesting, and intelligent men like Veritas… which contradicts them warning you about him not so much after. Have they been naive at first too, or have they been making you doubt your own partner so they can snatch him for themselves? Sabotaging your relationship?

“I— they wouldn’t do that—” you stutter, desperately chasing to defend your friend’s honor.

“Be honest with me. How many times in our relationship have you truly felt uncomfortable?” he takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, overwhelmed by the intensity of his question.

“Well, there were a few instances, and you even control my diet—” you take a few more steps, creating sounds too loud with your shoes for your ears now buzzing with trepidation, not realizing you’re about to hit a wall of the living room behind you.

“A few instances. When no one is devoid of being made to be uncomfortable every so often, me included. What you eat is both nutritious and still tasty. Are you seriously going to let these few, inconsequential moments dim many more positive ones?” You get the message that you are starting to sound ungrateful and spoiled, a bit naive too — yes, him deciding for you doesn’t feel nice, but some sacrifice is necessary for your wellbeing or stability. Relationships aren’t black and white — not every rule will cooperate in every relationship, and not every partner will be perfect. You mustn't create unrealistic standards you’d see only on social media.

As Veritas moves forward again, your back finally hits the wall of the living room, and your only support is with your palms against it. Your breathing rattles when he places his hands on the sides of your head, towering over you and trapping you. It’s the birth of night now, and with no artificial lights yet turned on, you see his irises shine like a molten metal.

His roseate eyes cause you to freeze and turn into a stone as if he’s some god possessing such power, their intensity undeniable — he needs you with him and he’ll have you. For his and your sake.

“Don’t let one fool take away everything from us. You matter to me,” he exclaims his promise with a destructive love and your name, and before you register such, he grabs you by your nape and thigh he slightly lifts, and kisses you to convey and solidify his words.

You don’t reciprocate at first, having your own doubts linger, and you’re further flustered when he steps between your legs; but when his finger rubs that one spot on your neck and his hand wanders up your thigh, it’s easy to sink into his wonders.

You whimper against his lips when his palm on your leg wanders dangerously high, almost seeking out the most pleasurable and sensitive areas. His lips move on yours with undeniable practice, pecking and teasing with a tongue, sucking on your lips; and when you open your mouth to inhale starved air, he inserts his tongue in.

One squeeze on your leg is enough for your arms to finally wrap around his shoulders and your eyes close; although, it’s still him who has to do the most work, as you remain overwhelmed by the entire discussion.

The kiss lasts for what feels like infinity and yet it’s not enough.

When he lets go of your nape and watches your face painted in yearning, he knows that he now has you. He strokes your cheek, letting the magic of his touch deceive your defenses once more. “Will you stay with me? I’m sure we can reach some compromise; albeit, don’t expect me to let you get loose and undisciplined,” he warns calmly, finding difficulty in not sounding giddy.

When you nod, he thinks how much he hates the way you make him feel — this obsession — as instead of feeling just victorious over you, he also feels his own longing. He’s not against the idea of love as a whole — it’s only human and he can’t judge others for being in love, therefore only human — but he’s not a big fan of it participating in his life, messing up with his head, logic, and perfect schedule.

Regardless, he’s also most elated, naturally. His relationship’s end with you has been rescinded, and he can spend his days with you again. The vivid imagery of you with someone else is upmost abhorrent and should be condemned. Not that he’d let you go; he’s smart enough to bring you back, but wouldn’t it create a peril of losing your trust and love.

“Good, excellent even. Go unpack your things and I’ll make us dinner. Perhaps some wine indulgence won’t hurt today…” he murmurs the latter, thinking of rewarding you for being so compliant and saving him from depression. He helps you stand up properly, knowing you’re putty in his arms after the kiss.

You don’t even have time to whine about how his meal will be all healthy and chosen for you again. (He’d tell you it’s about your wellbeing anyway, and is he wrong, when you’ve been feeling more energized lately?)

As you leave, Veritas pulls out his phone. Through the spyware he has installed on his phone (only a safety concern about you, of course), he watches a new message appear in the log. You accusing your friend and blocking them the next second, as you threaten them so they won’t get in your relationship’s business, is nothing but satisfying to witness.

For the foolish you make him, you also make him feel alive and closer to what being human means, living by your own rules. Stronger than a real fool like you should be, contradicting all he knows about rigorous discipline and logic. You’re the challenge and risk he thrives on and wants to watch develop in real time, the forbidden fruit to feast on; this notion is in some ways also liberating.

Believe it or not, he does care for you — he just cannot see a beloved person’s potential go to waste, any menace and harm to come, or let your health degrade, as he’d feel a failure of a lover. He also can’t deny the inherent, selfish need to possess you, and keep you away from the world, as if only he can truly appreciate you properly — if he needs you, who is to deny him?

He’s not letting you go, even if it’s destined to ruin you both.

#veritas <3 #OOOOOOH HES INSANE !!!!! LOVE HIMMMM #MAN WHO SEES KNOWLEDGE AS WORTH AND LOVE #IS SOOOO EASY TO TWIST INTO OBSESSION #OOOHH THIS WAS SO GOOD #watching the descent from ‘i’m leaving’ to ‘maybe i could stay’ was INCREDIBLE #AAAAAAHHHHH

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q-library · 26 days ago

Text

oh my god, they were roommates!

pairing: nanami kento x fushiguro toji

contains: alcohol consumption, smoking, frotting, anal fingering, whitney sub!toji, dom!nanami, bisexual tojinana <3; word count: 2.2k

author's note: happy pride divas! i'm making my favorite dolls kiss and i'm sitting in the cuck chair :3 this is a slightly edited, not proofread repost from my old blog, i hope you enjoy <3

please read my rules before interacting! minors, ageless / blank blogs will be blocked!

the sun started stretching its limbs over the horizon as two men stumbled home. when they arrived, the lock clicked and the door swung open. in wobbled toji and kento, both very drunk and very horny. they sported a fat boner each, feeling too awkward to look at each other despite being roommates for years.

taking off their shoes and jackets clumsily, an uncomfortable silence hung over them. kento was in the middle of getting them both a glass of water when toji blurted out: “wanna make out?”

the blond man could only nod.

toji had drunkenly confessed to kento earlier on the night that he thinks he might like guys too, in that slurred speech he always has when intoxicated. kento, a heavyweight in drinking and still feeling quite sober, was taken aback but also intrigued. so he did what he does best, staying quiet and listening.

“ah, forget i ever said anything, i’m just drunk,” toji had waved him off when kento wanted to talk to him about it later. “let's get more shots!”

well, those few shots later, toji had brought the topic up again, cigarette in hand.

“y’know, if i was gay, i’d fuck ya, ken,” he slurred. kento took a long drag from his cigarette, looking at his roommate with raised eyebrows. “why?”

“i mean, what's not t’like? y’r handsome, smart, come from a good family and you make people very happy from what i heard.” the black-haired man winked at him and took another swig from his beer. toji laughed boisterously when kento cringed at that last part and its insinuation. the walls in their apartment were indeed thin and the amount of times they had heard each other fuck was astronomical.

“thanks, toji. but who's saying you’d do the fuckin’?” kento retorted, causing toji to swiftly choke on his beer. when their gazes met, the tension started to rise, a spark waiting for a match to strike.

“i ain't no fucking bottom.”

but now, in their drunken stupor, kento and toji found themselves on their shared couch. lips conjoined, spit swapped and toji whimpering under kento's touch. toji was trapped under kento’s large build, his thick legs wrapped around the other’s waist and hips seemingly having a mind of their own.

toji leaned back, panting, “i've never had anything in my ass before, not even a finger.”

“y’sure you don't wanna try? feels good from what i heard,” kento murmured against toji’s wet lips. toji was flushed, crimson rising from his chest to his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “you tried it?” he whispered, scared to talk any louder.

kento nodded, pulling his shirt over his head. “only on my own though, but it did feel nice. and my gay friends can't seem to get enough of it, so there must be something to it.” he delved down to toji’s jaw, leaving gentle kisses in his wake.

toji whined, feeling out of his element since he usually did that part. taking care of someone, their pleasure, making them flustered and see stars. it was embarrassing for him to be in that position but not necessarily unpleasant. kento’s lips against his scorching skin felt… really good, actually. his hands were everywhere, on kento’s shoulders, in his hand, on his back, his hips, his—

toji sobered up very quickly there, apologizing profusely when he was interrupted by kento gently taking his hand, cold into warm, and placed it on his heavy bulge. he then placed his own on toji’s, forcing a whimper out of the mean-mugged man at the friction.

“it's okay. you can always say stop and we’ll stop. i won't do anything you don't want, toji. i just wanna make you feel good. because i am.”

as those words left kento’s lips, toji pulled him down, their lips crashing together once more. as their tongues danced around each other, toji pushed kento back, straddling him. he felt like he was going to explode, arousal thickening his blood to the point where toji couldn't think straight anymore.

they only parted for toji to almost rip off his shirt out of nervousness. as soon as the fabric was gone, he dove right back in, teeth clacking against kento’s. the blond man chuckled at toji’s eagerness. it was a little awkward, big hands and muscles everywhere but neither of them complained. their hips moved in tandem, the seams of their jeans creating the most delicious friction on their restrained cocks.

“kentooo…feels so good,” toji whined, drool threatening to spill out of his mouth. kento could only watch with half-lidded eyes, watching intently where their clothed bodies met. he never in his wildest dreams would've thought that toji, his roommate, one of his closest friends, the loudest, rudest and most confident man he knew, would fall apart like this. because of him.

the heat between them felt like an impending supernova and they shed themselves of their remaining clothes, trying to combat it. sure, they'd seen each other naked at home on accident – more or less – and after practice in the showers. but still, seeing toji’s build – and cock – right in front of his face made kento flustered. little did he know that toji felt the same.

the latter got comfortable on kento’s lap again, their dicks touching and twitching against each other. a warm hand wrapped around their lengths and kento started a slow jerking motion. a simultaneous groan of 'oh fuuuck' erupted from their chests, their hips moving in sync. toji let drool run from his tongue, down his lips and chin onto their cocks, lubricating whatever kento was doing to him. toji didn't understand, mind too hazy from the alcohol and the arousal rushing all the way down to his dick.

“ken, please,” toji whimpered, “more.”

kento could only oblige, how could he say no when he was asked so nicely, all breathy and desperate?

he moved his hand faster, the friction becoming almost too much to bear. toji’s spit and their precum made it more slippery, adding to the intoxicating rush.

toji gripped kento’s shoulders, nails leaving indents with the ferocity he was holding onto the other man and kento groaned. the blond man leaned forward, lips attaching to toji’s collarbone, sucking on the damp skin.

“need, haa… need more, kento. please, wanna try it,” the raven-haired male whimpered, the alcohol making it hard to finish without added stimulation. kento could barely make out the words. but when his brain finally registered them, he gasped and gripped toji's face, squishing the latter’s cheeks. the hand that was currently jerking them off halted and toji cried out in frustration.

“what'd you say?” kento inquired, heart and mind racing.

“mmm – wanna try it. wanna have your fingers in me, please?” toji begged through smushed cheeks. kento paused, trying to sober up and bring himself back to earth. there were tears making their way to toji’s dark eyes at the thick silence that settled between them. scared that he'd asked too much of his roommate, toji tried to wiggle out of kento’s grasp, but to no avail.

“let me get some lube then.” kento’s gentle voice reached toji’s bright red ears and he was gently pushed off the other’s lap and onto the soft couch before kento sprinted to his room. he emerged soon enough, a small bottle in his hand.

“it'd hurt without it,” he mused, awkwardly wiggling it between his fingers. toji let out an amused huff through his nose, shuffling around. “how d’ya want me?”

they were back to their starting position, kento hovering above toji, lube being warmed up between his fingers. toji spread his legs, looking away with a burning blush as he exposed himself.

kento gave him a warm smile. “you sure you wanna do this? and with me?”

toji gave a nod, his blush intensifying. “yeah. if anyone puts a finger in my ass, i'd want it to be you. and we already got this far,” he grumbled, feeling even more exposed under kento's attentive gaze. the blond man breathed out an ‘okay’ before leaning back on his haunches. “i've never done this to another person before either so we're somewhat in the same boat.”

toji laughed, “oh yeah, totally the same thing.”

kento cringed at himself and got more comfortable, putting a throw pillow under toji's hips for more leverage. one hand was spreading the cheeks while the other found toji’s twitching hole, spreading some lube onto it. toji flinched but relaxed immediately, the sensation so unfamiliar to him. kento circled his finger around it, registering toji’s noises and reactions.

pushing past the tight ring of his entrance, toji let out a pornographic whine. one that made him slap his hands on his mouth out of embarrassment. kento smiled, peeling them off. “there's no one here, keep ‘em comin’.”

toji didn't know what to do with his hands, fingers twitching and rummaging to find something, anything to hold on to while kento provided him with heavenly pleasure. it was so unfamiliar, a little sting at the stretch but it felt *so* good. kento started thrusting his finger in and out of toji’s hole, his mouth agape and sweat running down his temple. toji started moaning unabashedly, eyes threatening to close but the need to watch kento was stronger. he was so focused on the way toji’s hole was sucking him in and toji swore he could feel his heart flutter.

kento started pushing in a second finger gently, feeling the resistance of toji's hole and slowly but surely edging it away. the black-haired man squirmed, gasping 'oh god, oh fuck!' at every gentle thrust.

kento started curling his fingers, seemingly looking for something in toji’s velvet walls. “digging for gold?” toji giggled and suddenly whimpered when kento pressed against a certain spot, precum running out of his swollen tip. “found it,” kento chuckled.

“wh-wha…what's that?” toji questioned, barely able to string a cohesive sentence together due to the white hot pleasure burning through his body.

kento grinned, adjusting their positions without pulling out, toji straddling him again on wobbly knees. “it's your prostate – s’posed to make ya feel really good,” kento murmured, still moving his fingers slowly. toji whined and started moving his hips, desperately trying to find that kind of pleasure again.

kento gripped both of their cocks again, a low moan emitting from his throat at the friction. toji kept grinding on his fingers, the ecstasy multiplied by kento’s warm hand and their cocks twitching against each other. “that's it, keep moving,” kento ordered and toji obliged, chasing his orgasm. the blond man started increasing the pace on his jerking, every tug more delicious than the last.

kento felt himself grow close as well. toji’s hole warm and clenching around his fingers, the cock hot and heavy against his and the sinful whimpers right in his ear had him spiraling quickly. he curled his fingers again, pressing against toji’s prostate and keeping the rough pads of his digits right there. toji reacted immediately, almost shouting at this point, white flashing behind his eyelids. his eyes were screwed shut, loud moans of 'please, please – gonna cum' echoing in kento’s ears. he stored that sound away for later.

“go ahead, cum for me, toji,” kento whispered loud enough for the other to hear. toji’s burning gaze found his as he spilled all over kento’s hand, hole clenching and unclenching almost as rhythmically as his heart was beating. a moan of kento’s name spilled from toji’s spit-slicked lips as he rode out his high, effectively pushing kento towards his. expletive groans left kento’s throat as he made an even bigger mess of them both, slowing down both of his hands as the overstimulation set in.

he let go of their softening cocks and pulled out his fingers with a lewd squelch, feeling toji slump against him. he quickly wiped his hands on the shirt that was thrown over the backrest before returning his touch to the man on top of him.

“i take back my statement from earlier. i would've done this sooner if i’d known how good it is,” toji mumbled sleepily against kento’s shoulder. the latter chuckled and patted the damp black hair. “well, you always know better afterwards.”

“you know what would've made it even better?” toji murmured, heartbeat slowing down and drowsiness taking over. kento hummed in question.

“having a girl sit on my face.”

that was the last thing toji said about it before dozing off and kento struggling to get him into bed. though, he kept that information safely tucked away in the back of his mind.

they never mentioned this encounter again after that, acting like nothing had changed. but the underlying sexual tension never truly left their friendship.

#tbr #SMOOSHING THEIR HEADS TOGETHER TO MAKE THEM KISS #YEEEEAAAAHHGGGHH

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q-library · 1 month ago

Text

𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒

synopsis: the lights of this city flicker like dying neon stars. between them, monsters live and breathe. some are hunting. some are waiting. w.c: 7.6k.

pairing: monster!sukuna x f!reader.

warnings: horror (at least, i tried)!! this is a disturbing fic with explicit gore and cannibalism. character death. EXPLICIT SMUT! monsterfucking (trueform!sukuna), biting, bum stuff (for you, alba), blood licking. MDNI! cyberpunk/bladerunner 2049 vibes.

a/n: my first attempt at a dark fic and sukuna smut eeeep! i hope you all enjoy this!! i also want to say a massive thankyou to @ariiadnes for trusting me with her oc! i hope you like 11E’s little cameos :3

divider / playlist / ao3

nobody knows what they are, only that they are.

you cannot see them, not really. they live somewhere in broken screens, flickering neon signs and still pothole puddles. they are something like a heat mirage. a pulse of something that makes you want to run, to breathe, to fight, to surrender.

an itch behind your teeth.

a pressure in your spine.

the sound between your heartbeat.

nobody knows if they had always been there or not, only that they will always be there now, and that they are not something to be understood.

but a part of you thinks that you do.

(intimately so,

in the way my marrow settled between puckered lips.)

when they first decided to become known, it started off small. little disappearances here and there. an inexplicable puddle of blood in an alleyway behind a bar, the odd story on the news of a gruesome murder. then, metal posts started to fill up with missing persons flyers. all of them tattered, each person placing their’s on top of the last one like their person was more important than the rest.

they weren’t.

they were all the same.

bodies of flesh, bodies full of iron water.

the scientists couldn’t begin to explain much. they said that the creatures resonated at a frequency outside the range of human perception. that they were invisible unless they choose to be seen, and that there was no way to begin to communicate with them unless it was on their terms. now, their existence was something to just live with. a virus always floating in the air, waiting and watching. their tendrils were quick to grab and infect you, to swallow you whole. and you can try to drag your nails down their throats until they bleed, or jam your fingers into their windpipe and make them choke on their own vomit, but you still wouldn’t live.

you knew that.

you had seen them kill, once before.

it was a day when the rain was more yellow than clear, sulphur in the air like the breath of the devil. you’d been staring at the misted window of a sex club, a woman’s hands pressed up against the glass. you remember hearing a steady thump thump thump, and that it took you far too long to realize that it wasn’t coming from inside the club.

you don’t know why you followed the sound.

the air was sour. there was no moon, only the fuzzy neon lights and a giant hologram of the then latest version of companion doll. 𝘓𝘖𝘝3-𝘝16’s hair was a glossy black, nails perfectly almond with a red french-tip manicure. as she swayed to and fro, the alleyway would go dark and then a hazy hot pink.

it made the blood on the floor look almost fluorescent.

thump, thump, thump!

there is something inherently strange about a humans fascination with the horrific, the grotesque. why couldn’t you tear your eyes away from the woman, that creature? it was smashing another person’s head into a wall again and again and again. it mimicked the figure of a woman, but it wasn’t… right. it wasn’t beautiful. it held nothing behind its empty pearl gaze, but you could feel it was staring at you as it grinned with too sharp teeth.

thump, thump, thump!

went the head in its hands against a dumpster.

thump, thump, thump!

you could see fragments of skull on the ground, little dark hairs still attached to thin flesh.

and then she was gone.

the alleyway was empty, except for the mess she had left behind. that was two years ago now, at the height of the killings. when there was no point in calling the police because there was nothing that could be done.

but you still remember its kill.

the smell of it.

iron and piss and something like rotten fruit.

you think about it now as you stand in your concrete box of an apartment that exists in the cracks between architectural efficiency and human desperation. up on the twenty-fourth floor, with a single rusty elevator, wedged in between two other buildings that were identical to it. there is an android factory just a few streets over that runs for twenty-four hours a day, and it makes the walls vibrate with a sporadic hum that was so loud it drilled into your molars.

but you had gotten used to it now.

you stand by your window that overlooks onto an airshaft. it’s filled with other people’s laundry lines, patched up clothes and worn underwear swaying on the thin metal, with the odd advertisement drone clicking its way between the buildings like a strange bird. you watch it move as you slowly chew your nutrition paste. it tastes like cardboard and salt, allegedly supposed to be exactly like a roast chicken.

you wouldn’t know if it really was or not.

(there is

something better, something sweeter.)

your forefinger twitches.

it had become apparent some time ago that the creatures that lived within a certain frequency also chose their victims by theirs. any excess of joy or fear, happiness or sadness, would ooze out at different frequencies. they were drawn to it like sharks to blood. and so, missing person flyers gradually evolved into warnings to control your emotions because they could sense it. the government initially released brain implants for emotional regulation, but the recipients usually ended up becoming killers themselves, and so they were quickly taken off the market.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘜𝘗𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘋𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘔𝘚.

the drone plays.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘕𝘌𝘜𝘙𝘖𝘗𝘈𝘟, 𝘞𝘏𝘌𝘕 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓𝘐𝘛𝘠 𝘐𝘚𝘕’𝘛

𝘌𝘕𝘖𝘜𝘎𝘏!

then, special androids were developed to both detect the creatures, and act as a deterrent by sending out vibrations at a frequency high enough to drown out a persons baseline range. of course, they weren’t available to everyone. offices and factories, public spaces like clubs and shops, had androids employed. because, of course, nobody wanted murders happening on company property anymore. but once you were outside, you were free game.

unless you could afford an android.

which most couldn’t.

including you.

you scrape the last of the synthetic meat from the container, pretending you could feel stringy chicken stuck between your teeth instead of the chalky film over your tongue. it feels wrong, but you force yourself to swallow, because hunger is an emotion far too close to desperation.

and that was not what you were.

you live in the space between emotions. perfectly balanced, only present in the now. your heart doesn’t skip a beat, your breath doesn’t catch in your throat. you don’t know how you do it, only that you do.

it keeps you neutral – invisible.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘉𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎, 𝘍𝘌𝘌𝘓 𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘠𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎!

you throw your empty container into the recycling chute, where somewhere twenty-four floors down, it will be processed and used for tomorrow’s meal for someone else.

the walls hum.

you match your breath to the rhythm.

somewhere in the distance, a baby is crying, a car backfires. then, silence. then the incessant hum, then silence again. you check the lock on your door twice, and turn off your main lights. the room is bathed in a sickly blue light from the commercial playing on your television. a woman with too bright eyes smiles into the camera, clutching a bowl of steaming chemical broth.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘜𝘛𝘜𝘙𝘌 𝘐𝘚 𝘊𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘕! 𝘛𝘈𝘚𝘛𝘌 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓

𝘍𝘓𝘈𝘝𝘖𝘙 𝘞𝘐𝘛𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘓 𝘛𝘏𝘐𝘕𝘎!

you turn it off.

on the other side of the wall, someone laughs.

it cuts off halfway.

you crawl into your bedsheets, stare at the yellowed ceiling, and wait for nothing to come. the drone outside flickers signs and holograms, neon shapes of blues and a pulse of static pink. your fingers curl over your chest. you let your mind flatten just enough to blur the shape of yourself.

(this is not

what it means to sleep.)

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

your work numbs you.

twelve hours a day of sorting people’s data through predictive algorithms. twelve hours a day of deciding what people see in their neural feeds, on their phones, and on their televisions. what they want, crave, fear, forget. twelve hours a day of that blue light burning behind your eyes like a slow rot.

it’s perfectly routine.

beautifully neutral.

you glance at the woman in the cubicle next to yours, at station forty-seven. you don’t know her name, and you don’t care to know it. she was crying, tears falling down so perfectly over her cheeks and onto her desk and keyboard. her monitors pressure gauge chimes softly, and you know the android assigned to your floor would be watching her closely.

𝘠𝘖𝘙𝘏𝘈 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦 𝘌, 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 11.

a shimmer of synthetic blonde hair, grey eyes like sterilized steel. only the best for your company��s employees, obviously. ruthless and ethereal, she opens her perfectly shaped lips.

“𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥,” she announces with a voice balanced and monotone. “𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵.”

she turns towards station forty-seven.

and practically glides over.

you wonder if she was manufactured in the factory close to your apartment building. if the sound of her lungs calibrating is the same one that hums through your walls at night. her face hardly moves as she approaches. you look back at your screen.

you filter, you sort.

nothing.

empty.

when she reaches the woman, the android sighs in a pretty voice like velvet draped over metal, “𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.”

the woman lets out a sob.

it’s ugly.

you keep typing, and finish another algorithm. 11𝘌 doesn’t make a sound as she escorts the woman from station forty-seven away from you and away from your building. when you submit your work, your screen lights green.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘎𝘙𝘈𝘛𝘜𝘓𝘈𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚! 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘙𝘌 𝘕𝘖𝘞 𝘌𝘕𝘛𝘐𝘛𝘓𝘌𝘋 𝘛𝘖 𝘍𝘐𝘝𝘌 𝘔𝘐𝘕𝘜𝘛𝘌 𝘈𝘋 𝘉𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘒!

you decline it.

you always do.

these ads were tailor made for you by someone probably sitting next to you. user feedback loops and predictive metadata, behavioral sampling. they do to you what you do to the masses. you glance to your left. the woman in station forty-seven is gone now. her chair is empty and ready to be sterilized and wiped clean.

by lunch, there’s already a new worker in her place.

he doesn’t speak to you.

and you don’t speak to him.

when your shift ends, you take the slightly longer route home to stretch your muscles. the rain outside isn’t too acidic today, doesn’t sting you so much. it leaves streaks across the signs in the streets, a circulatory system of neon and concrete and steel. you pass by the sign for 24 𝘏𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘗𝘓𝘌𝘈𝘚𝘜𝘙𝘌 𝘗𝘖𝘋𝘚! bathed in a lewd pink. the buildings overhead are so high up that they display artificial stars, because the real sky hadn’t been seen at this level in decades.

four blocks from your apartment, something shifts.

no footsteps.

no breathing.

but the sense of being followed roots itself in the back of your skull. something that makes the hair on your arms and neck stand up, phantom insects crawling across your eyelids and into your mouth. there is a flash of black and pink in your peripheral.

you don’t run.

something inside you begins to uncoil, cold and quiet and old.

it watches you from reflections around you. in touchscreen ads and raindrops, in puddles and the gleam of hover-car windows. it matches your pace, staying out of direct sight, toying with your senses. you catch the curve of a broad shoulder, a twisted grin that is never there when you try to look.

you keep going, past the vendor stall near your building.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘛!

𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘞𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘞𝘌𝘙𝘌 𝘔𝘈𝘋𝘌 𝘍𝘖𝘙!

it is abandoned.

when you finally stop in front of your building, the hum of the factory reverberates through the ground. it travels through your feet and to your ribs. you breathe to its rhythm, steady and neutral. your eyes scan the windowpanes and the shimmering surface of the pleasure pods.

empty.

you exhale.

and something answers.

a voice, just behind your left ear. low and smooth and amused.

“found you.”

he speaks to you as a mirage from the pulsing cherry-red light of an occupied pleasure pod, smiles at you with too many teeth.

he is there and then gone the next.

“you’re so… empty.”

the hairs on your arms stay standing. you say nothing and wet your lips. the door to your building slides open with a quiet sigh as you enter. you can hear him humming as you walk through the sickly green light of the lobby. you press the button for the elevator, and avoid looking at the dirty, cracking mirror when you step inside.

but you know he is there.

he is already everywhere.

the elevator dings and the doors open to your apartment.

and he is there.

waiting for you.

he is more… solid now. his chest is bare and raw, skin dripping with rain. thick, violent black tattoos coil around him like chains made of ink. his hair is a light peach, slicked back like he’s run his bloody hands through it one too many times. he sits on your kitchen chair completely unbothered, his lips curled in a beastial smile. red eyes track you as you close the door behind you, slow and deliberate.

(prey being savored

from afar.)

two of your fingers twitch.

he tilts his head, his movements almost catlike, but far more dangerous and charged with energy. you felt if you blinked too slowly he would be on you like the end of the world.

you do wonder how he found you.

you had made it this far without any incidents. your neutrality was your survivability. unless, just like all humans are finite, so is the duration of balance. perhaps there was a minuscule tip in the scale, and therefore the end of your invisibility.

but you haven’t known anything else.

so, you time your breathing to the hum in your walls, and think of 11𝘌 calibrating her lungs.

“you are so waiting to be unmade.”

at this, he laughs. you watch the acid rain from his hair run over his mouth, catches on the tip of a fang. this voice feels real. it sounds like yours. nicer, even, like honey oozing between shattered pieces of glass.

“how did you find me?”

you don’t know why you opened your mouth to ask it, but you did. not that his answer mattered. you would probably be dead within the next thirty minutes.

his grin widens, too many teeth.

“you might not be interesting to feel, but i can still see you.”

you nod, slowly.

he stands. his height is immense, and when he moves towards you, you can tell that he is not like the creature you once saw. he is far different, stronger.

much stronger.

“what else do you want to ask?” he questions coyly as he circles you.

he is playing a game with you now, and you have no choice but to go along with it.

“your kind feed on energy.”

“hmm, something like that.”

“but you said you can’t feel me.”

“not a thing.”

you keep your face still. confusion is a brittle emotion that only ever leads to senseless fear.

“will you still kill me?”

he breaths in deeply into your hair, and makes a satisfied noise.

“naturally”

naturally.

this world isn’t natural, but here he is. a creature so raw and real and visceral that who is and what he does and who he kills are perhaps the only natural things left in this world. he is a living creature that is limitless and boundless, one that feels things and has urges. you think he might just me more human than you are. he circles you again, languidly, like a cat.

“don’t you want to know why?”

you did.

because you know he wants you to ask it.

you breathe out a quiet, “why?”

“because i want to break you.”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

he doesn’t kill you that night.

not the next night.

and not the one after that either.

this was all part of the game, wasn’t it? a long, drawn-out hunt. he is a predator, and he is playing with his food before he eats it. the thought of your inevitable fate should terrify you.

but your days go on, and he only follows you.

you catch sight of him in places that exist in the edges – reflections, static, flashes. in the dull metal sheen of your elevator doors, in the half-second lag in your retinal display, and in the flicker of 𝘓𝘖𝘝3-𝘝27’s sensual hologram. he’s studying you, you realize. your routines, your patterns. where you go and what you do.

and he’s mocking you.

you catch him trying to change the frequency in the air around you. trying to incite fear in your spine or arousal in your hips or pain in your brain. none of it works on you. you notice the new employee at station forty-seven. how his parlor is almost ghostly white as he mutters to himself, beads of sweat collecting at his hairline like he’s stopping them from falling by sheer willpower. his algorithm filters into yours, coincidentally, and you see a sharp change in his displays from birdsong ambience for… whatever this was.

skin peeling.

eyeballs crunching.

your own voice crying out in ecstasy.

he doesn’t come back to work the next day, and you still don’t care.

on the fourth day after your first encounter with the creature, 11𝘌 approaches your desk.

you stop typing.

her hair catches the blue light from your monitor, and you tilt your head at her as she tilts hers at you. her face is so perfect, you think. a face perfect in its absence of warmth and life. there is a soft chiming sound from somewhere inside her chest, some sort of processing noise you’d never heard from her before.

“𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘺𝘦𝘦 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘪𝘹𝘵𝘺-𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘦,” she says with a soft voice. “𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥.”

nobody looks up at you as she says this.

they are all used to the coming and inevitable goings of people, like the tide coming in and out.

11𝘌’s eyes seem to focus and unfocus, pupils dilating and contracting as she scans you. you don’t feel anything as the processing sound gets louder.

“𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦… 𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥.”

something in her expression switches to something like confusion. you don’t think androids feel things like that.

“𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘵,” she says, and you know it’s not a question.

“no,” you agree.

she looks at you directly now. you think you see something flicker behind the expanse of grey and steel in her eyes. something like recognition. as if you and her are the same.

two perfect objects of neutrality.

two perfect machines.

the processing sound ends as 11𝘌 comes to a decision.

“𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯.”

you don’t protest.

you just gather your coat and bag from underneath your desk, and follow her outside your building. outside, the world chokes slowly beneath a smog-thick fog. holograms flicker overhead, men with open mouths and blackened eyes. a drone whirs just above your heads, trailing a pixelated ribbon.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙, 𝘉𝘌 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙!

11𝘌 stops just beside the vending machine outside your building, the one filled with pills and vials of immediate release dopamine. she faces forward, hands folded neatly behind your back.

you do the same.

the silence between you isn’t awkward. it is clinical, routine. you think you hear the timer in her skull ticking down to zero. this is only another task to her, and you are just a box she has to tick to follow her protocol.

you blink.

there is a rush of heat as a motorcycle flies past you, and you see a flash of the man from station forty-seven across the street. only the shape of him, just for a second. his skin stripped and spine exposed, propped up like a message on a wall, like a prayer.

your heart does not change rhythm.

11𝘌 turns to you, slowly.

“𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦.”

you nod.

she walks away without saying goodbye, disappears back into the concrete building that is her world and her mission.

you know you will not see her again.

and then, you go home.

it’s late by the time you arrive. your building’s security drone hovers outside the doors to the lobby today. a false pretense of safety, as if it could protect you from is waiting for you inside. but your creature is not inside your apartment like you expected him to be. you can sense him. or rather, he is calling you to him. you push open the rusted latch to your window, and climb the ladder of the emergency stairwell.

the air on the roof is warm.

even this high up, the air still smells like metal and engine grease and electricity. there is no such thing as fresh air anymore. the skyline bleeds in neon colors. pinks and purples and blues that only bruise it.

and he sits there casually at the edge of it all, his legs spread wide.

a man, a creature.

a god.

he turns to you and his mouth stretches into something wide and unpleasant to look at. his large hand pats the space on the ledge just beside him in a gesture that you think is almost human of him. you move to him, a lamb to the maw of a wolf, and he places a small paper bundle onto your lap.

red stains leak through the paper.

“it’s for you,” he offers in a voice dripping with mock tenderness. “i saw it and thought of you.”

you say nothing, and unwrap the paper slowly. he watches your face more than your hands, eager to savor whatever reaction he thinks he is about to get from you.

“it’s a tongue!”

he says it like you didn’t already know. like he is announcing he’s presenting you with flowers from the far corners of the planet they still grew on. the little piece of pink flesh is slightly greyed, and its taste buds look like sanded down spikes. there is clotted blood at the base, and you know that it had been torn, not cut, from someone’s mouth.

“i pulled it out of someone who thought he was in love.”

he says this in an almost conversational way, like discussing the weather of the week.

“he kept saying this one woman’s name over and over again. oh, and of course he just kept begging me to let him tell her he loved her one last time.”

you pinch it gently between your fingers.

“so i made sure he’d never say anything again.”

his grin widens.

“how can you tell that it wasn’t real?” you ask.

“because love tastes like rot. it’s unbelievably pathetic, there’s no good flavor left anymore. but he… he tasted like a lie.”

you wonder what love tastes like. sweet and warm, maybe. honey-filled moons soft enough to swallow whole. but what are lies? perhaps it is chewy, bursting with juice that stains your teeth. maybe that is what your creature liked best.

so, you open your mouth.

and eat it slowly, methodically.

your face doesn’t change, and you don’t gag. his expression splits into something that could be pure ecstasy, pupils dilating like he’s watching the most beautiful thing.

(have mercy on the poor fly

that follows the smell of honey.)

your fingers twitch.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re perfect.”

he leans in close to you. so close that you can smell the static and copper and cold void of what he is made from. his breathing is rough, heavy like he’s just been running.

“perfect and filthy. you’re just like me, aren’t you?“

you tilt your head.

blood trickles from the corner of your mouth.

“and who are you?”

his laugher is pure delight.

“ryomen sukuna.”

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

you don’t come to this place often.

the light of the club throbs low and red, a heartbeat just on the edge of an arrhythmia. its walls are slick with sweat, and the air is thick with the smell of pheromones – engineered or otherwise real. sweet like candied rot, dull like subjugated metal. you walk through the crowd like a thread through fabric, and take your place at the bar.

the signs outside call this place 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘉𝘖𝘋𝘠.

you aren’t sure why you come here. this isn’t a place made for people like you. on the surface, it seems like just another club that sits in the underbelly of a bloated city. but really, it’s a chain of alters, bodies upon bodies. where bare flesh is presented to another to fuck in ways that feel like worship. there are rooms within rooms here, draped with sheer curtains that reveal more than they conceal.

but you know sukuna will still find you.

you order nothing, and wait.

in the center, two feminine androids provide the entertainment for the next ten minutes. these ones move slowly, ritualistic. they are not pornographic like most of the others you watch. it’s a performance, a mimicry of intimacy that has been long since forgotten.

“they move like insects.”

sukuna doesn’t appear beside you fully. he is behind your eyes, behind your bones. seeing what you see, moving as you do. his presence is like oil and smoke on your skin, clinging to the cracks between your ribs.

“do they?”

for a while, he watches them with you.

the androids part briefly, a break in their dance, and rejoin. the hips undulate and grind into each other in half motions, perhaps to invoke a sense of longing. their glassy eyes blink in slow alternations. it’s all too rehearsed, you think.

“do you like it when they fuck?”

“i don’t care.”

“liar. your indifference is a better performance than theirs.”

you take a sip of an abandoned drink, and sukuna smiles behind your teeth.

“oh, but this is so boring. is this all they do?”

“until the next one comes, yes.”

sukuna makes a disgusted sound. it vibrates through your throat like you made it.

“you’re very still, for a human.”

“i’m watching.”

“mhm.”

“do you not enjoy this?”

“hmph! this is pathetic to me, you know? they pretend this isn’t some desperate attempt at muscle memory for something your bodies will never remember.”

“and you understand it.”

“of course i do, it’s only another form of hunger.”

an ad flashes at you above the bar.

₊˚⊹⋆ 𝘚𝘜𝘉𝘚𝘊𝘙𝘐𝘉𝘌 𝘛𝘖 𝘚𝘠𝘕𝘛𝘏𝘔𝘌𝘈𝘛 𝘕𝘖𝘞!

“and you… you are so deliciously empty that you understand nothing.”

“you don’t understand it, then.”

his hold on your spine tightens considerably.

“i understand the mechanics,” he says, far too fast.

“that’s not the same.”

“isn’t it?”

“you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

he doesn’t say anything, and his silence is heavy. you feel him watching the next dancers take the stage, made from real bones and flesh this time. his gaze isn’t lustful, or gleeful. it is detached, a killer watching his puppets bleed and break.

“i’ve fucked in plenty of bodies.”

you say nothing.

“it’s just rearranging lumps of meat, that’s all. bend a leg here, break a jaw, and someone always screams.”

“don’t you want it to be real?”

“i don’t need to, i take what i want when i want to.”

“taking doesn’t mean you know what it is.”

“i want to devour, not connect.”

“it’s not about connection.”

“well, it used to be. once.”

“once?”

“a thousand years ago, when you humans weren’t… this.”

“don’t you want to understand it?”

“you want to fuck me, little human? is that it?”

“yes.”

at this, he fully materializes beside you in a flash. all teeth and a moist, red grin.

“show me,” he orders.

his voice sounds the most human it ever has.

you feel a pressure in your hips, in your navel.

(oh mercy,

have mercy.)

your left hand spasms.

sukuna hums. “why do you want to do this?”

“because you want to understand something you were never built for, and you want it to be real.”

“real,” he savors the word on his tongue. “and that’s what you can give me?”

you take the time to really look at him. he is so beautiful, like a fever dream. he makes something in your hollow chest ache. he looks at you like you can give him the world. but you know he wants to be the one underneath your skin and wear you like a memory. to rip you open and drink your marrow so he can see how you tick. you wonder what it would feel like for ryomen sukuna to break you.

to let him in.

there is a hairline crack in the porcelain of your persona.

“i don’t know,” you say softly. “that’s the point.”

you offer him your hand.

and he takes it.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

you bring sukuna to one of the pleasure pods outside your building.

it seals behind you both with a hiss. the air inside smells sterile at first, but you know it is being pumped full of sweet, synthetic pheromones. the walls are a pale pink, slick and almost fleshy, like a womb. it quivers faintly like a heartbeat. sukuna reaches out to touch it, and it responds to him like it is alive. you reach the middle of the pod, where the floor extends upwards and thickens into something softer, more pillowed.

“lie back,” sukuna huffs.

you don’t.

you wait.

before you can blink, your clothes and his are gone, swallowed into a void that eats everything he touches. sukuna stands there perfectly solid, perfectly constructed. pale skin taut over lethal muscle. his blood eyes are drinking you in greedily, watching your heart beat beneath your breast, all violence that is barely constrained. you know the only two things saving you right now are his curiosity and that he wants this from you.

and still, he comes to you.

“do you want to kiss me?” you ask, tilting your chin up to him.

sukuna holds your jaw in his hand. “do you even know what it means to ask me that?”

and his lips crashes into yours like thunder. messy, eager, hungry. his fangs immediately catch on your bottom lip, and you let out a groan. sukuna’s tongue catches your sound and bullies your mouth open. you feel him tasting you, feel your blood spreading over your lips and between his. he pushes you down, and your spine curves against the pods membrane. your legs wrap around his hips, and you are met with the thick, hot weight of him at your core.

you make sure he sees you.

you make sure that he feels you.

“this isn’t just meat,” you murmur, rocking your hips to rub yourself on his length. “this isn’t hunger.”

“you think you can teach me?” he snarls.

sukuna enters you like a challenge, like an angel hurtling down from the heavens full of intent. for a second, his form glitches. there is a stutter in your visual field, a crack in the mirror. a hot shard of pleasure whips your core, and you clench around him, arching into his chest.

the pod walls pulse faster, the lights dim.

your voice trembles, “do that again.”

“do what?”

he is not all there, he is something halfway. but here and now, ryomen sukuna has never been more real to you than he is now. but he is toying with you as he always does, because he knows exactly what it is you want.

sukuna blinks.

and smirks.

then, he pulls back from you. his body pulses and stretches above you, and you think you just might die from the pleasure of it all, or perhaps just from him. his face shifts, multiplies, and two eyes become four looking down on you. his markings embolden and become living, vicious things. you feel something else. something hot and heavy, against the curve of your ass, and it takes you far too long to register that he has another cock.

the pod groans beneath you.

“are you afraid yet?”

“i’m…”

what are you?

you don’t know.

(only a soft thing

that starves.)

your hands shake.

sukuna laughs, and the sound reverberates in your bones and core. you open up to him so easily.

and he splits you apart.

not just once, but twice. hit first cock fills you fast, familiar in its essence of him. the second is much slower, deliberate. the way he stretches both your holes open is utterly filthy and impossibly divine.

your mouth opens in a silent scream.

he is inside you twice.

it’s too much, it’s everything.

the pod pulses and flashes with a low light. his hands are everywhere on you at once, sometimes two and sometimes all four. on your throat, your breasts and waist, one spreading your legs even wider to pinch your clit. you moan prettily, your fingers clutching at the flesh bed. it reacts, throbbing under you like it is part of his building rhythm, that cruel and delicious rhythm. the hollowness in your chest is overflowing now, spilling wine and blood, and you can’t remember ever feeling so full.

you are absolutely ruined.

“do you feel y–?”

he cuts himself off. something is happening inside him. you pull sukuna’s face down to yours.

“this is real,” you pant against his wet, bloody mouth.

his head rolls forward into you, his pace is brutal as he fucks you like he’s losing his grip on what he is. a fist slams into the wall behind your head. you feel his lips on your neck, and he sinks his teeth in. not enough to kill you, but just enough to hurt. your pussy flutters wildly around him.

“i want to– rip you apart.”

“then do it after. feel this first.”

your eyes roll back.

sukuna kisses you again. it is messy, mixed with spit and iron. he presses into you like he’s trying to take something from you, like wants to steal all your memories. he lifts your hips lift to meet his every thrust, and you wrap your legs tightly around him, sucking him in even deeper.

this new angle wrecks you.

you feel everything.

each thick, hot drag of his cock inside your sopping wet cunt, every ridge, every vein, every merciless push of him in both holes. you are utterly helpless as you tumble towards the edge.

“fuck! what are you doing to me?”

his thrusts become erratic, desperate.

and he cums.

loudly, shaking, splintering. first one cock, then the other. they pulse and twitch inside as his cum floods both your holes, warm against your walls. sukuna’s body flickers in between forms as his breath coming out in hot, ragged huffs. he collapses over you, his arms locking tightly around you. his tongue finds your collarbone, lapping away at your trickling blood.

the pod pulses once, twice.

and goes still.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

your tv screen flickers slightly.

it’s been on for three days straight, set at a volume too low to be heard if you weren’t paying attention.

“𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯 𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳.”

your spine aches. your skin stings where sukuna nipped at you and throbs where he gripped you. you are still swollen with the fullness he left inside you, and you don’t know what to do with it all.

it has been so long since you let yourself feel.

“𝘸𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘷𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺 𝘰𝘱𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘱𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.”

you quietly sip your iron water.

the creature watches you from the ceiling.

it is wearing her face – 11𝘌. her perfect mouth and her perfect face and her perfect stillness. but it is also wrong. it has her fingers bent unnaturally, clutching at your walls like a spider, too many joints folding where there shouldn’t be any. its head is dementedly twisted at a sharp right angle.

it does not blink or breathe.

just watches.

you are not afraid.

but you are struck by the ache in your chest from how much you miss 11𝘌.

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗹𝗹 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁.”

it whispers to you, tainting 11𝘌’s voice with static and mold.

“go away.”

you don’t look at it. your spine twinges as you shift on your couch. the android news anchor drones on in the background of your tv, but you are not really listening. a smile spreads over the creatures borrowed face.

it reaches out to you.

your apartment suddenly feels colder all at once.

sukuna is here.

“you have guests now?”

you blink.

the creature has scuttled out your open window.

“what a rude, little thing. not even a hello for me.”

“why was it afraid of you?”

he shrugs, and sits beside you. “it wasn’t. we don’t poach each other’s meals.”

“and i’m yours.”

“you’re my delicacy.”

your stomach turns. it’s a slow, rising sensation that travels from your gut to your throat. quiet and shapeless. it’s not fear, never that. it is hunger. but if it’s yours or his, you don’t know. you glance at sukuna.

you know the sex has changed him too.

he is more erratic, unhinged. his form glitches in small bursts. he is not as solid as he used to be, like his glamour is bleeding into the air.

“is it true?” you ask.

“hm?”

you nudge your head at the tv. “your kind is disappearing.”

“maybe.”

“you don’t seem concerned.”

“hah! you think i’m like them? like that insect that was just here?”

you feel the air shift again. sukuna’s body becomes something more unstable.

“i’m the strongest.”

“i know.”

“and you, you are my most perfect prey.”

“you don’t seem well, sukuna.”

“no, i’m starving for you. there’s a difference.”

you sip your water.

your tongue feels like it’s rusting.

“then, what are you waiting for?”

he grins with too many teeth, but it feels different than before. nothing human is left in it.

“for you to want it.”

“want what?”

“to be devoured.”

he says this reverently.

a beat passes, your walls hum.

“you were close,” sukuna murmurs, leaning into you. “when i was inside you. you broke, i could feel it.”

his tongue slides over his fangs.

“and now, i’m waiting for you to ripen. for your flesh to soften. when you let go, when you’re so full of feeling you burst in my mouth. i want the marrow in your bones to say yes, and that’s when i’ll eat you.”

he sighs, dreamlike.

“that’s the taste i’m after.”

(when the fly swims in honey,

it becomes sweeter.)

your hands shake violently, and you almost drop your glass.

sukuna smiles again, and his fingers splay across your chest.

“how will you do it?”

you ask him because you do actually want to know. his fingers flex, pressing against your sternum, testing the give of your ribs. he hums like he is considering a wine pairing.

“slowly.”

he taps your collarbone.

“i want to hear every crack you make. little by little. i’ll start at your edges, your fingers and thighs. these soft spaces in your ribs, right here.”

he presses between your ribs from over your shirt.

“and then i’ll go deeper. i want to use my teeth to tear your skin off. i want every part of you to spill out, and i want to eat your thoughts.”

you swallow.

“will it hurt?”

for a moment, sukuna looks bored at your question. “not at first.”

then his voice drops.

“but… eventually, yes. exquisitely so. i’ll make it last. you’ll be screaming with truth, realness. all of your performance will be gone, and there’ll be nothing left of you when i’m done.”

your heartbeat is no longer yours. it beats in time to his, rapid and greedy and so hungry. your body doesn’t know if it wants to lean into him and his touch, or run until the soles of your feet bleed. his palm lays flat over your chest, and it feels like fire.

you wonder if sukuna can feel it too.

the shift.

that slow leak of something inside you about to burst open.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

it hunts in the night.

perched atop a rooftop, high above the crisscrossing metal beams and the world stitched together by neon gas below. it ticks its head to the side, and its fingers twitch.

it watches.

it waits.

(he is a stupid,

beautiful fool.)

the city breathes again. an inhalation of acid and pleasure, and an exhalation of fumes and polyester. this world is loud, it thinks. it is a slowly decaying, pathetic little world. it watches the humans behind its pearl-white eyes with an air of pride it knows it shouldn’t have. a predator does not have the right to take pride in its violation of life, and it knows this. it hovers over the edge, like an angel undone and dripping in sin. it spreads its arms like its prey, a king of old bones.

and falls.

it traverses the plane of half-existence. the wind does not break it, and gravity does not own it. it weaves between and through buildings as a phantom. there are shining windows and rippling puddles, holograms and corrupted billboards. this world has an abundance of them all. each one an opening from the world it was born into this one. the humans called for their own doom, and its kind simply answered.

but the humans didn’t matter.

not to it, at least.

(take the king!

to the king, kill the king!)

it can smell him.

it perceives everything about him. him and his arrogance. the king smells like metal and fire, but it has grown somewhat fond of the scent. it can see him now, and it stops high above him in the clouds. the king is not solid, wearing his more human form than natural, as he warps through a market, parting through the humans like an old god. it can see his effect on the humans. they are on edge, their world tilts and ripples when he passes, and they glance behind their shoulders like they could see the death cloud of red. the king is a blight on their existence, but he is not theirs to suffer.

not anymore.

(he is

ours.)

he turns into an alley, chasing the sound of someone broken. maybe a scream, or the call of snapping bones.

it is behind him now.

crouched atop a pale orange streetlight.

a hazy shimmer in the corner of his blood eyes. a light wind passes through his peach hair. the taste of dust and ash on his tongue where there should be iron.

he stops.

he is not afraid. he turns to face it with the slow delight of a creature who believes himself to be invincible. his lips pull back over his teeth in a wicked grin.

“come out. i don’t bite.”

it laughs like broken glass.

still, it waits. it watches him high above on a window sill, the way he moves so casually. careless and godlike. how little he fears death. his eyes flash like twin rubies. there is a shift in the air, and it knows that he has recognized the challenge.

a predator and a fellow beast.

but he doesn’t run.

he begins to walk again, an amorphous orb flashing between holographs and puddles. it follows, gliding after him and keeping close. it watches the back of his neck where the blood is sweet and warm. the king glows like a rotting sun in its perception.

it lets him feel it, just slightly.

a pain behind his eyes.

a trailing scratch along his spine.

a rising pressure in his lungs.

(peel him apart,

pull out his teeth and count them.)

the king comes to a halt.

his eyes narrows. he is really looking now, peering into the darkness between the neon signs. it never doubted he was clever, and it licks its teeth. he flickers, his body becoming alive and fully solid.

“who are you?”

he calls out lazily, bored even, his arms stretched behind his head.

“what a stupid question,” it replies, smiling.

it descends without a sound, an unraveling spool of air. it does not fully form, not yet. it adopts the outline of something more familiar to him, feminine but still inhuman. a constellation of truth and unfeeling memory.

he watches it, curious.

“you’re new.”

it circles him now. he is not alarmed, but it doesn’t expect him to be, not yet. he watched its outline move with a hunter’s grin. he is no longer alone in this game of his, he never was. the king is a fool who has never realized this.

(there were signs,

and more.)

the air becomes static and dry.

“no.”

the king hums, amused. “no?”

“i’m so much older than you.”

his pupils sharpen. there is a recognition creeping through the air like crawling ivy. but he doesn’t see it until it moves.

too fast.

too clean.

not like a woman.

and not like prey.

its body folds and unfolds and becomes alive with a click. ribs splinter and extend outward like jagged wings, white and wet. ready and devouring. its spine unlatches, vertebrae popping and bulging open like little doors. a creature, a starving goddess draped in a familiar, soft girl skin. it pins him to the asphalt in one fluid motion.

he doesn’t recognize it at first.

“get off–”

then, he blinks. his eyes widen in a beautiful horror as he understand what he has been playing with for all this time. his mouth twitches, and he snarls.

“it’s you.”

it smiles the same way he used to. “yes.”

the king stills.

his arms are caught, jaw forced open with its needle fingers. it presses its forehead to his like an old lover, and reminisces the feeling of fullness it had felt not too long ago.

it breaths him in, pinches his tongue.

(do not gloat,

we have won the game.)

and you feed.

`✦ ˑ ִֶ 𓂃⊹

#tbr #LILY I WILL BE BACK #I CANT BELIEVE ITS HERE AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

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q-library · 1 month ago

Text

DAMN YOU, SATORU GOJO

pairing : satoru gojo x f!reader summary : against your better judgement, you choose him — time and time again, despite it not always being the smartest choice. but it just developed an understanding that you'd follow him wherever. cw : angst, sorcerer!reader, manga spoilers, canon events, profanity, character death, some arguing, reader is smaller than satoru, unspoken feelings, crying, smidget of fluff, some namecalling, creative freedom lol, one vague description hinting at longer hair, no use of y/n word count : 5.0k

Five times you had chosen Satoru when you knew you probably shouldn’t have.

You were 15, just innocent first years at Jujutsu tech and it had been such a dumb decision to let him convince you.

“Please, please, please,” Satoru begged, propped up on his knees in front of you with his hands locked together in prayer, staring at you with doe eyes and bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

You let out a sigh, turning your attention away from the overgrown child in front of you to look at Suguru, who had a self satisfied grin smeared across his face.

“Don’t look at me. I told him already I’m not going!”

“You wouldn’t let me go out at night alone, would you?” Satoru grabbed your attention again. “Who knows what lurks in the shadows out there?”

“Satoru, it’s not allowed. We have a curfew,” you tried to argue, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Curfew? I don’t know what that word means,” he said and shuffled closer before drilling his fingers between your forearms to forcefully grab your hand, securing it in a tight grip. “Come on! This is a matter of life and death!”

“You said you wanted to go get a late night snack?”

“Same thing! Just please come with me, I don’t want to go alone!”

You rolled your eyes at his dramatic antics, taking yet another deep sigh as you weighed your options. The smart thing to do was to refuse, yank your hand out his and send him off to his dorm, like you all should be doing at this hour.

Tomorrow was yet another day of duties to attend. All four of you expected to be present bright and early for the first class starting at 8.

Not to mention what would happen if you were caught. You were sure to be in trouble then, probably having to run around the grounds of Jujutsu High, doing all sorts of ridiculous chores as punishment for who knew how long.

But you couldn’t lie — there was something nearly hypnotic about his cerulean blue eyes staring up at you, a convincing effect you found hard to fight.

You kept chewing the inside of your cheek to smother the small smirk that threatened at the corner of your lips, knowing very well he would burst with pride if he noticed. “If we get caught, I won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus.”

Satoru immediately lit up, jumping to his feet with excitement. He rushed out a hurried goodbye to Suguru, waving over his shoulder before pulling you after him and out the door.

“I’m serious, Satoru! If Yaga finds out-“

“Would you calm down,” he sighed, walking nonchalantly down the dimly lit road, fingers intertwined behind his head, seemingly not a single worry on his mind. “Yaga won’t find out! Besides, he loves me, so I’ll just work my charm and he’ll let us off the hook. Trust me.”

His head snapped towards you when you couldn’t help but scoff tauntingly at him.

“If you got something to say,” he whined childishly, staring at you with his characteristic pout.

“No, no! You're free to believe whatever you want.”

Eventually you reached the small, deserted convenient store without running into any of your superiors, so you finally let your shoulders relax when you entered the cool store. The fluorescent lights that welcomed you was a stark contrast to the darkness outside, and thus extremely unpleasant.

As Satoru strutted through the isles, you at his heels, you quickly learned that he was by no means a penny pincher, filling his basket with whatever his heart desired.

“What are you having?” He asked as he pulled a packet of biscuits from the shelf.

You quickly scanned the shelves on each side of you, “I think I’m good.”

Satoru instantly stopped in his tracks and spun around, causing you to crash right into him. He was staring big eyed at you, as if you had personally offended him.

“I just won’t accept that.”

“Really, Satoru, I’m good-“

“Come on! My treat,” he said excitedly, grinning with childlike joy.

It was only when you started school that you were reunited with Satoru, having only met briefly many, many years ago — and from what you remembered, the energetic and optimistic person in front of you was vastly different from the child you were once introduced to.

That thought, mixed with the contagious joy he embodied, made it hard to suppress any lurking smile.

“Fine, I’ll grab an ice cream or something.” The statement had his smile burn brighter, if that was even possible.

As you stood above the ice cream counter, trying to make up your mind about what you wanted, you could feel him grow impatient where he stood behind you, peaking over your shoulder. Eventually you landed on your favourite, and Satoru decided to grab one for himself as well.

Just like he had promised, he paid, happily so, and you started the walk back. All stress had left your body now, simply enjoying the moment. The ice cream threatened to melt down your hand as Satoru had planted a chronic giggle on your lips, making it impossible to try and digest your little treat.

However, the bliss was sadly short lived and the stress returned when suddenly an all too familiar figure stood in the middle of the road several feet ahead.

Yaga.

“Fuck,” you mumbled under your breath, both you and Satoru stopping in your tracks, too scared to approach your teacher any closer.

Before too long, you were both sat alone in Yaga’s office in front of his desk.

You grumpily had your arms knitted in front of you while your shoulders were raised up to your ears, foot tapping anxiously against the floor.

“Damn you, Satoru Gojo,” you said through gritted teeth. You turned to look at him, only feeling the anger grow when he was busy stuffing his face with some of the chocolates he had purchased not even an hour ago.

Without hesitation, you reached your hand out and yanked the paper bag out of his hand, a few pieces flying across the room. “Hey!” He yelped.

“Will you stop eating, you asshole?!” You nearly growled at him. “This is exactly what I feared would happen!”

He rolled his eyes at you before slumping further into his chair. “You’re too pretty to worry this much- ouch!” Mid sentence you had sent your hand swinging, slapping his upper arm. “Okay, sorry I got us in trouble! But I’m sure it’s not going to be anything too bad.”

You just kept scowling at him, feeling like a fool for falling for his silly charm. Not to mention how extra infuriating it was that he didn’t take this nearly as severely as you did, almost as if he believed it didn’t affect him at all.

He cleared his throat and sat up properly before leaning over the armrest closest to you. “I really am sorry!”

The crease between your eyebrows let up, hearing how his apology was genuine. By the way he was looking at you and the inner edges of his eyebrows angled upwards with guilt, you could tell he had never intended to be caught — he had actually believed you would simply return to school without any problem.

Shaking out of the trance, you fell back in your chair. “I’m still mad at you,” you grumbled quietly and directed your gaze straight ahead, knowing it would be harder to hold onto your frustration if you kept looking at him.

“Justified,” he sighed.

As Satoru had expected, the punishment wasn’t too bad. You simply had to clean up the kitchen after dinner for a week — and if anything, you were almost thankful because you had a lot more fun than you would ever have expected.

The time spent cleaning up ended up taking twice as long as what was scheduled, just because you both were a whole lot busier talking, laughing and in general messing around — acting like the teenagers you were rather than doing what you were supposed to. In the end, the punishment only served as the first building block in what eventually evolved into an untouchable bond.

The next time you chose Satoru when you knew you shouldn’t, was over something a lot less trivial — it was forever doomed to claw at your conscience.

You had turned 23, and life looked a lot different now than when you were teenagers. So much had happened over the years, things one couldn’t dwell on for too long because it would only pull one into a depressive spiral — and you and Satoru had grown closer as a result of it.

One of the most significant moments was when Suguru defected.

Describing the whole ordeal as traumatic didn’t even begin to cover it. If there was a way for you to forget it all, be that a deal with the devil, you’d take it just for some solace.

However, life goes on whether you want it to or not.

Your close quartet shrunk into a trio — but there was something deeper that spawned between you and Satoru. Whatever it was, it went unsaid because neither of you ever managed to find the right words to explain it. All you knew was that it had you gravitate further into each other’s orbit, out of reach from everyone else.

One was rarely seen without the other, always pairing up for missions — even when your superiors didn’t want you to.

For years you we’re inseparable, until you found yourself entangled in a whirlwind romance with a lovely man outside of jujutsu society. Before you knew it, you were swept up in all his charm.

It seemed perfect — he was nice, respectable, patient; all the qualities one looked for in a partner. You were under the impression that things were going well, which was why you were shocked when he sprung the ultimatum on you.

“Me or him?”

Your jaw kept opening and closing at a loss for words, sitting on the edge of the couch with your hands pressed between your thighs. You could tell this was something that had been heavy on his mind for a long time based on the sadness that harboured in his eyes, standing in front of you, a shell of the person you knew.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, seeing how his shoulders sank. And when he spoke again, his voice was low and determined, “I won’t ask again. Me or him?”

“Him.”

The word slipped out of you like a quiet squeak. Your answer had come on pure instinct, like every part of you knew there was no other option.

You prepared yourself for yelling and shouting, an endless stream of ‘how could you?’. But it never came.

Instead his posture relaxed. He huffed what you thought was supposed to be a lighthearted laugh before he took a seat next to you.

“Damn you, Satoru Gojo,” he breathed.

You didn’t know what else to do than stare at him dumbfounded, “I’m sorry,” you stuttered.

“Don’t be,” he turned to you with a sad smile painting his lips. “I think I kinda always knew.” Again, he let out a sound you thought was supposed to be a laugh but it just didn’t quite get there as he placed a hand on your knee. “But I needed to hear you say it.”

“No, I am really sorry!” You reinforced, placing your hand on top of his.

“You really don’t need to explain,” he flipped his hand to quietly intertwine his fingers with yours — one last moment of intimacy. “What the two of you have-“ cutting himself off, he tried searching for the right words to describe whatever it was you and Satoru had. You clearly weren’t the only one struggling to put the importance of your relationship into words. “I’ll never be able to compete with that. So don’t be sorry.”

You mirrored his melancholy smile and gave his hand a squeeze.

For another thirty minutes you sat there and talked, reminiscing of good times — there were quite a few, you both agreed. But it was clear this couldn’t continue any further. So you gave him one last hug and left.

You took your time walking back to the grounds of Jujutsu tech, your head heavy with churning thoughts.

When you had driven your brain exhausted with these new revelations, you found yourself craving a little snack before heading to bed, b-lining for the kitchen first thing — your heart skipped a beat when you were met with Satoru stood with his head in the fridge, peaking out to meet your gaze when he felt your presence enter the room.

“What are you doing here?”

“Hello to you too,” you scoffed at him, throwing your bag on the kitchen isle before jumping up on it.

“Weren’t you supposed to be with-“ he waved his hand about, “whatever-his-name-is tonight?”

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. “We broke up, actually.”

Satoru very abruptly stopped searching for whatever he was looking for, closing the door to the fridge and leaned up against it. “I’m sorry.” You simply shrugged in response. “What happened?”

“Uhm-“ how were you supposed to tell him that he was the reason for your breakup? You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

Now having been made aware of the fact, it became clear to you that you and Satoru were dancing on a fine line — more than friends, but not quite lovers. An unspoken thing that one could feel dip into a romance. But you didn’t want to be the one to bring attention to it and break the illusion that there was nothing there. That would only create unnecessary pressure to what was essentially a nonexistent issue.

“Just didn’t work out,” you sighed.

“His loss,” he smirked — and there it was again, that tension that was impossible to label, traveling between you. It suddenly became very clear why your ex had proposed the ultimatum in the first place. “But you’re okay?”

For a second you just looked at Satoru, a content smile stretching across your face as you nodded. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good! Then I can come clean and say I never liked the guy,” he said and returned to rummaging the fridge.

“Oh, believe me, I know!”

“What do you mean you know?” His voice muffled in the fridge in front of him.

“You thought you were subtle?” You teased.

He just peaked a look at you over his shoulder, his eyes full of mischief, and even though it was hidden behind his arm, you know he was smiling with satisfaction.

The fourth time around, you were 28 years old and you had no clue how this choice would unfold itself.

“You have to trust me on this!” He begged, and even through his blindfolds you could feel his pleading eyes drill into you.

“Satoru, I don’t know.” To say you were reluctant was an understatement, seeing this choice venture down a handful of potentially dangerous routes.

“You’ve always agreed with me that the higher ups don’t have a single clue what they're doing. They’re too scared to see the chance we have here.”

You only sighed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning up against the wall behind you. Sure, there was a long list of descriptive words you’d use for the higher ups before even the first positive one would pop up, but this case was severe enough to actually be able to see their perspective.

“You trusted me with Yuta, now I need you to trust me with this too!”

“You cannot begin to compare these two cases!” You scoffed. “Yuta didn’t have the literal king of curses inside him! You too have to see how these are wildly different scenarios?”

The hypothetical question hung in the air as he mirrored your position against the opposite side of the hallway.

The list of consequences the higher ups had presented was long — excruciatingly long. You’d felt like an idiot stood behind Satoru as he argued and argued, while you kept your lips sealed, witnessing the powerful individuals in front you discuss so aggressively you swore you could feel the temperature rise.

Your silence definitely took them by surprise, so used to you always taking Satoru’s side without question. But this time around, you didn’t see it as black and white as you usually did.

“I’ve looked at this from every angle, and I believe this could work.” Worry pinched your eyebrows together, never letting your eyes leave the strong sorcerer in front of you, who now looked more timid than you’d seen him in years. “And should the worst happen, I’ll stop it! I promise.”

A lump formed in your throat as what you believed was mostly your concern spawned in your mind.

Everyone else saw the worst scenario being Ryomen Sukuna regaining physical footage in the real world, and the earth’s strongest sorcerer wouldn’t be able to stop it and be eliminated in the process.

Your worst scenario was losing Satoru.

“He’s just a kid,” he continued to plead.

Letting out a deep sigh, your head fell forwards to hide how your eyes had turned glossy. “Damn you, Satoru Gojo.”

“So you trust me?”

You nodded slowly as you kept your head directed at your feet. “I trust you. You know I do.”

A strange and eerie, though somehow also comfortable silence filled the empty hallway. You just hoped you wouldn’t end up regretting this.

As you could feel an oncoming headache sneak up, you closed your eyes and slowly began to rub circles on your temples, hoping the faint agony would release. It had truly been a few stressful days.

You let out a small whimper of relief as strong fingers placed themselves on your temples, causing your own hands to lazily fall to your sides.

You just enjoyed the moment, letting Satoru soothe you for minute before muttering a quiet “thank you.”

“Feel better?” He asked, low enough so it was only audible to you.

The exhaustion had seemed to grow permanent in your body, only able to slightly lift your shoulders in a small shrug you weren’t even sure he saw. “Don’t know, but it’s nice,” you smiled weakly.

“Feel like you’ve had more and more of these headaches.”

“These are trying times,” you attempted to lighten the mood by the small quirk in your voice, but it wasn’t as successful as you’d hoped for when he never responded with an anticipated chuckle.

“I don’t like it.” His voice came out a little rough, fingers still moving in comforting circles on each side of your face.

“I’ll be okay,” you sighed.

Carefully you tilted your head upwards, a little sad the black cloth around his head blocked direct eye contact to be made, even though you knew they were looking right at you. You lifted your hands again, tenderly placing them on top of his big ones, making him stop massaging you.

“Promise me-“ a small spark of fear halted your sentence for a second. “Promise me I won’t regret this.”

His right palm flattened against your cheek. “I promise.”

The fifth time you chose him took place not many months after the choice regarding Yuji Itadori — but not without a heated discussion.

“I can’t believe you went as far as set a date, without even talking to me!” You shouted at him, anger having driven you to stand so close to him you could feel his body heat radiate off of him.

“I’m sorry, but it was the best decision to make in that moment.” He fired back, but his voice possessed a tenderness yours lacked. “This gives us a month to prepare.”

“No!”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” you said, voice cracking at the end. “I won’t allow it.”

His head fell back in frustration, “this is our chance to end this!”

“I don’t care, it’s too risky! We’ll find another way to stop Sukuna.”

“There is no other way!” He said, pronouncing every word very clearly.

You licked your lips, a shaky breath exhaled through your nose as you fought off tears. “What about Megumi!?”

“This is how we save him,” he argued back.

“I said no. It’s just too dangerous!”

Slowly but surely you felt yourself losing grip on your sanity, all the death and suffering you’d all been through that had lead up to this moment, catching up with you and presenting you with yet another dilemma.

You ran your fingers through your hair, tugging at your roots. “I just need you to trust me! One more time-“

“Damn you, Satoru Gojo!” You sobbed, cutting him off before he was able to finish his sentence. “I won’t lose you!”

You drew a sharp breath to choke back the bubbling sobs, shoulders bouncing as you sniffled, the sound muting the conversation instantly.

His lips parted with a sad sigh, letting his muscles rest as he now saw you were not in a position to receive any hard arguments. “You’re not going to lose me.”

“Take your blindfolds off.”

Softly he spoke your name.

“Take your blindfolds off!” You repeated with a raised tone. “I want you to look me right in the eyes as you give me your word!”

With two fingers he hooked a hold of the dark fabric, and with one swift motion he did as you demanded. His tufts of snow white hair falling to cover his forehead as his eyes stared right into yours.

His gaze flittered between your eyes, causing your hands to fall at your side. The intensity in his crystal pools caused your chin to quiver, salty tears leaving wet trails down your cheeks.

“You’re not going to lose me.”

The words left his mouth, and your face scrunched together with sorrow, shutting your eyes as the waterfalls continued. Hesitatingly, you nodded your head so shyly you hoped the movement was faint enough for him not to notice it — Satoru quickly placed a hand on each side of your jaw and you felt his hair tickle you softly before resting his forehead against yours.

“You won’t lose me,” he reassured you, “not ever.” You pulled back, wanting to look in his eyes again. “I’m not the strongest for nothing.”

You wished you could spare him even just a small chuckle, but his attempt to change the atmosphere for the better was doomed useless. If anything, it only made it worse — reminding you of the burden placed on him by powers he hadn’t chosen for himself.

“Just make sure to take use of that,” you whispered, his thump wiping away one of your silent tears.

“I will.”

You opened your mouth, faint sounds coming out as you were in an internal discussion of whether you should say what rested on your heart or not — “there’s still things for us to do. You and me.”

It was his time to slowly nod along in agreement, confirming what had gone unsaid for so many years without taking use of the actual words. “I know.”

The chilly wind was slowly blowing through your hair, your arms wrapped around yourself more in an attempt to hold yourself together rather than to keep yourself warm.

It seemed only fitting the skies were grey, the sun trapped between layers of dark clouds — because all brightness had left the world when Satoru did.

You looked down at the simple headstone, engraved with his name, his birthday and his death day, the one you had insisted needed to be placed in the peaceful backyard of Jujutsu high.

Then you started to think back at the first time you chose Satoru Gojo — had you only known then how much pain you would have spared yourself if you had chosen differently.

The earth had orbited the sun many times since then, when he could only be labelled a stranger. Not even ten years old when you spotted a kid in your local playground, all in his lonesome as he let the tips of his shoes slowly wiggle him back and forth on the swing-set.

Now, when your entire future looked nothing but dark and gloomy, you wished you’d listened to your initial instincts and just continued the trip home. He was none of your concern, no matter how lonely he looked.

But that was just it — you felt bad. A kid wasn’t supposed to be alone in the playground, especially a kid who seemed in desperate need of a company.

A little annoyed with yourself, you let out a frustrated huff before letting your bike tip over and strut towards the boy sitting with his back facing you.

“Hi there!” You said loud and clear. He stopped staring at the gravel, jumping off the swing-set and quickly spinning around to look at you, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. “Whoa-“

Once eye contact was made, you felt it — he was like you. You didn’t know much about the jujutsu world, or your powers for that matter, at this time. All you knew was that there was something about you that made you different. Special.

And the kid staring back at you was part of that too. Though you had no idea to what degree.

“Who are you?” The innocent question stumbling out of you with awe only possessed by a child.

For a second it looked as if he didn’t want to answer, kicking a small rock in front of him. “I’m Satoru Gojo,” he mumbled.

You only blinked at him, trying to understand why he said his name like that — like you were supposed to know who he was.

“Nice to meet you, Satoru Gojo,” you recited the pleasantries your parents had thought you before telling him your own name. “You’re like me, aren’t ya?”

He narrowed his eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘like you’?”

“Special! That’s what my mom says at least.”

He just lifted his shoulders in a shrug, “I guess.” Satoru really didn’t like how the word left you like a compliment. Because Satoru knew he was special. He’d been told so for as long as he could remember. And at ten, he wanted nothing else than to be ordinary.

“I’ve never met someone like me before. At least that I know of.”

Satoru blinked at you, the crease between his eyebrows narrowing further in confusion. You seemed absolutely clueless about the world you truly belonged in, and he envied the ignorance. “Now you have.”

“What are you doing here all alone?” You tucked your arms behind your back, as you began to continuously shift your weight from your heels to your toes, and to your heels again.

Again he shrugged. “Having fun.”

“Doesn’t look like you’re having much fun.”

A frown settled on his entire face, taken aback by your blatant honesty. “Well, it is,” he argued stubbornly, retracting his hands from the pocket and crossing them in front of him.

“Can I join?” You asked, head tilting to the side. Again you surprised him, but this time it was a more delightful one.

“Okay,” he stuttered, waiting for you to come closer and take the lead in whatever it was you considered to be fun.

And you did — happily so. You both lost complete track of time. Especially Satoru, who couldn’t remember ever really playing with another kid like this.

After nearly two hours, you glanced at the small watch wrapped around your wrist. “Darn!” You exclaimed. “I was supposed to be home by now.” You scattered to your feet, wiping off the gravel dust that was coating your knees and ran back to your bike. You only got halfway there before Satoru called your name.

“Will I see you again?” He looked nearly sad as the innocent question was spoken.

A toothy grin greeted him in return. “Yes, I’m sure of it!”

Nervously he fidgeted with his fingers. “How do you know?”

Never letting your smile waver, you made up your mind right then and there. “I’ll find you again. I promise.”

That was the last thing you said to him before riding off.

Whatever it was, something connected you to that strange boy that day and you knew, someday in the future, you would follow him wherever he went.

Several times a month you would think of the promise you made to Satoru, his name appearing in your dreams every once in a while, making sure you wouldn’t forget about him.

Five years later you were finally reunited, now a lot more familiar with the world you belonged to.

He had recognised you immediately. You could tell by the peaceful smile he served you with, watching how some of the stress he desperately tried to suppress, simply disappeared from his body.

“Hi there!” He greeted you, just like how you had captured his attention when you were kids. That was the only thing you ever acknowledged of your adolescent encounter, letting it stay a holy secret only in the memory of you and Satoru.

That way no one could touch it — no one could taint it.

“Damn you, Satoru Gojo,” you sniffled and wiped your nose with the back of your hand. “You and your stupid promises!”

Taking a few steps forwards, kneeling down in front of the stone, you let your fingers trail each letter of his name.

“I think I’ll curse you forever for that,” tilting your gaze down at the wittered flowers you had planted when he was first buried. “We were supposed to have more time you and I.”

You wrapped your arms around your bent knees, sitting much like a child who had their laser focus on something in front of them would, gaslighting yourself into thinking your own embrace made you feel better — in reality, you wished it was Satoru’s arms that enveloped you.

“But I’m choosing to believe I’ll find you again,” a whispered promise, the words floating along with the wind to a place you hoped he would hear them.

That was the sixth and final time you chose Satoru Gojo.

author's note : aaaah can yall believe this took me less than a week???? and i am kinda happy with it?? the hell is happening. anyways, in my satoru feels lately

tags (open — link to taglist form) : @sad-darksoul . @gdamnackerman . @madaqueue . @toadba . @harperluvgojo . @nishislcve . @ichore . @sugurunugget . @megapteraurelia . @loveyislost

#tbr #OUGH i fear this is going to give me many many MANY big feelings #(i love you hea i love everything you write i kiss you)

298 notes · View notes

q-library · 1 month ago

Text

*reader here wears a lipstick, is not gender specified. the ficlet is slightly suggestive and with inappropriate work dynamics. 0,8k words.

“You suggest that I’ve been behaving too casually towards you, Aventurine?” you flippantly organize his words about you not treating him like your superior enough into this one conclusion.

“Yes. Perhaps, you should show me some more respect. You know, the person highly above you in the rank,” he comes to tease you, leaning against his enormous desk. Of course, he’s been friendlier with you than any other boss would be, willingly, but he wants to see how far he can abuse his demand regarding gaining from you — his favorite assistant.

Aventurine expects some protests from you, of course. He’s known you enough to know you’re not always fond of him of or his capricious behavior, and that you have your own pride. Except this time, you twist his provocation into your own little game.

“Then allow me to rehabilitate myself for my latest series of disrespect,” your tone is suddenly solemn-sounding, but your intensions are dutiful only in theory.

He watches you grasp and lift up his left hand, from which you shed the black glove to place it on his furniture, inspiring erratic tingles when his bare skin comes into contact with yours. His eyes, which barely follow the unprecedented action, widen behind his pink lenses, and you’re already inching his hand upward to your lips, glossy with your favorite shade.

Judging by the way his fingers stiffen in your cage, he has taken you for granted. “A hand kiss to pay my respects. That sounds about right, sir Aventurine?” you drawl the honorific and mighty codename.

He has to let out a shaky exhale when his heart jumps with elation at your obliging acknowledgement of his hierarchy over you; the sentiment rather unfamiliar to the old him. He could only dream you are to be this submissive in other ways. “It’s certainly a beginning,” he forces out, feigning royal approval.

It’s also an odd thought to have his hand kissed and not be kissing other pretty ones instead… but this is also the closest he’s been with you, so he’ll let this power imbalance slide.

When your painted and warm lips finally touch his hand, it’s as if his skin melts from the heat and yearns to return as rejuvenated. They cause a stir in the unconquerable parts of his brain too, and then you make it worse: you keep your lips right here for longer than necessary, giving his breathing surface time to spread aroused needles up and down his body. The fall of Aventurine is evident to you when you spot his mouth parted and his brows furrowed in confusion and lush.

However, your eyes close, perhaps upon your silent read on his shivers — pleading that you give him a short respite to conceal his vulnerabilities.

As you withdraw, you open your eyes, ensuring to stare at him with a tone that is not quite flirtatious but still playful enough to cause an uproar in disciplinary departments should a complaint be made.

When your hand lets go of his, it is a sad loss. He lets it fall languidly, as if hoping you would take it again.

“Was this enough of reverence?” you ask politely, while your sly smile is nothing of the sort.

“Yes… I suppose it was satisfactory,” he replies with a rattled clear of his throat, aching with a terrible need to retreat from your presence’s field.

“Then if you would excuse me, sir. My duties ought to be serving you await their completion,” your excuse carries both an irritating taunt and relief.

As he watches you stroll back to the adjacent office and the glass door shut, he lifts his burning hand to his face, rubbing his nose in frustration. You have one-upped him, and he’s not used to being out of control when mingling with others. His drumming ears conspire against him to catch the faint click of your shoes distancing themselves, so he cannot forget you too soon.

Right when he’s supposed to don his glove, his eyes (previously occupied with your dreamy gaze) finally spot something important — you have left a lipstick mark on his naked surface, as expected of a pigmented makeup. He inhales deeply, pondering whether that ties him down to you somehow. His head is whirling with a schmaltz of how it’s a shame your lips didn’t end up on the another pair, this thought being against his good conscience.

Aventurine should be running to the bathroom or stealing someone’s makeup remover in the IPC building, but he decides to place the glove over your stain and test out his immunity against your allure and how often you’ll distract his concentration today. Somehow, the warm caress under lingers.

#aventurine <3 #HANIA WRITING AVENTURINE THIS IS NOT A DRILL #AAAAHHHHHHH OH I NEED HIM. SO BAD #THE POWER DYNAMICS I WILL SCREAMMMMM #THE TEASING AND THE PUSHING BOUNDARIES AND THE STAKES GETTING HIGHER AND HIGHER AND HIGHER AND #AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #NEED TO COVER HIM IN KISSES ASAP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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q-library · 1 month ago

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FEATURING: osamu dazai

SUMMARY: six months have passed since you took over as boss of the port mafia, but nothing makes sense. you seek answers that nobody seems to have or is willing to give you, but one chance encounter at a bar with a strange author leads to everything unravelling. (fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, romance & angst, (temporary) amnesia, wc: tba)

AUTHOR’S NOTES: WAHHHHHHH GUYS IT ONLY TOOK A YEAR FHISJDJDJD BUT ITS FINALLY HERE i hope civzai nation is still alive otherwise i’ll CRY HAHAHAH did u guys wait for me please say yes </333 you guys know the drill: pls comment on this post if you wanna be on the taglist! first chapter next friday, and after that, every other friday! reblogs super appreciated!!

01: WITH NO ONE TO SHARE THE MEMORY OF FROST

02: A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

03: I HAVE HOPE (SHE’S BLIND WITH NO NAME)

04: OH, HOW THE DARK AWAITS US

05: JUDGMENT BY THE HOUNDS

06: MEMORIES SNOW, MEMORIES MELT

07: LOVE IS LIKE A STAR (IT’S TRAVELLED VERY FAR)

08: I AM TAKEN, THE NIGHT HAS ME

09: THE WRATH OF THE DEVIL WAS GIVEN BY GOD

10: YOU BELIEVE ME LIKE A GOD, I BETRAY YOU LIKE A MAN

11: YOU BELIEVE ME LIKE A GOD, I DESTROY YOU LIKE I AM

12: CAN WE STAY AWHILE AND LISTEN TO HEAVEN?

#tbr #CIVZAI IM COMING FOR YOU BABYYYY #omg i remember seeing this header for the first time and fell in LOVE #mitski my beloved :’)#AND CARINA MY BELOVED #I CANNOT WAIT AAAHHHHH

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q-library · 2 months ago

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Rewarding ness by using him as your own personal dildo…

#ness <3 #head in my hands head in my fucking hands #i’m going to pass out #SAHAHSHSJXJDJDJNDNDND

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q-library · 2 months ago

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too much — satoru gojo

contents : gn!reader but written with f!reader in mind, one description of reader having longer hair, established relationship, insecure reader, vent piece/self insert hehe, comfort, fluff, no use of y/n — wc 0.7k

“you okay?” satoru asked innocently, tilting his head slightly to get a glimpse of you leaned on his shoulder. a small spark of worry had ignited in him when you had very suddenly turned silent.

“do you think i’m too much?”

“what do you mean ‘too much’?”

with a shy shrug of your shoulders, you opened your mouth again to answer, “you know… too much.”

“not to me, you’re not.”

lifting your head to look at him, your eyes locked instantly. he was wearing a relaxed expression, the tiniest smile at the corner of his lips persevering through his concern.

“you sure?” you blinked.

“has someone told you you’re too much?” he suppressed the small chuckle that bubbled up inside him at the share disbelief of the scenario you were hinting at.

again, you shrugged. “something along those lines.”

an aggressive scoff very abruptly shot past his teeth along with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “it’s not you that’s too much, it’s them who aren’t enough,” he said, slowly starting to rile himself up over the fact that someone would even dare think you were too much.

“oh?” was all you managed to squeak out, satoru quickly having you turn speechless.

“i just mean-“ he cut himself off, licking his lips in frustration, haven taken serious offence at the scenario you had presented. with eyes flittering about, he racked his brain to form his explanation further in hopes he could get his point across. “i suppose, in those relationships, you probably were too much. but not because you’re too much, you know?”

you blinked at him rapidly, “nooo?” you dragged out.

“you’re too much in the sense that you’re too much for them, as they are just not able to handle all the beautiful things that make you you!”

somehow, his frantic rambling was slowly starting to make sense, and he was very clearly going into his speech with his entire heart and body. and with the intensity he explained, he caused your own heart to start beating faster against your chest and clenching your jaw shut, curiously waiting for him to continue.

“whoever said this to you is a glass-“ and again he lost you. “say they’re a glass meant to hold ten ounces, then they are simply too small a glass for you to pour yourself into as you are sixteen ounces.”

“i see,” you whispered, nostrils starting to flare as satoru now had your eyes start to water with threatening tears.

your breath hitched when he reached out to grab your hand in his, thumb stroking comforting lines on the back of your hand, softly securing the grip with a light squeeze.

“it’s not your fault when you end up overfilling a glass that’s just not good enough to hold you,” he said, his tone having returned to a more calm rhythm, holding your gaze. “lucky for you, you have a boyfriend who is a twenty ounce glass,” playful pride carrying his words that had the corners of your lips turn upwards for the first time that evening. “which means i have room to hold all sixteen gorgeous ounces of you, and then some.”

a shaky chuckle tumbled out of you, all his words tugging at your heartstrings in all the right ways. as ridiculous as he was, he always knew how to turn a bad situation around. scaring away any negative thoughts before they settled permanently, he proved once again to be the person you could rely on to be your rock — your safety.

“besides,” he sighed, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, “look who you’re dating. you could never be more than me.”

now you let out a genuine laugh, leaning into his hand as he hand moved it to cup your cheek. “well, true,” you played along, continuing to giggle a little when he softly pinched your cheek as ‘punishment’. “but i think i’m a big enough glass to hold you as well.”

a soft smile painted his face. “i’ve never felt as if i’ve spilled over.”

“that’s good,” you whispered, carefully turning your head to place a chaste kiss agains the palm of his hand. “thank you.”

“always.”

author's note : can yall tell someone recently triggered my insecurities hehe... well i'm bringing myself comfort by writing this then. also, this is inspired by a very sweet ig reel i saw comments and reblogs are appreciated

tags (open — link to taglist form) : @sad-darksoul . @madaqueue . @gdamnackerman . @toadtoru . @harperluvgojo . @nishislcve . @ichore . @sugurunugget

#satoru <3 #hea im hère my love im hère :’)#<- sorry don’t know why my keyboard decided to do….whatever it was doing with the accents there #BUT IM HERE #and this is so tender and sweet and perfect #his silly little metaphors for a silly little man who is so utterly in love with you #you always perfectly capture his energy and his endearingness and his love #he’s so sweet and caring and willing to give anything :’)#i love the way you write him always <333 #and i love YOU!!!!!!!

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q-library · 2 months ago

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It reminds you of honey, the way the morning sunlight drips from Kaveh's hair after spilling through your bedroom window. It pools on your skin, on his freckles, leaving you both sticky with the silken comfort of a lazy soft morning. The sunlight doesn't reach the scarlet of his eyes though, not quite, for it's halted gently by his long blond lashes casting shadows across his cheeks and those irises - his eyes half lidded with both sleep and a sort of reverent thoughtfulness, as they run over your body.

"Do you think they placed them strategically?" His voice is like honey, too. But it has a little lilt to it, as it often does, of his innate curiosity and passion that always makes your heart skip half a beat.

"What, and who?" You murmur, mumble in your breathy sleepiness. Your own eyes follow his face as he drifts down your stomach, his cute nose hovering just a few centimetres from your skin. His soft breath leaves a trail of sensitivity, rippling the pool of comfort just so, in anticipation of touch.

"The one who put your freckles here." He says it as though it was rather obvious. As if you'd hear his words and remember the 'one' that decided where to paint the speckles on your skin. His lips finally meet you, planting gentle kisses on the little marks that dot your stomach here and there. Your waist, your hips - just above your waistband.

You chuckle, softly, humming as the ripples of anticipation turn to ones of pleasure and affection. "And who would've put my freckles here, Kaveh?"

His eyes flick up to your face, then, letting a droplet of the honeyed sunlight into the crimson pools, a faint hint of amusement in them. He huffs, the amusement shifting to a feigned sort of disdain. Like a scholar, perhaps slightly unimpressed with his competitor. "I don't know, but whoever is responsible did a rather lack lustre job."

Your eyes fall open more, then, as well as your own lips as he continues his sweet attack as if he hadn't said something that could be taken as mildly offensive.

"What d'you mean, what's wrong with them?" Your tone is rather grumpy, a gentle half playful petulance lilting the words.

He lifts an eyebrow slightly and smiles, before brushing his lips almost achingly teasingly gentle over that freckle in the dip between your hip and your navel.

"I mean~" he lifts up a bit more, hovering closer to your face. "They're good, beautiful. But the distribution could be better. I, for one, would have made a few further adjustments before I settled on the final blueprint."

This earns him a raised eyebrow in a look half amused and half skeptical, meeting his eyes with your own as you see the familiar subtle mischief he tries to hide behind feigned thoughtfulness.

"Oh? And what would those be oh great architect?"

He smiled, grinned even, those pretty lips tickling wider as you intentionally took a bite of his pretty bait. His face dipped closer to your own, so close you could count those eyelashes.

"It's obvious isn't it?" He said. "I'd place more of them, everywhere. And I'd put one here." He leans down a little further, kissing your lips in a brief tender capture.

"You'd put...a freckle...on my lips?" You started to chuckle, amused and confused as you often were with him. But hopelessly endeared.

"Mmh."

"Why? Is that even possible?"

"Freckles are an excuse for kisses. So I'd put one here."

You blinked, a butterfly flitting through your chest quickly as you let out a little breath.

"You don't need an excuse to kiss my lips, Kaveh~"

"I'd like one," he responded, resolute, as if that was the final say. He dropped then, lowering himself onto you and nuzzling his face into your neck, evidently satisfied - for now - with this discussion on his latest blueprint.

Your smile didn't leave your face, as you took a soft breath, fingers dipping into his hair as he snuggled. A soft hum escaped you. A contented and affectionate sleepy note.

"Okay~"

#kaveh <3 #ZOIEEEEEEE #zoie i’m about to sob this is GORGEOUSSSS #AND SO HIM #AND SO SWEET AND TENDER AND EVERYTHINGGG #he’s so playful and still loving #using an excuse to kiss you i see you mister 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨#but also if you had freckles there he’d be kissing them CONSTANTLY #zoie this is the sweetest thing ever sobs #kazoie when :333 #zoivah??????#hmmmmm…..much to consider :33

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q-library · 2 months ago

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— clinically curious;

“wanna write up a case study together?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “title it: how to absolutely ruin a brilliant young doctor in two orgasms or less.”

synopsis: it’s a good day to be acquainted with doctor gojo because he is always willing to explain everything to you. so when you get clinically curious about how squirting works, doctor gojo is ready to give you a hands on demonstration that won’t leave you with any questions about how female anatomy works!

cw: 18+, doctor!satoru gojo, fem!reader, flirtation, sexual tension, explicit smut, fingering, squirting, oral(gojo kinda eats it from the back), anatomy talk, use of “goof girl”, aftercare, satoru being smug and soft, confessions heh wc: ~3.8. art on the header belongs to @/umikochannart

miyan’s notes: using my extensive medical knowledge to write smut, never thought i’d rock this hard.

you’ve been working under doctor satoru gojo for exactly two months, twelve days, and— not that you’re counting— give or take four hours.

not that you’re counting.

and definitely not because you’re secretly obsessed.

it’s just that he’s… hard to ignore.

he’s brilliant. no doubt about it. diagnoses come to him like second nature— like he doesn’t even think, just knows. he’ll flip through a chart once, then toss it down like a paperback and mutter something absurdly specific: “early-stage takotsubo. run an echo, just to be cute.” and then he’ll be right.

he’s the kind of doctor who speaks at international conferences in unpressed scrubs with a lollipop in his mouth and still manages to hold the room like gravity. patients adore him. his colleagues tolerate his antics because he’s too damn good at what he does. residents are starstruck around him. nurses flirt with him. interns imitate him.

and you—

you mostly just try not to bite your tongue bloody every time he calls you “doc-in-training.”

he’s also infuriating. casually late to every meeting he himself scheduled. somehow always just narrowly out of dress code. his clipboard usually has a doodle of a cat on it and an alarming number of strawberry candy wrappers tucked into the corners. and worst of all— he’s everywhere.

it’s like no matter where you turn in this damn hospital, satoru’s there.

sometimes standing too close. sometimes watching you from down the hall with a knowing little smile that makes your stomach flutter in a way you refuse to acknowledge. sometimes reading your reports over your shoulder while eating donuts, powdered sugar dusting the front of his scrub top like it’s nothing, licking his fingers without looking away.

and when he brushes past you in the hall—

when his hand rests at the small of your back just to squeeze by—

when his voice dips lower than it needs to be when he says your name—

your heart skips.

it shouldn’t. it’s just proximity. hormones. exhaustion. you’re overworked, overstimulated, under-caffeinated— it’s not real. he’s objectively attractive, sure. white hair, absurd height, eyes like the sky on a clear day. but that doesn’t mean anything. you’re a professional. you’ve survived worse.

you told yourself the crush would fade.

you lied.

because still, even now, as he leans over your desk—

one arm braced against the side of your monitor, his face dangerously close—

you feel it again. that slow, warm thrum beneath your skin.

“you’ve got the case backwards, y’know,” he murmurs, pointing at your screen like he owns it. “the renal markers were elevated before the blood pressure tanked. so the hypovolemia is a result, not the cause.”

you sit back, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “i knew that,” you say, trying to sound annoyed and not flustered. “i just… had the chart open in the wrong order.”

his grin spreads slow and smug. he doesn’t move away. “mm. sure. no shame in being a little flustered around me.”

you whip around to glare at him, face heating. “i’m not—! you’re just annoying.”

he finally straightens, stretching like a cat, spine arching with a pop as he towers over your desk. his scrubs ride up just enough to show a sliver of toned skin above the waistband. you do not look. not directly.

“and charming,” he adds casually, stepping back. “don’t forget charming.”

you hate that he’s right.

you hate more that your lips twitch like they want to smile— that you have to fight it.

and you really hate that when he finally strolls away, hands in his pockets, humming something cheerful under his breath, your body misses the heat of his presence.

your desk feels colder.

your screen seems blurrier.

and you’re suddenly, desperately annoyed at your own heartbeat.

you sigh and drag a hand down your face.

two months, twelve days, and counting.

you are so, so doomed.

—

you stare at your screen, pretending to focus on the case notes, but your thoughts keep drifting back to him. the way his voice sounds just low enough to make your skin prickle. the way his fingers had casually pointed at your monitor—so close, so sure.

you can almost still feel the faint brush of his sleeve against your arm, though you both know he was “just leaning in.”

you’re both still in your white coats.

the evening shift has long passed, and the hospital’s halls are quieter now — just the soft hum of overhead lights and the occasional squeak of rubber soles against polished tile. the clinic room you’re in smells like antiseptic and warm paper, a few charts still open on the desk beside you.

“you’re staring,” satoru says without looking up, voice too smug for someone “reading” lab reports upside down.

you jolt in your chair, cheeks flushing. “i wasn’t— i mean— you left your buttons undone.”

he glances down at the top of his coat. the unfairly deep vee of his baby blue scrub top is visible beneath the unfastened collar of his white coat. “oh?” he says, innocent. “you mean this?”

“stop it,” you mutter, flustered, turning back to your tablet.

but he’s already leaning across the desk, grin sharp and teasing. “you know, if you ever want to examine me, all you have to do is ask. strictly educational, of course.”

you roll your eyes. “i’m here to learn medicine, not anatomy through flirting.”

“what a shame,” he sighs dramatically. “my anatomy is fascinating.”

he’s incorrigible — but you can’t deny the way your stomach flips when he looks at you like that, voice all velvet and wicked promises.

you’re reviewing a case together, something that had initially puzzled the attending physicians: a young woman experiencing involuntary ejaculation during routine pelvic exams. the file had gone around the department with discreet but obvious fascination.

satoru leans against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, a cocky little smile twitching on his lips as he glances at you.

“so?” he drawls. “what’s your diagnosis, rookie?”

you shift in your seat, adjusting your glasses and flipping back through the notes. “anatomically, it lines up with paraurethral gland stimulation. likely female ejaculation. but—” you glance at him. “i’ve never… seen it in person.”

he raises a brow. “never?”

you shake your head. “no. not during exams. not personally, either.” it’s not shame in your voice — more academic curiosity.

gojo hums, dragging his fingers through the white-blond mess of his hair. “you know,” he says, pushing off the desk, “you’re not the only one.”

your brows lift. “really?”

he shrugs, already closing the chart with a snap of his fingers. “people think it’s common, but physiologically? it needs the right conditions. psychological comfort. direct g-spot stimulation, usually. sometimes bladder pressure. and patience.”

he looks at you then — really looks at you. his gaze trails slow and knowing down your frame, his hands slipping into the pockets of his lab coat.

you swallow, curiosity dominating you before you can think your words over. “and you’ve… caused it before?”

his grin turns wicked. “more than a few times.”

“i just— it’s confusing, okay? there’s so much misinformation online and no one ever really explains it. and i figured you’d know. medically.”

he nods slowly, something shifting behind those pale eyes. “medically,” he echoes. “you want a demonstration?”

you choke. “no! i mean— not unless— wait, what?”

he laughs, warm and real this time. “kidding. mostly. but if you’re serious…” he tilts his head. “i could show you. clinically.”

the air feels heavier suddenly, too warm under the coat. the words come out before you can think better of them:

“could you, really… show me?”

his pale lashes flutter once, then he lets out a low laugh — delighted, dangerous. “you asking me clinically? or personally, doctor?”

your face warms, but your tone stays even. “is there a difference?”

gojo steps closer, his voice low, coaxing. “if i show you clinically, you’ll be on the table.”

your mouth goes dry. “satoru.”

“only if you’re comfortable,” he says, voice suddenly lower, gentler. “we’d set boundaries. stop whenever. no pressure. i just think… it might be easier to understand if you felt it for yourself.”

his hand brushes the inside of your wrist, feather-light. “we’ll walk through every step. pressure points. angle. the texture change in the anterior vaginal wall. i’ll explain the nerve clusters and the buildup. and then…” he tilts his head, blue eyes sharp, “you’ll see exactly how it works.”

your breath catches, heart thumping.

he lets the silence stretch, his fingers curling slowly around your wrist, warm and firm. “say the word,” he murmurs. “i’ll lock the door. dim the lights. fold your coat on the chair so it doesn’t wrinkle.”

you stare up at him, skin prickling with anticipation, throat dry.

he isn’t teasing anymore.

“okay,” you whisper.

his smile softens. “okay.”

—

gojo locks the door with a soft click.

he does fold your coat neatly over the back of the chair — oddly tender, like he’s preparing you for something sacred. the door clicks shut and locks behind him. fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and too clinical, until he dials them down with a thumb on the dimmer. softer now. more intimate.

you sit on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkling beneath you, heart hammering. his hands are warm when they settle on your knees — not rushing, just resting there.

“still sure?” he asks, voice low.

you nod, and he leans in, brushing his nose against your cheek before whispering, “then i’ll teach you properly, sweetheart.”

he pushes your knees apart just slightly, knuckles dragging along the inner seam of your scrub bottoms as he glances up through white lashes. “you know what’s curious?” he says, lips close to your jaw. “porn makes it look too easy, i’d say. too animalistic, and it takes a lot more than desire to get someone to let go that much.”

you breathe in, sharp and shallow.

his mouth quirks up. “but we’ll get there. slowly.”

he peels your pants down first, deliberate, then hooks his fingers into your underwear. you lift your hips without being asked — it’s instinct now. he hums, pleased.

“god, you’re already warm.” he kneels between your thighs, voice smooth and academic, even as he mouths at your skin. “we’ll want to relax the pelvic floor first. get some blood flowing. reduce any tension.”

his lips find the crease where thigh meets core. he kisses there — gently, reverently — before glancing up at you.

“okay?”

you nod, breathless. “i’m good.”

gojo gives another pleased hum. “good girl.”

your body reacts instantly — your breath catches, your thighs squeeze together on reflex.

“interesting,” he chuckles. “so verbal praise works on you. keep that in mind for later evaluations.”

you resist the urge to glare, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

he parts your thighs farther with firm, steady hands, dragging his gloved fingers gently along your inner thighs. “before we start the demonstration, let’s review.” his fingers pause at your entrance, but he doesn’t push in — just rests them there. “where are the paraurethral glands?”

“around the urethra,” you manage, voice shaky, “at the anterior vaginal wall.”

“mm.” he nods. “and what else lives there?”

“the g-spot.”

he grins. “bingo.”

he slowly slips a single finger inside, curling upward immediately, his eyes watching your face with terrifying precision. “feel that? the slight ridged texture, like the roof of your mouth?”

you whimper, your hips twitching slightly. “y-yeah.”

you twitch under him, hips rolling without meaning to. he smiles against you.

“told you,” he murmurs. “it’s not just about rubbing randomly. you feel that?” he curls his finger just slightly, pressing against a spongier patch inside you. your breath hitches. “that’s it. that’s your g-spot. swollen already.”

you moan softly, one hand bracing against the wall beside the table. he grins, kissing the inside of your thigh.

“now… most textbooks say it takes consistent, firm pressure — usually with fingers. penetration alone doesn’t always do the trick.”

his movements stay slow, deliberate. a second finger joins the first, and he begins to massage the spongy spot inside you in a steady rhythm. your hands twist into the paper on either side of your hips.

“you’re already getting puffy,” he murmurs, breath warm as he leans over to speak just beside your ear. “good sign. means we’re hitting the right place.”

he goes back to it, deeper this time — two fingers inside, curling, testing different angles. every so often, he murmurs something low: “right there? or—no, here?” like a man fine-tuning a machine, except you’re the machine, and you’re trembling, gasping, drowning in his voice and his mouth.

and when your thighs start shaking, when your muscles clench and he feels that flood of tension coiling inside you—

he slows again. deliberately.

you whimper.

he smirks against your core. “not yet,” he says. “i want you to feel it. the release. the rush. it’s not just pleasure — it’s a reaction. like a reflex. involuntary.”

he presses in deeper, curling his fingers up while using his thumb to lazily circle your clit. it’s too much and not enough all at once.

“notice the feeling in your bladder?” he murmurs.

you nod, panting softly. “yeah… but—”

“don’t fight it,” he says, voice low and coaxing. “that pressure means we’re close. it’s not pee. you’ll want to hold it in, but don’t. just let go. that’s the secret.”

his fingers speed up, curling, dragging against that ridged wall with practiced ease. the wet sounds between your thighs are obscene, but gojo looks completely unfazed — clinical, calm, but eyes dark with focus.

“you’re close,” he whispers, his free hand pressing flat on your lower belly. “i can feel it building. just breathe, baby. let it happen.”

you moan, body twitching. your thighs tremble and try to close, but he keeps them wide with his hands and elbows, firm but not forceful. “satoru— i can’t— it’s—”

“yes, you can,” he says, curling deep. “you’re doing perfect. show me. let me see.”

and then it hits.

your hips jerk violently, back arching off the table as warmth floods from you in a sudden rush. gojo’s fingers don’t stop, even as a clear gush soaks the exam paper beneath you. it’s wet. messy. your muscles spasm around his hand, your thighs shaking.

“fuck, there it is,” he groans, utterly delighted. “that’s what i wanted. perfect.”

you’re gasping, vision swimming, stars behind your eyelids as you ride the aftershocks. gojo slowly eases his fingers out, careful, deliberate — like a man who knows just how fragile this moment is. he holds them up between you, dripping with a mix of slick and ejaculate, examining it in the light with smug pride.

“hydration’s good,” he teases, tossing the glove in the biohazard bin. “i’m impressed. you might be a prodigy.”

you let out a breathless laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

he helps you sit up, smoothing your hair back from your face. “you’re glowing.”

“shut up.”

“you asked me to teach you, doctor.” his lips curve. “and i never half-ass a demonstration.”

you’re still trying to catch your breath. thighs twitching, chest heaving, paper bunched up in your fists beneath you.

gojo rises slowly from between your legs, pushing his hair back — his fingers glisten with slick, and his mouth is red and wet, but it’s the look on his face that makes your stomach flip.

not cocky. not teasing anymore.

determined.

“you okay?” he asks softly, but there’s a dangerous edge to it — like he’s already ten steps ahead of whatever answer you’ll give.

you nod, barely.

he cups your cheek with one clean hand, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “that was beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “but i think we both know that wasn’t the peak.”

you blink up at him, dazed. “it felt—”

“yeah, yeah.” he grins. “you squirted. gorgeous. but you were holding back.”

you freeze. “i—what?”

he tilts his head, voice gentle but pointed. “you were clenching your thighs the whole time. trying to stop it. still too polite.” his fingers trail down your side. “what if you didn’t hold back this time?”

you swallow.

“and what if,” he says slowly, undoing his lab coat buttons, letting it slide off onto the chair, “i made sure you couldn’t?”

your breath hitches as he grabs the pillow from the exam table and sets it down beside you, guiding you gently to roll over onto your stomach.

“hands up near the headrest,” he murmurs. “arch your back. good girl.”

his voice drops lower, firmer. “i want you to stay like this. not for me — for you. for your body. no pressure. no hiding. if you need to cry, moan, fall apart — do it. let it happen.”

you’re trembling already as he spreads your thighs gently, placing one knee up just slightly to give him better access. the cool air between your legs is a stark contrast to the heat of his breath when he leans in again, tongue dragging through your folds.

“still so sensitive,” he hums, almost reverent.

but this time, there’s no warm-up. he goes in confidently, two fingers sinking into you with practiced ease, curling immediately into the same spot that made you unravel the first time. his free hand strokes your lower back, grounding you.

you gasp — the angle is different like this. deeper. hotter. your hips jerk instinctively, but his palm presses firm against your tailbone, holding you down.

“don’t run from it,” he murmurs. “that’s your body trying to let go. let it.”

his fingers thrust with rhythmic precision, the pads dragging along your g-spot over and over again, no hesitation this time.

when he lowers his mouth onto you, you cry out — everything’s already too much. it’s overwhelming, slick noises echoing in the small room, wet and obscene and fast.

and he knows it.

“there it is,” he pants, licking into you with more fervour. “just like that. your pussy’s already fluttering. so fucking responsive.”

your moans grow louder, sharper — you’re right there, straining, shaking.

he sucks around your clit, hard, one time, then again and again and again until you’re whining, brainless and breathless, wondering how is he good at everything including something like this — though, there was never any doubt on your mind.

“give it to me,” he growls, tongue flicking fast, fingers pounding deep. “don’t fight it. don’t hold back.”

and this time?

you don’t.

the orgasm crashes through you with a violence that steals the breath from your lungs — your whole body seizes, liquid gushing from you again, soaking the paper, dripping down your thighs. you cry out, raw and broken and unfiltered, hips jerking helplessly under his unrelenting mouth.

he doesn’t stop until you push at his shoulder weakly, half-sobbing, overstimulated.

gojo finally lifts his head, breathing hard, face flushed and glistening. he drags a hand through his soaked hair and looks at the mess beneath you with pride.

“see that?” he murmurs, voice thick with awe and lust. “that’s what happens when you stop holding back.”

you’re boneless, trembling, tears at the corners of your eyes. he gently helps you turn onto your back, brushing your hair from your face, slipping his coat beneath your head like a pillow.

and then, of course, he grins.

“wanna write up a case study together?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “title it: how to absolutely ruin a brilliant young doctor in two orgasms or less.”

you slap a hand over his mouth and look down to hide your own smile.

—

you’re still lying on the exam table, legs too shaky to move, vision hazy. the paper beneath you is a mess — wrinkled, soaked through — but you’re too spent to care. muscles loose, eyelids heavy. your pulse is starting to settle, but your brain hasn’t caught up. not fully.

gojo doesn’t rush you. doesn’t speak, either, not at first.

he moves with quiet efficiency now — all that sharp, cocky energy softened into something… gentler. you hear the sound of water running in the nearby sink. the rustle of cabinets opening. his shoes on the tile.

then warmth.

he’s back beside you, wiping you down carefully with a damp, warm cloth. gentle strokes, slow and respectful. he murmurs a quiet, “just relax, i got you,” when you flinch a little from the sensitivity.

your eyes open to find him kneeling again, still between your legs, still shirtless under his scrubs. his expression isn’t smug anymore. it’s focused. almost reverent.

“you okay?” he asks.

your voice is hoarse. “yeah. i’m just…”

“wrung out?” he finishes for you, smirking faintly. “yeah. you’re allowed.”

you breathe a small laugh, and he grins, but doesn’t let it linger. instead, he helps you sit up, drapes his white coat around your shoulders, then starts straightening your clothes.

not rushed. not clinical. like he wants to do it.

he pulls your underwear up gently, brushing your hips like they’re something fragile. helps you step into your pants one leg at a time, smoothing them back into place, tightening them at the waist for you. your hands are still trembling slightly, and he notices. doesn’t say anything — just fixes the hem of your tunic, too.

“you don’t have to—” you start.

“i want to,” he interrupts, soft but firm.

you look up at him, heart hiccuping at how careful he is. not a trace of arrogance now. just steady, deliberate tenderness.

he cups your jaw with one hand and strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“you were amazing,” he says. “and brave. and curious. and you trusted me with something intimate, and i—” he exhales, looking away for just a second. “i don’t take that lightly.”

you blink. surprised by the sudden sincerity.

his thumb lingers at your cheekbone. “i joked around a lot tonight. but none of that was a game to me.”

you swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “then what was it?”

he leans in, forehead touching yours. “honestly? an excuse.”

your brows knit together. “an excuse?”

“to touch you. to see you like this. to…” he chuckles under his breath. “to show you how much i’ve wanted you without ruining the whole mentor dynamic we’ve got going.”

you laugh softly, incredulously. “you’re really confessing after you made me squirt on an examination table?”

he grins. “figured it was on-brand.”

you tilt your head, suddenly bold enough to brush your lips against his. it’s a soft kiss — not hungry or rushed — just a quiet thanks. a promise.

when you pull back, he brushes your hair behind your ear and whispers, “hey.”

you hum.

“you know this wasn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

you look at him — serious now, heart skipping.

he smiles, slow and genuine. “not unless you want it to be.”

and then he kisses you again, softer than the last. slower. like you’re something precious he gets to rediscover every time.

like maybe this wasn’t about anatomy at all.

#satoru <3 #EATS HIM AAAAAHHHHH #OHHH MY GOD ALBA THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME #AND THANK YOU OP THIS IS SOOOOO FUCKING HOT OH MY GOD #AND ALSO ????? SO TENDER?????????#AAAAAAHHHHHXHSHXHDHD

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q-library · 2 months ago

Text

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃

━━━ synopsis: fate has a strange way of birthing love. you married gojo satoru to stay close to his father — an arranged union built to conceal a scandalous affair. but somewhere between the lies and the silence, another secret began to stir quietly in your chest. one that did not belong to his father at all.

━━━ content warning: MDNI, fem! reader (she/her), arranged marriage, affair, infidelity, love triangle, age gap (late 50s vs late 20s/early 30s), reader’s age isn’t necessarily specified but she’s written with late 20s/early30s in mind, unreliable narrator, original characters (satoru’s parents: gojo akihito & gojo saori), falling in love, sexual themes but no explicit content, alcohol consumption in a few scenes, reader is drunk in one scene, flashbacks, character death, murder, twists, there’s a specific fire scene that is heavily inspired by the manhwa “betrayal of dignity”, pregnancy, angst with a happy ending, ask to tag if something triggering is missing

━━━ pairing: gojo satoru x fem! reader ; gojo akihito (oc) x fem! reader

━━━ word count: 20k+ (…idk what happened there tbh)

━━━ author’s note: hello guys! this is the idea i first mentioned back in october and it’s finally coming to life! it’s the longest thing i’ve ever written so please be gentle and kind — to me, to the story, and to reader. i did my best to proofread while editing but apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies or mistakes that might’ve slipped through! i hope you enjoy the read ♡

Love can make you do crazy things.

Sometimes it’s a silly behavior that you exhibit, one that isn’t akin to your usual self, one that makes you a bit of a fool.

You find yourself taking detours to “accidentally” bump into someone. Your heart races at the sight of them, and you disguise your longing behind an awkward ‘What a coincidence!’, but what you really mean is ‘I really wanted to see you! I couldn’t stay away.’ It’s harmless — charming, even.

But what happens when love blooms where it shouldn’t? When it takes root in poisoned soil, nurtured by secrecy and betrayal — can it still be called innocent? When the heart wants what it shouldn’t, when desire threatens to unravel lives and twist fates — is it still harmless? Still endearing?

No. The fool knows better — but doesn’t care.

Blinded by love, reason is cast aside. Judgment dulls. Morality slips through desperate fingers. The choices no longer belong to conscience; they belong to longing.

Science says that falling in love mimics a drug high — dopamine rushes, rational thought hijacked, impulse overrides consequence. You become addicted. You crave. And in that craving, you’d do anything to have it. No matter the cost.

The air in the room is thick. With the windows shut, the scent of sex lingers — trapped between the four walls of the hotel room, clinging to your skin and his. Your bodies lie tangled, worn out and still close.

“Nobody saw you come in, right?” the whitehaired man beside you breaks the silence, voice low but tender. His breathing has steadied, back to its usual calm rhythm.

You tilt your head, cheek still pressed against his damp chest. His hand, which had been trailing lazily along your bare back, moves up to cradle your neck — gentle, almost instinctive. Like he’s trying to spare you any discomfort, even now. It makes you smile, the way he always trembles for you.

“No, no one saw me”, you murmur. “It’s not like this is the first time.”

“It’s the first time since you got married”, he replies, his tone quieter, more guarded.

“Is this why you’re so tense?” you let out a feeble laugh. “Nothing’s changed, really — except now we’re both married...” the smile on your lips slowly fades. Your lips part, more words caught behind them.

...not to each other though — you want to say, but you don’t. You don’t want to break the moment. It’s been too long since you last had this.

“Actually”, he trails off, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand.

At times like this, you’re reminded, again, how large he is. He barely shifts beneath you, just stretches one arm to grab the pack, the other still wrapped around your waist. He lights a cigarette with practiced ease, tucks it between his lips, and inhales deeply.

“There’s one thing that has changed”, he says, smoke curling from his mouth.

“Oh?”

“I see you every day now.”

A faint smile touches his lips, softening his blue eyes. He kisses the top of your head, gaze lingering on you.

That’s right. You do see each other every day now. It’s the consequence of living under the same roof.

“But even so, moments like this... they’ve become rare. That bothers me.”

The warmth leaves his voice. His eyes grow distant, pale and cold. “Seems like he is keeping you too busy. Maybe he’s starting to like you.” he speaks in a dull voice.

“You think so?”

“He’s around the house more, with you. He used to be gone all the time. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” His tone hardens. “He wasn’t supposed to act like this.”

You let out a dry, uneasy chuckle. “Maybe he’s taking after you. Maybe I bewitched him... just like I bewitched you.”

You don’t mean it. It’s just a tease, but the words land wrong.

“Don’t joke about it”, he mutters, exhaling sharply. His brows furrow, tension creeping back into his features. “That’d be... problematic.”

The man beside you is Gojo Akihito — your lover. The former head of the Gojo Clan. He is also the father of your husband. The current head of the clan — Gojo Satoru.

...you only meant to lighten the mood. But just like his plan —

It’s not working.

Rumor has it: The clan head, Gojo Satoru, is completely enamored with his wife.

It has become the talk of the mansion.

“Did you see”, one maid whispers, nudging her colleague as they set the long dining table. “He brought her flowers, again.”

“That’s nothing”, another chimes in, lowering her voice. “The other day he asked me how to make omurice. Said he wanted to learn it properly.”

The first two maids lean in, wide-eyed. “And? What happened?”

“I went into the kitchen early next morning”, she continues with a conspiratorial grin, “And there he was. Apron and everything. Cooking omurice from scratch. Said it was for his wife. Even served it on a fancy plate — with flowers from the garden. I think he picked them himself.”

The maids collectively gasp, hands covering mouths, eyes sparkling.

“He’s completely smitten”, one sighs, nearly swooning. “I heard he turned down every arranged match before her — didn’t even consider them. Then out of nowhere, he agrees to this one without a second thought.”

“At first, I figured he just caved from the pressure”, another adds. “You know how the elders kept pushing. I thought he married her to shut them up.”

“But now? Look at him. That’s not obligation. That’s a man in love.”

A round of dreamy sighs circles the table.

“Remember how he used to show up maybe once every couple of months? Only if something serious needed his attention?”

“Now we see him every day”, one nods. “And if he’s not home, it feels... weird.”

“He always comes back”, says another. “No matter how late. And the first thing he does is go see her.”

“That’s not all”, the first maid says, lowering her voice even more. “The other day, he came home with a wound.”

“No way. Him?” one of the others gasps. “He’s untouchable — who even got close enough to land a hit?”

“Exactly. And do you know what he did? He let her clean him up. She asked for the first aid kit, and he just... smiled. The whole time. Like it didn’t hurt at all.”

A chorus of quiet squeals follows, full of awe and disbelief.

“He let himself be struck just so she’d fuss over him?” one whispers, covering her mouth. “God, he’s hopeless.”

But before the fantasy could grow any richer, a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“If you’re done gossiping”, Akihito says coolly from the doorway, “Perhaps you could focus on the work you’re actually being paid to do. Call everyone when dinner is ready.”

The maids freeze, spines straightening, heads bowing in rapid succession. “Y-yes, sir. Our apologies.”

Akihito didn’t linger. He didn’t need to.

It wasn’t their chatter that irritated him. It was what they were whispering about. What they were seeing — what he couldn’t ignore. That’s what got under his skin.

“Good evening, wife.”

You blink at the mirror just as a bouquet of forget-me-nots is gently laid in front of you on the vanity. Satoru leans in behind you, his reflection appearing over your shoulder, smiling. “You look beautiful, as always.” he murmurs against your ear.

You shift slightly in your chair, but his hands land softly on your shoulders, holding you in place — not forcefully, but firmly enough to suggest he’s not letting you leave just yet.

“Want me to brush your hair?”

You sigh and meet his eyes in the mirror. “I can do it myself.”

“I know”, he says smoothly. “But I want to.”

Persistent. That’s one thing you’ve learned about him in the month you’ve been married — Satoru always gets what he wants. If you said no now, you wouldn’t put it past him to slip gum into your hair just so you’d have to ask for help.

Just like he did with your slippers.

He wanted to put them on for you one morning — for no reason other than his own mischief, you’re sure — but you refused. Later, fresh out of the shower, they were gone. All of them. Every pair. Oh no, we’re out of slippers! Guess I’ll just carry you — he said with that shameless grin of his. And he did. Said the floor was too cold. Couldn’t let his wife get sick, after all. He carried you around the house all morning. Then, right before leaving to run some errands together, he knelt, slipped your shoes on like some smug prince, and you let him — half amused, half annoyed.

The bastard always wins.

“Fine”, you relent now, sitting back.

“Don’t worry”, he says, picking up the brush. “I’ll be gentle.”

So far, nothing about this marriage has matched what Akihito told you. It was supposed to be nothing more than a formality. He reassured you countless times that his son would not even glance at you — let alone lay a hand on you; that you would probably just see him just once, on your wedding day, and that would be the end of it. But so far, Akihito was wrong about everything.

He’s never home, huh? — You see him every day.

He won’t touch you, huh? — Then why does he look for every excuse to be close? Going as far as to get himself injured on purpose and come back without healing himself so you’ll tend to him... Why does he always find a reason to touch your arm, your hand, your back? Why... Maybe, he wants to get in your pants? That must be it... right? Why else would he try so hard to make things work? It’s not like you two married out of love. You could’ve just quietly existed as his wife on paper; he certainly doesn’t have to bother making you an actual part of his life.

Sure, he is a huge tease. But it’s not the annoying kind. It’s... disarming. You hate to admit it, but there’s something about him. A pull. A quiet magnetism that makes you want to lean in instead of pull away. And sometimes, you forget — forget why you came to be his wife in the first place, that this was never meant to be more than convenience serving the purposes of a scandalous affair.

Until you remember. Until you look at him and see shadows of Akihito — the resemblance too striking to ignore. A younger version of the man who changed everything for you.

You sigh, unable to keep your thoughts from wandering.

“Did I hurt you?”, Satoru asks, suddenly pausing mid-stroke.

You glance at his reflection. For just a second, there’s something soft in his expression. Worry. “No”, you say. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He continues brushing, careful not to let the bristles graze your skin. Instead, his hand absorbs the pressure — the motion surprisingly tender. Then his hand drops. Light fingertips brush your neck. Two fingers lift your chin, tilting your head back until your eyes meet. “Thinking about someone else while I’m this close to you?” he asks, brows furrowed. His tone is calm, but the edge in it isn’t playful. It’s sharp. Serious.

“Jealous?” you smirk, trying to deflect.

He places the brush down and leans in. His head hovering over yours. There’s barely any distance left. When you both breathe out a veil of warm air falls and fills the tiny gap left between your faces. “Very”, he says quietly, his face deprived of the usual grin. “Makes me want to do terrible things to the man in your thoughts.” He’s not joking. Not even a little.

“I was thinking about you, actually”, you reply. It’s not technically a lie.

Not accustomed to such intimate closeness with him, heat starts to spread across your cheeks, your heartbeat acting peculiarly too. The nearness is too much. You share a bed, yes — but neither of you has ever dared cross the middle. Not yet. Why beat so fast suddenly, heart? Must be the fact he’s looming over you like this that is making you uncomfortable. Trying to break the tension, you joke. “If you’re planning on doing terrible things to yourself, make sure you don’t die. I’d hate to be widowed so young.”

His expression falters. For a second, you see it — genuine surprise. It’s satisfying. He blinks, once, twice, head pulling back slightly, fingers at your jaw trembling with something unspoken. But it doesn’t last. He recovers quickly.

A breathy laugh escapes him as he leans in again. “You were thinking about me? What, something dirty?”

You scoff. “You wish.”

“I do”, he replies instantly. “And don’t worry — you’ll get there soon enough.”

The audacity.

“What makes you so sure I’ll get there”, you shoot back. He grins, guiding your face back toward the mirror. “If you can’t see it up close...” He taps the glass. “Just look there. I’m kind of a masterpiece.”

“The only piece you are is a piece of work”, you mutter, turning your head with a huff, your hair brushing against his face. You expect a quip in return. But he goes still. Sniffs.

“Hmm... What’s that smell?” He leans closer, nose buried briefly in your hair. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

You freeze. Akihito’s cigarettes. You didn’t wash your hair after the hotel. Damn it.

“I don’t”, you reply, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you.

“You smell like cigarettes.”

“I was with a friend earlier. She smokes. Maybe that’s why.” you lie.

Satoru watches you carefully through the mirror. “Good. You shouldn’t smoke”, he says at last, straightening up. “My wife has to live a long life. With me.” A smile tugs at his lips. A playful smirk, back to normal.

You try to summon a sharp retort. Something clever. But all you manage is a tight, fake smile as your heart thunders in your chest. You were almost caught.

Then—

Knock-knock.

“Dinner is ready, sir. Madam.” one of the maids calls from outside.

“Hai-hai~”, Satoru casually yells out. “We’ll be down in a minute.”

The dining room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that isn’t peace, but tension — stretched thin between the four people who sit on the table. It makes the softest sounds feel sharp. Or maybe it’s just in your head, considering the situation.

It’s tradition, apparently — whenever everyone is home, meals are eaten together. Your least favorite part of the day. Understandably so, given the circumstances: you willingly put yourself here, fully aware you’d be sitting across from the woman whose husband you’re secretly sleeping with, and beside the son you’re technically cheating on — with his father.

You sit beside your husband, Satoru. Across from you, Akihito — your lover, your secret. Next to him is Saori, your lover’s wife and husband’s mother — regal and silent, her expression unreadable as always, like she’s wearing a careful mask.

No one speaks when the food is served. Just the mechanical act of eating, a silence that presses against your ribs like guilt. Your appetite has all but vanished since becoming the bride of the Gojo Clan, your stomach perpetually knotted with remorse. Sometimes even water feels repulsive. You often catch yourself wondering why you’re even doing this. Is it really love? You begin to question the choice you made, weighing it with a heaviness that never seems to lift.

Then, as always, the silence shatters. Satoru reaches over, casual as anything, and plucks a bite of greens from your plate with his chopsticks. “Yours always taste better”, he grins, dropping them in his mouth. “Must be the way you chew”, he says with a mouthful.

A small, soft laugh escapes you before you can catch it. There he goes with his silly antics again, you think. He somehow always knows how to tug you out of your head, whether you want him to or not.

Akihito’s chopsticks pause mid-motion. His eyes narrow, barely, but you feel the weight of it. “Interesting”, he says, voice low and smooth, but with a faint edge. “I thought you never touched your greens.”

Satoru doesn’t look away from you as he chews, slow and deliberate. “Tastes change.”

The air thins. You take a sip of wine to steady your hands and avoid meeting Akihito’s eyes. You can feel them — heavy, disapproving, and not very kind.

“They do”, Akihito replies after a moment, setting his chopsticks down with a soft click. “Although not always for the better.”

You want to look at him, to read what he’s really thinking — but you don’t dare. Sometimes it feels like even a glance might betray you. Especially now, as Satoru shifts slightly in his seat, angling himself subtly closer to you, as if rising to meet some unspoken challenge.

“I suppose it depends”, Satoru says lightly, the smile still playing on his lips. “Sometimes, watching someone savor something — it can spark a craving in you too.” He smiles at you then — softly — and something flutters in your chest that has no business being there. Then, he adds, with just enough weight to sharpen the air again. “But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, old man? How tastes change over time.”

You freeze, just for a moment. Akihito doesn’t blink. His tone stays dry, his face unreadable. “Was there a point to that?”

Satoru leans back slightly. “Just that, at your age, I’d expect you to be less surprised when people... shift.”

Across from you, Saori finally lifts her wine glass. She doesn’t drink — not yet — but she swirls the red liquid slowly, her gaze shifting from father to son like she’s watching something she’s already seen before. They clash often, you’ve noticed. Not loudly, not outright — but it’s always there. A push and pull beneath the surface, a cold war of words and glances.

Sometimes, you wonder if Satoru knows about the affair. He says things — subtle, but cutting — that make you pause, that make you think he might be more aware than he lets on. Maybe that’s why he’s pursuing you so intently — just to prove a point to his father. But then, there are moments when his gaze softens when he looks at you, when his touch lingers just a second too long. He goes out of his way every day just to be near you. And in those moments, it feels too sincere to be a game. You start to think he might actually mean it. That he’s not just chasing you out of spite — but because he truly wants you.

You reach for your own glass again, taking another sip of wine, as if it might wash away the tension thickening by the second. But it doesn’t. Setting the glass back down, your hand lingers at its base. Your fingers brush against Satoru’s hand that rests on the table between you two. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, his pinky curls beneath yours — just enough to be felt, not seen. You don’t pull away. You know Akihito sees it. You feel it. The tick in his jaw is barely visible, but you notice it.

“I’ve been seeing you around way more frequently, Satoru. I hope marriage hasn’t dulled your focus”, he says, his voice smooth and pointed. “There are more important things than... comfort.”

The irony, you think. The words sound like a joke to you, coming from the same man who orchestrated your marriage just to keep you closer and see you more freely. You barely manage to swallow a scoff.

Satoru leans back in his chair, unfazed. “You’d be surprised”, he says lightly. “Sometimes comfort is the only thing keeping people from falling apart.”

“It’s rare”, Saori speaks at last, “to see affection in this house. Perhaps we shouldn’t discourage it.” Her words are gentle, kind — at least, on the surface. But they carry the weight of something unspoken, a quiet complaint from a woman who has never been loved by her husband — not in the way a lover is.

The silence that follows is anything but gentle. Her words hang in the air, delicate yet heavy, like the last note of a song no one knows how to follow. No one speaks. Not right away. You watch Akihito, wondering if he’ll respond — if he even knows how. But his expression remains unreadable, carved from habit more than emotion. Then, without looking at anyone in particular, he speaks, as if the comment never touched him at all. “I meant to tell you”, Akihito says, cutting through the quiet like a blade, “The elders requested a meeting with you tomorrow morning.”

Satoru’s glass of water stills halfway to his lips. “Can’t”, he says casually. “I’m taking my wife out.”

You blink. That’s the first you’ve heard of it.

Akihito’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw tightens — just once, sharply — as he exhales through his nose. “You can reschedule”, he says. “The clan elders don’t appreciate being made to wait.”

Satoru shrugs. “Neither does she.” He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, but the weight of it presses into your ribs like heat.

The silence that follows is tight, full of things no one says. Saori watches Akihito this time, her gaze sharp as cut glass. Her husband is acting odd. And she notices everything.

Gojo Akihito was a man carved from discipline. Now in his late fifties, he was a figure both respected and quietly feared. When he entered a room, silence followed. Backs straightened. Conversations halted. People instinctively adjusted their posture — as if simply being in his presence demanded their best. His presence was weighty, not in a menacing way, but with a gravity that commanded reverence. His name alone held power — spoken softly, carefully, like it belonged to someone who mattered more than most. And he did. Shaped by the will of the elders, Akihito had been molded into the ideal head of the Gojo Clan: composed, unwavering, and dutiful. Obedience had been stitched into his bones from childhood. He was taught not to dream, but to serve. To lead with strength and never stray from what was expected.

His path had been set before he could walk it — become strong, inherit the clan, marry a chosen wife, produce an heir. And he did. His talents bloomed early. Power came easily to him, and with it, authority. He married Saori, a woman selected by the elders, and fulfilled his role without resistance. Love was never part of the arrangement — but respect was. Even in the absence of affection, he treated her with dignity. They never became lovers — much to Saori’s quiet sorrow, for she had loved him from the very beginning. After they conceived Satoru, he never touched her again. As if it had been part of a duty — fulfilled, then forgotten.

When he stepped down and passed the title of clan head to his son, Akihito did not fade quietly into the background. His voice still carried weight, often more so than of the current leader. To many, he remained the pillar of the clan. The rock. Unmoving. Unshakeable. Dependable. But even stone erodes, given time. Even the strongest man can change. Even a rock, under enough heat — can melt.

Akihito wasn’t supposed to be here. The streets were too narrow, too loud, brimming with color and life in a way that felt foreign to him. He was meant to be elsewhere, at a meeting across town — another empty ritual of clan maintenance. But his driver took a wrong turn, and instead of rerouting, Akihito had stepped out, needing a walk. Needing air. Needing space from the weight that always clung to his shoulders. That’s when he saw you.

At first, it was nothing. You were just a figure in the crowd — young, distracted, smiling faintly at your phone, coffee in hand. But something about you… stopped him. You passed by without noticing him, and the moment stretched too long. Something about you felt familiar, though he couldn’t place why. A detail misplaced in time. A memory from a life he never lived. He turned — just slightly. Just enough to watch you go. You entered a nearby café tucked between cramped buildings. Small. A little worn. Too cozy, too youthful for someone like him. He should have kept walking. But he followed you inside. He told himself it was curiosity. That he needed a moment to sit, make a call, kill time. But deep down, even then, he knew. He picked a seat in the corner. Three tables away from you.

He returned the next day. And the next. It was irrational. Dangerous. He wasn’t the kind of man who indulged temptations. His life had been a masterclass in restraint — each step measured, each emotion disciplined out of existence. But you… You sat in the same spot each day, sipping a drink, sometimes reading, sometimes just staring out the window with that faraway look that seemed to see something no one else could. He wondered what you saw. He wondered what you wanted. He wondered what it would feel like to be the thing you looked at that way. And he hated himself for it.

You didn’t know who he was. You didn’t know that the man sitting a few tables away had once been the most powerful figure in one of Japan’s oldest sorcerer clans. That he had blood on his hands and responsibilities that still echoed through every inch of his life. You didn’t know that his marriage was nothing more than a political alignment. That he had followed every rule. Sacrificed every selfish urge. That he had never, in over fifty years, been in love. Not until now.

On the third day, he stopped resisting and made a decision. He stood up, walked to your table, and asked — “May I sit?”

Three tables. He was sitting three tables away from you — again. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. Today made the third.

You’d noticed him immediately. How could you not? Tall, impeccably dressed, white hair, broad shoulders, and unmistakably refined. You guessed he was in his fifties, but he wore it well — almost too well. Dressed in a designer suit, he looked out of place in this cozy, slightly run-down café filled with students and twenty-somethings. Yet, there he was.

Each time you stole a glance, he was gazing out the window, never once meeting your eyes. But something about him — his presence, the stillness in the way he sat, the ghost of a smile on his lips — kept drawing your attention. Maybe you were imagining things. But, perhaps, was he there… for you? Just as you started telling yourself it was all in your head, he moved. Ah, he’s leaving—

No — he wasn’t. He was walking toward you.

Your breath caught. Your eyes widened as he came to a stop at your table.

“May I sit?” he asked, voice smooth but low, as if careful not to disturb the air between you. You blinked, pulse rising. “Why here?” you asked, managing a dry smile. “There are plenty of other tables, including the one you’ve been using for the past few days.” You motioned toward his old table. “I like the view better from here,” he replied calmly, and took the seat without waiting for permission.

The view, of course, was you. He had resisted the pull for two days. But today, Gojo Akihito gave in. In his fifties, for the first time in his life — he fell in love. And for the first time… he broke a rule.

He didn’t touch you. Not for weeks. Not inappropriately, not even in passing. His interest was always wrapped in respect, laced with a restraint that was somehow more intoxicating than overt desire. He spoke little, but with purpose. He listened like it was sacred. Asked questions no one else had ever bothered to. You told yourself it was harmless. That you liked the attention he was giving you. That you weren’t doing anything wrong… with a married man. It’s just a connection — nothing more. But the way he looked at you… like you were something precious, something rare, he had no right to touch but desperately wanted to — it stirred something in you.

When he kissed you for the first time, it wasn’t impulse. It was quiet. Measured. Like a man saying a prayer before stepping into hell. And you let him. After that, the pretense faded. You started meeting behind closed doors…

You were in love, yes. Or maybe, looking back now, you only thought you were. Not the way he was. You were free, while Akihito was chained to a life he could never escape. The deeper Akihito sank into you, the more you floated above him. Untethered. Capable of leaving. And that was what terrified him the most. He needed something stronger — something permanent — to bind you to him.

One year into your affair, Akihito proposed something unthinkable.

“An arranged marriage?” you gasped, your voice cracking in disbelief. “To your son?” You tried to push away from him, stepping out of the bathtub, but he caught your wrist and pulled you back in.

“I miss you too much when you’re away”, he murmured against your shoulder. His breath was hot. His arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you close, anchoring you to him in the steaming water. “Not knowing when I’ll see you again — it’s unbearable. And knowing it won’t be tomorrow? I hate that.”

You sat between his legs, your bare back pressed to his chest, steam rising around you like a veil. His head dipped to the curve of your neck. You said nothing. Your lips trembled with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, with a sob that didn’t quite leave your throat.

You spoke every day. But meetings were rare. Always discreet. Always in motion. Hotels changed with every rendezvous. Different rooms, different names, different times of arrival. You booked separate rooms but only ever used one. Because what you shared was a scandal. And the walls, anywhere, could talk. He was the former head of the Gojo Clan. A public man. A married man. And in the Gojo Clan, divorce was taboo. Unspoken but absolute. Marriage ended only with death.

“It’s madness”, you whispered. “You’d just… hand me over to another man like that?”

“I’m not handing you over”, he said, voice low and tired. “It’ll be just on paper. You know what Satoru’s like — he’s obsessed with his work. Sorcery is the only thing he’s ever cared about. He won’t touch you.” He paused. He knew how it sounded. But to him, it made sense. He was convinced this was the best way to keep you close. Satoru, as far as Akihito knew, had no interest in romance, no time for love. If you married his son, your place in the clan would be secured — and so would your bond to him. Even if you tried to leave him one day, you’d still be part of his world. Divorce, after all, was never an option. “Think about it”, he continued. “We’d be able to see each other more freely. People wouldn’t question it if we were spotted together — we’d be family. It would raise fewer suspicions than what we’re doing now.”

You stared into the steam, into nothing. “...fine.” You caved.

Neither of you knew then just how flawed the plan truly was. The flaw had a name: Gojo Satoru.

Back in your shared bedroom, you close the door behind you and turn to face Satoru. He’s already tugging off his jacket, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chair. You squint at him, arms crossed. “What was that earlier?” He pauses, one sock halfway off. “Hm?” He looks up at you, eyebrow arched in that maddeningly innocent way.

“‘I’m taking my wife out’”, you echo flatly. “We made no such plans.”

He chuckles — a low, amused sound. “Ah. That.” Straightening up, he begins rolling his sleeves to the elbows, wandering toward the bed. “I was too distracted by your beauty when I got home, I must’ve forgotten to tell you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me what exactly?”

“That everyone wants to meet you”, he says, as if it’s obvious.

“Everyone?” you eye him.

“My students. My colleagues. Most of them think I made up this whole marriage thing just for attention.” He grins like it’s the most absurd idea in the world. “So tomorrow, you’re coming with me. I need to show them that my wife is, in fact, a very real, very stunning person~”

You blink. “So you didn’t just blurt it out to get out of meeting the elders?”

He scoffs and flops onto the bed, arms behind his head. “Please. I don’t need an excuse to avoid them. I’ll meet them when I feel like it — not when they demand it.” Of course he would say that. “Besides”, he adds lazily, “I figured we could hang out a little after. Grab a bite or go somewhere. A proper date.”

You stare at him. “A date?” — “Yeah”, he shoots. “You know, two people spending time together on purpose because they want to?”

“Satoru”, you sigh, “you don’t have to bother with this kind of thing. This is an arranged marriage, let me remind you. We’re not... required to play house.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting with mock curiosity. “Who said couples in arranged marriages can’t go on dates? That’s a rule now? If it is, I must’ve missed the fine print.”

He’s relentless — in a strangely charming way. Always pushing, always poking. And the worst part is... he knows you don’t exactly hate it. You glance away, shaking your head. “Alright”, you say finally, “fine” — and he immediately beams like he’s just won something. And maybe he has — in his own strange way. Satoru doesn’t need much to feel victorious. But there’s something you have noticed — how a yes from you is usually worth a trophy in his world, even if you offer it begrudgingly.

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to make of the warmth blooming quietly in your chest. It’s not love. It can’t be. Right? But it’s something. A softening, maybe. A flicker of possibility. Your fingers absently toy with the edge of your sleeve. That strange flutter you’ve been ignoring — the one he keeps coaxing out of you — is getting harder to deny. What exactly are you doing? — you ask yourself.

And then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You fish it out quickly and glance down at the screen.

Akihito: Come to the guest house.

Just like that, reality presses its weight back onto your shoulders. It doesn’t look like Satoru noticed anything, but your hands are already closing the message, hiding the screen like a child caught with stolen sweets. “I’m going to the kitchen”, you say, too quickly. “I want something sweet.”

Satoru sits up a little. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll get—”

“No.” You cut him off, maybe too fast. “I’m not sure what I want yet, so I’ll just look around.” His gaze lingers on you for a moment. Something unreadable flickers there — brief, sharp, gone too fast. Then he leans back on his hands, still smiling. “Alright, my picky little bride. Don’t be long.”

You force a light laugh and slip out the door.

Akihito hears your knock — light, familiar — before the door opens. You’re still in your dinner clothes, but your hair is looser now, lipstick faded. You look comfortable, relaxed — and he does not exactly like that. You step quietly, and he lets you come to him without saying a word. For a moment, neither of you speak.

He looks somewhat tense, but the air between you is still warm with memory — earlier today, your skin beneath his hands, your lips murmuring his name into a hotel pillow. And yet. “I’m sorry for calling you over like this”, he says finally, his voice low. “I just needed to see you.”

You smile faintly. “You saw me at dinner.”

“Not like this.” His eyes search yours. “Not alone. Not without... him.”

You stiffen slightly — not defensively. Just aware. Akihito gestures to the seat beside him. You sit.

“He’s not the same”, he murmurs after a pause. “Satoru. He’s changing.”

You don’t respond at first. You fold your hands in your lap.

“You know what he used to be like? Detached. Cold. Always disappearing on missions. He never gave a damn about what anyone thought of him — never entertained sentiment. And now?” He scoffs softly. “Flowers. Cooking. Holding your hand under the table like some infatuated schoolboy...”

Your mouth opens — then closes. You can’t find the right words.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” he asks quietly. “At dinner. The way he looks at you.”

Your gaze falters. Not guilty — not quite — but cautious. “He’s just playing the part, Aki”, you say eventually. “He’s always been theatrical.”

Akihito shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t an act.” There’s no bitterness in his voice. No anger. Just... disbelief. Like he’s watching something slip through his fingers that he didn’t expect to lose. “Before you came into his life, he never stayed home. Never cared about meals or traditions or people. He never had time for anything... personal.”

You look down.

Akihito studies your profile, as if memorizing it. The curve of your brow, the slope of your cheek. “I know I’m the one who suggested this arrangement”, he says, and his voice is more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard it. “I told myself it was the best way to keep you close. Safe. But now...” He trails off.

You reach out, take his hand in yours. “I’m still yours, Aki”, you say gently. “You know that.”

“I want to believe that”, he murmurs. You squeeze his hand. “You can.”

But your voice falters, just slightly. Just enough for him to notice. His eyes flick up to your face. There’s no accusation in them. Only fear. The quiet, creeping kind that lives under the surface of a man who’s spent a lifetime being in control.

“I know he’s not you”, you add softly. “I know why I said yes to this. You don’t have to worry.”

Akihito nods slowly. But his silence stretches too long. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he kisses the top of your hair. Grateful. Reassured — or trying to be. But the weight in his chest doesn’t lift. Because for the first time, he isn’t sure if the threat is outside of what you have... or is growing inside it.

“Don’t worry, they don’t bite”, Satoru chuckles, watching you fidget with your sleeves like you’re about to walk into a job interview. You shoot him a dry look. “You say that like you’re not the worst of them.”

“Me? I’m the warm-up act. They are the terrifying ones”, he teases, nodding toward the lounge room door. You roll your eyes but don’t stop playing with your cuffs.

“You’ll be fine”, he adds, nudging your elbow gently. “Just flash that charming smile and pretend I’m not hovering behind you like a lovesick fool.”

“You are hovering.”

“I’m setting the scene”, he grins. “For dramatic effect.”

You scoff. “I’m not scared, you know.”

“Of course not”, he nods solemnly. “You’re just fidgeting because you’re excited to meet my fan club.” You shoot him a sideways glare. He leans over, voice lowering just a touch. “They’re going to love you”, he says, softer now. “They’ve never seen me with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who makes me behave.”

You don’t get the chance to press him on that. He throws the door open before you can respond — and the room instantly freezes. Chairs creak to a halt. Conversations cut off mid-sentence. All heads turn. A spoon hovers midair. A can of soda stops halfway to someone’s lips. Even the air feels like it’s holding its breath. And all of it — every flicker of curiosity, disbelief, and blatant awe — is aimed squarely at you.

“Guys”, Satoru announces, all flair and no shame, “This is my wife. Try not to scare her off.” You manage a composed smile, offering a polite nod. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The reactions come in like dominos.

Yuuji blinks so fast he looks like a malfunctioning cartoon. “She’s real. She’s actually real.”

Nobara lets out a dramatic gasp. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. How is he married to her?”

“There’s definitely something wrong with her”, Megumi mutters, arms crossed.

“Blink twice if you’re being held hostage”, Maki deadpans without missing a beat.

Even stoic Shoko lifts her eyebrows, taking a slow drag of her cigarette. “I genuinely thought he made you up.”

Ijichi bows at the waist, glasses fogged slightly from the tea steam. “Gojo-san speaks of you often. I assumed it was... metaphorical.” Nanami says absolutely nothing. Just closes his eyes and exhales, a slow, pained breath that says this is beneath me, but also of course this is happening.

Meanwhile, Geto is the picture of calm. Reclined on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, he simply smirks and raises his hand in greeting. “About time you dragged her here, Satoru.”

“Don’t encourage him”, Nanami mutters without opening his eyes.

You can’t help it — you laugh. A light, genuine thing that breaks the awkward spell in the room like shattering glass. The tension in your chest uncoils slightly, and Satoru beams beside you.

“Oh god”, Nobara groans. “Even her laugh is gorgeous. This is unbelievable.”

“Do you need help?” Megumi asks again, completely serious.

“She’s under some kind of spell, huh?” Yuuji whispers. “Do we do something? Help her?”

“No need to rescue her”, Satoru says smugly. “She married me willingly”

“That’s even worse”, Nanami mutters.

“You guys are insufferable”, you finally say, smiling despite yourself.

“You’re perfect for him then”, Shoko hums.

“Alright, alright, don’t scare her off on her first visit”, Geto says, rising from the couch. He strolls over, offering his hand. “I’m Suguru. Satoru’s better half.”

“Hey!” Satoru protests.

You shake Geto’s hand. “Pleasure.”

“It really is”, he replies smoothly. “Though we may have to talk about your taste in men.”

“I’ve made peace with it”, you reply with a smirk. The room erupts into scattered chuckles. Even Megumi snorts. Satoru clutches his chest. “I feel so betrayed.”

“Get in line”, Nanami mutters again.

“Come on”, Geto waves you over. “Sit. Eat something. Let us dissect your personality in peace.” As you move to join them, Satoru’s hand brushes your lower back — a barely-there touch. Protective. Familiar. You glance at him. He’s still smiling like the sun — blinding and hard to read beneath the surface.

You ease yourself into a spot between Suguru and Satoru on the long couch. Plates and cups shift around. The lounge settles into casual chaos again, but it’s warmer now — less like scrutiny, more like curious acceptance. As conversations spark up around you, you feel it — a brush at your side. Subtle, deliberate. Satoru’s hand slides across the space between you on the couch. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look your way. But under the table, his fingers quietly reach for yours. At first, you don’t respond. The chatter of the room covers the rapid thrum of your heartbeat. It feels like everyone might notice, even though no one’s looking. And still — slowly — your fingers curl around his.

You glance sideways at him. He’s still grinning and bickering with Geto about who’s ageing better — but there’s a flicker in his eyes when they meet yours. Something warm. Something that longs. And Satoru doesn’t look like he’s letting go of your hand anytime soon.

Even after leaving the school and walking toward the car, Satoru hasn’t let go of your hand. Not once. And, truthfully, you haven’t tried to pull away either. His hand is warm and steady, fingers loosely laced with yours like it’s always been this natural. “They’re very chaotic”, you say as you walk side by side, the late afternoon sun painting golden highlights into his white hair. “But adorably so.”

Satoru gasps. “How come you never say that about me?”

“I do say you’re chaotic.”

“Not that part”, he pouts, dragging your hand slightly as he walks. “Say I’m adorable too.”

You glance up at him with a smirk. “Why make me lie now?”

He clutches his chest like you just wounded him. “Unbelievable. And here I was, thinking we were having a romantic moment.”

“You pouted like a toddler five seconds ago. That was the opposite of romantic.”

“That was endearing, thank you very much.” He sighs dramatically, unlocking the car with a flick of his keys. “One day you’ll realize just how lucky you are to have married me.”

You chuckle. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

As the engine hums to life and the radio kicks in with something mellow, he steals a glance at you. “You liked them, though?”

You nod. “They’re all... a lot. But in a good way. I liked them. They like you, too — though it’s hilarious how some of them thought I was a figment of your imagination at first.”

“That’s fair”, he shrugs. “Even I sometimes think you’re too good to be real.” You don’t reply to that — partly because it’s sweet, partly because it makes your stomach twist in ways you’re not ready to admit.

Instead of taking you to a fancy restaurant, Satoru pulls the car up near a quiet park tucked into a tree-lined stretch of the city. It’s not crowded, the evening air is crisp, and the swings creak gently in the breeze.

“A date doesn’t have to be complicated”, he says, hands behind his head, strolling beside you. “This used to be my favorite spot when I ditched meetings.”

You laugh. “What a responsible clan head.”

“Oh, terribly irresponsible”, he agrees proudly. “Now — race you to the swings!”

You both make a break for it, laughing as your shoes hit gravel. You get there first, narrowly beating him (because he let you), and triumphantly claim the left swing. Satoru sits on the other — except, the chains creak loudly as he settles in, clearly too tall and too big for the tiny seat.

“God, you look ridiculous”, you say between laughs.

“Hey”, he grins. “Let me have my moment.” He tries to swing but his feet keep dragging on the ground. You get off and try to push him but fail spectacularly. “You’re too heavy!” you exclaim. He snorts. “I’m muscle and grace, I’ll have you know.”

“Lift your legs then! That’s the only way this will work.”

“If I lift my legs, the swing will snap and we’ll both die.”

You dissolve into laughter, arms over your chest as you watch him try — and fail — to get any lift. “Hop off now”, you say. “It’s your turn to push me.”

He gets off, and you take over. He starts pushing you gently, and you find yourself relaxing, head tilted back toward the sky as you glide back and forth. You don’t notice how quiet he’s gone until the swing slows and you look back to find him watching you — softly, openly, with none of his usual teasing in sight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask. He shrugs. “You look happy. I like seeing you like this.”

Your heart stumbles. And just like that, the real world catches up — Akihito, the marriage, the plan... Guilt prickles under your skin. You’re not supposed to feel this warm around Satoru. Not this content. He notices the shift in your eyes, tension in your smile. “Hey.” He walks in front of the swing, kneeling slightly to meet your gaze. “Where did you go just now?”

You open your mouth — but you don’t know what to say. There’s too much. You’re not even sure what you’re feeling anymore. Satoru doesn’t push. He simply lifts a hand to brush your cheek with his knuckles, gentler than anyone would expect from a man like him. “If you’re scared”, he says, “I’ll wait. But I’m not stopping.”

You should say something — anything — but you don’t. Instead, you lean forward without thinking. Just a little. Just enough. And he meets you halfway. You kiss. It’s soft. Uncomplicated. Barely a breath long — but enough to make your stomach flip and your thoughts scramble. You pull back just as fast, cheeks feeling hot, and suddenly shoot up to your feet.

“I—uh—I’m going to head to the car”, you stammer, already backing away. “Give me fifteen minutes. Just... wait, okay? Don’t come right now.” Satoru blinks after you as you run off, flustered. A slow smile spreads across his lips. He lifts a hand, touching his fingers to where your lips met his. “Why shy away like this now?” he murmurs to himself, chuckling. “It’s not like this is our first kiss...”

His smile lingers, a little softer now. Almost nostalgic. He watches the direction you went, lost in thought. Because only he remembers. You’ve kissed before. But back then, you didn’t know who he was. And you still don’t remember.

Satoru remembers it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. The memory came rushing back the moment he saw your picture — the proposed match for the arranged marriage. The others in the room kept talking, formalities piling up like a tide of obligations, but he barely heard a word.

It was you — the girl who stole his first kiss. The girl he never managed to find again.

It happened years ago, sometime past midnight. He had just wrapped up a mission — a dull one, barely worth remembering — and was wandering the streets of Tokyo, eating red bean mochi with one hand and scrolling his phone with the other. Still in uniform, still buzzing from leftover cursed energy, still too wired to sleep. As he strolled past a row of late-night bars and clubs, the music leaked into the street like fog. Somewhere between neon signs and cigarette smoke, he spotted you — a girl slumped on the curb outside a nightclub, arms wrapped around your knees, head lolling sleepily to one side. You looked like you were dozing off. Alone. Vulnerable.

He kept walking. At first. But something didn’t sit right. There were a few guys loitering nearby — drunk, leering, the kind of men that don’t need a reason to ruin someone’s night. One of them peeled away from the group and started approaching you, calling out something Satoru didn’t care to hear. He stopped at a vending machine, fingers patting his pockets as if he were looking for coins — but really, he was watching. Calculating. When the guy crouched beside you and reached out to brush your hair behind your ear, Satoru moved. Fast. “Sorry I took so long”, he said loudly, slinging his jacket over your shoulders in one smooth motion as he stepped between you and the stranger.

The man froze.

Satoru didn’t raise his voice, didn’t flare cursed energy — just looked at him. Cold. Unblinking. Dangerous. The guy got the message. “I was just making sure she was okay”, the creep stammered.

“Yeah”, Satoru said flatly. “She is. Now leave.” He didn’t have to say it twice. Once the guys scurried off, Satoru crouched beside you, tilting his head. “Hey. Not a great place for a nap, you know?” You stirred, muttering something incoherent. “I’m serious”, he said, nudging your shoulder lightly. “It’s not safe out here.”

“Can’t walk”, you mumbled. “Not sure if I’m spinning, or everything else is.”

He blinked. “That bad, huh?”

You squinted at him through half-lidded eyes. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“A kidnapper?”

“Definitely not.”

“Hmm”, you leaned your cheek against your knee. “Guess you’ll do.”

Satoru stared. “What does that mean?” You reached and tugged his sleeve, and with surprising strength, pulled him to sit beside you. Then, without warning, you laid your head in his lap. “What are you—?”

“You’re warm”, you sighed, nestling closer. “And you smell nice. But I kind of feel like throwing up.”

“Please don’t”, he said instantly, trying not to panic. “This is my favorite outfit.”

You giggled. “You’re funny.”

He looked down at you, at the way your hair fanned across his thighs, at the curve of your sleepy smile. “What are you even doing out here alone?” he asked.

“I lost my friends”, you mumbled. “Or maybe they lost me. Who’s to say...”

“You got a phone?”

You held it up proudly. It was dead. “Perfect”, he sighed.

Eventually, when it became clear you weren’t going to get up willingly, he gathered you into his arms and stood. “Alright, mystery girl. I’m getting you somewhere safe — where’s your place?”

“Wait, wait”, you slurred, squinting suspiciously at him. “I don’t know you. I can’t just tell you where I live!”

“You’re literally unconscious on the sidewalk and I’m carrying you like a bridal bouquet. I think we’re past that point.”

You didn’t answer. Your head lolled onto his shoulder. He sighed, glanced around. He didn’t know your name, didn’t know where you lived — but you looked about college-aged, and the university campus wasn’t far. It was the best guess he had. So he started walking.

Halfway there, a group of girls came jogging down the sidewalk, calling some name (yours). They looked frantic — until they saw you in his arms. “Oh god”, one of them exhaled. “We’ve been looking for her everywhere!”

They reached out to take you, but you lifted your head groggily, blinking at him like you’d just remembered he existed. You took off his sunglasses and placed them on his head, then cupped his face in both hands, surprisingly gentle.

“You’re pretty”, you said.

He blinked.

Then you leaned in and kissed him. It was soft and quick. “Thank you”, you whispered. “For keeping me warm.”

And just like that, your friends pulled you away — you still wearing his jacket, him still too stunned to speak. He stood there long after you were gone, fingers pressed to his lips, dazed. “What a weird girl”, he muttered.

But he’d already fallen for you.

He tried to find you after that, of course — visited the area again, lingered by the campus, even asked around in his own way. But your name, your face... all of it had vanished like a dream after waking. Until years later — when he saw your photo again. And this time? He said yes without hesitation.

The days begin to blend. Soft, warm mornings. Laughter over late breakfast. The rustle of flower petals against your cheek as you wake — a new habit Satoru’s picked up. You open your eyes to a fresh bouquet on your pillow, tied together with a silk ribbon and a folded note tucked inside.

Roses are red, violets are blue, don’t open the curtains, I’m watching you ;) S.

You roll your eyes but smile. By now, your phone is full of messages from him — some voice notes, some texts. Some completely random, like:

Voice message — 9:07 AM

Hey, I found this stray cat that reminds me of you. They ignored me when I tried to pet them and just walked off. Thought that was kinda romantic~

Text — 10:12 AM

Do you miss me or are you pretending I don’t exist again? Be honest. I can take it. (Don’t be honest)

Sometimes he’s halfway through a mission and still finds the time to send you a photo of some stupid little charm at a shrine that “looks cursed like you” — and by the time he returns home, you’ve forgotten how silence used to fill the rooms before he came.

You start leaving notes back. Hiding snacks in his coat. One time, you sent him flowers — as a joke. A massive, bright pink bouquet delivered right to the faculty lounge at Jujutsu Tech.

Yuuji nearly dropped his drink when he saw it. “Sensei, I thought you were the man in this relationship... but I guess you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”

Satoru beamed as he held the bouquet. “Listen, Yuuji, I think she’s got me on a leash. And honestly? I don’t mind it.”

Geto didn’t even blink. “You’ve always liked being domesticated.”

Nanami groaned in the distance. “Please take your romance outside school grounds.”

Your life with him feels like a sitcom at times. Like you’ve somehow fallen into a slice-of-life version of your own story. And strangely, you don’t hate it.

But not all lives move at the same pace.

Akihito watches it unfold from the shadows of his own silence. This was not part of the plan. You’re playing your role way too well to his liking. Are you humoring Satoru’s peculiar behavior for the sake of keeping the peace... or is there something more to it?

He feels the distance stretching. You reply to his messages slower now. When he calls, you sound distracted — not cold, just... somewhere else. Sometimes when he walks by your and Satoru’s room, he hears his son’s voice talking to you and it cuts deeper than he expects. Laughing. Teasing. Talking to you in a tone Akihito used to think was only his to use.

He remembers your last few moments together, how they’ve been growing shorter. More careful. Your touches — once confident, rooted in secret familiarity — now come with hesitation. Like you’re aware of something new. Something blooming in the cracks you didn’t plan for. You were slipping. And for the first time in a very long time, Akihito doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t confront you. He won’t. Because even now, he trusts you. Even now, he tells himself you would never betray him like that... But still — he’s left staring at the space beside him that used to be filled by you, fingers curled into fists he won’t raise, breathing through a storm he never thought he’d have to weather.

Evening settles softly across the room like a warm blanket. The lights are dim, casting a gentle golden hue over the shared bedroom you’ve both slowly grown used to — not just as a space, but as a kind of quiet haven. You sit on the bed with your knees tucked close to your chest, absently flipping through some old magazine you already checked out twice. Satoru is nearby, sprawled across the foot of the bed, fiddling with his phone but mostly stealing glances at you. The silence between you is easy now. Not empty, not awkward — just comfortable.

Still, something hangs between you, unspoken but undeniably there. It’s been lingering ever since that kiss in the park. You haven’t kissed again since, but your touches linger longer now — a brush of fingers as you pass something to him, the slow curl of his hand around yours when you walk beside each other. Close, but careful.

Tonight feels different.

“Do you ever miss the chaos?” you ask, not looking up from the page. “Before we... whatever this is.”

“Before we became a domestic power couple?” Satoru teases, stretching out with a dramatic sigh. “Tragic. I used to be wild. Now I fold your laundry.” You laugh. “You don’t fold my laundry.”

“I would. For the record. If it meant you’d smile like that.”

You glance at him now, and his expression softens when your eyes meet. The air changes. It’s in the way he shifts, propping himself up slightly on one elbow. There’s something different in his gaze — not just affection, but hunger veiled by hesitance. You feel it too. That same flutter deep in your belly. The nervous kind. The kind that tastes like anticipation. He moves closer, slowly, watching you for any flicker of hesitation. When he reaches out, his fingers brush lightly along your jaw, his thumb barely skimming your cheek. You don’t move away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that for a while now”, you whisper.

He smiles, a little crooked, a little shy — rare, for him. “Yeah. I’ve been... trying to behave.”

Your lips part, but you don’t speak. Satoru leans in, and this time, when he kisses you, it’s slower than last time. Less impulsive. More reverent. His hand cups the back of your head gently as he pulls you closer, tasting your breath as if he’s been craving it every day since the last time. And then he pulls back. Breath shaky. Eyes shut. You blink, still dazed from the kiss. “Satoru? What are you doing?”

He exhales a slow, uneven breath. “Waiting for you to slap me.”

You stare at him. That rare vulnerability in his voice knocks the breath right out of your lungs. “Why would I slap you?”

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t warn you. I just... kissed you. Again. I told myself I’d wait until you wanted me.”

You hesitate only for a heartbeat. Then, you lean forward and take his face in your hands, gently pulling him back into you. Your lips find his, and this time there’s no pause. No retreat. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize you. Every angle. Every sound you make. Your hands find their way under the hem of is shirt, fingertips grazing bare skin, and he shivers beneath your touch. You break the kiss long enough to whisper, “Come closer.”

His forehead rests against yours. “Only if you want me to.”

“I do”, you breathe, voice trembling but sure. “I want this. I want you.” His arms tighten around you, and it’s slow, almost reverent, the way he lays you down — like you’re something sacred. Clothes are shed without urgency, and his hands trace the lines of your body like he’s reading scripture. The rest unfolds in quiet gasps and whispered names. It’s not just desire — it’s need. Familiar, frightening, warm...

...when it’s over, the silence that follows is different from all the ones that came before. You lie beside him, heart still racing, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your arm. He doesn’t speak. He just watches you, memorizing the curve of your lips, the way your chest raises and falls. And for a moment, you forget every plan. Every lie. Every secret. For a moment, it feels like love. The kind that sneaks up on you — quiet, uninvited, and impossible to ignore. You lie tangled together, your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tenderly caressing your bare skin. Hearts still thudding.

Satoru is the one to break the silence, his voice light, teasing (as usual). “So... You really don’t remember me, huh?”

You blink, lifting your head just enough to glance at him. “What?”

“Brutal...”, he laughs. “And here I was, thinking I made a lasting impression that night.”

You narrow your eyes, unsure if he’s joking. “What are you talking about?”

“Nahh, I get it — you were pretty drunk”, he says, dragging the words out like a cat playing with mouse.

“Oh god—” You sit up suddenly, sheet gathering around your chest. “Don’t tell me we’ve hooked up in the past and I don’t remember it?” Satoru bursts out laughing. “No, not like that.”

You squint at him. “Then stop being so cryptic and tell me!”

He stretches, hands behind his head, smug and insufferable. “Let’s just say… you were outside a bar. Alone. Slumped on the curb. And I saved your life.”

You blink again. He continues, barely hiding his amusement. “Some creep tried to hit on you. I intervened, obviously. You asked if I was a kidnapper, told me I smelled nice, then fell asleep in my lap.”

Your jaw drops. “No way.”

“Oh, there’s more,” he says with a mock-serious nod. “You called me pretty. And you kissed me.”

You gape. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” he says, lips twitching. “And you stole my jacket, by the way.”

Your eyes widen. Something flickers at the edge of your memory. “Wait— that was your jacket?”

Satoru raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “Yep.”

“I always wondered where it came from”, you mumble, stunned. “I kept it for years. I thought maybe someone just… gave it to me out of pity.”

“Well, I did give it to you”, he says, softer now. “But it wasn’t pity.”

You’re quiet for a moment, absorbing it all. “I can’t believe it. That was you.”

He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal — but his voice betrays him when he says, “Yeah. I looked for you, you know? Went back to that street, hung around your supposed campus. Thought about that stupid night more times than I’d ever admit.”

You gasp.

“When your photo showed up in the marriage proposal packet?” He looks over at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “I said yes before they even finished reading your name.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

He smiles, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you didn’t look at me like this before.” You lean in, heart heavy with something warm and aching. “How do I look at you now?”

“Like you might not disappear this time.”

You slip into your nightgown, your skin still tingling with traces of warmth and tenderness. The sound of water runs in the background — Satoru in the shower, humming something off-key. A lazy smile plays on your lips as you step out of the bedroom, quietly padding down the hallway. You tell yourself it’s just to grab snacks. Maybe a drink. Something to soothe the afterglow that’s left your heart both full and aching.

But as you reach the kitchen and flick on the soft underlight, your body seizes.

Akihito is there. Standing in the low light like a phantom, glass in one hand, his other curled into a loose fist at his side. The bottle of whiskey beside him is nearly half-empty. He doesn’t speak right away — just stares at you, and it’s a look you’ve never seen on him before. Not like this. There’s pain, yes. But buried under that is something sharper. Something raw.

“Akihito...” you breathe, barely more than a whisper. He doesn’t answer. Just brings the glass to his lips again, slowly, as if buying time — or trying to keep himself from saying what’s already clawing its way up his throat. Akihito, huh? You used to call him Aki...

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes narrowing slightly as he steps forward. You don’t move — not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t quite dare. He stops in front of you, closer than comfort allows. The scent of whiskey and something tired hangs on him — disappointment. His eyes flicker over your face, and you know he sees it. The softness in your cheeks. The haze still lingering in your gaze. The warmth that isn’t his. He knows. Of course he does. But he wants to confirm, one last time.

His hand reaches toward you, swiftly lifting your nightgown to brush his fingers against your cunt, bare, still wet and sore. You flinch, instinctively stepping back — but his free hand snaps around your wrist. He withdraws his fingers, bringing them close to your face, then slowly rubs them together. Smearing the slick, laced with remnants that don’t belong to him. “You slept with him”, he says, low, flat. No question. Just a quiet accusation.

Your breath catches.

He leans in, close enough for his words to brush against your skin. “Do you love him?”

Before your lips can part, before your heart even finds a beat, a new voice breaks the silence.

“Hey, I was looking for y—” Satoru enters the room, still damp from the shower, water clinging to his chest, a towel slung low around his waist, another in his hands as he rubs it through his hair. The moment he sees his father, he stops mid-step. His eyes lock at his hand around your wrist. His tone drops, his jaw clenches. He immediately yanks his hand away from you, then his eyes dart to the whiskey on the counter. “Old man, did you get drunk enough to mistake my wife for yours?”

Akihito doesn’t answer right away, but he tenses. For a moment, he seems to fold in on himself — trying, perhaps, to remember who he is, and who he’s supposed to be. “I lost my balance for a second”, he mutters. Then without another glance at either of you, he brushes past and disappears down the hall.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening. You’re frozen. Like glass on the verge of shattering. Guilt crawls under your skin like a fever. You want to scream. You want to run. You feel like you’ve betrayed them both.

Satoru looks at you. His expression softens the moment he sees your face. “Hey...” voice gentle now. “You okay? You look a bit... pale.” He tries to joke, but there’s a note of worry breeding into his words. “Did I... maybe go a little too hard on you back there?” A faint smirk, halfhearted. His eyes, though, are searching.

You force yourself to nod, to smile like you’re fine. “No. I’m okay. I just—” you glance toward the hallway, “I got startled. I didn’t expect to see anyone else awake.”

Satoru doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push either. He just reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch almost reverent. “Next time, tell me”, he says softly. “I’ll walk you around the house like a proper husband.”

You laugh — weakly, but you manage it. Neither of you says what you’re thinking. Neither of you asks the questions hanging thick in the air. But both of you feel it. Something has shifted. And in the stillness that follows, all you can do is hold your breath and pretend it’s not already slipping out of your control.

The soft creak of Akihito’s footsteps disappears into the silence of the hallway as if he is retreating from more than just a room. By the time he reaches the bedroom he shares with Saori, the burn in his chest has settled into something heavier, duller. She is already asleep, curled into herself beneath the silk sheets. He doesn’t even look at her. Akihito pours himself another drink from the decanter near the dresser, the sound of the liquid filling the glass louder than it should. His hand shakes as he brings it to his lips. He has lost count of how many glasses he had tonight.

He believed he was in control, never imagining, even for a moment, that you might be the one to falter. He sits on the edge of the bed for a while, nursing the bitterness on his tongue, trying to down what feels like the unraveling of everything. His grip tightens around the glass until his knuckles turn white. And eventually, the weight of it — the whiskey, the pain, the loss — pulls him down. He settles in bed, fully clothed, eyes open to the dark. Only when the alcohol dulls the sharpest edges of his thoughts does sleep finally claim him.

Saori wakes sometime later — hours, maybe. She doesn’t know what stirred her at first. The clock ticks quietly. The room is still. But then she hears it. A soft sound. A broken voice. Akihito. At first, she thinks he is awake, whispering. But when she turns to face him, she sees the tight lines on his brow, his face twisted in restless dreaming.

...a name falls from his lips like a prayer. Your name.

“Don’t leave me...” He shifts, face turned toward her, eyes shut tight. His voice cracks in a way she has never heard before. “I love you... please... don’t go...”

Saori doesn’t move. She doesn’t breathe. For a long moment, all she can do is stare at the man she spent more than half her life beside. The man who kept so much from her. Until now.

Everything made sense to her now. All of it. The proposal of a random girl — a nobody, by traditional standards — as a bride for the clan head. His obsessive oversight of your marriage. His silence. His sudden, inexplicable shifts in mood. All the times he came home reeking of another woman. And now this.

She sits up slowly, placing her hand on her lap as the cold realization settles deep into her bones. Her husband has never said her name like that, even in dreams. A sharp, unfamiliar ache blooms in her chest. It isn’t jealousy — though that is part of it. It is grief. For a marriage that never really belonged to her. For a love that was never hers to begin with. She turns to look at Akihito once more. His lips move soundlessly now, breath uneven. Vulnerable in a way he has never let himself be when conscious. Saori whispers, her voice nearly a breath, “You poor, stupid man...”

And she doesn’t know whether to feel pity, rage, or heartbreak. So she sits there — in the dim quiet, beside the man who is dreaming of someone else — and tries to remember what it feels like to be chosen.

The morning sun spills through sheer drapes. Saori sits before her vanity, back perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap as the house attendant brushes through her hair. She stares at her reflection — still, expressionless. But her eyes, always sharp, betray thought in motion. There’s no puffiness in them, no redness, no sign of the long night she endured beside her sleeping husband and the dreams he whispered into the dark. Not a trace of it reached the surface. Because Gojo Saori does not falter.

She was raised for this life. Trained from the moment she could walk and speak — in manners, in posture, in etiquette. In silence. In sacrifice. She was chosen for the Gojo Clan as if born for it, bred for it. A perfect match to elevate status and maintain lineage. An ideal bride, by design. Not merely beautiful, but refined. Not merely obedient, but poised. Regal in her restraint. And still, he never loved her. Gojo Akihito, the man she married at twenty-one, gave her everything a wife could ask for — wealth, status, a name that carried power. But not his heart. Never his heart. She spent years trying to earn it anyway. With devotion. With loyalty so fierce it could have moved mountains if he had only looked her way and seen her properly.

But last night... Last night, in the hush of the sleeping room they shared for so many years, he spoke someone else’s name. Not once. Not carelessly. Lovingly.

Saori meets her own gaze in the mirror — unwavering, unflinching. She should’ve wept, perhaps. Cried the way lesser women might. Collapsed into trembling disbelief or broken rage. But she had no time for that. No space, in the skin she wears, for such indulgence. Her family name was teetered on scandal, and she bled too much grace into this place to see it torn down now — not by a girl’s foolishness, not by a man’s longing. Gojo Saori was, above else, a guardian of the image. But the image was beginning to crack. And she was ready to protect what needed protecting.

You sit at the table, eyes tracing the rim of your teacup, steam curling softly into the morning air. You haven’t taken a sip. You haven’t touched your plate. Your stomach is tight, twisted with guilt... especially after last night.

Satoru is full of light and ease, as he always is — grinning, teasing, tossing playful remarks into the stillness like stones skipping across a glassy lake. His hand brushes yours casually, fingertips lingering just long enough to warm your skin. It’s comforting in a way, how unchanged he is. But his energy doesn’t reach you this morning. You smile when you’re supposed to. You answer when he prompts you. But your mind is far away — caught between the memory of last night’s warmth and the echo of Akihito’s voice, flat and cracked with disappointment.

Akihito sits quietly, as he always does, but today his silence feels heavier. His fingers press against the bridge of his nose, slow and methodical, as if trying to will away a migraine. He hasn’t touched his food. His presence across the table burns into you like a brand. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel his restraint like a tremor in the room — barely contained, always building.

Saori is a vision of composure. She lifts her teacup with perfect posture, takes delicate sips, and sets it down with the precision of someone who has performed this same ritual every morning of her life. Her face is unreadable — not blank, but too measured. There’s something behind her stillness, something coiled. But you can’t tell what. She gives nothing away.

Satoru leans in toward you with a lopsided grin, voice dipped in mischief. His hand brushes your arm again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he senses how fragile you feel. “You’re awfully quiet today”, he points out. You blink, startled — his voice snapping you out of your spiral — and you force a breath, a small smile. He’s trying to bring you back. The way he always does. “I didn’t get much sleep last night”, you manage, voice low and tight.

“Tired, huh?” he echoes with a soft laugh, leaning in closer. His voice drops to a whisper, just for you. “Guess that’s what happens after a long, productive night... right?”

Your heart stumbles. The words land like a thunderclap, disguised as a joke, but sharp enough to cut through your skin. His wink is lighthearted — harmless in his mind — but you freeze. You don’t laugh. You can’t. The knot in your stomach coils tighter, shame rising in your chest. You drop your gaze and press your lips together, every nerve on fire.

Then comes the sound. A sharp, sudden crack.

Akihito’s hand clenches around his teacup — or what’s left of it. Porcelain shards glint, splintered across the table and floor. His palm is cut, a slow trickle of blood winding through the lines of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He stares at the broken cup like it’s something far away. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched. A man unraveling slowly — but silently.

Satoru turns toward him, his gaze casual, almost detached. He says nothing.

Saori moves immediately, her composure untouched as she rises and then immediately kneels beside him without ceremony, inspecting the wound with clinical care. Her voice is even, steady. “Are you alright?” Akihito doesn’t respond. His eyes are still fixed on the broken shards. His breath is shallow. Hollow. You wonder if he even knows where he is. Saori retrieves the first aid kit from the cabinet, her movements smooth, practiced. She tends to the cut with quiet precision, wrapping the bandage around his hand in silence. She doesn’t look at you, not directly — but her awareness is piercing. You can feel her watching, even when her eyes aren’t on you.

You try not to flinch under the weight of it.

Satoru watches you now. Truly watches you, and only you. There’s concern in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker — a flicker of something unreadable, as if he’s seeing straight through you.

You walk Satoru to the front of the estate, the morning sun slowly warming the stone path. He lingers, reluctant to go. “Are you sure you want me to leave?” he asks, searching your face. “You’ve been... kind of out of it all morning.”

You manage a smile, reaching up to smooth a hand through his hair. “I told you, I’m just tired.”

He’s clearly unconvinced. “Then let me stay. I’ll take the day off, we’ll snuggle in bed, watch trashy movies, eat junk food — whatever you want.”

“No”, you cut him off gently. “They’ll chew you out for skipping another day because of me. I’m fine, I promise. I just... need a little time to myself.”

He watches you for a moment longer, visibly debating. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “You better call me if you change your mind. Or even if you don’t. I just want to hear your voice.”

“I will”, you say, trying to mean it.

“You won’t”, he mutters. “But I’ll pretend to believe you.”

You watch him walk away until he’s out of sight. And then the weight returns, heavy and unforgiving. You turn and head back toward your room, your steps slow. You were planning to reach out to Akihito — to talk, to finally be honest. At least with him. You need to say the words out loud.

Halfway to your door, one of the maids appears at the end of the corridor, bowing her head respectfully as she approaches. “Lady Saori has asked if you would join her for tea in the garden”, she says.

You blink. “Tea?”

“She’s waiting for you now”, the maid adds.

Your stomach twists. This is a first. Saori has never invited you anywhere, never initiated anything outside of polite formality. And now — tea? You murmur your thanks and change direction, heading toward the garden with careful steps. When you arrive, Saori is already seated beneath the wide shade of the cherry blossom tree. Everything is picturesque — the porcelain tea set arranged perfectly, delicate sweets on a lacquer tray. Not a single detail out of place. She looks up as you approach, her posture composed, her expression mild.

“Hello again”, she says, gesturing to the seat across from her. “Please, sit.”

You lower yourself slowly. “Thank you.”

She pours the tea herself. No attendants. No distractions. Just you and her. “We’ve never had the chance to talk”, she says, tone pleasant. “Just the two of us.”

You nod faintly. “I guess not.”

She picks up her cup, takes a small sip, and sets it down again. “Satoru seems happy.”

You glance at her, cautious. “He is.”

“I can tell. He’s always been bright, but lately there’s something different. Something new. He’s softer. His laugh is more genuine.” She offers a smile. “He clearly cares for you — deeply.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Thank you.”

She hums softly, and then — without a change in tone — asks, “And how are things between you and my husband?”

The question hits you like a stone dropped into still water. No warning. No shift in expression.

You stiffen, staring at her.

She doesn’t look away, “Not well, I imagine?” voice still calm.

“I—”

“I don’t want to hear it”, she cuts in, quiet but firm.

Silence settles like a weight. Her voice remains calm, but the steel beneath it is undeniable. “I am not blind.”

You lower your gaze.

“I see the way Akihito looks at you. I see what it’s done to him.” Her fingers rest gently on the rim of her teacup. “And I know the kind of woman it takes to twist a man like him into something unrecognizable.”

You flinch.

“I won’t let this continue. I won’t let you unravel this family from the inside out. If you stay on this path, you won’t just break Akihito — you’ll destroy Satoru too. He’s already too attached. Too invested. And when this blows apart — because it will, like all secrets do — do you really think he won’t be the one to bleed for it?”

You look up at her, heart pounding. Her words feel like nails driven into your spine. There’s no venom in her voce. No raised pitch. Just control. Cold and deliberate. “I’m giving you a choice”, she says. “You leave. On your own terms. Or I will make sure you have no terms at all.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. What can you even say? What are you supposed to do? Argue?

“Think it over”, she says, lifting her teacup again. “Before it becomes something you can’t come back from.” Then her eyes meet yours one last time — still poised, but with a new edge. “And don’t even think about telling Akihito we had this conversation.” she adds softly. “Unless you want Satoru to know about it too.”

You barely make it back to your room before your legs give out. The door shuts behind you and you crash onto the bed, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, trying to hold back the tears, but it’s useless now. The dam is breaking. Your shoulders shake, and the sob that leaves you is hoarse, pulled from a place so deep it feels like you’re splitting open.

Everything was falling apart — like a chain of dominoes tipping one after another. One thing went wrong, and the rest followed, collapsing in swift, inevitable sequence. The worst part? The love blooming quietly in your chest. There’s no use pretending anymore. You can try to lie to everyone else — maybe even try to lie to yourself. But the truth is carved into your every glance, every touch, every breath, every unspoken word between you and Satoru. You love him. But you’re not allowed to have him. Not after this. Not when the damage has already begun to spill over the edges.

You sit in the stillness for a while, until your tears run dry and resolve begins to settle in their place. There’s one thing left to do — the thing you intended before everything spiraled. You need to speak with Akihito. You pick up your phone and type out the message.

Meet me in an hour. I’ll send you the location of the hotel.

Then you get up, dress in silence, and leave.

The room is quiet when he arrives. Akihito steps inside and finds you standing by the window, framed in soft, diffused light. There’s something different in your posture — something heavier. He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at you, then takes a step forward.

He dropped everything and came to you. Still hoping. That small, foolish hope still flickers in him — that maybe, despite everything, you’ve called him here because you’ve come back. He reaches for you, arms out as if to hold you again. But you step back.

“No”, you say, voice tight. “We can’t do this anymore.”

His hands drop to his sides. “What?” his voice barely comes out. You swallow the lump rising in your throat. “Aki... we can’t.” He stares at you. Then — a bitter, hollow laugh escapes him. “So that’s it?” His voice cracks. “You fell in love with him, didn’t you? And all this was for nothing?”

You close your eyes. The silence answers for you. He paces away, running a hand through his hair, then back again. “God”, he mutters. “I thought this was the perfect plan. I thought — if I couldn’t have you publicly, I could at least have you close. Through him. Knowing he wouldn’t want you, wouldn’t touch you. Knowing that you loved me...” He looks at you now, eyes sharp with grief. “But I was wrong about both.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “This was a terrible idea from the start, and you know it”, you whisper. “I should’ve never agreed. I should’ve never let it get this far. I wish I’d never—”

“Don’t”, he snaps, suddenly raw. “Don’t say you wish you never met me. Don’t.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t take it back. His voice lowers, thick with disbelief. “You don’t really mean it... right?”

Your silence cuts deeper than any answer.

He lets out a sharp breath, like it hurts, and moves to step toward you again, in utter denial of what’s unfolding before his eyes.

“No”, you say, firmer this time. “Please. Just let this be the end.”

You reach for the door. He follows. For the first time, you leave the hotel room together — not like all the other times, not hidden, not careful. You’re walking away, and he’s chasing you, hand reaching desperately for yours.

“Wait—!”

Akihito’s hand closes around your wrist just as you step onto the sidewalk, his grip tight, desperate — like holding on could somehow undo everything unraveling between you.

And then you hear it — a familiar voice calls your name.

“...is that you?”

You freeze. Shoko stands a few feet away, dressed in her uniform. Her gaze flicks from your face to where Akihito’s hand still clings to yours, and her expression changes in an instant.

And just like that — in the space of a single day — everything you’ve tried to keep buried begins to rise. Crashing, all at once, to the surface.

The sun is long gone by the time Satoru returns, the estate cloaked in stillness. He steps inside, calling your name softly. When you appear at the end of the hall, barefoot in the dim light, something in him settles — and then, just as quickly, something else begins to stir. You look like yourself, and yet... not. Your smile is soft but distant, your eyes shimmering in a way he can’t place. “I’m home”, he says, shrugging off his jacket. “Missed me?”

You nod, walking up to him. You press a hand to his chest. “Little bit.” He smiles and leans down to kiss you, and when your lips meet, he feels it — the way you cling just a little tighter, hold just a little longer. It’s like you’re trying to memorize the way he tastes.

Later, in your shared room, the lights are low and the silence is velvet. You’re already in bed when he returns from the shower, his white hair damp and tousled, towel slung loosely around his neck. He slips in beside you, cold fingers brushing your arm. You shiver, not from the chill — from the weight of what’s to come.

“You said you needed some time for yourself this morning, but you’re still like this”, he murmurs, pulling you close. “I don’t like it.”

You nestle against his chest, pressing your cheek to his skin. “I’m okay now.”

There’s something in your voice that makes him pause. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he wraps his arms around you tighter, grounding himself in the curve of your spine, the warmth of your breath against him.

“You smell like cotton candy”, you whisper.

He chuckles, nose brushing the crown of your head. “It’s that new shampoo. Smells fancy, huh?”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers with his like it’s the last time... “Will you stay with me?” you ask softly.

“I’m not going anywhere.” he breathes.

“Good”, you murmur, voice barely above a breath. “Then, come closer.”

Satoru tilts his head down to look at you, a flicker of unease moving behind his gaze. “Of course”, he says. “Where else would I go?”

You pull him down to kiss you again. Deep. Slow. There’s no teasing. No games. Just something desperate threaded through every movement. Like a goodbye wrapped in silk. When you make love, there’s no rush. No fire. Just the quiet rhythm of two people trying to suspend time — to stretch a moment into forever. You whisper his name like a prayer. He kisses your temple like he’s stealing a promise he doesn’t know he’s about to break.

Afterward, you lie tangled together, your head on his chest, his fingers absentmindedly drawing circles on your bare shoulder. Your breathing evens. Sleep comes to you quickly — a peace you haven’t known in a while.

But Satoru doesn’t sleep. He watches you in the darkness, his blue eyes searching your face, as if trying to decode something written there. Something unsaid. You’ve never look so peaceful. And, honestly, that’s what scares him. His chest tightens. Something in his gut whispers that he’s missing something. That he’s not seeing the full picture. That maybe... you’re slipping through his fingers.

“Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” he murmurs, barely audible, brushing a thumb along your cheek. You stir, but don’t wake. He leans down and kisses your forehead — gentle, reverent. “I love you”, he whispers into your hair. And for a moment, he lets himself believe it’s enough to keep you.

A week passes. The Gojo estate buzzes with preparations for the annual celebration — Saori and Akihito’s wedding anniversary. As always, Saori is at the heart of it all, composed and efficient, orchestrating every detail with practiced grace. Akihito, on the other hand, remains distant. Detached. You barely see him around the mansion. Not a word has passed between you since that day at the hotel. It feels like he’s quietly disappearing — withdrawing, piece by piece — and yet, an uneasy weight sits in your chest. Something feels off. Unfinished.

One afternoon, as you help Saori sort through invitations, she brings it up — casually. “Have you made up your mind?” she asks, her eyes never lifting from the stack of envelopes. You pause, fingers brushing the edge of an envelope, and answer softly — almost absently. “Who knows.”

Morning light filters through the sheer curtains. You’re already awake, lying still in Satoru’s arms. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, one arm draped lazily around your waist, holding you in place like an anchor. Carefully, you ease out from under his arm. He shifts but doesn’t wake. Bare feet touch the cold floor as you rise and stand in the light, allowing yourself one last look. He’s lying on his back now, hair a tousled against the pillow. Peaceful. Vulnerable in a way only sleep allows. Your chest aches.

In the bathroom, you splash cold water on your face and lift your gaze to the mirror. Your eyes are red. Hollow. The skin beneath them bruised with fatigue. But beneath the weariness, there’s something else — resolve. When you return to the room, Satoru is stirring. He squints at you with a sleepy grin. “Come back”, he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. “I sleep better when you’re here.”

You smile softly. “Can’t. You know today’s the big day.”

He stretches like a cat, arms reaching above his head, the sheet slipping down to his hips. “Ugh. Right. Completely forgot about that”, he groans and then rolls onto his side. You manage a quiet laugh. As he nestles back into the pillow, you linger in the doorway. “I love you.” you whisper — quietly, so quietly he won’t hear. Then you close the door behind you. And with that, the countdown begins.

The Gojo estate is nothing short of magnificent tonight. The garden glows beneath a canopy of paper lanterns, warm amber light spilling across the sea of guests. Tables are dressed in fresh flowers. Soft music hums in the background, blending into murmured conversations and the gentle clinking of glasses. Tonight is a celebration of image — Akihito and Saori’s wedding anniversary. Saori is elegance incarnate, her smile as polished as the pearls at her neck. Akihito stands beside her, composed, offering polite nods and minimal words. Together, they are the picture of grace. But the image is just that — a facade. There’s nothing worth celebrating. Nothing real about the harmony they pretend to share.

Across the garden, Satoru floats through the evening like a disruption in the symmetry. Dressed in a loose gray suit, tie nowhere in sight, he laughs too loud, drowns juice from a champagne glass, and teases the elders with casual disrespect. No one bats an eye — it’s just Satoru being Satoru. But those who know him — really know him — can see it. He’s restless. His eyes keep scanning the crowd. At first subtly. Then, with growing urgency. You’re not out here. You slipped away earlier, saying something about fixing your dress. But that was over thirty minutes ago. Long enough for the knot in his stomach to tighten. Long enough for his laugh to start sounding forced.

He leans toward Shoko, who’s sipping wine with a bored expression. “Have you seen her?”

“Nope”, Shoko replies, unbothered. “Didn’t she say she was heading to the bathroom?”

“Yeah”, Satoru’s fingers drum against the table. “But how long does fixing a dress take?”

Across the garden, Akihito and Saori stand side by side as guests gather for the toast. She leans in, whispers something. He nods — but his gaze flickers, briefly, toward the house.

An elder raises a glass. “To love. To strength. To bonds that stand the test of time.”

Glasses rise.

Clink.

Applause follows. The illusion holds.

Until—

BOOM.

A thunderous crack splits the air. The ground shakes. Heat pulses across the garden like a wave. Screams erupt. From the left wing of the estate, fire bursts through the windows — a wall of flame swallowing the air. Smoke billows thick and choking. Music cuts out. Plates crash. Glass shatters.

Satoru’s glass falls from his hand and explodes against the ground. Something sharp drives into his chest. He knows — you’re still inside. But before the thought is fully formed, he’s already running.

“WHERE IS SHE?!” His voice cuts through the chaos as he barrels through the guests.

Akihito starts to follow, face pale, but Saori grabs his arm. Her gaze then snaps to her son. “Satoru, STOP!” she cries — but he doesn’t hear.

To Satoru, the world is silent now. There is only the roar of the fire and the pounding of his heart. He bursts through the estate doors, sprinting toward the source of the flames. He forgets his technique. Forgets his own safety. Forgets everything — except you.

“Please, baby— please, my love— I’m coming, please— Don’t do this to me, please—”, he keeps chanting.

The deeper he goes, the more warped the hall becomes — blackened, unrecognizable. He reaches the kitchen — but it’s empty. Panic claws up his throat. He turns, runs to the nearby bathroom. Kicks the door open. Heat smacks him like a wall. Smoke clogs his lungs. He pulls his sleeve over his mouth and steps inside.

Then he sees it — someone collapsed near the sink, limbs sprawled. Still. His heart stops. He nearly slips as he rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the figure. Burnt and unrecognizable. But the dress — what’s left of it — is familiar. The color. The delicate trim. There’s a necklace around the neck, half-melted, but unmistakably yours. “No”, he whispers. “No, no, no—”

His hand hovers over your body. His throat tightens. Everything around him is heat, noise, pressure, but in his ears, there’s only silence. Like the world just folded in on itself. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tears hit his lips — salt and ash. “I was just with you...” he whispers, almost childlike, broken. “You were laughing with me a moment ago...” He leans in, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes raggedly. Body shaking.

Behind him, voices start to echo. Footsteps. Shouting. Geto is coming to pull him out. But Satoru doesn’t hear any of it. He doesn’t move. He can’t. For the first time in his life, it feels like he’s lost.

The fire was quickly contained. The Gojo mansion still stands, its structure untouched. Only the left wing of the first floor bears the marks of the fire. The investigation concluded that the fire was caused by an overheating motor in the bathroom’s ventilation system, a tragic accident. Only one life was lost: yours.

Your funeral was two days ago. A private ceremony. Satoru didn’t speak during it. He barely moved. Just stood there, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Quiet. In a way he’s never been.

Now, days later, the world still spins — people still laugh, they breathe, they live. But he’s still here. In the room that was once your shared bedroom. Alone. He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the chaos of your things scattered around the room. Your belongings — still as you left them — seem to scream your absence. He can’t bring himself to touch them. Not yet. Not ever. The book you were reading, the bottle of perfume on the nightstand, your lotion, your earrings, the brush on the vanity, and your nightgown — neatly folded on your side of the bed. It all kills him. The maids are prohibited from entering the room. He’s made sure of it. The silence of the space, with all its untouched remnants of you, is his alone to bear.

He buries his face in your pillow, hoping to catch even the faintest trace of your scent. But it’s long gone. A strangled breath leaves him. Then another. And then... he breaks. His hands shake as he scrolls through his phone, endlessly flipping through old texts. Rereading them. The messages that still feel so alive — your voice echoing in his mind. One voicemail stands out. The one you left days before the accident. He presses play.

“Satoru, stop leaving the toilet seat up! I’m too sleepy in the mornings to notice, but my butt definitely doesn’t appreciate an unexpected ice bath.”

He laughs. Just once. And then, he breaks again. Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer in the world, curls into himself, his body crumpling into fetal position. He cries. Not quietly. No. He cries like he’s been holding it in his entire life, like the ground beneath him finally gave way and left him with nothing to stand on. No air. No reason.

They say he’s doing fine. Around others, he smiles. He jokes. He walks with that same easy confidence, says the right things, acts like nothing’s changed. But Geto and Shoko know better. They see it in the way he visits your grave every day. The way his shoulders stiffen when someone dares mention your name. The way his hands tremble when they’re not stuffed in his pockets. He’s unraveling. Slowly. Quietly. And still, no one knows the truth. Not yet. Not even him.

Only Shoko does.

You follow Shoko into the morgue at Jujutsu Tech, each step slow and soundless. She doesn’t speak. Just moves steadily toward a counter, where she sets a folder down. Her back remains to you. The silence stretches long and taut. Then—

“I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw earlier”, she finally says. “But the fact that you followed me here... it confirms my suspicions.”

You try to speak, but no words come out. Only a shaky breath escapes, heavy with guilt, regret, and everything you’ve been holding in for far too long. Shoko turns to face you. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes are sharp.

“You look like you want to say something”, she says. “So say it.”

The words stumble out at first, fractured and raw. But then they come faster, pouring from you. You tell her everything — the affair, the reason behind the arranged marriage, the lies... everything. And the worst of it — that somehow, in the wreckage of it all, you fell in love with Satoru. You nearly choke saying it aloud, the weight of the truth crushing in your chest.

Shoko listens in silence. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t interrupt. When you finally stop, she speaks with her usual stillness. “Why are you telling me this?” Then, sharper, “Why not tell Gojo?”

“No”, you say quickly. “I can’t... I won’t do this to him.”

She tilts her head, gaze narrowing. “You already did”, she replies flatly. “Whether you tell him or not doesn’t change that.”

Your throat tightens. “I know... and I need you to help me.”

“Help you?” she repeats. “Why would I?”

“Because I don’t want him to hurt, not like this.”

There’s a long pause. Shoko just watches you — assessing, weighing. Then she steps closer, her voice low. “But he will hurt. In a way I’m not sure he’ll ever come back from.”

You meet her gaze, desperation burning in yours. “Please.”

She says nothing, but something seems to be shifting in her.

“There’s something that will hurt him less than the truth”, you say. “I need you to find a body. Someone who resembles me. Imbue it with my residuals — only you can do that. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her arms cross slowly. “You want me to find a corpse?” she asks. “You want me to help you fake your death? Is that it?”

You nod, eyes dropping. “He’ll be better off thinking I’m dead than knowing what I’ve done.”

“You’re underestimating him”, Shoko says, shaking her head. “You don’t know what you mean to him. This isn’t mercy — it’ll destroy him.”

Her words cut like glass, but you close your eyes. “Please”, you whisper.

“When?”, Shoko asks, and you blink. “When do you need the body?” she repeats, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

(One month later)

You moved away. Far away. To a small village tucked in the mountains, hidden in a forgotten corner of the country. It’s quiet here — the kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything from you. No one knows your name here. Not your real one, anyway. You rent a modest cottage, barely furnished, but clean. You wake with the sun, tend to your tiny garden, then walk to the local pub where you started working just enough to get by. It’s simple. Monotonous. A life carved from necessity, not desire. And yet, every night before bed, you check your phone. One conversation always sits at the top of your inbox: Shoko.

Your last message was three days ago.

You: How is he?

Her reply came the next morning.

Shoko: Still breathing. Don’t ask for more.

You didn’t. You never do.

(Back at Jujutsu Tech)

Satoru has just returned from a mission, and it’s clear he’s not himself. He’s sharp, but off. The usual cocky confidence has slipped into irritation, and he drifts through the halls with his mind elsewhere. Distracted. A clipboard hangs loosely in his hand, and he’s on the hunt for Shoko — she’s supposed to fill out a report.

These days, he only drops the act around her. Or Geto. Or, of course, when alone. When he’s not pretending, he’s quiet. Drained. Nothing like the Gojo Satoru everyone knows.

As he nears the morgue, he slows. A muffled voice cuts through the silence behind the door. It’s Shoko, on the phone. He’s about to knock when he hears it.

Your name.

Satoru freezes. Is he finally losing his mind? But then, there’s more—

“...you need to stop asking.”

A pause. Then, softer—

“He... He doesn’t talk about you still. He’s not okay. But you knew he wouldn’t be.”

The world stills. He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. It’s like his mind is short-circuiting. Did he hear that right? His grip tightens on the clipboard until it creaks beneath his fingers. But then, it comes again.

Your name.

He stands there, stunned for a moment, before his body moves of its own accord. The door opens with a slow creak.

Shoko looks up, and she sighs. “...I have work to do”, she says quietly, and ends the call.

Satoru steps inside and shuts the door behind him. He throws the clipboard aside. He is not smiling, and he’s no longer wearing his blindfold. And for the first time in a month, his eyes are fully visible — different, bottomless, rimmed in red — and they are fixed on her. “Care to explain?”, he says, voice low, flat.

Shoko doesn’t play dumb. She doesn’t lie. She leans back against the wall, her posture shifting to something almost resigned. She exhales, a soft sound, like she’s been waiting for this moment. She knew it would come. And for the first time in weeks, Satoru’s eyes — his grief-clouded eyes — are lit by something else. Hope.

“She’s alive.”, Shoko says. The words hang in the air between them, and Satoru’s world shifts. He doesn’t react at first. Just stands there, trying to process her words.

Finally, his voice cracks — barely audible, barely more than a whisper, like something fragile. “You let me bury her.”

Shoko’s gaze softens for a moment, but then she sighs, a sound that’s more exhausted than regretful. “She said it’d hurt you less.”

“Less?” He laughs once, a shar, disbelieving sound. “Less than what?”

“The truth.” The words come from Shoko with unflinching clarity. “She had an affair with your father.”

Shoko waits. For a reaction. For anger. For questions. For anything.

But Satoru doesn’t blink. He only asks one question. “Where is she?”

The Gojo estate still stands. The first floor — once scorched by fire — has long since been renovated. But beneath the surface, the scars of the past remain. For those who know, it’s impossible to forget what was lost. Akihito sits in the living room, staring down at the floor, his expression hollow. The once commanding patriarch is now a broken shell. His hands tremble as he takes a sip of his drink, his gaze unfocused, consumed by grief. He hasn’t spoken much in weeks. Every time he tries, his voice cracks. The loss of you has shattered him. Sometimes he tells himself it was better this way — better to lose you to death than to watch you belong to someone else. Even if that someone else was his son. For a moment, that thought would make it easier to breathe. But then again, what did it matter? You were gone. And something in him knew — the fire wasn’t an accident. He suspected Saori. Maybe she found out. Maybe she did this to you. Should he kill her? But that wouldn’t bring you back. And besides... the clan. He still had a duty to do.

Saori sits nearby, her gaze fixed out the window, her lips curling into a faint, satisfied smile. Her eyes flicker to Akihito for a brief moment, but there’s no sympathy in them — only contentment. After everything, she believes fate has finally righted itself. She watches him fall apart with quiet detachment, a sense of calm in her stillness. At least now, he is more hers than he is yours. “Perhaps it was fate”, she murmurs softly, her words for no one but the walls. Akihito’s eyes remain distant, his thoughts far removed from her voice. He’s too lost to hear anything she says — too far gone to care.

Then, the door opens. Satoru enters, no grand gesture, no announcement. His presence fills the room immediately, thick and heavy, like an impending storm. Akihito doesn’t look up. He doesn’t need to. He knows why his son is here — he can feel it in the air before he even steps further in. Saori glances at Satoru, her eyes narrowing slightly, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. She rises without a word, understanding that this conversation isn’t for her. She leaves quietly, walking past her son with only a brief, knowing look.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Akihito slumps lower in his seat, but he doesn’t look at his son. He doesn’t need to. The way Satoru stands there, rigid, fists clenched, eyes dark and filled with fury. Akihito feels the weight of it, heavy in the room, before he even lifts his head to look at him.

“You know”, Akihito says quietly, his voice hoarse, a statement rather than a question. Satoru stands still, his jaw clenched tight, eyes burning. He doesn’t answer. The air between them crackles with the unsaid. Akihito presses on, his voice low, laced with a tremor. “How did you find out?”

Still, Satoru remains silent. His fists tremble at his sides, his breathing shallow, ragged. The words catch in his throat, a clash of fury and hurt. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse and strained, as though forcing each word past the tightness in his chest.

“You broke her.” he spits, finally. “You broke the one thing most precious to me.”

Akihito flinches, the weight of the accusation landing heavily on him. His gaze hardens, but he can’t meet Satoru’s eyes. There’s nothing to say. His son is right — he did break her. And by doing so, he broke his son as well.

Satoru steps forward suddenly, his movements swift and calculated. The space between them closes in an instant, and Satoru’s eyes, wide with intensity, burn through the silence as he towers over his own father. There’s something primal in the air now — a rawness, an energy that could consume the entire room, the entire estate, if left unchecked. Akihito doesn’t react, he just sits there, knowing what’s coming. He accepts it. The man he once was, gone. And this son — this powerful, broken son — is the reckoning he’s been waiting for.

“Do you have anything to say?” Satoru’s voice is barely containing the storm inside him. His hands shake, still clenched tightly into fists, but there’s a note of something darker in his gaze — an edge that suggests the breaking point is near. Akihito looks at him, pained, defeated, but remains silent. The words don’t come.

The sound that follows — sharp and violent — could be a fist crashing into flesh or a bone snapping under pressure. It’s unclear, too quick to pinpoint. The air itself seems to shatter with it.

Satoru turns without another word, leaving the mansion. His hands are covered in blood.

Behind him, a scream shatters the silence. Saori’s scream, high and frantic, echoes through the halls. Saori doesn’t know it yet, but her time is coming too. Soon enough.

Satoru knew. He had known for a while. It wasn’t a dramatic discovery. It was quiet and accidental, in fact. It happened early into your marriage, when you were still distant with him — polite but clipped. Somehow always guarded. He thought it was the nerves at first. Shyness. The weight of tradition. But then a month passed, and you still wouldn’t meet his eyes unless it was absolutely necessary. Still flinched when he reached for you. He could handle awkward beginnings, of course — especially for you. He wasn’t expecting a fairytale, you didn’t even remember him. But what he couldn’t handle was not knowing you, the way that you never let him in.

So he did what a curious man with too little patience like himself might do. He followed you. Not out of suspicion of course. He thought if he observed you from a distance, he might’ve learned things you weren’t ready to tell or show him. Your habits. Anything. And then, one afternoon, he watched you enter a hotel. Alone. Odd.

Ten minutes later, his father arrived. Very odd.

Satoru waited. Two hours later, you walked out. Head down, hair slightly mussed. You didn’t see him. Shortly after, Akihito exited the building, adjusting his coat, wearing an expression Satoru had rarely seen on him — satisfied, secretive. And that was it. He didn’t even use his Six Eyes at first. Part of him didn’t want confirmation. Part of him hoped it was just a coincidence. But shortly after, he let his technique drift over your form. And there it was. Residuals. His father’s cursed energy. All over you.

...and everything began to click. Your stiffness. The arranged marriage. His father’s sudden interest in choosing his bride. How Akihito had spoken of you before the engagement with just a touch too much fondness. It wasn’t an arranged marriage; it was a cover. You weren’t his. You were his father’s.

Satoru never confronted you, never let on that he knew. He just watched. Watched the way you disappeared for hours and returned with a soft look in your eyes that was never for him. Watched the way Akihito seemed lighter after seeing you. Watched the lie of a marriage unfold, thread by thread, every day. He never blamed you, though. He thought, maybe this was fate’s twisted way of bringing you back together. Yes, he could’ve easily destroyed it, could’ve exposed the affair and made the clan turn against Akihito. But that would’ve meant the clan turning against you as well. And Satoru never wanted to ruin you, he wanted to keep you.

So he waited. Watched. Loved you in silence. And when he caught glimpses — that maybe you were beginning to see him, not just the son of the man you loved, that you were starting to change — that was all it took. He clung to that.

Because the thing about Gojo Satoru is that, when he wants something — really, truly wants it — he doesn’t stop. Not rules. Not family. Nothing can stop him.

You had been stolen from him once — the night on the curb, when fate gave you to him and then ripped you away before he could even ask your name. Then it happened again. His father got to you first.

Now, he wasn’t going to let you be taken away from him for the third time. No matter what. Even if it meant choosing heart over blood.

If you had faked your death and disappeared because you believed you couldn’t exist in a world with both of them, then all he had to do was remove the one standing in the way. To keep you.

You’re wiping down the tables at the pub, preparing for the new day. Half-focused. Letting the repetitive motion ground you, steady your nerves. Trying not to think about the ghost of him that’s never really left you.

The door creaks open behind you.

“We’re not open yet”, you immediately call out. Politely, without turning around. “Please come back in an hour.”

Silence. Neither a response, nor footsteps indicating that the person is leaving. You glance over your shoulder, ready to repeat yourself, but the words catch in your throat.

Satoru is standing there, leaning against the doorframe. “Won’t you make an exception for me?” he says softly. It’s meant to sound like him — teasing, light — but his voice gives him away. It’s quiet, fragile. Like it might crack if he tries any harder to keep it steady.

The rag slips from your hands. You freeze. Then slowly, you turn. But you don’t meet his eyes. You don’t dare. “Why would you come here?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. It’s not a question of how he found you. The answer was simple. Shoko.

He steps forward, slowly. “For you.”

“For me”, you echo under your breath, more to yourself than to him, a bitter laugh escaping you. “For me, huh?” you repeat.

“For you.” — he says again, with no hesitation. You wrap your arms around yourself, trying to shrink, as if you could fold into nothing. As if it might protect you from the weight of what he’s carrying in his voice. “Did you ever consider that maybe I didn’t want to be found?”

“I did”, he says. “I considered a lot of things, actually.” He pauses before he takes another step, and then adds, “But the fact you did something so reckless... made me consider that you cared more than I imagined.”

You shake your head, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You don’t understand—”

“I do.” He cuts in gently. “You thought if you stayed, you’d destroy us both.”

You finally look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, and something inside you threatens to cave, the devastation in him nearly buckling your knees. “I did something unforgivable.”

He exhales, like what he’s about to say is so obvious it needn’t be said out loud. But he does it anyway — “I was ready to do anything for you.”

“Even if what I did was truly terrible?”

“Even then.”

He takes another step, and then another, until the distance between is gone. Until he’s close enough to touch. You want to move. To put space between you, but your feet don’t listen. And his presence — it roots you in place like gravity.

“You could’ve told me everything”, he murmurs. “You should’ve told me.” A pause. “I already knew.”

“What?”, your breath stutters.

His eyes darken, and a faint, bitter smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “I’ve known for a while.”

“But... Shoko... didn’t Shoko—”

“It wasn’t her.” He shakes his head. “I found out myself.” He falls silent for a moment, like the memory stings to recall.

“And you never said anything?”

“I had my reasons”, he says softly. “Just like you had yours.” He lifts his hand — the lightest touch — and tilts your chin up. The gentleness nearly undoes you. You try to speak, but the words tangle with the sob building in your chest. It slips out instead — small, broken. His fingers brush beneath your eye, catching the tear before it falls. Even as his own hand trembles. “One word from you would’ve changed everything”, he whispers. “I would’ve burned everything down to keep you safe. Happy.”

You slowly break under the weight of his words, forehead falling to his chest. You feel the tension in him — not anger, not judgment. Just ache. His arms wrap around you.

“You were always my girl”, he breathes into your hair. “Even when you didn’t know it. Even when you were his. From the moment you fell asleep on my lap outside that club, you were mine.”

You tilt your head up, lips trembling. “I’m... I’m really s—”

“Shh.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. “I know.”

And then, his lips charge closer — you meet him halfway into a soft, slow kiss. One that is both an ache and a release all at once.

It hurts to want him this much. It hurts to know what you did. It hurts to know that he still looks at you with so much love, even when he knows it all. It hurts, that despite everything, it’s still you.

You never thought you’d find peace again. Not truly. But now, the mornings are calm. The nights are quiet. The days pass without dread — light, easy, almost gentle. You and Satoru settled into this small life together, tucked away from the rest of the world.

He left it all behind — the clan, the title, the crushing weight of being the strongest. Here, he isn’t Gojo Satoru, head of the Gojo Clan or the face of sorcerer society. Here, he’s just Satoru. Your Satoru. The one who wakes up beside you each morning, arm draped around your waist, murmuring sleepy nonsense into your ear. The one who insists on cooking breakfast and makes an unspeakable mess in the kitchen. The one who still leaves the toilet seat up just to hear you scold him — and grins when you do.

Your belly is growing now — small, round, and full of promise. Sometimes he speaks to it like he already knows who your child will be. Sometimes he rests his head there and falls asleep. Other times, he lies awake with his hand on your baby bump, eyes full of wonder and fear, whispering that he hopes he’ll be good enough — for both of you.

There are things left unspoken between you. You’ve never asked what happened after he left the clan — or more accurately, what happened before he left. You suspect the truth, of course. There’s no way not to. But you don’t press. And he doesn’t offer.

Still, you think of Akihito sometimes. It’s impossible not to — he was a turning point, a fire you walked through to become who you are now. And sometimes, in the right light, Satoru looks so much like him. The same build, the same jawline, the same eyes.

But you know better. He’s nothing like him. Akihito, for all his love, always chose the clan in the end. His desires may have been selfish, but they were always entwined with duty. He loved you, yes. But he never chose you. Not truly.

But Satoru did. He always chose you — even when it broke him. Even when it meant walking away from everything he was. Even when it meant taking a life — his own blood — to protect yours.

When he said, “I was ready to do anything for you”,

...he really meant it.

#tbr #OOOOH AI IM SO EXCITED TO READ THIS AAAHHHHH

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q-library · 2 months ago

Text

PARTY 4 U gojo satoru is a man of excess: a name spoken in boardrooms and back alleys alike, a figure built more on whispers than truth. some claim he built his empire overnight. others say he was born untouchable. everyone either fears him, envies him, or desperately wants to be in his good graces. his estate is the center of japan’s underground elite, his parties legendary. but behind the blinding wealth and bravado, there’s a man chasing something quite frankly, out of his reach. ❤︎

WORD COUNT: 4,820

INDULGING: smut! inspired by the great gatsby, modern/no curse, a tragedy, afab & f!reader (she/her), sub to switch!gojo, riding, oral (m + f), pőrn with PLOT, p in v, major character death, manipulation, emphasis on YEARNING, language, side characters like suguru++, two way cheating, ?? to lovers, the story unfolds as you read

ROMY’S NOTE: gojo art is by ndsoda on twitter, animated divider below by cafekitsune, fic title from charli. had to dig deep into my junior year english class brain for this. she’s a long one boys!

playlist: a name that belongs to no one

CONTAINS EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT, MINORS DNI

the driver doesn’t ask for your name — doesn’t need to. cars line up outside the gates like clockwork, slipping through iron and ivy into the belly of something too bright to be real, too artificial: a set piece waiting for the actors to arrive.

shoko continues the tail end of a conversation you barely caught on the drive over, fingers tracing the rim of her sunglasses before she haphazardly tosses them away. “..business partner ..overseas. you know, business in the loosest sense of the word.”

she shakes her head, heels digging into the weary leather seat conveniently placed right across from her in the limousine. “apparently, they’ve both been spending a lot of time at his penthouse.”

“but everyone here has their skeletons, don’t they?” she glances between you and geto. he’s been quiet so far, squinting at the crumpled map in his palm.

“it’s like watching a bunch of flies in a jar.” he says when he speaks up, irritation present.

shoko shoots him a sideways look. “we all know you wish you had half the attention he has.”

you’ve known your cousin long enough to know he loves the drama, even when he pretends otherwise. subtle amusement tugs at his lips.

it’s all part of the game.

the driver clears his throat, forcing you back to reality with a glove to his mouth. “we’re here,” he announces, stepping out to hold the door open.

shoko moves first and you follow, only to jerk back as her ermine shawl flares with the motion, soft fur grazing your cheek before she adjusts it into place, offering her elbow to you.

you tell yourself you don’t belong here, but your name is already on the guest list. so you take it.

laughter spills from the grand house like champagne, bubbling over, pooling onto the marble steps. jazz sways in the air, occasional chime of crystal glasses accompanying the hollow pop of corks. the estate swallows you whole, as does the people.

you barely step past the threshold until a glass is pressed into your hand: something fizzy, definitely expensive. you don’t remember asking for it.

gojo satoru stands atop the winding staircase, draped in an ivory suit, crisp and tailored, the faintest glimmer of a watch peeking out beneath his cuff. his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, blue eyes slicing through the haze of cigar smoke and chandeliers. for a moment, he looks bored. then he spots you.

the subtle tilt of his head — you feel it in your ribs before you even recognize it for what it is.

shoko exhales a puff, squinting over. “well, well, well. look who’s caught the golden boy’s eye.”

you don’t have time to ask what she means, your question is answered as soon as you think it.

“he’s never finished a single glass,” a pink-haired gentleman wipes down the bar, muttering as he does. “he takes one sip and leaves. thinks he’s too good to drink with the rest of us.”

a voice from the corner joins. “did you hear that he’s got properties all over the world?” the woman leans in, pearls dragging against mahogany. “no one’s ever seen him in them. not even for a night.” she fixes up her feathered headband and pulls at the slit in her dress after giving the bartender a once-over.

her friend, a woman with diamond earrings that could feed a family for a year, drums her nails along her cocktail. “you didn’t hear it from me, but people like him? they make the rules. and when they break ‘em? well, they rewrite ‘em, darling! he’s the kind of man who doesn’t need dirty hands to ruin your life.”

you’ve heard it all by now. tidbits and pieces, each one more tantalizing than the last. he’s been everywhere: the army, the navy — some say he served in both, but none can confirm where or what he actually did.

whatever the business, he has a stake in it. and the more you hear, the less you know.

you know he’s chasing something. that he’s looking, searching, scouting out and fishing around for god knows what. but one thing you don’t know, is that the thing he’s been looking for? it’s you.

gojo knows better than to stare, but when has that ever stopped him? across the sea of glittering strangers, suffocated in laughter and gossip, you move like a dream he’s been chasing for a lifetime.

he wonders if you even notice him standing there, or if he’s simply another face in the crowd. it should be enough, seeing you like this. close enough to touch if he really wanted to. nevertheless, always a man, held at the collar by his own greed.

the way he’s standing suggests confidence. the way he’s gripping that goblet suggests he might shatter it from nerves alone.

he watches you tuck your chin when you listen, your lips purse when someone says something amusing but not quite funny, your shoulders stiffening when the wrong name is mentioned, and your fingers subconsciously tracing the mouth of your drink.

so closely that he forgets himself — doesn’t realize he’s already sidled up next to you until he catches his own reflection cradled in your hands, blurring in the ripples of your wine.

shoko, ever the observer, leans against the column, smoke curling from the end of her cigarette. “go on. men lap it up when you play the fool.”

you don’t need her to tell you. your focus is already consumed by the man standing at your side, impossibly tall and impossibly sure.

“you’re staring.”

“can you blame me?” he’s quick to respond, though his charm is quickly dimmed. it’s right then and there that he regrets hiring a live band tonight.

the music swells, a brass heavy number that sends couples twirling across the floor, silk and chiffon making conversation (better ones than the one he’s trying to have with you, that’s for sure).

“do I know you?” you ask — polite curiosity, the kind reserved for strangers at a party. it stings.

there’s a piece of confetti in your hair he wants to reach out and swipe away.

his mouth twitches. “I should hope so.”

your lips part, then close. there’s a familiarity about him you can’t quite place. which should be unnerving, it should. yet it’s even worse. it’s almost sad.

“I think I’d remember someone like you,” you murmur, in small hopes for him to give himself away.

a cratered laugh. “you’d think.”

the band cuts between you again, rude and impolite, drowning out his next words. he exhales sharply, mild exasperation flickering across his face, momentarily cursing the very spectacle he built.

he steps close, lowering his voice, making you lean in, the sly dog. “come upstairs with me?”

an invitation dressed as a suggestion, casual in the way only something desperate can be.

“just for a moment,” he adds, as if that makes a difference. as if he wouldn’t already give you every single moment he has left.

you hesitate.

and he notices, of course.

it’s soft. careful. hardly there. but you hear it.

“please?”

against your better judgment, you let him lead you up the winding staircase, past the tall bedroom doors, hand gently guiding your back.

they swing open with a soft creak, and a cool breeze greets you both — latches onto the hem of your dress, cards through your hair.

you swear you feel him sway closer, just slightly.

gojo traces the books lining his shelves, fingers nosing the leather. “better, isn’t it?”

you fold your arms, careful distance. “I suppose.”

his stance speaks more to exhaustion than elegance. “you were always hard to impress.”

that word. always.

“how do you know that?” you prod.

gojo’s gaze snaps back to you. for a moment, he simply looks — really looks, as if trying to decide how much of the truth you can handle.

then, with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, he says, “lucky guess.”

his bed is a mess — pillows askew and comforter missing. you take a moment to reminisce on earlier comments made about business partners.

you don’t believe him.

“you really don’t remember?” he beats you to it.

a glass of water forms a ring on the wooden nightstand. a brass lamp rests on it, turned off.

“no?”

his composure falters, and you see through it a boy who once believed everything was within reach, yet now knows better. “I see.”

his suit doesn’t look as perfect as it did when you first entered the house. his shirt’s open at the collar, and your gaze drifts lower without meaning to.

“tell me what I’m supposed to remember,” you say, voice hushed, thinking the answer might unmake whatever space exists between you.

gojo studies you, thumb tracing the shape of a thought he can’t seem to say out loud. still, b-

“you wore white in the summer.”

your breath catches. his collarbone flexes as he swallows. his lips are pink.

he continues, lashes dipping. “you’d sit out on the porch when it rained. you hated the smell of cigars, but you let me smoke them anyway.” he laughs, “said it suited me, even if it made you sick.”

his eyes flicker to your mouth, then away.

you pinch the stem of your glass. “when?”

gojo lets his weight shift to one foot, hands in his pockets. “five years ago. in the garden.”

you bite down on your lip, chewing on it, tasting the borrowed lipstick. “what was your name again?”

even sadness, he wears well. “satoru.”

that’s when the memories come flooding in.

the first world war made everyone desperate to live, to dance, to drink while they still could. daughters still came out for their debuts, and sons still waltzed them around like trophies in portable cases.

that night, it was shoko’s turn.

she was debuting at the country club, a gilded event, the sort of thing you read about in society columns. the picture of perfection: poised and polite — the way her mother had drilled into her since childhood.

a uniform made any boy look like a gentleman. a dress made any woman look like a prize. or at least, those were shoko’s words, as manicured fingers bruised your wrist and dragged you out to the garden, elegant gown gathered in her free hand to avoid the damp earth.

the fountain trickled steadily, water getting caught on the glow of string lights looped between trees. the air was thick with summer: honeysuckle and the faintest trace of cologne mingling in it.

“don’t.” she put a hand up while she kicked off her heels and sank onto a bench. “I’m not letting them make me their puppet.”

before you could respond, there was a rustle in the bushes. shoko flinched, backing up into a tree and yanking out the pins from her hair with reckless abandon — as if they would fair as weapons.

a male voice. “now, what’s all this? the princess running away from her ball?”

his eyes were the kind of blue that shouldn’t belong to something as breakable as a man.

shoko scoffed. “don’t you have somewhere to be? another war to fight, another stupid parade?”

he didn’t miss a beat. “I suppose I should, but I’ve never been one for parades, you see.”

“I quite like them.” you said, words escaping on their own. “and parties, too. it’s all the people.”

those eyes again. they softened when he looked at you, crinkled at the corners. “..the people?”

“they’re wonderful,” you smiled at him, and his legs just about gave out. “don’t you think?”

he tugged at his collar, the camouflage rumpling with the action. a uniform makes any man seem like a gentleman. “depends on the crowd.”

“I like large parties, they’re so intimate. at small parties there isn’t any privacy.” you walked over, delighted by the conversation — much to your wary friend’s dismay. “do you prefer large or small parties?”

“well, I think th-”

“did they send you?” shoko interrupted.

“send me?” he repeated, jarred. “no, I’m not here for anyone but myself. perhaps, a little for you two.”

“we weren’t leaving.” she lied.

he tilted his head. “weren’t you?” a pause, then a grin. “that’s alright. I hate these things too.”

“we don’t need help,” she said, chin lifted. you didn’t know it then, but she could feel her heartbeat through her palm, quick and birdlike. he smiled.

“sure you don’t. but if you did, I’d say the side gate is unlatched. third stone from the right is loose — step over it. security doesn’t check perimeters ‘till three.”

“why would you do that?” you asked, and the question came out smaller than you meant it to. suspicious.

“I’ve done worse for people I cared about less,” he said. “but if it provides any reassurance at all,”

“gojo.” he stepped forward, hands outstretched like you were wild things that might bolt. “gojo satoru.”

his name stuck to the roof of your mouth, honeyed and heavy. you said nothing.

“if you still believe I’ll blow your cover,” he took his cap to his chest. “now you know what name to curse.”

and what better place to curse him than some sprawling estate’s third-floor wing, tucked into a linen closet with one hand clamped over your mouth, other shoved under your skirt?

some gentleman he was.

between clumsy kisses, he told you he came from money. from somewhere out west, and you believed him. or you wanted to. because back then, love was measured in family trees and bank accounts.

this is where the memories start to blur — thanking him for the day before, the wine spill on his collar, the knock on the door that cut everything short.

quiet, he told you. though he didn’t want you to be.

he mouthed your name into the hollow of your throat, rendering you helpless to do anything else.

that night was the last time you saw him. with your very own eyes, at least. you saw him in the papers: next to flashing headlines about hope and peace and cutout letters to families, with numbers not so hopeful.

he went to war. and you… well.

“my hair was shorter then,” he smiles in the present, sensing the recognition he’s been waiting on. “a little less meat on my bones.”

you feel your breaths getting shorter. his expression melts into something more akin to concern, tilting his head and asking you something you don’t hear. he waves a hand in front of your face.

“you okay?”

you nod too quickly. then shake your head.

“I- I think so. I just,” not only the face in the newsprint, or the dream version your memory offered up in lonelier hours. something in your chest just caves in.

“can I kiss you?”

his turn to stop breathing. “what?”

“sorry.” the word skids out of you like a car on wet pavement. you drag in a breath that tastes of whatever limited‑edition bottle he hoards, immediately hating how small it sounds.

gojo’s shoulders drop a fraction. “don’t be.”

his fingers skim the back of your left hand. he freezes at the feel of metal against skin.

nanami kento. your husband. the ring.

it’s not like he isn’t good to you. he’s a good man, a good spouse, a good father. not so much as a lover.

late nights. perfume that wasn’t yours. careless slips of a name you didn’t recognize. a receipt in his coat pocket a few weeks ago from a restaurant in kyoto when he told you he had meetings in osaka that day.

so would it really be wrong? if you—

“this is nice.”

the sharp turn of his voice startles you back into your body. his eyes lilt downwards — not at your mouth, for once, but lower. your dress.

midnight blue, cut cleverly low, with silk panels that catch the lamplight and make it ripple like water.

you recover faster than you expect. chin up, a flicker of the woman you used to be catching light. “you like?”

his gaze drags up slowly, indulging you. “I do.”

you smooth your palms over your hips, “it’s by this stuck-up designer in paris,” you say, trying for breezy. “borrowed from my sister-in-law. told me if I so much as breathed on it wrong, she’d have my head.”

“oh,” he grins, in that sideways, disarming way. “was I supposed to be looking at the clothes?”

you laughed, and then he did too and it was all drunk and hollow, which for some reason made you angry.

you slide a heel forward, crossing over to him like it’s nothing. like you haven’t spent days tracing the edges of that receipt, burning holes into your thoughts with it. kyoto. a place you weren’t.

“I was going to behave,” you murmur, brushing past him. your fingertips ghost along the line of his shoulder. “but you’re right. this is nice.”

you don’t look back when you hear the breath catch in his throat. instead you drop into the plush armchair near the bed, letting your knees part enough to make tell him you’re done being sweet. done waiting.

“take it off,” you say, and his brow lifts — just for a second — before he obeys.

his hands move to his collar. you wonder if nanami feels it, too: the balance tipping. the scales you’ve let him load for months finally swinging back your way.

you lean your head against the velvet wing of the chair. “I’m tired, satoru. so get on your knees.”

he does, without hesitation. pale lashes flicker up at you like moonlight through snow. and when he settles between your legs, you realize he’s already hard.

“poor thing,” you murmur, gathering the silk of your skirt in one hand. “that all it takes?”

he groans when you let him see it — the glint of you under lace. he leans in, mouth open like a prayer, but you tug on his hair. “not yet. just look.”

his lips part. still he listens, watching you, as if it hurts to be this close and not do anything. you trail two fingers lower, damp with want and power both, and offer them to him.

“suck.”

eager and grateful, his tongue flicks over and does exactly as he’s told. you smile, pleased. “good boy.”

only then do you let him taste you, pulling his head in until he moans into you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. he’s messy with it, lips slick, chin soaked, and you ride his mouth slowly, letting him feel how deep you go. how ruined you want him.

and when you’ve had enough — when your legs tremble and you see stars — you pull him back by the hair, spit-slick and glassy-eyed.

you stand. he blinks up at you like he’s still underwater, but when you straddle his lap, bare and flushed, he shudders beneath you. “gonna be good for me?”

“yes,” he breathes. “yes—fuck, please-”

you sink down onto him with no warning, and he gasps because it knocks the wind out of him. hands grip your thighs hard. he can’t help it.

it’s slow at first, just to feel the way he twitches inside you, then harder — deeper — until he’s panting against your throat and whispering your name like an apology he’ll never mean. one for someone else.

“you don’t get to finish,” you whisper, biting his ear. “not until I say.”

he whines. loud.

you rock your hips faster, nails dragging down his chest. and when you finally take him in your mouth — after he’s begged and gasped and promised things you don’t believe anymore — it’s just to prove that you are the one who gets to decide what he deserves.

“you’re gonna ride me all night, huh?” his voice is a little frayed now, the grin still there. “greedy girl.”

you don’t bother responding. just roll your hips in a tight circle that makes his breath hitch and his fingers dig in harder.

“god—” he laughs, sharp and breathless. “you know I like it like this, right? you fucking me like I’m nothing. like you don’t even care if I come.”

you lean forward, palms bracing against his chest. he groans like it hurts.

then, low — teeth grazing your throat — “wanna act all cocky but you still need me inside you, huh?”

you slam your hips down in response, hard enough to knock the wind out of both of you. he chokes on a moan, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck, fuck baby—”

“that shut you up,” you say, dragging your nails down his chest. you don’t remember taking the clothes off.

he laughs again, voice exhausted and crackly. “thought you liked it when I talked.”

“I like it better when you whimper, satoru.”

and he does, when you clench around him — a high, guttural sound, like he’s right on the edge. he’s trying to hold on, watching you through heavy lids, memorizing every second of this.

“are you gonna let me come?” he pants. “be sweet to me again after this is all over?”

“you don’t deserve sweet,” you whisper against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. “you deserve used.”

“then fucking use me.” the growl in his voice sends warmth down your entire spine. “come on. make me beg. make me cry for it.”

you kiss him, messy and deep, and grind down until he’s cursing into your mouth, hips jerking up helplessly. he’s so close, you can feel it — every trembling muscle, every choked exhale.

“you’re not gonna last,” you hum against his cheek. “you’re already losing it.”

“then ride it out, baby,” he groans. “hurry.”

and when you come, when you finally let yourself fall apart over him — head thrown back, voice wrecked, only then do you let him finish.

a man brought to his knees by his own desire.

and still, with his voice raw and lips bitten-red, he smiles at you. dopey and tired, hair pointing in a thousand directions. “feel better now?”

you nod, sheepish, somehow.

your breath is still uneven when the weight of him pulls away, leaving behind a warm imprint where his body had blanketed yours.

at some point he helps you stand, hands warm against your ribs. you feel him tug the straps of your dress back over your shoulders, and there’s something in the way he moves that’s slower now. gentler.

he zips up the back of your dress with one hand, holds it at the bottom with the other — carefully, as if sealing a letter he shouldn’t have read.

gojo doesn’t move away after the zipper’s drawn, hands lingering at the base of your spine, the warmth of his palms bleeding through the thin fabric like ink through parchment. your dress is wrinkled now, creased at the waist where he held you, hem dusty where it brushed the floor. one of the pearl buttons at your wrist hangs by a thread.

you feel him exhale behind you, breath skimming the shell of your ear before he steps back, knuckles brushing yours like an apology or maybe a promise.

you turn, brushing a finger over the swell of your lip where his stubble had scraped it raw. “sorry I didn’t remember you the first time.”

his expression softens, barely perceptible but there — eyes easing and head tilting like he’s making room for your regret. “we knew each other for barely a week,” he says, tone gentler than the words are. “it’s okay.”

“but you remembered?”

gojo’s eyes are on you again — steady, unsparing, as if remembering had never been a choice. his voice drops, velvet and quiet and so sure it stings.

“only a fool would ever forget you, sweetheart.”

morning bleeds in slowly, gray and grainy. rain needles the windows in thin, cold streaks. downstairs, the party is a ghost — empty glasses, curled cocktail napkins, someone’s glove left hanging from the stair banister like a forgotten question.

you’re still asleep. the sheets are wrinkled and smell faintly of cedar and cigarette smoke and him.

the doorbell rings.

once. then again — firmer.

the bed creaks when he lifts himself off it, and you stir. he pretends he doesn’t notice.

gojo answers it barefoot, sleeves rolled past his elbows, white shirt clinging to his arms. he doesn’t flinch when he opens the door. he knows.

nanami stands on the steps, umbrella still dripping, coat dry except for the shoulders. he looks like he hasn’t slept. a taste of his own medicine.

gojo shifts his weight. decides not to invite him in. “she’s still asleep.”

nanami’s eyes flick up the stairs behind him, and then back to him. gojo’s hand braces the doorframe.

“she wasn’t feeling well. I tucked her in and gave her a place to stay? if that’s alright with you?”

there’s a pause long enough to feel the rain more than hear it — a pause that says they both know.

“that’s fine,” nanami answers. his voice doesn’t crack. his jaw ticks once.

gojo nods, slow. doesn’t move from the door.

nanami clears his throat. “why do I feel like I just missed out on an important opportunity?”

because you did. now get lost, she’s mine.

“you’re late,” gojo says simply, and it’s the nicest version of you lost he can offer.

nanami exhales through his nose. “I’ll wait in the car.”

and he turns without another word, the soles of his shoes clicking against wet stone. his umbrella flares open, swallowing him up as he disappears down the drive.

gojo closes the door when the hum of his engine fades. softly this time — like he’s afraid you’ll wake even though he knows you already are.

the rain had stopped by noon that next day.

you’d woken in gojo’s bed with your thigh flung over his hip and your dress in a crumple at the foot of the comforter. you could hear the other two downstairs.

that was the beginning.

the beginning of champagne brunches, evenings on the roof, records spinning so loudly the floor thumped.

you started leaving a pair of heels at gojo’s house, then a comb, then a tube of lipstick in the second drawer. shoko taught you how to cheat at cards and roll cigarettes. geto would sit with you both on the edge of the pool and make up stories for everyone who walked by. you laughed more in those weeks than you had in years. you felt young again — not in body, but in possibility.

ans gojo — he kept you close. always.

his hand on your waist at parties, eyes never leaving yours, constantly fighting the fear that you’d dissolve into the air again.

it became twice a week.

sometimes three, if nanami worked late. sometimes more, if he didn’t ask. gojo would open the door like you were sunlight itself, spinning you inside and kissing all over you.

his place always smelled like clove cigarettes and something faintly floral — from the old perfume bottle you’d left, maybe, or all the fresh flowers he started buying after the second week.

nanami stopped asking when you’d be back. the letters from home went unanswered. he knew. he had to. and he hated that he couldn’t hate you for it.

it made him bitter in private. pride chewed through him like acid. he never accused you outright, never even raised his voice. but his anger slipped out sideways: slammed doors, a question asked too many times, silence left to rot. hypocrite.

he knew he had no moral claim on you. but moral clarity doesn’t make you less alone in your own home.

he sleeps in the guest room now. says it’s temporary. you never ask when that ends.

and then: august. the city holds its breath. the parties slow. geto disappears for two days without a word. shoko starts drinking before noon.

you were supposed to see gojo that night.

you put on the red dress. the one he likes. the one he bought you. the one you only wear for him.

you told yourself he was out of town. or sleeping off something. or planning something grand.

you didn’t expect to read it in the paper:

SATORU GOJO FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL. PROMINENT DIPLOMATIC FIGURE. INVESTIGATION ONGOING.

the article doesn’t say much. just that he was alone. just that it was instant. just that he’s gone.

your hands shake so badly you can’t finish it. the words blur, and not from tears. you sit on the staircase in the robe he bought you, phone pressed to your cheek, willing it to ring with something else. something better.

it rings. but it’s worse.

“mrs. nanami,” says the voice. “your husband’s in custody. we need you to come down to the station.”

@silkloom @tojicide @eaatmyheaart it’s finally here oh my god

two months of my blood sweat and tears to make less than 5k words but hey we made it after all

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#satoru <3 #HEY SO ROMY????????? WHAT THE FUCK????????#(/POS BUT ALSO /IM SCREAMING AND CRYING)#HEY????????????????????????????#THE WAY I WAS SOOO HAPPY AND SO IN LOVE #THE LITTLE GLIMPSE OF JOY WE GET #HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#>:(#okay but also them fucking was HOT #i LOOOVE subby satoru that’s fucking quinn bait right there #oh my GODDDDDDDDDDD #BUT THEN ??????? HEYYYY????????????????#romy watch out i’m running towards you at mach speed rn #going to bite you for this #(lovingly)#(but also with teeth)#AAAAHHHHHHHHXHDHXHDJDJDJDJDJJDJDDJ #okay slowing my breathing bc i also just have to tell you that ever part of this is fucking gorgeous #some fav lines:#’his stance speaks more to exhaustion than elegance’#ALL of the dialogue tags too like everything is so descriptive and perfect i feel like i’m there like this shit feels professional man #‘a flicker of the woman you used to be catching light’#‘eyes easing and head tilting like he’s making room for your regret’#the entire ‘pride chewed through him like acid’ part #AAAHHHHHH ROMYYYYYYY #this was beautiful and heartbreaking and i’m going to eat you now btw

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