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A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 9.3k

Chapter 10

The sun came gently. Like it knew. It spilled across the hardwood floors and slow-waving curtains, brushed over the edge of the carved bed frame, and climbed toward the place where you lay—tangled in linen, in silk, in him.

You didn’t wake all at once. Your body stirred first—aching in ways it had never known, but not with pain. No, this was something sweeter. The echo of having been held. Loved. You breathed in—and there he was. The warmth behind you. The strong arm curved around your waist. The steady rhythm of his breath against your bare shoulder, slower than yours, still thick with sleep.

Rafayel. Your husband. The thought made your chest pull tight with quiet wonder, even as your lips curved faintly at the corners. You shifted just enough to turn, careful not to wake him too soon. But your movement stirred his body all the same—his breath deepening, arms flexing slightly as his brows furrowed in resistance to the morning. Then—

“Mm.” His voice was sleep-rough, low and beautiful. You looked up just in time to see his lashes flutter open, slow and golden in the sun. And when his eyes met yours—everything stopped again. There was no firelight now. No shadows. Just this light. Just him. Just you.

“Good morning,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but soft.

You smiled. Your fingers, bare and delicate, lifted to sweep a piece of hair from his brow. “Good morning, my love.”

His breath hitched at the name. Even after everything, it still undid him. He leaned forward, brushing his lips to yours—slow, unhurried, without intention other than to feel you. “I wasn’t sure,” he murmured against your mouth, “if I was still dreaming.”

You let your forehead rest to his, your hand trailing down his chest, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath. “You aren’t,” you said gently. “But if you are… then let me dream it with you.”

He smiled, breath warming your cheek. His arms wrapped tighter around you beneath the sheets, pulling you into the curve of his body again until your legs tangled, your cheek resting against his collarbone. The morning passed like that—in hushes and hums. In lazy kisses and whispered promises. In fingers that never stopped tracing, and laughter that rose when your stomachs grumbled and neither of you wanted to move.

And when the staff finally knocked gently to ask if the Duke and Duchess would like breakfast— Rafayel only kissed your bare shoulder again, voice muffled as he whispered, “Not yet.”

It was still early. The light had softened into a golden hush across the bed, as though the sun itself had paused to marvel at the two of you. You shifted against him—slowly, carefully—and couldn’t help the small sound that left your lips, a soft gasp caught between breath and memory. The ache in your thighs, the gentle pressure deep within your belly—it all bloomed again.

Your cheeks flared instantly. And Rafayel stilled. His arm around your waist tightened ever so slightly, and he pulled back just enough to look at you—his brow furrowed, his lips curving with the ghost of a smile. “Are you sore, my love?” he murmured, voice low and thick with sleep, but already full of concern.

Your face flushed deeper, your lashes lowering as you gave a faint nod. “A little…”

It wasn’t painful. Not in the slightest. But your body remembered. All of it. His expression softened into something almost unbearably tender, and he leaned forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to your temple. “Then we’ll call for a bath.”

He was already shifting to reach for the pull bell, his bare chest brushing yours as he leaned across the bed, when your hand caught his. He turned back, brows raised in question. And you—blushing furiously now, but unable to stop—spoke before you lost your nerve. “I… I want you in the bath too.”

It came out in a whisper, your eyes meeting his only for a heartbeat before they darted away again, down to the linen between you, your fingers still curled against his wrist. There was a moment of silence. And then—that smile. The kind that curved slowly. That crept into his eyes and melted the air between you.

“Do you, now?” he asked softly, amused and so clearly pleased. “Are you requesting your husband’s company, even after how thoroughly he ruined you last night?”

Your breath caught. And your cheeks—gods, they burned. His laugh was quiet and warm, and he kissed the corner of your mouth like a reward. “It is our honeymoon,” he murmured, lips brushing along your jaw, “And we are well beyond the eyes of the Ton. We could hide away in here for days, if you wished.”

You whimpered softly, the memories of last night igniting all over again inside you—how his mouth had moved down your skin, how his voice had undone you, how your body had opened for him like a blossom in spring. “I do wish,” you whispered back.

He kissed you again. And the bell was rung. And soon, the warm steam of bathwater would rise like a soft veil, waiting to curl around two lovers who now belonged wholly to each other.

The marble of the bath was cool beneath your feet, but the moment you dipped your toes into the steaming water, warmth curled up your calves like an embrace. Rafayel was already inside, arms draped along the edge, the light from the high window casting golden lines across his bare shoulders. He looked at peace—until his eyes met yours. Then he looked like he might come undone all over again.

“Come here, my love,” he murmured, voice low and reverent.

Your breath caught as you stepped closer. His hands reached for you—gentle, guiding—and when you finally lowered yourself into the water, the heat coiled around your muscles with a quiet hiss of pleasure. You sighed, a soft moan caught in your throat, and his arms immediately gathered you into him, drawing your back to his chest, his legs bracketing yours beneath the surface.

“There you are,” he whispered into your ear. “Let me hold you.”

And you let him. You let yourself sink, not just into the water, but into him—his arms around your waist, his fingers drawing soft, lazy patterns along your thigh, your hip, your stomach. He brushed your hair to one side, placing a kiss beneath your ear. You shivered—not from cold, but from him.

“Better?” he asked, voice a husky rumble against your neck. You nodded, your head resting on his shoulder, your fingers playing with his beneath the surface.

“Mhm… the water feels like heaven,” you murmured.

“And your moan just now felt like sin,” he teased gently, the smile in his voice unmistakable. Your cheeks burned instantly. He didn’t even need to see them. He felt it—your body tensing ever so slightly, your hand flicking water at him in gentle protest. He laughed, low and fond, nuzzling his nose behind your ear. “You’re blushing again, aren’t you? You’re always blushing.”

“You’re always making me,” you muttered, trying to sink lower in the water, but his arms only tightened.

“You know I live for it,” he said, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “The way your skin goes pink when I whisper something scandalous…Or how your breath catches when I call you my wife.”

Your entire body warmed, deeper than the water could reach. You turned your face toward his, your eyes meeting his for just a moment—soft, vulnerable, full. “Say it again,” you whispered.

He smiled. Slow. Sure. “My wife.”

The steam wrapped around you like a veil, softening the edges of the world. In this bath, there was no title. No Ton. No duty. Only skin. Only water. Only you and him. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, his arms resting easy around your waist, and it filled you with something that went beyond warmth. Something alive.

And before you could second-guess it—before shyness could slip in between the steady rise and fall of your breath—you turned slightly in his arms. Your lips found his. Soft at first. A kiss made not of hunger, but of belonging. His breath caught. You felt it.

Then his hand rose from the water, curling behind your neck, and his mouth responded—sweet, deep, slow as syrup. When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his brows were raised slightly in amused surprise. “Well,” he murmured, voice roughened by sleep and affection, “Look at you, my bold little wife.”

You flushed instantly—your cheeks blooming in that way he loved so much—and tried to turn your face, but he caught your chin with two wet fingers. “Don’t you dare look away,” he whispered. “You kiss me like that, and expect me not to fall all over again?”

You bit your lip, then leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “Then fall,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “I’ll catch you.”

His chest moved with a low, stunned breath—one that warmed your skin more than the water. And then you were laughing. Because he’d shifted behind you again, this time tickling your side lightly beneath the surface, and your yelp echoed off the tiled walls. “Rafayel—!” you cried, swatting at him through the bathwater.

“Ah, there’s my spirited wife,” he said, beaming. “I was beginning to worry I married a blushing ghost.”

“You did,” you grumbled, cheeks already deepening, “A ghost who now regrets kissing you.”

“Liar.” His voice was a low laugh in your ear, his arms gathering you against his chest again. “You kissed me like you meant it.”

You did. Gods, you did. You curled tighter against him, your fingers tracing idle patterns along his forearm. “You laughed,” you murmured, quieter now. “I like when you laugh.”

He kissed your damp hair. “Then tease me more.” And you did. You both did.

The water held you there, the laughter between you rising and falling like the steam, and the world waited just a little longer outside—content to let you be nothing but his, and his nothing but yours.

The scent of honeyed butter and warm bread hung in the air, mingling with the sweetness of strawberries and early sun. You were curled into the plush pillows, your limbs warm beneath the linen robe you’d slipped into after the bath, your hair still damp and tumbling down your shoulders.

Across from you, Rafayel sat against the carved headboard—his shirt loose, collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Casual, relaxed, devastatingly handsome. Between you lay the breakfast tray, its contents slowly disappearing—warm pastries, cut fruit, a little porcelain pot of tea that still steamed.

You plucked a slice of pear delicately between your fingers, eyes flicking toward him as he tore another piece of bread. A wicked idea bloomed before you could stop it. “Here,” you said, lifting the fruit to his lips. “Try this.”

His brows lifted in surprise, the corner of his mouth already curving. “Feeding me now, are you?”

You flushed, but held your ground. “Only because you look too lazy to reach for it yourself.”

That earned you a laugh. Rich and warm, it rolled through his chest as he leaned forward, taking the pear from your fingers with his mouth—eyes locked on yours the entire time. Your cheeks flamed. He chewed slowly, smirking as you tried to hide your smile behind your teacup.

“Dangerous, my wife,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t tempt a man like that before he’s had his second cup of tea.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing again.”

You let out a breathy laugh, sinking further into the pillows, your gaze drifting toward the window where sunlight draped lazily across the floor. A moment passed in silence. And then—“Rafayel?”

He hummed in response, already reaching for another strawberry. “Now that we’re…” You hesitated, biting your lip. “Married. Will we—do we keep separate bedchambers now?”

The silence that followed was sharp. Not cold—but suddenly alert. You turned to look at him—and before you could even blink, he’d moved the tray aside and drawn you fully into his lap.

You gasped, your hands instinctively finding his shoulders, the robe shifting around your thighs. His arms wrapped around you, firm and warm, holding you as if you might float away with the question still hanging in the air. His eyes were fierce. Not angry. Just full—full of something that felt like a vow.

“My love,” he said, voice low, “You are my wife. My heart. My home.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand resting at your waist. “There will be no separate chambers. No separate nights. You will sleep beside me—with me—every night until the stars fall from the sky.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, breath caught in your throat. And then— “Unless,” he added, leaning in with a teasing glint, “You want a separate chamber. In which case, I’ll be forced to sneak into yours every night and ravish you thoroughly until you beg me to stay.”

“Rafayel!” Your cheeks burned, and your hand flew to his chest, half in protest, half in delight. His laughter met yours again, and he kissed you—soft, lingering, tender.

“There is no version of this life,” he whispered against your lips, “Where I do not end every day with you in my arms.” And just like that, the last of your nerves melted into the warmth of sun-drenched sheets and the steady, endless promise of him.

The day slipped by like a ribbon unfurling. Not in haste. Not in grand gestures. But in touches. In glances. In the easy music of laughter shared without restraint.

You explored the far wing of the estate—his arm looped around your waist, yours curled into his chest, your laughter echoing through hallways long silent. You discovered rooms he hadn’t seen in years, climbed worn steps to a library with windows that opened to the orchard, sat in the sunroom where the breeze smelled faintly of honeysuckle.

And when you passed a mirror—an old one, full-length and delicately silvered—he stopped, stood behind you, and wrapped his arms around your waist.

“Do you see us, my love?” he’d whispered into your hair. “You look like you were made to be here.” You had flushed—again—and he kissed your cheek with a smile too soft to survive.

Later, you wrote letters home together. His to your mother, full of charm and grace, yours to Eleanora, brimming with love and laughter. She would ask about everything, you were sure. And you would tell her. Almost everything.

Lunch was beneath the wide-armed branches of a flowering tree near the stables. Bare feet brushing in the grass. You’d shared chilled fruit and finger-sandwiches, wiped juice from each other’s lips, and lay side by side in the shade while the sky turned pale gold.

Now—evening. Dinner. Just the two of you, tucked into the corner of the candlelit dining room, warm wood and soft linens, shadows dancing up the stone hearth.

He’d asked the staff not to stay. They’d served the meal with bows and discreet smiles before melting away, leaving you in a hush laced with flickering light and the sound of cutlery against porcelain.

You sat across from him, a second glass of wine warming your cheeks, your fingers loosely curled around the delicate stem of your glass. He hadn’t stopped looking at you. Not once. You could feel it even now, his gaze like the brush of velvet across your collarbone.

“You’re staring, My Lord.” you murmured, trying to sound casual.

“I’m admiring,” he corrected smoothly, lifting his own glass.

You took another sip, heart fluttering. The warmth of the wine curled through your belly, softening your limbs. “You admired me all day,” you said, avoiding his eyes. “You’re going to run out of things to say.”

He set his glass down gently. Leaning forward. “You’re wrong, my love,” he said, his voice low and sinful. “Because right now, I’m thinking about the way you blushed when I kissed your neck this morning in the bath.” Your eyes widened. Your breath caught. And your cheeks—already warm—went scarlet. He smiled. “Ah. There it is again.”

“Rafayel—” you whispered, scandalized and delighted all at once.

“You moaned so softly,” he continued, almost lazily, as if speaking about the weather, “Just from that. Just from my lips and the steam and the way you sighed my name—”

“Rafayel!” You covered your face with one hand, laughing, mortified, and aching. He chuckled—rich and low—and rose from his chair.

“Come now, my wife. It’s only fair,” he said as he circled the table, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “You fed me fruit this morning like a queen tempting a man to ruin. And you’ve been blushing ever since.”

You looked up, breathless, cheeks on fire. “And you’ve been tormenting me.”

He leaned down, kissed your cheek, your jaw, your ear. “That’s called marriage, my love.” And then he offered you his hand. “Shall I take you to bed, or would you prefer dessert?”

Your stomach fluttered. And you smiled. The candles flickered. So did your breath. You’d barely spoken the word— “Dessert?” —when his eyes darkened like velvet drawn through honey. His lips curved, slowly, wickedly. And then—without a single word—he moved.

You squeaked as his hands wrapped around your waist, the chair scraping back behind you, your wine glass catching a glint of gold as it wobbled precariously. And before you could finish the sound in your throat—you were in the air.

Your hands flew to his shoulders as he lifted you effortlessly, turned, and set you down—right onto the edge of the dining table. The porcelain clinked softly behind you. The linens rustled beneath. Your knees fell open slightly from the weight of your skirt. And you looked at him—wide-eyed, breathless, scandalized. “Rafayel!”

His smile was shameless. “You asked about dessert,” he murmured, stepping between your knees, “So I thought I’d serve it myself.”

You gaped at him, cheeks flaming. “That is not what I meant—”

“Are you sure?” he teased, his fingers already trailing lightly up your corseted waist. “Because I distinctly recall you moaning like this morning’s strawberries were sinful.” Your breath caught as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “And I haven’t even begun to be sweet with you yet.”

You slapped his chest, more air than force, your laughter catching between disbelief and desire. His hands slid higher—tracing the embroidered boning of your corset, thumbs just grazing the edges of where the fabric cinched beneath your ribs. “Rafayel,” you said again, lower this time. Breathier. “This is the dining table.”

“And you are my wife,” he whispered into your skin, “Which means I can taste you anywhere I please.”

You gasped. He laughed. Your hands found his jaw—flushed, trembling, overwhelmed—and pulled him into a kiss that melted the rest of the candlelight behind your eyelids. “You’re impossible,” you breathed.

“You married me,” he murmured against your lips. “Which makes you equally guilty, my love.”

And as his hands slipped behind you, unlacing the corset one string at a time, your breath came faster—laced with laughter, yes, but also with longing. The table, the wine, the remnants of dinner blurred around you. All that remained was him.

You laughed. You couldn't help it. The sound bubbled out of you, breathless and mortified, as you clutched at his shoulders—watching with horror and delight as he plucked at the laces of your corset like a man unwrapping a gift. “Rafayel—!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-gasping. “You’re scandalous—”

“Married,” he corrected smoothly, teeth flashing in a grin. “I’m married, my love. And deeply, dangerously in love.”

Another lace undone. And another. Each pull loosened the pressure around your ribs, replaced instead with the soft fluttering of your heart—racing, now, as his knuckles brushed bare skin.

“You should’ve warned me,” you murmured, voice trembling with laughter, “that you intended to ruin every room of this house.”

“Not every room,” he teased, letting the next lace slip loose. “Just the ones with flat surfaces.”

Your mouth dropped open. And he had the audacity to wink. Your cheeks went scarlet, but your laughter turned breathless, folding into a gasp when his hand shifted—sliding down the slope of your thigh, disappearing under the folds of your skirt. You froze. “Rafayel…”

“Shhh,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Do you feel how warm your skin is here?” His hand moved higher, knuckles grazing sensitive skin. “Do you know how long I’ve imagined it—right here—with you spread out on polished oak, flushed and breathless while candlelight flickers over your skin?”

You whimpered. Your body reacted before you could stop it—hips shifting, breath hitching, hands curling in the soft linen of his shirt.

“I could have you seated like this…” he murmured, thumb stroking slow circles along your inner thigh, “Or bent forward with your hands gripping the edge of the table while I kiss down your spine.”

Your head fell back with a sharp inhale, the image painting itself across your vision like flame. “Or…” he purred, mouth at your throat now, “Kneeling between your legs, right here—while you cling to the tablecloth and try not to scream.”

Your whole body burned. He pulled back just enough to look at you—his voice dropping to something more reverent than wicked. “Say the word, my love,” he whispered. “And I’ll do nothing but hold you. Or everything you want.”

The table creaked softly beneath you, linen rumpled where your hands gripped it, your corset half undone—his fingers still resting between your legs, light as a sigh, hot as wildfire. Your breath hitched. And when you looked into his eyes—stormy and sure, dark with want and wrapped in gold—you knew there was no turning back.

“You said you wanted it all. So tell me…” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek as his fingers flexed softly against you, “Which one first?”

His voice was a thread of smoke, warm and wicked and impossibly close. Your thighs trembled. Your breath caught in your throat, your corset fluttering loose over your ribs, and for a second, all you could do was feel—the heat of him, the image of yourself draped across this table, the way your name would sound caught in his throat. And then—

“All of it,” you whispered, your voice a secret given freely into the flickering dark. “My love… I want it all.”

His breath stilled. Then, slowly—slowly—he pulled back. You barely had time to whimper in protest before his hands slid beneath your knees, parting them just enough to step back from the table. And then he dropped. To his knees. Before you. Like a man in prayer. Your hand flew to your chest, your lips parting in shock, the words tumbling before you could catch them.

“Rafayel! You—you’re a Duke, you shouldn’t kneel!”

He looked up at you from the candlelit floor, eyes glittering, mouth curved in a smile that had already unmade you a dozen times over.

“I’m your husband,” he said, voice rich and low, “And if kneeling before my wife is a sin, then I pray never to be holy again.”

Your cheeks flamed. Your legs trembled. And as his hands rose to lift the layers of your skirt slowly, reverently, like he was unwrapping the holiest gift of his life— You forgot every title. Every rule. Every whispered warning. There was only him. His breath on your skin. The table beneath you. And the sharp, aching thrill of knowing that this, now, was forever.

The candlelight trembled. But not nearly as much as you did. You were breathless, perched on the edge of the dining table, your corset half-undone, your legs parted and trembling, and your Duke—the man you now called husband—on his knees between them.

You barely had time to blink. His hands gripped your hips gently but with purpose, pulling you closer toward the edge of the table, toward him. “Relax,” he whispered—low and thick and reverent, “Let me take care of you.”

You might’ve answered. Might’ve told him that you didn’t know how to relax when he looked at you like that, when you were seated on the very place dinner had been just moments before. But he didn’t give you time. Not to think. Not to speak. Not even to breathe.

Because before another thought could form in your head, your skirt was pushed up—layer after layer gathered to your hips—and the air hit your thighs just a second before he did. And then—his mouth was on you.

Your gasp tore free from your lips before you could bite it down, spine arched as your hands flew back, fingers catching the edge of the tablecloth to anchor yourself—because the second he kissed you there, your body forgot what it meant to be still.

He was slow at first. Purposeful. Like he wanted to learn every part of you all over again—through taste, through sound, through the way your body trembled beneath the heat of his tongue. You moaned—soft and helpless—as his hands pressed your hips down, keeping you close, keeping you open.

Your knees began to shake. Your back bowed. You followed his mouth like it held the answers to questions you didn’t know how to ask. And in truth, it did. “Rafayel—” you gasped, voice nearly lost to the velvet dark.

He groaned softly in response, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating against you in a way that made your entire body sing. Your legs tried to close—instinct, reflex—but his hands, firm and reverent, held you steady.

“Stay with me, my love,” he murmured between kisses. “Let me have this… let me have you.”

And you did. Oh, you did. Even as the candlelight burned low. Even as the night deepened. Even as your name spilled from his lips like a vow and you shattered, shaking, in his hands.

The candlelight dipped low, casting golden ribbons across your bare thighs, your trembling hands, the creased linen crushed between your fingers. The whole world had narrowed—down to the edge of the table, the cool air on your flushed skin, and him.

Rafayel. Your Duke. Your husband. On his knees before you, utterly devoted. Utterly unchained. He didn’t rush. No—he savored. With every slow flick of his tongue, every press of his mouth, he devoured you as if you were the only sweetness left in the world. His hands splayed warm and steady on your hips, grounding you even as your body threatened to rise right off the polished wood beneath you.

Your head fell back, neck arching toward the ceiling as a moan cracked from your lips. “Rafayel—” It was helpless. It was raw. It was the only word your mouth still remembered.

Your thighs shook violently, your breath coming faster, shallower—your fingers gripping the tablecloth like a lifeline, as if anchoring yourself might save you from this— From him. But you didn’t want saving. No—you wanted to burn. And gods, he was fire.

He growled softly against you when he felt your hips start to stutter—felt the quake ripple through your legs. And instead of slowing, he deepened, flattened his tongue just right, knew the rhythm of your breath now better than his own.

And then he smiled. You felt it. Between your thighs. And it undid you. Your whole body seized—head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry as the world fell apart, all light and heat and him, the tremble of your release cascading through you like water over silk.

You came with his name caught in your throat and his mouth still between your legs. And he didn’t stop. Not until you had nothing left to give. Not until your hands slipped from the table and your spine softened and your thighs relaxed, twitching, around his shoulders.

And when he rose—slowly, reverently—his lips were flushed, his hair just the slightest bit tousled, and his eyes… his eyes were ablaze. “You taste like sin and summer,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles over your cheek as he leaned down. “And I plan to ruin you on every table we own.”

You were too breathless to answer. But the look in your eyes—wide, dazed, aching—told him everything. And the smirk he gave in return…made your knees weak all over again.

You couldn’t breathe. You could, but it didn’t feel like it. Your lungs were working, your chest was rising and falling—fast, shallow—but your mind was somewhere else entirely. Spun loose by the quake of your release, the taste of his name still thick on your tongue, your body slack and trembling on the edge of the table.

He stood before you again now—tall, golden in the candlelight, flushed and disheveled, and more devastating than anything you’d ever imagined. His lips were kiss-bitten. His hands were warm against your thighs. And his voice—low and wrecked—made your stomach flutter all over again. “Well,” he said softly, brushing a thumb across your knee. “That was dessert.”

You whimpered softly, pressing your palm against your face to hide the color that bloomed there. He laughed, dark and warm. “But now, my wife…” His fingers stroked up your thigh again, deliberate, slow. “Which option shall I give you next?”

You couldn’t look at him. Not directly. Your whole body felt ruined, but the ache was still there—lower now, deeper, stirred anew by the sound of his voice and the heat in his eyes. You swallowed, searching for breath. Searching for bravery. “Maybe…” Your voice was barely audible. “Something different than last night.”

He stilled. You dared to meet his gaze. And the moment your words sank in—his breath hitched. His jaw clenched. And then he moved.

You gasped as his hands gripped your waist again, lifting you with shocking ease—not rough, never rough, but deliberate, your skirt rustling and pooling as he turned you, one hand still pressing the heat of your thighs as your body shifted atop the table.

Your chest pressed to the warm wood, your breath caught against your lips, and your hands reached out to steady yourself on either side of a candle.

“Rafayel—” you breathed, scandalized, flushed, burning. He leaned over you, mouth close to your ear, hands dragging the fabric of your skirt higher with a slowness that melted the very core of you.

“You won’t see me,” he murmured, his voice barely holding together, “But you’ll feel every second of it.” You shivered. “Every word I say, every place I touch—” His fingers skimmed the back of your thigh, and you arched instinctively, “Will belong to you. Because I do. All of me.”

The table was warm beneath your skin, the candles flickering around your arms, your hair tumbling over your shoulders as your husband—your Duke—gathered your skirt at your waist and pressed a kiss just above your spine.

“Let me worship you,” he whispered, “Like this.”

The candlelight swayed with the hush of breath and the rustle of silk. The table beneath you was warm—holding your weight, catching your tremble, bearing witness as the night folded you in golden shadow.

Your arms stretched forward, fingers curling around the fine edge of linen, chasing something to hold—because your body, your breath, your heart… all of it had gone loose beneath his hands. Rafayel. Your husband. Your flame. Kneeling, rising, standing behind you now.

And when he kissed the small of your back, soft and slow, lips parting against your spine like a vow, your hips arched helplessly into the touch. He groaned, low and wrecked, and you felt the brush of fabric shifting behind you—his hands working at the fall of his trousers, slow but shaking, as though the very air between your bodies threatened to set him ablaze.

“Look at you…” he murmured, voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. “Bending for me like this. So perfect, so ready.”

Your blush deepened. Your thighs clenched. Your chest rose against the table in a trembling swell. Another kiss, lower this time. And then his hand, spreading across your hip. Steadying you. Worshipping you. “Tell me if I go too fast,” he breathed, close now, voice fraying at the edges, “Tell me if you need more time, and I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for you.”

But you didn’t want to wait. Your name was already a prayer on his tongue. His name—already a sin on yours. “Rafayel, my love…” you whispered, barely audible over your own breath.

And then—you felt him. One hand pressed firm to your hip, the other trailing along your spine, grounding you as he aligned himself behind you. And then—slowly, reverently—he began to ease in.

Your body arched. Your breath caught on a sob of pleasure. And his name—his name—fell from your lips again, shaky and sacred. “There,” he groaned, wrecked already, voice breaking against your skin, “Just like that… my love, you’re perfect.”

The table creaked beneath you, linen whispering against your belly as you gripped tighter, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the stretch, the weight, the impossible pleasure of him—inside you now, deeper with every inch, every breath.

He didn’t rush. Not now. He kissed your shoulder blade, your spine, your neck, his lips trailing fire and comfort all at once. “Tell me what you need,” he whispered, “And I’ll give you everything.”

The flickering candles watched. The table beneath you moaned softly with each shift of his hips. And you—your body melted, pressed chest-down to the linen while his name fell from your lips like a rosary of sin, the syllables tumbling through your breath with every aching movement inside you.

It was different this time. So different. The angle. The depth. The stretch of him. He fit like a secret into the deepest parts of you, slipping past the ache and straight into something sweeter, softer—a spot inside you that you hadn’t even known could feel like this.

“Rafayel—” It broke from your lips again, a helpless, breathless whimper, your spine arching as his hips rolled forward.

He grunted above you, the sound sharp with restraint, with need. “Is it too much?” he rasped, voice frayed, lips at your ear now as his hand slid up your back. “Tell me, my love. Tell me how it feels.”

You couldn’t hold it in. “Different,” you gasped. “Deeper—gods, so much deeper—so good—” Your knees pressed apart wider, your hands gripping tighter, and his groan behind you was nearly feral.

“That’s it,” he breathed, and he began to move faster, just a little, hips rolling with precision, “There’s my sweet girl. Let me hear you.”

You did. You couldn’t not. Every breath, every stuttered moan, every time his hips met yours with that perfect rhythm—he pulled sound from you like music, like prayer, like something too sacred to be anything but real. And then he asked—voice ragged and low, “Does it still feel good?”

Your answer came without thought, without breath, without shame. “Yes—yes—take it, Rafayel, my love—take whatever you want—”

His breath hitched. And something in him snapped. Not rough. Not hurried. But consumed. His hips pressed deeper, faster, his hands gripped tighter, and you felt everything—your body a temple, a gift, a vow beneath him. And still, even as he moved, he praised you, murmured your name like he was trying to brand it into your skin with his voice alone. “So good for me,” he whispered, “So perfect.”

And still… he moved. And still… you burned. The rhythm was everything. His hips met yours again and again, a slow, perfect grind that pushed the air from your lungs and turned your pulse into music—your body drawn tight around him, your heart fluttering like a ribbon caught in the wind.

The table rocked softly beneath you. Your breath stuttered. Your vision blurred. And him—Rafayel—behind you, above you, inside you… he was unraveling too. “You’re so tight, my love,” he breathed, nearly undone, “So warm—so perfect for me—gods, I feel you everywhere.”

You moaned, high and soft, every nerve lit bright beneath his voice. Your body clenched around him—instinctive, desperate, as if to keep him there, as if he were the only thing anchoring you to the earth. And he felt it.

“That’s it,” he urged, voice wrecked and reverent all at once. “Let go for me. Give it to me, my love. Just fall—I’ve got you.”

You did. With a broken gasp and a cry of his name, you fell. Your body convulsed—waves of pleasure cascading through you like heat and moonlight, your fingers curling tight against the linen as your hips stuttered back into his.

And he followed—his rhythm faltering as his breath broke apart in your name, his hands tightening, hips pressing deep one last time as he came with you, trembling and breathless, his body melting against your spine.

You stayed like that for a heartbeat. Then another. The only sound was your breathing—his lips at your shoulder, your heartbeat echoing in your ears, your body still pulsing softly from the aftermath. And then—slowly, gently—he eased out of you. You whimpered, softly, your legs weak and trembling.

But before you could fully register the space between you—his arms were already around you, lifting you with such care it made your eyes sting. He cradled you against his chest, one hand pressing over your lower back, the other smoothing your hair.

“Shhh,” he whispered, kissing your temple, “I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”

He sat back into the chair by the table, holding you in his lap, curling you against him like you were something delicate—something cherished. “Was that too much?” he murmured against your ear. “Tell me. Are you alright?”

You nodded, still breathless, eyes fluttering shut as your hands clutched the fabric at his chest. “It was perfect,” you whispered. “All of it… you.”

He exhaled, shakily—like your answer was the only one that mattered in the world. And then he kissed you again—slow, sweet, and full of something deeper than desire. Something that sounded like forever.

The estate became its own world. Not just walls and corridors and manicured gardens—but a haven, sealed off from the Ton, from expectation, from anyone else’s eyes. For two whole weeks, time bent around you and Rafayel like something sacred—softened at the edges, golden with stolen hours.

The first few days, you barely left the warmth of your shared chambers. Your laughter echoed off vaulted ceilings. Your sighs clung to the bedposts, soaked into linen, wrapped themselves around his name over and over again. The sheets had to be changed more than once by breathless maids who couldn’t quite meet your gaze.

And he—he made sure you didn’t lift a finger. Every meal was brought in, every touch a promise kept. He fed you berries between kisses, whispered wicked things into your ear over breakfast, and disappeared beneath the covers more times than you could count before the tray had even been cleared.

When the two of you did emerge…the halls remembered. Your laughter rang down sunlit corridors, hands intertwined as you roamed—him pointing out oil paintings of forgotten ancestors, you teasing him about the shape of their wigs or the severity of their eyebrows.

You dined in every room but the formal dining hall. Sometimes on the floor, backs against tapestries. Sometimes curled up on a loveseat by the fire, his arm always around you, your legs tucked over his lap. Once—just once—you ate strawberries and cream from his fingers in the conservatory, half dressed and entirely flushed.

The staff—polite and well-trained—had learned to recognize the signs. A closed door. A breathless giggle. The sound of your voice calling his name just a bit louder than propriety allowed. They stopped knocking. They started blushing.

By the end of the first week, it had become a quiet understanding: the Duke and Duchess of Ravencourt were young, in love, and utterly… insatiable. But it wasn’t only hunger. There was sweetness, too. He took you riding again—laughing when you tried to race him, letting you win once just so he could chase you across the meadow, catching your waist with an arm and kissing you breathless in a field of wildflowers.

There were picnics beneath tall oaks, wine in crystal glasses, and late afternoons where he painted your silhouette in charcoal as you read poetry aloud, legs tangled in sunlight.

“I’ve never heard my name sound like that,” he murmured once, after you gasped it into his skin, sprawled across the velvet settee in his private library. “Like prayer. Like thunder. Like home.”

You had no reply. Only lips that kissed him. Only hands that trembled with love. And if your sounds—his name, your cries, your laughter—found their way into the halls of the estate… into the kitchen, the garden, the very bones of the place— Then so be it. Let the world outside wait. Let society whisper. For four weeks, you belonged to nothing but each other. And the house? The house would never forget it.

The final morning rose soft and golden, slipping through the estate windows like silk. Outside, the garden stirred with birdsong. Inside, silence. Save for the gentle scrape of charcoal against canvas.

He was already up when you woke, the warmth of his body lingering on your side of the bed like a kiss pressed into the sheets. You knew where he would be—the art room, tucked between the west wing and the library, the morning sun spilling in perfectly through the high windows.

So you followed the light. You didn’t dress. Not properly. Just a nightgown—thin and pale, slipping off one shoulder, floating around your legs as you moved barefoot across marble. Your hair was loose. Your cheeks flushed from knowing. But your eyes…your eyes were innocent. Mostly.

When you reached the doorway, he hadn’t heard you. His back was to you, sleeves rolled, shoulders taut, one hand at the edge of a large canvas while the other swept delicate lines into shape. You let your fingers rest against the wood of the doorframe.

“My Lord,” you said softly, voice all morning hush and something sweeter beneath it.

He froze. Slowly, he turned. And the moment his eyes landed on you—barefoot, flushed, your nightgown clinging to your curves like it was painted on—his mouth parted. “My love…”

There was a softness to the way he said it. A question. A prayer. But there was no resistance. He didn’t need seduction. Not really. But you gave it anyway. You stepped inside without looking away, letting the gown slip just a bit more off your shoulder as you approached. And before you could reach him—before you could say a word more—his charcoal dropped, and he was on you.

You gasped as he caught you against the nearest bookcase, your back hitting the shelves, his hands catching your waist, your jaw, your thigh—everything at once. His mouth met yours like a man starved. And yours answered like fire meets wind.

“So this is how you choose to say goodbye to our honeymoon?” he murmured into your mouth, voice low and already wrecked, “By trying to kill me before we even leave the room?”

You smiled against his lips, breathless. “I thought it’d be a lovely way to start the day,” you whispered.

He groaned—dragging the hem of your nightgown up your thighs with desperate slowness, revealing inch after inch of bare skin until his hand cupped the heat between your legs and found you already aching. “Gods,” he exhaled, voice almost reverent, “You’re already so ready for me.”

“I woke up alone,” you said, voice soft, teeth sinking into your lower lip. “I had to find you. Had to… feel you before we left.”

“Then let me give you what you came for,” he growled, hands gripping beneath your thighs as he lifted you up—your legs wrapping around him as instinctively as breath. He carried you to the shelves—pressed you between leather-bound books and sunlit wood, your head tipped back, mouth falling open as his hips found yours and his hands held you together like something sacred.

And when he pushed into you—slow, deep, claiming you all over again—your cry was soft and broken, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as your nightgown slipped lower, forgotten.

“My love—”

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, “Let me draw you like this instead. Let me ruin you into the pages.”

And then he moved. And the books bore witness to every sound you made. The bookcase creaked. Or maybe it was you. Maybe it was the sharp breath you pulled between your teeth as he buried himself inside you again—slow, deep, perfect. Because you were. Perfect for him. Fit for him.

You’d learned the shape of each other so well in these four sacred weeks—your bodies folded together a hundred times over, your sighs painted across every surface of this house. But still, still this felt new. Raw. Sweet with goodbye.

Your back arched. His name caught on your lips. “You always fill me like this…” you whispered against his ear, a sinful sound dressed in silk, “As if I was made for you.”

He groaned, deep and wrecked, thrusting harder—like your words pulled something primal out of him. “You were,” he breathed. “Gods, my love, you were—you are.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your ankles locking behind his back as you moved with him—matched him—your hips tilted just so, your body already so slick and ready and utterly his. And then you teased him.

A moan too close to a laugh. A tightening of your thighs. The barest arch of your brow as you murmured: “Is this where you imagined me, my love? Against the books? Making those sounds?”

His rhythm faltered just a beat—just enough to show how much it wrecked him. “You wicked thing,” he growled into your neck, biting softly, “You’ll be the death of me—”

But still, he moved. And the sound of your bodies meeting was a symphony now—the slap of skin, the rush of breath, the soft whimper of your name on his lips as he drove deeper, bolder, closer. The bookcase behind you trembled. A novel fell to the floor. And then you broke.

With a cry, a gasp, a shudder so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs—your body clenching down around him like a vow, a tether, an oath to never let go. And he—he followed. With a sound that cracked open the air between you, he came inside you, deeper than deep, his mouth on yours as if to quiet the rest of the world. His arms around you, holding you together. Your name spilling from his lips like it was holy.

You clung to him, both of you panting, trembling, burned. The bookshelf held. But only barely. And long after the waves passed, after the world tilted back into place, he pressed a kiss to your forehead and murmured: “Next time, I’ll take you against the piano.”

You laughed, breathless, glowing. “And after that?”

“Anywhere you want, my love,” he whispered, kissing your lips again. “Anywhere this love takes us.”

You stayed curled into each other long after the waves subsided—limbs tangled, breath soft against flushed skin, your laughter spilling through the still air like the dust that danced in the morning light. His shirt was half undone. Your nightgown was tangled around your hips. The bookshelf behind you bore a few fresh scars, but neither of you seemed to mind.

“You,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your cheek, “are going to drive me to madness before the year is done.”

“Then you’ll have only yourself to blame,” you whispered back, laughing as you ran your fingers lazily over his collarbone. “You said you wanted a muse.”

“I didn’t realize my muse would be quite so intent on my undoing.” You laughed again, breathless. Warm. And yet…something shifted. You blinked slowly, your head growing suddenly a touch heavier where it rested against his chest. Your fingers paused. Your laughter softened into a strange, floaty silence as your breath slowed, then hitched.

Rafayel was already watching you. He felt it the moment your body leaned further into his, boneless and almost too still, the gleam in your eyes dimming to something dazed.

“My love?” His hand came to your cheek immediately, tilting your face up gently, thumb stroking just beneath your eye. “What is it? Are you alright?”

You swallowed, brows knitting faintly as your hand rose to your forehead. “I… I think I’m just… a little lightheaded,” you murmured, trying to wave it off, “Maybe a bit flushed. The room—it’s warm, isn’t it?”

His arm tightened instinctively around your waist. He was already guiding you down from the bookcase, one hand steady beneath your knees, the other at your back, cradling you with careful urgency as he sat back into the nearest chaise. “It is warm,” he agreed softly, lips pressing to your temple, “But you look a touch pale, my love. Or… perhaps a bit pink.”

You leaned into him, letting your body settle against his chest. “My stomach… feels strange,” you added after a moment, quietly. “Not pain. Not exactly. Just… odd. And a bit… unsettled.”

His breath slowed, but his eyes remained sharp—calculating, gentle, concerned. He didn’t speak immediately. Didn’t want to frighten you. But in the back of his mind, something bloomed. A thought. A possibility.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, brushing the hair from your damp forehead, “You need water. Or rest. Or…” A pause. A longer look. “…or perhaps this morning’s delight wasn’t the only thing taking root.”

Your breath caught. Your gaze lifted. The words hung there—soft, impossibly tender, impossibly hopeful—and the flush that rose to your cheeks this time had nothing to do with scandal. “My love…”

“Shhh,” he whispered, hand gently splayed over your belly, “Let’s not think too far ahead. Not yet. But if this is what I think it might be…” Another kiss. Slower. Sweeter. “Then everything is about to become even more perfect than I ever imagined.”

The rest of the day was draped in gentleness. He insisted you stay tucked into the chaise while he brought you a tray of fresh fruit and warm tea. His fingertips brushed against your wrist with every offered bite, his eyes never straying from your face—not even once. Not when you spoke softly of silly things, not when you leaned back into the pillows and your lashes fluttered, not when your fingers curled weakly in his shirt.

“More tea?” he asked, kneeling beside you with a reverence that made your throat tight. You only nodded. And he rose.

Later, he helped you bathe—nothing urgent, nothing teasing. Just quiet care. The water warm, the cloth gentle, his hands full of worship as he washed your back, your shoulders, the sweet curve of your legs. He dried you with the softest linens, helped you into one of your nightgowns, kissed your temple when you trembled slightly and said you weren’t sure what this feeling was.

When you drifted into bed, the candles low, he tucked you into his side like you were spun of moonlight and breath. “Better?” he whispered against your forehead, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Better,” you replied, but your voice was still small. “Still a little… fluttery.”

He held you closer. You stayed like that for a long while—your fingers drawing soft circles against his bare chest, your breath even, your lashes low. And then, in the hush between midnight and the wind stirring against the balcony doors, you tilted your head up.

“My love,” you murmured, “Can we… can we stay longer?”

His eyes opened. He looked down at you, his expression already softened by everything the day had brought. “We can stay as long as you wish, my love,” he said, brushing your hair back, “The world can wait a while longer. We’ve only just found our heaven.”

Your smile was faint, nervous. “And… perhaps,” you whispered, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, “If it’s not too much—could we… call for a physician? Just in case. I just… I don’t know.”

There was silence. Then—a smile curved against your forehead. A kiss pressed to your hairline. And his arms tightened around you. “Already done,” he murmured, voice low and full of something golden, “I sent for him before dinner, darling. Just in case.”

Your breath caught. Your fingers clutched at his ribs. “You did?”

“I know your body almost as well as I know your heart,” he said, tipping your chin up gently, “And both told me something had changed today. I only want to be certain, for your sake. For ours.” You looked at him then, fully—into eyes that had never been more tender, more sure.

And you smiled. Shy and blooming. Hope trembling beneath your ribs. “You think we might…?”

“I don’t want to assume,” he whispered, “but if we are that lucky—” Another kiss. Slower. Sweeter. Full of the beginning of something more. “Then I will love you even more than I thought possible. And I already love you beyond measure.”

The morning began in softness. Birdsong. A sunlit breeze. The rustle of linen as he kissed your shoulder to wake you. And yet…even wrapped in his arms, your stomach had twisted into knots. The breakfast tray was beautiful—sliced peaches, warm rolls, a soft poached egg with just the right herbs—but you barely touched it. The tea cooled in your hands as your eyes flicked to the window, then to the door, then back again.

“My love,” Rafayel murmured, watching you carefully from across the low table, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were awaiting trial.”

You tried to laugh. It came out thin. “It feels like a trial,” you whispered, setting your cup down. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“Because it matters,” he said, already crossing to your side. “Because it could change everything.”

He knelt beside your chair, took your hands in his. “But you are not alone in this,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “Whatever answer the physician gives, you won’t hear it without me.”

You nodded. Grateful. Breathless. And then—the knock. You jumped. The physician entered quietly—a kind man, grey at the temples, his eyes warm with familiarity and the hush of secrets he’d carried for years in noble houses. You stood. And the nerves hit harder. “Do you—” you began, voice small, “do you need to examine me alone, or—?”

“Only if you wish it, Your Grace,” the physician replied kindly.

You turned to Rafayel. “Stay. Please.”

He stayed. He stood by your side as the physician asked his quiet questions. As he took your pulse. As he made gentle conversation to soothe your fraying edges. As he asked you to sit and breathe deeply, to speak of when the changes began, of how your body had felt these past few days. You answered, shy and flushed, and every time your hand trembled, Rafayel’s steadied it with his thumb. The physician stepped back at last. His expression shifted—softened.

“Your Grace,” he said gently, “I believe… congratulations are in order.”

You froze. You blinked. “You…?”

The physician smiled, warm and sure. “You are with child, Your Grace. Not far along—likely three to four weeks—but everything seems perfectly healthy. A blessing, truly.”

It didn’t hit all at once. Not at first. You looked at the physician, then at Rafayel. And then your hand flew to your mouth, and your breath caught. Your eyes flooded before you could stop them. Rafayel rose at once and caught you, his arms wrapping around you in a hold so gentle it shattered you, your fingers clutching at his sleeves as the tears fell—happy, full, overwhelmed. “My love…” he whispered, voice thick, “You’ve given me the greatest joy I could ever dream of.”

You laughed through a sob. “You gave it to me first.” He kissed you then. Not slow. Not urgent. Just… full. Full of promise. Full of awe. And when you broke apart, his forehead pressed to yours, your belly between you now no longer just yours, you whispered: “I hope it has your eyes.”

“And your fire.” You both laughed again, tears still clinging to lashes. Outside, the birds sang louder. Inside, the world had never been more perfect.

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sinnaminttoast · 13 days ago

Text

we were just one breath too late. . .

feat. gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

sum. what’s the worst thing someone could say to you before you die? “i don’t want to see you again. . .” is that worse enough? will they feel guilty? sorry? or relief? maybe your boyfriend can answer that. . . maybe not.

wn. non-sorcerer au, angst no comfort, themes of death, fatal accidents, emotional and verbal arguments, intense grief, survivor’s guilt, and heavy angst. it includes depictions of emotional trauma, blood, physical injury, and reunion in the afterlife. there are also mentions of alcohol use, self-blame, and spiritual imagery. reader discretion is advised.

GOJO SATORU

it started like every other argument.

small.

stupid.

avoidable.

but tonight, something inside both of you snapped.

you stood under a streetlight, the flickering bulb overhead casting harsh shadows on gojo’s sharp features. the city buzzed around you — car horns, footsteps, laughter in the distance — but between you two, it was silent. thick. suffocating.

“you forgot again,” you said quietly, arms folded across your chest. “my presentation. i told you about it three times. you promised you'd come.” gojo tilted his head back with a heavy sigh. he looked tired. not just physically — but in the bones, in the heart. “i got caught up at work,” he muttered, avoiding your eyes. “it was one meeting after another—”

“you always get caught up!” your voice cracked. “it’s always ‘meetings’ or ‘clients’ or some emergency that somehow always matters more than me.”

he flinched. “that’s not fair.”

“no, what’s not fair is being in love with someone who’s never here!” you shouted, tears brimming at your lashes. “i come home to an empty apartment. i fall asleep alone. i eat dinner alone. i show up to events alone. i’m starting to forget what it feels like to be in a relationship, satoru.”

he looked at you like you had physically struck him. his mouth opened, then closed. then he laughed — not out of amusement, but disbelief. “you think i don’t feel like shit about it?” he said bitterly. “you think i like missing everything? i’m doing this for us, dammit! so we have a future—”

“a future doesn’t matter if there’s nothing left of us to share it with!” you screamed.

silence.

your chest heaved as your words hung in the air between you like shattered glass. “god,” gojo muttered, running a hand through his hair. “i don’t even know who i’m talking to anymore.”

you took a step back. “what the hell does that mean?”

he looked at you with eyes that had stopped shining. “you’re not the same. you’re not the girl i fell in love with.”

you went still.

your mouth parted, breath catching in your throat. “and you’re not the man i thought you were.”

he exhaled, long and low, like he’d been holding it for years. then he turned — really turned — like he was walking out of your life. “maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “maybe it’s better if we just stop pretending.”

then —

“i don’t want to see you again.”

you stood frozen, heart cracking open like a dam, pain gushing out too fast to stop. “don’t say that,” you begged. “satoru, don’t walk away. please—”

but he did.

without looking back.

and you, like an idiot, chased him. just one more step. one more call. one more plea to make him stop.

you never made it past the street.

the screech of tires.

a horn.

then nothing.

just blood. just broken bones. just cold

when gojo got the call, he laughed. he thought it was a sick joke. he even yelled at the nurse for wasting his time. then they said your name again, and it broke something in him. he drove faster than he ever had, broke every law just to get to the hospital. burst through the ER doors. his eyes scanned for you, desperate, deranged, refusing to believe—

“sir,” the nurse said gently, “she didn’t make it.”

his heart stopped.

he stumbled into the room where they kept your body, untouched, still, and when he pulled back the sheet—

he collapsed.

“no,” he whispered, gripping your cold hand. “no, no, no, no, no. this isn’t— this isn’t how it ends. wake up. baby, please—” he shook. sobbed. screamed into your chest like it would bring you back.

but you never breathed again.

six months later

he didn’t touch his apartment. not even your toothbrush. your shoes still sat by the door. your coffee mug still rested on the windowsill. your scent — faint but present — still haunted the sheets. he refused to let anyone clean anything.

he quit his job.

what was the point?

he started walking at night. hours and hours, mind blank, waiting for exhaustion to swallow him whole. he talked to you. out loud. sometimes on street corners. sometimes at the cemetery, where your grave sat covered in your favorite flowers. sometimes on the balcony, where you used to watch sunsets.

he stopped laughing.

stopped smiling.

stopped seeing color.

“i didn’t mean it,” he’d whisper to the wind, voice breaking. “i didn’t mean any of it. you were everything. i was just scared.”

he stopped answering friends.

he deleted your number, but memorized it anyway.

he called it sometimes, just to hear your voicemail.

“hey, it’s me,” he’d say to the beep, voice trembling. “i saw that commercial you liked. you would’ve laughed so hard. i— i miss you. i’m sorry. i’ll always be sorry.”

he kept a picture of you in his wallet.

folded, creased, worn from fingers that touched it every night. some days he’d imagine what life would’ve been if he just turned around that night. if he hadn’t said those words. if he had listened. if he had held you. if he had said sorry.

you haunted him.

not the ghost kind.

the kind that lingered in quiet moments.

in the smell of your shampoo.

in the old voice memos.

in the way his heart still reached for you, even now.

he never dated again. never loved again. never even tried. because you were the only person he ever wanted to see. and he’d told you he didn’t want to. and fate, cruel and exact, listened.

GETO SUGURU

the air was heavy with the smell of early rain and city smoke, the kind of evening that felt unfinished — like something was waiting to be said. you stood under the gray sky with your arms crossed tight to your chest, and suguru stood across from you with that tired, worn expression, like he was already bracing for the worst.

“you forgot again,” you murmured, barely louder than the hush of cars passing behind you. he blinked, slow and distant, like he hadn’t quite heard. “forgot what?” you looked away, jaw tight. “my art show. it was today. i waited for you.”

there was a pause — long enough to bruise.

“shit,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, “i thought that was next week.”

you laughed. hollow. sharp. “you always think it’s next week.”

he looked at you then, really looked — and for a moment, he looked ashamed. but the wall went back up too quickly. it always did with him. he was too good at protecting what hurt. “i’ve been swamped with work,” he said, like it explained everything. “you know that.”

you turned to face him fully, eyes glinting beneath the streetlight, damp lashes trembling. “you’re always working, suguru. always somewhere else. i feel like i’m dating your shadow.”

he exhaled hard, ran a hand through his dark hair, gaze falling to the pavement. “i’m doing my best. this job— it’s not easy.”

“neither is loving someone who’s never really here.”

those words hit something. you saw it flicker in his expression — that small crack in the foundation. he looked up slowly, his voice a little sharper now. “so what, you’re blaming me for trying to build something stable? for trying to give us a future?”

“what future?” you asked. “one where i’m always waiting and you’re never coming home?”

“don’t twist it.”

“i’m not twisting anything. i’m lonely, suguru. i miss you even when you’re in the room.”

he went still.

then he laughed — bitter, tired, wrong.

“maybe we’ve outgrown each other,” he said softly. you stared at him, stunned silent. his next words were a whisper, like he hated them as they left his mouth. “maybe we’re better apart.”

you took a step forward, your voice trembling like wind-blown glass. “you don’t mean that.” he met your eyes. and this time, there was no anger. only something worse — resignation.

“i think i do.”

you swallowed hard, breath catching. “say it, then. if you want this to end, say it.”

and so he did.

“i don’t want to see you again.”

your heart cracked like the world had tilted.

and just like that —

he turned his back to you.

and walked away.

and you, still so foolish in love, stepped forward. just one step. just one more call of his name— you never made it across. the screech of tires split the quiet. a scream. a sharp thud. and then only silence.

he didn’t cry right away. not at the hospital. not at the funeral. not even when he kissed your forehead for the last time and felt the coldness seep into his bones. but he cried three days later, standing in the kitchen with two mugs in his hands — one yours. instinct, maybe. or hope. but your lips would never touch that cup again, and he crumbled right there, on the floor, hands shaking.

the grief did not come all at once. it came in waves.

in the quiet.

in the morning light that poured through your empty side of the bed. in the sound of your laugh from a video he couldn’t bring himself to delete.

he lived like a ghost of himself.

quiet. strange. slower.

he started talking to you like you were still around. “morning,” he’d whisper to the air, brushing his fingers over your pillow. “i saw someone today who looked like you.”

“i keep thinking i’ll see you walking home with that lopsided tote bag.”

he kept your lipstick on the windowsill.

your earrings in a dish by the sink.

your jacket still hanging by the door.

people told him he needed to let go. he never listened. he went to work. did his job. smiled when needed. but something in him had been buried with you. he stopped writing music.

stopped painting.

stopped dreaming.

and every year on the day he lost you, he would sit on the sidewalk where it happened. a small bouquet. your name whispered like a prayer. eyes searching the sky, as if you might still be in the clouds, watching.

“i didn’t mean it,” he says to the wind, year after year. “those words. that moment. if i could trade places with you, i would.” his heart, once full of poems and possibility, now only echoes with what-ifs and empty promises.

and true to his word—

he never saw you again.

not in dreams.

not in visions.

not even in passing strangers.

because sometimes, the cruelest part of love is that we don’t get to choose our last words. we only live with the ones we never got to take back.

NANAMI KENTO

you stood outside the station, the rain coming down like broken glass, your bag slung over your shoulder, and your heart barely stitched together. nanami stood in front of you, tall and tired, the collar of his coat soaked at the edges, eyes dim with something he refused to let show.

“you didn’t call,” you said quietly, voice catching in your throat. “you promised you would.”

he looked at you, unblinking. “i was working.”

“you’re always working, kento.”

“i have to.”

“no, you choose to.” you hugged yourself tighter, knuckles pale. “you choose your job. your schedule. your clients. you don’t choose me.” his jaw twitched, and he looked away for a moment. “you know it’s not that simple.”

you took a step closer, rain seeping into your shoes. “then explain it to me. help me understand why loving me always comes second.” he sighed, deep and worn. “i’m not young like you. i don’t get to drop everything for romance. i have responsibilities. deadlines. expectations.”

“and what am i, nanami?” you asked, voice breaking. “a weekend hobby? a luxury you squeeze into your planner when there’s nothing left to do?”

his silence hurt more than any answer.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, your hands trembling. “i waited for you at that little italian place. sat there like an idiot with a candle burning out.” he closed his eyes, rain dripping from his lashes. “i didn’t forget. i couldn’t leave the meeting. it was important.”

“more important than me?”

he didn’t answer.

and god, that was the answer.

“say it, kento. if you’re done, say it. if i’ve become another chore, say it and let me go.” he opened his mouth, hesitated—then, with a voice that cracked the world in two, “i don’t want to see you again.”

you flinched like he’d struck you.

he looked away. “you deserve someone with more time,” he added, quieter now. “someone who doesn’t disappoint you.” you shook your head slowly, eyes stinging. “but i don’t want someone else. i want you. even on your worst days. even when you’re tired. even when you forget.”

he turned his back.

and he walked away.

just like that. no final touch. no glance over the shoulder. and that’s when it happened.

you stepped off the curb too fast, still staring at the place where he used to be.

a shout.

a horn.

a metallic crash.

and the world blinked to white. they say it was instant. no pain. no time to speak. just silence and rain.

nanami got the call the next morning. his hands trembled, the receiver pressed too tightly to his ear. his coffee had gone cold on the table. he didn’t finish getting dressed that day.

at your funeral, he stood like stone. still. quiet. his eyes rimmed red, though no tears fell. he wasn’t the kind of man who cried where people could see. but he broke in the quiet. after that, everything dulled.

he went to work.

he ate his meals.

he paid his bills.

but he never bought another book. never returned to the coffee shop where you used to sit across from him, reading aloud the funny lines. never smiled without guilt biting at the edges. your number stayed in his phone. your toothbrush remained untouched. your side of the bed—cold. he would talk to you sometimes. in the mornings. in the silence. softly, like you might answer.

“you’d scold me for how much takeout i’m eating.”

“you always hated this tie.”

“i should’ve told you to wait. should’ve told you i didn’t mean it.”

his apartment became a museum of you. photos. receipts. your scarf on the coat hook. he couldn’t let go, because letting go meant accepting the truth. that his last words to you were a mistake. that he’d chosen work over love, and the cost was never seeing you smile again. he read the letter you left on the fridge a hundred times. “don’t forget about dinner tonight, love you.”

and he whispered to the quiet, every night before sleep—

“i’ll never forgive myself.”

because he didn’t just lose you. he buried the part of himself that believed love was enough. and true to his words, he never saw you again. not in dreams. not in crowds. not even in memory the way he wanted to.

only in the echo of your name, spoken too late, to the dark.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

the city never really slept, not this side of it anyway.

it was almost midnight when you finally caught up to him — the sharp sound of your boots echoing through the back alley behind the bar, neon lights flickering against the wet pavement. his motorcycle stood parked just beyond the fence, engine still warm, helmet hooked on the handlebar like he hadn’t decided whether to leave or not.

he turned when he heard you, cigarette hanging from his lips, jaw clenched like he’d been waiting for this — or maybe dreading it.

“you said you’d stop disappearing like this,” you said, voice steady despite the storm in your chest. toji exhaled slow, smoke curling upward. “figured you’d be asleep by now.”

“you said you’d be back by dinner.”

“yeah, well. i didn’t wanna argue.”

“so you just don’t come home at all?”

you stepped closer, arms wrapped around yourself like armor. the scent of gasoline and cold air clung to him. his eyes, always sharp, softened for half a second before hardening again.

“you know how i am, baby.”

“no,” you said quietly. “i don’t. because you never let me in. you disappear, you fight, you come back like nothing happened, and i’m supposed to just… smile? play house?” he shifted his weight, grinding the cigarette under his heel. “you knew what you were getting into with me.”

“i thought i did,” you whispered. “but i didn’t know it’d hurt this much.”

toji looked away, jaw ticking. “you deserve better.”

“don’t say that.”

“it’s true.”

“then be better, toji!”

the words echoed into the night, your voice trembling with all the weight you couldn’t carry anymore. “i can’t,” he said, and it was the quietest you’d ever heard him. “i don’t got that in me.”

“you do. you just won’t let yourself have anything good. you think you ruin everything, so you leave before it happens.”

“maybe,” he said, shrugging like it didn’t crack your chest in half. “but if i stay, you’ll hate me anyway.”

“i’ll hate you if you leave,” you said.

“because you keep choosing the easy way out. and i’m always the one left bleeding.” he moved toward the bike then, reaching for the helmet, eyes not meeting yours. “i don’t want to see you again,” he said.

you froze.

“…what?”

“i said i don’t want to see you again,” he repeated, harsher now, like it was the only way he knew how to kill something softly. “it’s better for both of us.” you stood still, eyes stinging. “you don’t mean that.”

“yeah,” he said, slinging a leg over the seat, engine purring to life. “i do.”

he didn’t look back when he pulled away.

he didn’t see you run after him. he didn’t hear your voice break behind him. he just turned the corner, disappearing like smoke.

and that’s when it happened.

your breath hitched as the headlights blinded you — a car, fast, too fast —

tires screeched. a sickening thud. then silence. like the whole city held its breath. your body lay still on the pavement, your phone still clutched in your palm.

he found out an hour later.

sirens. flashing lights. a phone call from a stranger who found your emergency contact. he dropped the helmet. sprinted through red lights. blood on the concrete. your name already fading into past tense. he wasn’t allowed to see you at the hospital. not until you were already gone.

his hands shook. he hadn’t cried in years, but that night, he did — loud and ugly in the hallway, fist through drywall, the taste of iron in his mouth. he’d told you he didn’t want to see you again. and now he never would.

toji never went back to that alley again.

he avoided the bar. he stopped sleeping in the bed you once shared. your picture stayed folded in his wallet, worn at the edges from the way his thumb kept brushing it. he still kept your old hoodie — the one with the faded print on the front and your perfume in the sleeves. on some nights, he wore it to sleep.

he started carrying a helmet for two. never used it. just kept it. sometimes he talked to the empty seat behind him on long rides.

“you’d laugh at me if you saw me now.”

“i should’ve stayed.”

“i didn’t mean it. fuck, i didn’t mean it.”

toji fushiguro, who never begged, now whispered your name like a prayer. but prayers don’t bring people back. not even the ones we love most. and just like his words, he never saw you again. and it ruined him forever.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you stand just off the gravel path, arms crossed tight around yourself, breath visible in the cold air. the red and gold leaves have long since fallen. the trees are bare now. and so is the truth.

sukuna leans against his black car, cigarette half-lit in his fingers, eyes on the fading sky. the sunset paints him in fire — but none of it reaches his chest. “you lied,” you say softly. no venom. just a hollow ache. a hurt that’s been carved into your ribs like a name on stone.

“i didn’t,” he says flatly.

you blink. once. twice. “you said you’d stay. that we were… building something. something real.” he exhales smoke and looks away. “things change.”

“no,” you shake your head, taking a step forward. “you changed. you started pulling away. you stopped coming home before midnight. you stopped talking to me unless i begged. is that what you wanted? for me to chase you like some pathetic girl hoping for scraps?”

“stop,” he mutters.

“i’m not going to stop,” you snap, voice finally cracking under the pressure of holding it all in. “you say you’re tired of me? well, i’m tired of feeling like a ghost in my own relationship!”

his jaw clenches, the fire in his eyes flickering like the fuse on a bomb.

“i never asked you to stay,” he says.

“you didn’t have to,” you breathe. “i wanted to. i chose to. and you— you took every piece of me and turned it into something disposable.”

silence. just the wind brushing against the trees. and the slow, cold collapse of everything you thought you could survive.

“look,” sukuna finally mutters, pushing off the car, voice low and lethal, “i don’t want to keep doing this. if this is what we’ve become, if this is what you’ve become — someone who wants to scream and cry and throw shit every time something gets hard — then maybe we shouldn’t keep pretending this is love.”

your throat tightens. “so you’re giving up.”

he doesn’t answer.

“say it,” you whisper. “don’t walk away this time, don’t leave without saying it.” he looks at you, then. really looks. and for a second — just a second — you see it. the ruin in his chest. the heartbreak he’ll never name. because if he does, he’ll fall apart.

“…i don’t want to see you again,” he says.

it’s almost gentle.

you step back, your world crumbling under your feet. “if you leave now,” you warn, voice trembling, “this is it. i won’t chase after you. i won’t call.” he lights another cigarette with a flick of his thumb, eyes hollow.

“good.”

then he turns. gets in the car. engine starts.

he doesn’t look back.

not even once.

you stand there long after the sound of tires fades. you wipe your tears before they freeze to your skin. you step forward, legs shaking, heart pounding like it’s screaming not to go—

you never see the other car. bright headlights. no time. a shattering crunch of metal. then quiet.

then nothing.

he finds out in the morning.

he hadn’t slept. he never does when he fights with you. not really. but he hadn’t turned around. not until someone called. not until the world stood still. they told him you died instantly. that there was a ring box in your coat pocket. he hadn’t seen it before.

now he wishes he had.

after you, sukuna doesn’t date. doesn’t smile. doesn’t laugh the way he used to. his apartment is cold. silent. like a museum for a life that never got to finish.

he buys your favorite tea. never drinks it. he leaves your contacts in his phone. never deletes them. on your birthday, he drives to the road where you died. sits on the edge of the cliff with a cigarette and stares down at the curve of the road below. he keeps asking the wind, “why the fuck didn’t i stay?”

he dreams of your voice. he dreams of the way you laughed with your whole body. he dreams of how you’d lean into his chest at night like he was safe. like he was someone worth loving.

and every morning he wakes up, it hits him all over again. he said he didn’t want to see you again. and now he never will. and for someone who never believed in punishment, he lives every day like it’s hell.

SHIU KONG

he’s never one for public scenes. not shiu kong. always measured, always cold with his kindness — like a man who keeps even his warmth under lock and key. but tonight is different.

you’re standing outside a high-rise bar in roppongi. past midnight. your heels ache. your throat’s raw. the city’s pulsing behind you — full of strangers who’ll never know the ache of your name in his mouth.

the rain’s just started, soft and unhurried, like the sky can feel the ending too. “you don’t even look at me anymore,” you say, voice trembling as you hold your coat tighter. “it’s like i don’t even exist unless i’m behind your door or in your bed.”

shiu sighs. slow. practiced. his hands stay in his pockets like he’s afraid of what he’ll do if they don’t. “you know how i work,” he says, eyes flicking to the ground. “you knew from the beginning. this job, this life— it was never going to be simple.”

“i never wanted simple,” you spit, stepping closer. “i just wanted you.”

he doesn’t flinch. just exhales, tired.

“you’re young,” he says quietly. “you still think love means burning the house down just to feel the heat.” your jaw clenches. “and you? you think love is pretending it doesn’t hurt to watch the person you care about beg for scraps?” his silence is louder than traffic.

you laugh bitterly, blinking against the rain. “i loved you, shiu. i loved you. and you— you loved your job. your image. your goddamn quiet.” he looks up finally. and for a moment, something falters in those sharp, tired eyes.

“don’t do this,” he says lowly. “not here.” you shake your head. “why? because people might see you crack? because the big, composed man might fall apart over some girl who loved him too hard?”

he swallows. hard. “you don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“no,” you whisper, voice breaking. “you just don’t understand what you’re losing.” he says nothing. just stands there, like he’s frozen in place, like he knows that if he moves — even slightly — he’ll say something he can’t take back.

but he doesn’t move. he never does.

and maybe that’s the problem. you take a step back, shaking. the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like heartbreak anymore — it feels like finality. “say something,” you plead, voice barely there. “say anything.”

he hesitates.

“…i don’t want to see you again.”

he says it with no venom. no hate. just that quiet, cold steel he always wears. and he turns. just like that. into the streetlight, into the mist, into the part of your life that will never come back. you watch him walk away. you don’t follow. you cross the street blindly, barely seeing the headlights, barely hearing the tires screech—

a sudden flash.

a dull crack.

and then, stillness.

you don’t even feel it when your body hits the pavement.

shiu doesn’t sleep that night.

he pours himself a drink in his high-rise apartment, watching the lights of tokyo bleed into the windows. he thinks about calling. about saying sorry. but he’s not the kind of man who apologizes for being exactly what he warned you he was.

the call comes at 4:16 a.m.

the voice on the line is grim. he doesn’t speak for a long while after they hang up. he just stares at the window, at the half-empty glass in his hand, at the last message you sent hours before — still unread.

“just let me in.”

he keeps reading it.

again.

until his eyes blur.

he doesn’t go to the funeral.

he sends flowers — white lilies, with no name on the card. but he keeps your photo on his desk. he keeps the voice message you once sent when you were drunk and laughing and calling him “your grumpy old man” like it was the sweetest thing in the world.

he never deletes it.

sometimes, when the nights are too quiet, he plays it just to hear you laugh. and every time he closes his eyes, he remembers your voice in the rain. you loved him like it was a promise. he left you like it was a habit. and now the rain never quite feels the same. because he said he didn’t want to see you again.

and he got his wish.

HIGURUMA HIROMI

the argument starts in his office. glass walls. cold lighting. your reflection shaking in every polished surface. you came to bring him lunch. again. like always. you always come. and he always forgets to eat. and that’s how this began — with your love, simple and ordinary, clashing against the weight of his silence.

“you’re not even listening to me,” you say, placing the paper bag down harder than you mean to.

hiromi barely looks up from his desk. “i am.”

“no,” you whisper, “you’re hearing. not listening.”he sighs, finally leaning back in his chair, dark circles under his eyes like bruises. “what do you want me to say?”

you shake your head, stepping away from the desk. “something. anything. do you know how hard it is to be in love with someone who’s always somewhere else? always buried in cases, in guilt, in the past?”

his jaw clenches. “this job isn’t something i can just leave at the door.”

“and i’m not someone you should treat like a ghost,” you snap, eyes glassy. “i’ve been here. showing up. loving you through your silence. and you… you just disappear into it.” he rises slowly, suit perfect, eyes unreadable. “i never asked you to stay.” and the room drops into coldness. so sudden. so final.

“what?” your voice cracks.

“i didn’t ask you to stay,” he repeats, slower this time, quieter. “you chose this. and now you want to make me feel guilty for not being the man you built in your head.”

“no,” you whisper, breathless. “i wanted you. all of you. not a fantasy. not a perfect man. just you. and you can’t even give me that.”

he doesn’t answer. you wait. nothing.

so you laugh, soft and broken, backing away toward the door. “i hope your court never stops needing you, hiromi,” you say bitterly, “because i’m done waiting for a verdict that’s never coming.” you leave before the tears fall. you leave before he can see the way your hands shake. and he lets you. he watches the door shut and tells himself he’s doing the right thing.

he always tells himself that.

the accident happens two hours later. just outside the train station. wrong place. wrong time. someone running a red light. a body thrown too far. a phone crushed in your hand with your last unsent message:

“can we talk?”

when hiromi gets the call, he’s reviewing a case file. he thinks it’s a mistake. thinks it’s a sick joke. he keeps reading the sentence on the paper in front of him five times before realizing he hasn’t understood a word.

he doesn’t cry.

not that day.

not the day after.

he doesn’t attend your funeral either — says it’s to avoid attention. but the truth is simpler: he can’t face what he did. he can’t look at the hole he left in your life and pretend it’s just grief. it’s guilt. and it eats him from the inside.

weeks pass.

he stops shaving. stops replying to his colleagues. stops arguing in court the way he used to.

they say he’s changed. that something cracked in him. he doesn’t correct them. every night, he comes home to silence. he pours two glasses of wine out of habit, but always drinks alone. your toothbrush is still in the bathroom. your jacket still on the hook.

he never moves them.

he reads your old texts like scripture. listens to a voicemail you left one rainy evening, laughing about some café you wanted to take him to. he never got to go. he never said yes.

and every time he sees the empty space beside him in bed, he thinks:

“i said i didn’t ask her to stay.”

but god, he wishes he had. he wishes he had told you — that he loved you. that he was scared. that you made the world bearable.

but he didn’t.

and now, the only verdict left is this; you never saw him again.

just like he said.

#gojo angst #suguru geto angst #gojo x reader

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sinnaminttoast · 14 days ago

Text

operation: get over your childhood crush! — gojo satoru

synopsis. in an attempt to move on from your childhood best friend—who definitely doesn’t see you the way you want—you hatch a series of plans to help you get over him. it doesn't go as planned.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, nerd!gojo, college au, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining, unreliable narrator, miscommunication, insecurity, dorky references bc u make him go dumb and digimon inaccuracies probably

notes. i did not proofread this monster!! enjoy :P

The hum of the air conditioning fills the room as night settles in, the light from Satoru’s bedside lamp casting a soft glow over his mess of a room. You’re both sprawled out across his bed, limbs entangled like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Because, for the two of you, it is.

Satoru’s Nintendo Switch is balanced on his stomach, hands lazily tapping away as his little Digimon charges into battle on screen. You’re curled into his side, one leg hooked around his and a blanket thrown haphazardly across you both. The half-abandoned textbooks sit at the edge of the mattress, tragically ignored. Another study session: failed. Not that Satoru needed it. He passed everything with flying colors. It was more of an excuse for you to come over.

“Your room still smells like that cheap vanilla air freshener,” you mumble, nose scrunching.

“That’s because you bought it,” he replies without looking up, thumb expertly guiding his character through an attack.

“Because your room would end up stinking with sweat and whatever freaky stuff you do in here.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I shower everyday and you know it. The stink is all you. Have you ever sniffed yourself, princess?”

You swat at his stomach, and he lets out a dramatic grunt. “Rude. I brought that candle to add ambiance.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans, “nothing like artificial sugar scent.’”

You snort, settling your head back down on his shoulder, the fabric of his hoodie soft beneath your cheek. There’s a long pause before you say, “You know, if we fail our exams, I’m blaming your Digimon addiction.”

He grins. “I’m raising digital warriors, thank you very much. And I’ve never failed an exam, don’t wound me now!”

“They look like mutant toddlers with attitude problems.”

He gasps, clutching his heart. “They’re champions, you monster.”

You laugh, letting the sound dissolve into something quieter as your fingers absentmindedly trace a pattern into the blanket. His hand rests near yours. Not holding it. Not not holding it.

His glasses are tilted again. Of course.

You reach up and straighten them with a sigh. “Honestly, you’d be lost without me.”

“Not true.” He says it reflexively, then pauses. His voice softens. “Okay, maybe. I’d probably just let them slide down until I walked into a wall.”

You smile faintly. “And there’d be no one there to patch you up.”

“Tragic,” he agrees. “Would bleed out on the floor, probably.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re so bossy,” he counters, shooting you a sideways look.

“Admit it,” he says, voice full of faux-smugness, “you’d miss me if I died tragically and left you all alone.”

You hesitate for a second too long before mumbling, “Don’t joke about that.”

It’s quiet. The game music loops in the background as his Digimon wins the battle with a triumphant fanfare.

He doesn’t say anything.

You suddenly feel too warm under the blanket. The joke had been harmless, stupid even.

But something inside you twists, the same something that’s been unraveling lately every time he mentions another girl.

Another type. That’s not you.

“You know,” you say slowly, eyes peeling from the screen to his phone, which lights up with a notification, revealing one of his favorite gravure model’s latest issues as its wallpaper. “You could probably date any girl you wanted. Why do you partake in freak stuff like this? It’s anti-girl repellent.”

He makes a noncommittal sound. “Doubt it.”

“I don’t. You’ve got that whole genius-who-doesn’t-realize-he’s-hot thing going on.”

He glances at you, skeptical. “Is that a thing?”

“It is. Annoying, but effective. Girls love it.”

He hums, clearly amused, cheeks slightly flushed. “Well, good to know I have options.”

You try to laugh, but it catches in your throat.

You shouldn’t ask. You really shouldn’t.

But you’re lying in his bed. Wrapped up in him like you belong here. And some part of you aches to know the answer.

So you pretend it’s a joke. You tilt your head against his shoulder, voice airy, teasing. “Hey, be honest—do you think I’m cute?”

He goes still.

His hand tightens slightly on the Switch. You think you’ve pushed too far, so you try to backpedal before he can respond.

“Not like… like that,” you say quickly. “I just meant, like, in general. Compared to those girls you’re into. Say, Waka Inoue. You know, long legs, shiny hair, cute face?”

His jaw tightens.

You’re still trying to play it off. “I mean, I’m not fishing for compliments. I just—was wondering.”

He finally turns to look at you.

His gaze lingers. And for the first time all night, he’s not smiling.

You feel your breath stutter in your throat underneath his gaze.

Then he shrugs.

“…Nah.”

It slices through the air with quiet finality.

Your heart drops. You don’t let it show. Not fully. But it must flicker in your face, because he quickly looks away.

You laugh. It sounds forced.

“Yeah, that’s fair. I mean, I wasn’t expecting a yes or anything.”

He’s silent.

You shift away from him slightly, giving him space. “I should head home soon. We didn’t really get any studying done, anyway.”

“It’s late. Why don’t you stay the night?”

Usually, you’d accept his offer with a smile, but you really wanted to go home and wallow in your own self pity.

“It’s fine, I have something to do anyway,” the lie slips out of your mouth easily as you begin to pack your things.

And you miss the way he watches you—guilt in his eyes, frustration on his tongue.

You knew it was time. Twenty years of hopeless, fruitless pining had done enough damage to your heart.

It had started the day your parents moved next door. Satoru had been the loud, obnoxious, too-pretty-for-his-own-good boy on the playground who shoved candy in your hand and asked if you wanted to be friends.

You’d been doomed since day one.

And to make things worse, you’d both gotten into Japan’s most competitive university—together. Same neighborhood. Same school. Same train route. You weren’t just stuck with him. You were haunted.

But you were young and hot. And allegedly in your prime. You couldn’t keep orbiting around a guy who still thought microwave gyoza was a food group and used your shampoo because it “smelled like you, so why not?”

You were sipping coffee with your two closest friends, and today’s topic was—unfortunately—your love life.

“Honestly, I can’t believe you’ve been stuck on Gojo for this long,” Utahime said, disgusted, as she stirred her latte like it personally offended her. “You could do so much better.”

“It was kind of cute in high school,” Shoko added “but now it’s just sad.”

You sighed, blowing on your drink. “I know, okay? It’s not like I haven’t tried. But he’s literally the only guy I’ve ever been close to. I don’t even talk to guys besides him.”

“That’s because he’s been gatekeeping you since the two of you met,” Utahime said flatly. “I swear, every time someone so much as glanced at you, he pulled that overprotective act.”

You wrinkled your nose. “That doesn’t sound like ’Toru…”

Shoko and Utahime exchanged a look. One of those knowing glances.

Utahime cleared her throat. “It doesn’t matter! What matters is you are hot. You’ve got the face, the body, the grades, the personality. You just need the confidence.”

You peeked up at her, unsure. “You really think so?”

Utahime leaned forward, smirking like she’d just won a war. “I know so. And that’s why I’ve come up with a plan.”

You narrowed your eyes. “A plan?”

She slammed her hands down on the table, eyes alight. “Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru.”

You blinked. “That’s… a long title.”

Shoko blew a slow stream of smoke. “It’s either this or pine until you die and haunt him as a love-sick ghost.”

You stared into your cup, sighing. “Fine. I’m in. What’s step one?”

Utahime grinned.

“Whatcha doing?”

Gojo’s voice drifts lazily over your shoulder, followed by the soft rustle of his hoodie as he leans in. He’s far too close, obnoxiously so, his breath tickling your ear and his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder.

You don’t even glance up. “Studying.”

The two of you are supposed to be studying— finals loom overhead like a guillotine, but as usual, very little academic progress has been made. Mostly because your study partner is a six-foot-something genius who insists on sitting sideways in the booth, long legs tangled in yours under the table like it’s second nature.

He hums, skeptical. “Liar.”

You hum noncommittally, thumbing through the dating app Utahime suggested with vague disinterest. The guys blur together: not tall enough, too cocky, too bland, too not Satoru. One makes a joke suspiciously close to a Gojo classic, and you immediately hit unmatch with a scowl.

“Wait,” Satoru says slowly. “Are you on a dating app?!” He practically yells the last part. Half the cafe turns to glare at the source of the disruption.

You hiss under your breath, mortified, swatting at him. “Keep your voice down, idiot!”

His eyes widen dramatically, hands thrown up like you’ve stabbed him. “I leave you alone for two minutes and you’re already planning a life with someone named ‘Keita, aspiring poet and spiritual healer’? I’m wounded.”

“You weren’t supposed to read that far.”

“I’m a speed-reader,” he says with a smug grin. “It’s part of the whole ‘genius’ thing.”

Before you can argue, he snatches your phone with a level of ease that tells you this isn’t the first time he’s done something like this. He grins like he’s won a prize.

“Satoru!”

“Relax, I’m not texting anyone,” he says, fingers flying across the screen. “Just optimizing.”

Your heart drops. “What are you typing?”

“Nothing~”

You make a grab for your phone, but he effortlessly leans back, holding it above his head with those ridiculously long limbs. You glare at him from across the table, arm outstretched like a furious cat trying to swat at the moon.

“Give it back!”

“Patience.”

“Gojo Satoru—”

“Okay, okay!” he relents with a dramatic sigh, finally placing your phone face-down on the table like he’s done you a huge favor.

You snatch it up immediately, eyes scanning for damage. No weird messages. No unsolicited likes. No new matches.

“…What did you do?”

“I didn’t message anyone,” he assures, too innocent to be trusted. “I’m not that cruel.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

“But,” he adds with a grin, “I didn’t know you were dating.”

“I’m not,” you mutter, clicking your phone off. “Just considering it. Trying. It’s not going well.”

“Good.”

The word comes out too fast. Too sharp. And his face doesn’t match the light tone he’s trying to play off.

You raise an eyebrow. “Good?”

He shifts, leaning back in his seat, suddenly very interested in stirring the foam in his overpriced coffee. “I mean, it’s good you’re not settling. You should be picky. Guys are the worst.”

You snort. “You are a guy.”

“Exactly. I know what we’re like.”

You smile despite yourself, rolling your eyes. “I’m sure you think you’re the exception.”

“I know I am,” he says, winking. Then he sobers slightly, eyes flickering to yours. “I’m just… looking out for you.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. You wish it was more than just him being protective in that big-brotherly, annoyingly loyal kind of way.

You take a sip of your coffee to cool your nerves. It doesn’t help. The words come out before you can stop them.

“You know with the way things are going… maybe you should just date me at this point.”

Silence.

It’s a joke. Supposed to be. But the second it leaves your lips, it tastes real.

Gojo freezes.

You panic. “I didn’t mean—like, I was just joking—”

But he turns toward you, eyes unreadable behind the fringe of snowy white hair. “Maybe I should.”

You blink.

And then, with infuriating ease, he grins.

“Anyway,” he says quickly, swiping your phone from the table again before you can stop him, “Yuto here looks like the type to ghost you after three dates and a karaoke duet. You can do better.”

You gape at him, completely thrown off, your heart slamming in your chest.

You don’t even notice what he’s done until later—until you get home and open your app to find that your bio has been changed.

Taken. Mentally married to a nerd since birth.

You want to scream.

Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru?

Yeah. Not going great.

Not at all.

You weren’t sure why you agreed to it.

Maybe it was the look in Utahime’s eyes, so determined and hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she would help you find true love. Maybe it was the quiet part of you that wanted to see yourself through someone else’s eyes. Someone who wasn’t Gojo Satoru.

“Today,” Utahime had declared, curling the last strand of your hair like she was threading a spell, “is the first day of your Gojo-less future”

You laughed nervously, tugging at the hem of your skirt. It wasn’t your usual style—not the dewy makeup you weren’t used to seeing in the mirror, not the new haircut that made your eyes look almost too bright, not the blouse that left your shoulders bare in a way that made you feel strangely noticed.

But when you caught your reflection, your heart fluttered. You looked beautiful.

When you stepped onto campus, the sun was out, the wind teasing your hair. You spotted him immediately—Gojo, slouched against the wall outside your lecture hall, nose buried in his Switch as he muttered something under his breath about evolving stats and attack modifiers.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Then he looked up.

His game froze mid-battle. His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, like someone had unplugged his brain.

“Wha—” he said eloquently. “Wh—what did you do.”

You blinked. “Hi to you too.”

He stared, unabashed. His glasses were slightly crooked, his ears glowing scarlet. He looked like someone had just told him Digimon was real and living in your shoes.

He blinked. “You look like… like you skipped two evolution stages overnight. Straight to Mega. Like if Angewomon fused with… I don’t know, some kind of rare, limited-release goddess-type Digimon that only spawns on a lunar eclipse.”

You blinked.

Utahime’s voice in your head: You’re hot. Unstoppable. He’s going to be speechless.

And Gojo was. But not in the way you wanted.

You tried to laugh. “So I look like a cartoon?”

“A beautiful cartoon,” he said, serious now. “Like the kind of boss character they only show for two frames because animating her costs too much.”

Your heart stuttered. It was the sort of compliment only Gojo could give: clumsy and dorky, yet brilliant in its own way.

But the moment passed.

He rubbed the back of his neck and looked away, sunglasses slipping slightly as he muttered, “You just… you look different. That’s all.”

Different.

Not better. Not prettier.

Just different.

You swallowed. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d try something new.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” he added quickly, but the words felt unsure. Flimsy.

“I should… use the restroom,” you mumbled, turning before he could say anything else.

In the bathroom, you stared at your reflection. Your lipstick looked too bold now. Your lashes too heavy. Despite the change, you were still painfully you— the you Gojo teased during study sessions, the one he let borrow his hoodie when it rained, the one who sat next to him during endless all-nighters. And maybe that was the problem. You weren’t like those girls on the magazines.

What you didn’t see, what you couldn’t see, was Gojo still standing outside the lecture hall, staring after you, Switch forgotten, game over screen blinking on the screen.

He didn’t even notice.

“You good, Satoru?” Shoko asked, walking by.

He blinked. “I think I just saw my best friend… and my final boss… and my future wife… all at once.”

Shoko snorted. “You’re a dork.”

Gojo just sighed, shoulders slumping as he muttered, “I’m so doomed.”

It’s a mild Friday evening when you meet him—Kazuya, the guy from your psychology class. He’s polite, articulate, and kind of cute. The kind of guy who asks if you prefer cats or dogs before ordering his drink, and actually listens when you answer.

Utahime and Shoko had insisted you say yes. “A change of pace,” they called it. “You need a baseline. Not every guy is going to be Gojo Satoru.”

Exactly. That was the point.

You’re sipping a matcha latte and nodding along as Kazuya explains his thesis on cognitive development when a very familiar voice cuts through the air.

“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your stomach drops. You look up, and sure enough—

Satoru.

In all his tall, obnoxiously eye-catching glory, wearing a white t-shirt that was inside out and a grin like he just won the lottery. He's holding a bottle of ramune and standing directly next to your table, like he’s been there the whole time.

You blink. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “Thirsty. Wanted a drink.”

“At this café? On this side of campus?”

“Yeah,” he says, tone innocent. “Weird coincidence, huh?”

Kazuya offers a polite smile. “You’re her friend, right? Gojo?”

“Oh, best friend. Lifelong. Practically her shadow.” He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking, casually tossing his ramune onto the table. “What’s your name again? Kaname?”

“…Kazuya.”

“Right, right. I always mix those up. You look like a Kaname, though. Or maybe a Yusuke.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “Satoru—”

But he’s already leaning over, squinting at the book tucked under Kazuya’s arm. “Ooh, Piaget. Bold move. Love that for you.”

Kazuya blinks. “Do you… like developmental theory?”

“I like being correct,” Gojo says with a cheeky smile. “Also, [Name] hates Piaget. She called him ‘the Freud of toddlers’ last semester.”

Kazuya turns to you in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I—I mean, yeah,” you mumble. “Sort of.”

Gojo beams. “Told you.”

Kazuya makes a valiant effort to steer the conversation back to safe, neutral ground.

“So, you mentioned you're interested in behaviorism, right?” he says, offering a gentle smile. “I thought Dr. Takeda's lecture on conditioned responses was kind of fascinating—”

“Oh, riveting,” Satoru cuts in, lounging back in his chair like he owns the café. “Nothing like bonding over Pavlov’s dogs to spark romance. Did she tell you she cried during Inside Out because the depiction of core memories was ‘psychologically resonant’? Real charmer, this one.”

You shoot Satoru a look. “I was twelve!”

Kazuya blinks, trying not to smile. “I actually thought that was pretty moving, too.”

“Wow,” Satoru deadpans. “A match made in neuroscience.”

Kazuya laughs politely and continues, undeterred. “So, uh, any research plans after graduation?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Satoru beats you to it again.

“She used to want to be a vet. Cried when she had to dissect a frog in middle school. Tragic day.”

“Is that true?” Kazuya turns to you, amused now.

“Technically, yes,” you mutter into your drink.

By the time your cup is empty, you realize you’ve laughed more at Satoru’s interjections than you have at anything Kazuya’s said. Not because Kazuya wasn’t interesting—he was. He was calm, thoughtful, well-read, and clearly trying. But next to Satoru, whose entire presence seemed impossible to ignore, Kazuya didn’t stand a chance.

Still, to his credit, Kazuya maintains a steady, if slightly strained, expression as he sets down his cup and finally says, carefully,

“So… is Gojo your boyfriend?”

The question hangs awkwardly.

You and Satoru answer at the same time.

“No,” you say quickly.

“Yes,” he says with a smile.

You both turn to stare at each other.

“I mean—no,” he corrects, waving his hands. “Just a joke. Hah. Obviously.”

Kazuya blinks. “Right.”

You can’t meet either of their eyes. Your drink is finished, your palms are damp, and the café is suddenly too warm, too small. You push back your chair and stand.

“I should go. Early lab meeting tomorrow.” It’s the weakest excuse, but neither of them calls you on it.

Kazuya stands too, polite as ever. “Thanks for meeting up. You seem like a really cool person.” He hesitates, then adds, gently, “I just think maybe you’ve already got someone.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it again. There’s nothing to say.

Outside, the cold air kisses your cheeks like a reminder. It stings a little, or maybe that’s just the confusion burning in your chest.

Satoru’s already waiting for you. Of course he is. He’s leaning against the lamppost, silver hair catching in the wind. But his eyes are downcast, trained on the sidewalk.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Neither do you.

You exhale, watching your breath curl white in the air. “You didn’t have to crash it, y’know.”

“I didn’t crash,” he replies without looking at you. “I was invited.”

“By who?”

“Fate. Karma. The gods of poor decision-making.” He shrugs.

You roll your eyes, but it tugs a laugh from you anyway. Stupid, annoying, charming Gojo.

“So,” he says after a beat, nudging your arm gently with his elbow, “how’d it go?”

You glance at him. He still won’t meet your gaze. His lips are pursed like he’s holding back a hundred words and none of them are funny.

“He was nice,” you admit. Despite being rudely interrupted by the white haired idiot beside you.

“Nice is boring,” he mutters, kicking at a loose stone on the pavement.

You laugh, soft and tired. “You’re the worst.”

He finally looks at you then, lips quirking into that smug, too-knowing smile. “But you like me anyway.”

You look away, cheeks burning, heart thudding like a traitor in your chest.

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

Despite Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru failing in every imaginable way, things were starting to feel bearable.

Almost good, even.

Satoru still hovered a little too close, always with that same half-smile like he knew something you didn’t. And maybe, just maybe— his constant sabotage, the teasing, the jealousy, the way he looked at you like he was about to say something important but never did. Maybe it all meant something.

You let yourself believe it, just a little.

And that was your first mistake.

It happens quietly, without fanfare or warning. Just a throwaway line between sips of lukewarm coffee and the soft shuffle of paper. You’re both at your usual spot in the library, surrounded by open notebooks and highlighted packets, pretending to study more than you actually are.

You’re halfway through underlining a term in your psychology notes when Satoru leans back in his chair, stretches like a cat, and says far too casually:

“So, guess who asked me out?”

You hum absentmindedly. “Who?”

“Ayane.”

The name hits you like a slap.

You freeze, highlighter paused mid-sentence. “…Ayane? From the biochem track?”

“Yeah,” he says, practically glowing. “You know her, right? She's in your study group sometimes.”

You do know her. Of course you do. Everyone knows her.

She’s beautiful, with this effortless, clean kind of elegance—long legs, perfect posture, and that quiet, poised confidence that makes professors adore her and guys fall over themselves. The kind of girl who posts one blurry bookshelf photo and still racks up a thousand likes. The kind of girl Gojo always jokes about marrying.

But he’s not joking now. He’s beaming.

“She asked me out to dinner this Friday. She’s so smart, too. I didn’t even have to pretend to know what quantum entanglement was. It’s wild.” He laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “I thought she’d never go for a guy like me, y’know?”

You force a laugh. “A guy like you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. Too much, I guess? But she said I was ‘refreshing.’” He grins.

Your stomach sinks.

This is what you thought you wanted—for him to move on, so you could finally do the same. For Operation: Get Over Gojo Satoru to succeed, for real this time.

But now that it’s happening, it feels like someone’s slowly pulling your ribs apart.

“Oh,” you manage, smiling like you’ve practiced it. “That’s great. I’m happy for you.”

He doesn’t notice the way your voice cracks on happy. He just keeps talking, rambling about restaurant reservations and how she likes contemporary poetry and used to live in France. You nod in all the right places, but your thoughts are already slipping away.

Because it isn’t just that he’s going out with someone else.

It’s that he chose her.

Her with her flawless skin and quiet charm and the kind of beauty that doesn’t need to try. Her, with everything you’re not. And more than that, it’s that he made you believe you could have meant more to him, when really, he’d been searching for someone else all along.

You excuse yourself early, mumbling something about laundry.

He doesn’t follow.

You don’t cry until you’re halfway home, the cold air biting at your cheeks as your vision blurs.

For the first time in years, you don’t text him goodnight.

You don’t wait for a meme. Or a dumb joke. Or his usual, “Hey, genius. Sleep.”

You go silent.

And when he texts the next day, you don’t reply.

You skip your library meet-up. You don’t sit next to him in class. You even duck into the stairwell when you see his ridiculous white hair from across campus.

It’s not because you’re mad. It’s because you’re heartbroken.

And you can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter—that he doesn’t matter.

You weren’t just losing your best friend.

You were losing the love of your life.

And he didn’t even notice.

It takes him three days to notice you’re gone.

Well—no. That’s a lie.

He notices immediately. The moment your usual seat in the library stays empty. When your laugh doesn’t echo in the café line. When your name doesn’t pop up on his screen at 2AM with some stupid meme captioned, “this reminded me of you, idiot.”

But he tells himself you’re busy.

Midterms, right? Stress. Coffee. You get like this sometimes, and he gets it. He really does.

So he waits. Tells himself not to be clingy.

But then Friday comes.

And he's sitting across from Ayane in some expensive, quiet restaurant where the napkins are folded like origami cranes and the water tastes filtered. She’s telling him about her research internship in Osaka, about enzymes and international grants, and all he can think is—

You’d be making fun of me right now.

You’d be kicking him under the table. Whispering some dumb pun about digimon. You’d be pulling faces every time he tried to pronounce the items on the menu. You’d be you.

Ayane is lovely.

But she doesn’t laugh when he says something stupid. She just smiles politely.

She doesn’t ask about why his glasses are always crooked (it’s so you could fix them). Doesn’t tease him for double-knotting his laces like a paranoid grandma. Doesn’t call him “Sato” like it’s some private joke only the two of you get.

He walks her home. Thanks her for a nice evening.

Then he goes to the convenience store. Alone.

And he sees your favorite snack on the shelf and buys two out of habit.

He stares at his phone the entire train ride back.

No new messages.

Just the last one you sent days ago:

“Laundry. Rain check?”

And nothing since.

He waits. Another day. Then two.

You don’t show up to class again.

You don’t like his latest meme.

You don’t comment on the Digimon pun he texted you out of desperation.

You are silent.

And Satoru Gojo—brilliant, blind-sighted, the golden boy of theoretical physics, always five steps ahead realizes, too late, that he’s been a fool.

That he didn’t just lose a study partner.

He lost the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

The one person he couldn’t replace with rare Digimon pulls, half-solved physics equations, or overly sweet desserts.

And for the first time since he was a kid—

He’s afraid.

It’s been a little over a week.

A little over a week since Gojo Satoru has heard your voice. Since you shoved your coffee at him without asking, muttering “too sweet for me” when you really meant “I got this for you.” Since you poked fun at his stupid sock choices, or knocked your foot against his under the table like it was nothing.

And Satoru is suffering.

He's tried everything. Showed up to your house with excuses too weak to be called plans (“Hey, I brought your favorite snacks. I just... figured maybe you forgot you liked them?”). Waited outside your lecture hall until a security guard asked if he was lost. Took detours between classes hoping to catch a glimpse of your ponytail, your laugh, anything.

But you were always one step ahead.

You stopped answering his texts. Blocked him on that stupid dating app (which—ouch, even though you hadn’t used it seriously). You didn’t even show up to the library anymore. And even Shoko started looking at him with thinly veiled pity and a you really fumbled the bag look in her eyes.

Gojo Satoru is just tired.

Miserable.

So when he finally finds you—not because he’s chasing you down this time, but because he’s walking the long way home, and there you are, sitting on the old swings at the park where you first met—it knocks the wind out of him.

You don’t look surprised to see him. Just tired too.

“I figured you’d find me eventually,” you say quietly.

He swallows. His hands curl at his sides like he’s preparing for a fight.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, like it isn’t obvious. “Why?”

You look away. “You’re smart. Figure it out.”

Gojo looks down at his feet.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.”

Silence stretches between you, heavy and stinging. The playground is empty except for the wind dragging a soda can down the sidewalk and the faint creak of the swing chain.

Then he exhales, ragged and unsure. “Look, I can’t—I can’t take this anymore.”

You glance up.

“I can’t either.”

Hope flares too fast, too naive in his chest. His shoulders drop like he’s been holding up the world. “That’s good,” he breathes, stepping forward. “Because the silent treatment— God, I thought I was going to—”

“I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”

The words stop him cold.

“What?” he breathes.

You laugh, but it’s hollow. Like something already broken. “Don’t you get it? I can’t be friends with you and pretend that nothing’s changed. That I’m okay just being your best friend. I’ve been in love with you for years, Satoru.”

His heart stutters. You don’t stop.

“And I love myself too much to keep hurting for someone who doesn’t even look at me that way.” Your voice cracks, but you push through. “Do you know how humiliating it feels? To love someone so much it aches, and still feel like you’ll never be enough?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your jacket, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You never even thought I was cute.”

He looks like he’s been hit.

“I’ve been chasing scraps. Leftovers. Mixed signals and stupid inside jokes. I—I can’t do it anymore.”

You finally meet his eyes, and that’s when he sees it: the hurt you’ve been hiding behind every smile, every brush-off, every joke you cracked to keep the silence from swallowing you.

And for once, Gojo Satoru can’t find a single thing to say.

Not yet.

Not until he stops you from walking away.

“Where did you get an idea like that?” His cerulean eyes search yours desperately. “I-I don’t think you’re just cute, are you kidding?” he blurts, eyes wild.

“Y-you’re breathtaking! Everything I’ve dreamt of and more! That night when you asked me if I thought you were cute, I only said no because it would be a divine crime to reduce to such. All of my fantasies have been centered around you since we first met on that playground—since you tripped over your shoelaces trying to race me to the monkey bars!”

Your breath catches.

He continues, desperate now, like every second of silence might kill him.

“I love you! And not like a brother. Like—I want to marry you. Like, small wedding in Okinawa, barefoot on the beach, you wearing that soft blue dress you like. I already planned it. Our firstborn would be a daughter, with your eyes, my hair. She’d be the boss of the house.”

You gape.

“Wait—”

“I’m not done!” he says, hands thrown up. “Then we’d have twins. Boys. Chaos gremlins. One would look like my twin and the other yours, and they’d absolutely terrorize us—but their sister keeps them in check, she’s fierce like you.”

You blink. A tear slides down your cheek.

“I want to move to Kyoto,” he says, softer now. “Buy a house with a dumb little garden. Grow tomatoes we’ll never eat. Live out the rest of our lives where it’s quiet.”

You cover your mouth, stunned. “You… really thought all that out?”

“It’s easy,” he breathes, “when all I can think about is you.”

He steps closer. The wind tugs his white hair into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink.

“I go to study nonlinear quantum field theory and all I see is your face. I try to cool off and play Digimon, and even that’s ruined—my lineup is garbage now! I only keep the ones you said were cute!”

A laugh bubbles out of you, fragile and watery.

“You idiot,” you murmur.

“I am,” he nods solemnly. “I’m the world’s biggest idiot. And I’m in love with you.”

Another tear slips down. He wipes it away before you can.

“Is it too late?” he asks, voice cracking slightly. “Please tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him, this man, this brilliant, ridiculous boy who had held your heart long before you ever admitted it.

“It’s not too late,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps closer. Gently and carefully, like he's handling something sacred, he cups your cheek in his hand.

Your nose bumps his. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“I’ve been waiting to do this for years,” he whispers.

And then, finally, he kisses you.

It’s not perfect, your cheeks are still wet, his nose bumps yours again, and his hand trembles just a little, but it’s warm and sweet and soft. It tastes like home..

When he pulls away, his smile is sheepish. “So… are we still doing the whole ‘Operation: Get Over Gojo’ thing, or?”

You laugh, heart full, forehead pressed to his.

“Mission failed,” you whisper.

He grins. “Good.”

And then he kisses you again.

art by leimiruu on x!

#gojo x reader

8K notes · View notes

sinnaminttoast · 15 days ago

Text

Web of Secrets

Best friend. Superhero. Disaster. In that order.

🕸️🕷 Pairings: Spider-Man!Gojo x f!Reader 🕸️🕷 Content warnings + tags: 18+ MDNI: blood/injury, mild language, brief suggestive tension, emotional vulnerability, mentions of past trauma/injury, friends-to-lovers tension, slow burn maybe, shirtless Gojo in distress (you're welcome) Art by: @aliyartss on instagram

You always knew something was off. The bruises, the excuses, the way Satoru smiled like nothing was ever wrong. But you never expected to catch your best friend climbing through his dorm window in a torn Spider-Man suit—bleeding, limping, and very, very confused to find you already in his bed. Turns out, the mask was the easy part. Explaining why he kept it from you? That’s going to hurt more.

Look, in Satoru Gojo’s defense, he didn’t mean to get bitten by a radioactive spider.

It wasn’t like he woke up one morning and thought, “You know what would really spice things up? Permanent genetic mutation.” No—he was just eighteen, bored, and dared by his best friends to sneak off during a field trip.

It had been Suguru’s idea, naturally. Haibara backed it up with that reckless grin of his and a, “Come on, Gojo! Don’t be a coward.”. And Gojo—never one to turn down a challenge, especially with you watching from the corner of the lab, arms crossed and suspicious—took the bait.

Next thing he knew, he was sneaking behind the barrier in one of the restricted research wings, alone, because of course his friends had ditched him to go flirt with the grad students.

But then he took one wrong turn, finding himself in a closed-off lab, staring at a glowing containment case he definitely shouldn’t have opened. And then—snap. Right on the web between his thumb and index finger. Like the thing had been waiting.

Yeah. He got bit. Sue him.

It was small, and honestly, the bite had barely hurt. You’d scolded him for wandering off, of course. Dragged him out by the sleeve of his lab coat and threatened to tell Yaga about the whole thing. But he never got the chance to explain the bite. Not before the symptoms started.

First came the dizziness. Then the freaky super strength. The creeping sense of pressure in the back of his head every time something bad was about to happen. And then the wall-crawling incident. That one was hard to ignore, especially when it ended with him stuck to the ceiling of the boys’ dorm for two hours before Suguru had found him. He was the only one who knew.

And the weird powers? They never went away.

The getting-stuck-to-the-walls thing just got worse. Along with his super strength that he hadn’t learned to control, resulting in him accidentally flicking an entire cafeteria tray into Nanami’s face (which he still hadn’t been forgiven for).

The rest, well...it escalated.

He got a mask. A suit. A name.

And for the past few years, he’d been juggling college classes, part-time tutoring, and the occasional city-wide disaster. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t rich or famous. He still showed up to class ten minutes late with iced coffee and fresh bruises he refused to explain. But someone had to look out for this city—and it might as well be him.

Most nights were spent slinging webs across the skyline, fighting weirdos in mech suits or mind-control cults or whatever flavor of chaos happened to be trending. It wasn’t exactly what he had imagined his early twenties would look like, but hey—at least the cardio was good.

Tonight had been one of the rougher ones.

The villain had some sort of magnetic field tech—don’t ask, he’s still figuring it out—that completely messed with his web cartridges, which was honestly just rude. His ribs were sore, his suit was torn along the left thigh and shoulder, and he was pretty sure there was dried blood on his chin.

All he wanted to do after was crawl into bed and maybe sleep for the next week.

He didn’t bother swinging all the way across the city. Not tonight. He cut through a few back alleys, scaled a fire escape, and ducked into the familiar creak of the window that led to his dorm bedroom.

He dropped down inside with a grunt, one leg over the sill and already halfway to peeling off the top half of his suit when he heard it:

A soft rustle. The distinct turn of a page.

His head snapped up.

You were there.

Not a hallucination. Not a dream.

Just you, curled up on his bed like you belonged there—hoodie sleeves pushed up, a paperback balanced on your knees.

You blinked.

He blinked.

Both frozen.

And for once, Satoru Gojo had absolutely no idea what to say.

It was almost midnight when your phone buzzed again.

Another text from Gojo.

still working late :( don’t wait up

You stared at the message for a second too long, thumb hovering over the screen like you were tempted to cuss him out one more time. But then you rolled your eyes, locked it with a sigh, and tossed the phone onto his nightstand with a quiet thud.

Liar.

“Working late,” your ass.

He always said that. Or some variation of it—meetings ran long, had to help Yaga with something, emergency tutoring session. All suspicious. All delivered with that same infuriating grin, like he knew you wouldn’t push.

Sometimes you did. Sometimes you tried.

But he always wriggled his way out of it, brushing you off with a joke or a wink, or a “God, you worry too much.” Like caring about him was some kind of thing you should’ve been embarrassed about.

It was infuriating how vague he could really be—always making it seem like he was out actually doing something normal. But the bruises told you otherwise. The busted knuckles, the limping gait some mornings, the way he winced when he thought you weren’t looking—it all added up to something much bigger than “late-night tutoring sessions”.

So you stopped asking. Mostly.

Suguru was even worse. You’d begged him once, cornered him in the campus café after class when Satoru had come home with his ribs wrapped and his knuckles bloodied. “What is he doing at night?” you’d asked, giving him a look that said I’m serious this time.

Suguru had just looked at you for a long moment before quietly saying, “It’s not my place to tell. Satoru’s just…a complicated guy.”

Like you didn’t already know that.

Then he paid for your coffee and changed the subject.

You’d never felt so helpless in your life.

Satoru Gojo was your best friend. Had been since high school. Loud, ridiculous, impossibly smart—annoying, in that way that got on your nerves like it was his full-time job (though, he made it incredibly hard to actually stay mad at him). He was also the one who carried you home on his back when your feet hurt. Who sent you memes when he knew you were upset. He made you laugh. Made you feel safe, even when the rest of the world didn’t.

Somewhere along the way, the closeness stopped feeling purely platonic.

You never admitted it. Not even to yourself—not really. But it was there, humming under your skin like static.

And lately…he’d been pulling away. Or maybe hiding something. You weren’t sure which felt worse.

He was so secretive. Always brushing things off, changing the subject, vanishing in the middle of plans. You’d started pretending not to notice. That maybe it was just work, or stress, or something he’d eventually tell you when he was ready.

But that excuse had been wearing thin.

So tonight, instead of going back to your own dorm, you waited.

You’re not even sure why. Stubbornness, maybe. Or something softer you don’t want to name.

You were already curled up on his bed, one leg tucked beneath you, a paperback open in your lap as you reread the same sentence three times now. The hoodie you were wearing was one of his—oversized, soft, with a faded Digimon print on the front and sleeves that fell over your hands. It still smelled like his detergent—that faint peppermint-and-cotton scent that always made you feel like you were here, with him, even when he wasn’t.

His dorm was quiet, except for the occasional shuffle of someone in the hallway and the low hum of traffic outside the cracked window. The room was small and messy, barely big enough for one person, let alone two (he shared with Suguru). His desk was cluttered with open notebooks and loose pens. A pair of round sunglasses rested crooked on top of a physics textbook. The desk chair was pushed back at an angle like he had left in a rush.

You turned a page.

And another.

The clock ticked past midnight.

You didn’t know why you were still here. Maybe out of spite. Maybe hope. Maybe because you wanted to be there to make sure he was okay. That if he came back again limping or bleeding or cracked open, you’d be the one to catch him.

But deep down, you were hoping—just a little—that tonight would be different. That he’d walk through the door and sit beside you and finally tell you the truth.

You glanced at the window. It was cracked slightly, as always. He insisted that it was for ventilation, but you always suspected it was just another one of his stupid quirks.

You sighed, stretched your legs a little, and settled deeper into the pillows.

If Satoru wanted to keep secrets, fine. He could have his mysteries and his midnight escapades.

But he could at least have the decency to come home before you fell asleep in his bed.

You were just about to give up and call it a night when the window creaked.

Not loud. Just enough to make your head lift.

You blinked once, slowly, glancing up, expecting him to walk through the door like a normal person.

But no.

Of course not.

There was movement—a shadow pulling itself over the sill, graceless and muttering.

And then he dropped into the room.

You froze.

So did he.

One leg still hanging out the window, one glove halfway peeled off. His other hand tugged at the edge of a white mask, lifting it high enough to expose his jaw—his bruised, bloody jaw—and a familiar mop of white hair.

And your stomach dropped.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, not fully. He was grumbling under his breath, tugging at the top half of his suit as he peeled it down to his waist with a wince. His hair was a mess, clinging to his forehead with sweat, and there was a cut on his temple that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding.

But that wasn’t what made your heart stop.

It was the suit.

Mostly black and white. Torn at the sleeve. Streaked with dirt and ash. And right at the center of his chest, printed in bright, unmistakable blue—

A spider emblem.

Your breath caught.

He looked up. Finally saw you.

And everything in the room just—stopped. He was like a deer caught in headlights.

You felt your heart kind of stutter, because it’s him. It’s Satoru. Except—it’s not.

You stared at him.

Then at the suit.

Then back at him.

Your mouth dropped open. There is no way. No fucking way…

You’ve seen Spider-Man before—but who hasn’t? He was on the news, in blurry tabloid photos, grainy clips online. The masked vigilante who swung in to stop a building collapse downtown. The guy who took on four robbers at once outside the Midtown bank. The same one who—

—saved you once.

But that had been months ago.

And he hadn’t said a word.

Just lifted you out of danger, bridal style, and disappeared before you could even thank him. You’d told yourself it could’ve been anyone.

But now, with him standing in front of you—torn suit, wild hair, and a look of complete panic settling across his features?

There was no denying it.

The book you were barely reading slipped from your lap, hitting the mattress with a dull thump.

“Y–You’re Spiderm—” you start, the words tumbling out before your brain can catch up.

His eyes went wide.

“NOPE—NOPE NOPE NOPE—” he yelped, practically throwing himself across the room.

You shot to your feet, voice rising. “You’re Spider-M—!”

“SHHHHH—” His palm slammed over your mouth mid-sentence.

Your hands flew up in protest, eyes wide, muffled complaints coming fast and still loud. He looked equally horrified and apologetic, the panic written all over his face.

“Stop talking. Stop—please—shhh. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.” He glanced wildly at the window, as if worried someone might’ve heard you from four stories below. “Why are you here?! Why are you—why are you awake?!”

You glared up at him.

He winced, looking like he was two seconds away from passing out. “Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a dumb question. But this is fine. Totally fine. Normal, even.” he muttered mostly to himself.

You raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Okay, not normal,” he amends quickly, eyes darting around like the room might start recording him. “But manageable. Kind of. If you just—stop screaming and don’t say the name again—"

You swatted at his hand until he finally took the hint. He slowly peeled it away from your mouth, like you might bite him. You didn’t—but only barely. You gaped at him for another beat. Your eyes flicked back to his suit, to the emblem, to the blood on his temple. “You’re Spider-Man?!”

“That’s…um.” He scratched the back of his head, grinning weakly. “A surprisingly complicated question, actually.”

Your hands flew up again. “Are you insane?!”

“Okay see, that’s more fair—”

“You’ve been lying to me this entire time—”

“Not lying,” he said, holding up both hands like he could Jedi-mind-trick you into chilling out. “Just, you know. Withholding certain city-saving, occasionally life-threatening details…”

You were still too stunned to speak. Your pulse was thundering in your ears.

Satoru Gojo—your idiot best friend—was the Spider-Man.

“What the fuck, Satoru?!”

“I can explain!”

“Can you?!”

“...Well, no. But I will! Eventually!”

There was another beat of tense silence. Then you both spoke at the same time.

“You’re a superhero—”

“You were not supposed to be here—”

Another pause.

You looked at him again. This tall, ridiculous man in front of you, standing in his half-peeled suit, covered in bruises, and desperately trying to hold it together with pure denial.

And you couldn’t help it.

You bursted out laughing.

“You’re Spider-Man?” you ask again, still breathless. “You trip over your own feet walking across campus.”

He pouted, deeply offended. “I don’t trip—okay, that was one time, and the floor was weird.”

You shook your head, a hundred questions forming at once. None of them left your mouth.

Because suddenly, everything—every late-night excuse, every wince, every disappearing act—made a terrifying kind of sense.

And it hit you, like gravity finally catching up, that he’d been doing this alone.

So, the laughter faded. Slowly. The corners of your mouth still twitched, but your chest felt tight again. It didn’t just disappear completely—but it quieted. Simmering beneath the weight of everything you’d come to realize.

Satoru looked at you, and you looked at him—this idiot, this liar, this half-dressed, scraped-up mess of a best friend— was still standing there, scuffed and bloody and too tired to keep the smile on his face. His shoulders were tense. His eyes—usually so loud, so annoyingly bright—were just…quiet. You felt everything all at once. Relief. Anger. Confusion. That familiar knot of worry that always settled in your stomach whenever he came home bloodied.

But mostly? You were hurt.

You crossed your arms over your chest, with a pout matching his own, “Why didn’t you tell me?” It hadn’t meant to come out so quietly, a little too raw.

He flinched as if you slapped him. “I—I wasn’t trying to keep it from you, I just—”

You stepped back before he could get any closer. “No, seriously. Don’t start with that. You lied. You disappeared. You let me sit here for months, wondering where you were. You let me think you were just being a dumbass, going out and getting into fights for fun, when you were out there risking your life every single night.”

He flinched again. You hated that he looked so small sitting there with his arms half out of his suit. Like he knew he’d messed up and didn’t know how to fix it.

“Suguru knew,” you snapped. “And not me. Do you have any idea how shitty that feels?”

His mouth opened—then closed. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, like he didn’t know where to start.

“Okay, that wasn’t—on purpose,” he said eventually. “He walked in on me stuck to the ceiling of our dorm one night. I was still figuring everything out, and he… just found out. I didn’t tell him. He saw. And I couldn’t really explain that away, could I?”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared. Because you believed that part—but it didn’t fix the ache.

He looked up at you then, eyes wide and a little too honest.

“Look, you’re right. I should’ve told you. I just…I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted.

That made your eyes narrow. “What?”

He exhaled, long and rough-sounding. “Not because I don’t trust you. It’s the opposite.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m serious,” he said, cutting you off. “I’ve seen what happens. Bad guys figure out who matters. They look for leverage, and people get caught in the middle. People I care about. I didn’t want to put a target on your back. If anything ever happened to you because of me—”

His voice broke off shakily, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t survive it,” he said, quieter. “I’d never forgive myself…”

You blinked, feeling your throat tighten. “But I’ve always been there,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Whether I knew or not. I was already close. That didn’t change anything. You just…kept me in the dark.”

He just looked at you like you were breaking his heart. “I know…I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want to lie to you. I just—wanted to keep you safe.”

There was a long, slow silence. Your shoulders sagged. The tension in your chest didn’t disappear, but it softened.

“…You’re such an idiot,” you muttered, stepping forward and tugging at his wrist. “Sit down before you fall over.”

He obeyed without argument, slowly sinking onto the edge of the bed with a quiet wince. You didn’t wait for permission—you turned on your heel and disappeared into his tiny bathroom, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet under the sink.

You needed a minute to breathe. To focus on something real, like disinfectant and gauze pads. Something you could control.

When you returned with the first aid kit, he hadn’t moved. He looked up at you with those stupidly blue eyes like he expected you to throw it at his head (which he definitely deserved).

Instead, you knelt down in front of him, pulling the kit open with practiced fingers. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled, smiling just a little.

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” you said, your voice fell quiet again. It wasn’t meant to sound so soft, but it was the truth.

He didn’t say anything, but he held your gaze.

You gestured toward his shoulder. “Suit.”

His eyebrows shot up.

“For the wound, asshole.”

“Oh. Right.” He winced, hesitating for a moment before he peeled the rest of the top down, the fabric sticking to a bloody scrape along his ribs. His chest was broad and flushed in patches of bruised skin and dried blood. Strong. Vulnerable.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the gauze. You tried not to look too long, but your gaze lingered. On the muscles shifting beneath his skin. On the curve of his neck, the dip of his collarbones, the pale trail of a healing scar across his ribs that you’d never seen before. His chest rose and fell, shallow and slow.

Your pulse fluttered, and it made you angry—because he was reckless and stupid and hadn’t told you anything. And it made you terrified, because you didn’t want to think about what could’ve happened if he hadn’t made it home tonight.

He winced when you dabbed the cut a little too firmly. “Baby,” you teased, gently. “You jumped off a building tonight. I think you can handle a little antiseptic.”

He snorted in response, smiling just a little, but it was smaller than usual. More tired. “That’s rich, coming from the person who cries during animal rescue commercials.”

The silence stretched. Your fingers moved more slowly, feeling the tension between you suddenly shift. It softened, changed shape.

You realized you were still kneeling between his knees, still tending to the bruise blooming down the side of his chest, and his eyes hadn’t left you once. When your hand brushed along the exposed skin, his jaw ticked.

The air felt warmer now. Thicker. His eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips. Yours flicked to his.

And he leaned in. Just barely.

And you let him.

Your heart stuttered against your ribs once more, this time for a very different reason. Your lips parted slightly—

—and then the door swung open.

“Hey, Satoru, have you seen my—” Suguru’s voice cut off midway.

Both you and Satoru whipped your heads around, flustered, wide-eyed, practically jumping apart.

Suguru stood in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Then Satoru. Then the awkward tangle of limbs and exposed skin between you.

There was a beat of silence as he blinked. But then he smirked. “Oops,” he said, backing up with his hands raised into the air. “My bad.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, you sat back, pressing the gauze firmly to his chest like it was his fault. “Tell him if he walks in like that again, I will kill him.”

Satoru coughed, trying and failing to look innocent. “Technically, he does live here.”

You glared. “Whatever.”

And this time, he laughed.

You cleaned the last of the cuts in silence, fingers steadier now. The sharp edge of anger had dulled into something quieter. Something that felt like grief, maybe. Or relief. A kind of tenderness you weren’t sure what to do with.

And it wasn’t awkward between you anymore. Just heavy. Full of things unsaid.

You taped down the last bit of gauze and let your hand rest—briefly—against the uninjured part of his chest. The warmth of his skin. The steady beat of his heart beneath your palm.

He didn’t move.

You knew he was still watching you. He always watched you like this—like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he blinked.

And maybe you would’ve. If things were different.

When you finally sat back on your heels, you expected him to deflect. To joke. To shove it all down again, the way he always did when things got too real.

But he didn’t.

Instead, his voice came low. Careful. Afraid he didn’t deserve to ask.

“…Can you stay?”

You looked up at him. Really looked—at the bruises, the bandages, the blood still drying in his hair. But more than that…you saw all of it. The fear. The loneliness. The guilt he’d never once said out loud.

You wanted to yell at him again. Or maybe hold him forever.

But instead, you just nodded. Quietly. Without hesitation.

Because he didn’t need to ask.

Because you were already here.

Because you’d always stay.

And that was enough.

Author's Note: I've had this oneshot in my drafts forever now, but I was feeling inspired by Only One's Who Know by @indiewritesxoxo, because this superhero au of Gojo and Geto is chef's kiss. And I HIGHLY recommend you guy's go give it a read (I'm addicted)!

As always my lovelies, if you enjoyed, a repost is always appreciated! <3

banner by @strangergraphics!

#gojo x reader

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sinnaminttoast · 17 days 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

#gojo x reader #gojo angst

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sinnaminttoast · 21 days ago

Text

★ STRAWBERRIES AND CIGARETTES. all the times gojo desperately wants to kiss you, and the one where he finally does.

ft. satoru gojo x reader.

warnings — loser!reader / popular!gojo. smoking, kissing + making out. consumption of alcohol, mentions of sex, lots of cheesy banter. sato is a man down bad ! slow-burn kinda but mostly just very sfw fluff :p

(呪術廻戦) : note — 7k words + in my fluff era again awooga

୨୧ ⌞ act one: strawberry shampoo. ⌝

gojo rarely sees you. not often, truly. in class is different, but even then, it's infrequent.

you always wear a bored, distant look, as if you'd rather be anywhere but here. he suspects you simply don't care. the professor's words wash over you, in one ear and out the other.

most people don't notice your frequent absences. gojo does. he always does. the empty seat at the back of the room never escapes his eye.

it feels emptier, too, despite your quiet nature. he's unsure why. why he's so captivated by you. but when you are present, he stares. trying to be subtle, yet desperate to memorize every detail: the curve of your lashes, the perceived softness of your lips.

perceived softness, he should clarify. gojo isn't a creep. he doesn't spend every waking moment fantasizing about kissing you. (only every other waking moment.)

he knows you know he exists. you've exchanged words a few times, straddling the line between acquaintance and stranger. it's odd, but he finds a strange peace when you converse.

you're funny, kind, caring. a good listener, with a voice like honey he could listen to all day. god, he loves your voice. he wishes you'd speak more. if you did, people would listen. there's a lilt in your voice that makes him.

he's your opposite. you keep to yourself, wired earbuds always in. gojo has friends — many friends. he thrives on company and conversation.

he's got his whole crew: nanami, shoko, geto, haibara, utahime. even toji and sukuna, on a good day.

academically, he's a powerhouse. top of the class, loaded with extracurriculars, tests always returned with a perfect score.

and you? you're number two. he's certain you could be first, but you simply don't care. no ambition to be the best, no need to prove yourself.

you're just… there. you show up, ace your exams, and leave. he'd be threatened by the competition, but you don't seem to want it. he doubts you even realize how close you are to taking his spot.

it's infuriating. so much potential, so little drive.

yet, it's utterly enticing. you're enticing.

it's a shock when he pulls into the gas station in the dead of night, needing kikufuku because geto devoured the last of it, and there you are. perched on the ledge behind the worn building.

he doesn't see your face at first, but he recognizes the leather angel kiss bag you practically live with, adorned with sonny angels and charms.

the grocery bag falls limply in his hand. he takes a few steps, stopping just behind you. he calls your name out, quiet and hesitant, a rare tone for gojo. there's a crinkle of foil from you, and you turn, startled.

"gojo?" you inquire, head tilted.

"uh, hey," he manages a gentle smile. "what're you doing here?"

a small smile touches your lips. "hi. i could ask you the same."

the white-haired boy chuckles. "dickhead roommate ate all my snacks."

your quiet laugh is beautiful, he thinks. "yeah? well, i ran out of cigarettes." you place one between your lips. sliding over on the ledge, you offer a silent invitation, which he accepts.

you're close. the scent of your saccharine strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

"want one?" you offer. he shakes his head. gojo doesn't smoke, rarely drinks. instead, he watches you inhale, then exhale, wispy gray curls dissolving into the dark.

the silence between you is mellow, not awkward. in the dim streetlamp glow, your lips look coated in strawberry-red gloss, leaving a stain on the white of the cigarette.

"sure you don't want a hit?" you ask, sensing his heavy, focused gaze.

and because he'd do anything at the sound of that voice, he nods, changing his mind.

satoru gojo has game, no doubt. one hundred percent. he's smooth with women, but you're not just any woman. you're you, and with you, his game dissolves. all his past charm feels irrelevant, meaningless.

it's just you. you and him. he's not sure how to navigate it, and his attempt only leaves him embarrassed.

his eyes fix on the red smudge. he presses his own lips directly onto that spot. this isn't even a kiss, but an odd euphoria floods him, as if he's never kissed anyone before.

gojo's eyes flutter shut. he takes a quick, deep inhale, lasting only seconds before he's spluttering, coughing. a dry, charcoal-like feeling enters his lungs, leaving his throat dry. "jesus," he winces, handing it back.

you giggle, not teasing, but amused. he echoes the sound, and you both dissolve into laughter.

at two in the morning, everything's funny. your hands brush his as you take the cigarette.

"a— are you okay?" you ask, trying to compose yourself.

"yeah!" he clears his throat. "i mean, yeah. yes. i'm good."

"never smoked?"

"nah. coach would kill me," he chuckles, and you hum. sometimes, he forgets he's that picture-perfect, well-rounded student. in these moments, everything else fades.

"yeah," you say, meeting his gaze. his eyes are already on you.

"yeah," he repeats, smiling.

and then he remembers your closeness. his heart, if it ever slowed, races. should he do it?

should he kiss you?

you're so sweet, so pretty, right there — so close. he leans in, instinctual, like his body is drawn to yours.

and maybe you're leaning in, too?

just like that, gojo doesn't have time to tell, because his phone rings, a bleary call from his confused roommate.

just like that, the moment shatters. gojo pulls back, farther than before. the sweet scent of your shampoo vanishes, the press of his thighs against yours, knees knocking, gone.

you wave goodbye. he waves goodbye.

and just like that, you're back to being the girl in his class. the girl behind the gas station.

୨୧ ⌞ act two: pro-bono deals. ⌝

gojo doesn't see it coming. he knows you're here often enough, a quiet fixture in the library's familiar hum. there's not much he knows about you, not really, but what little he's gathered, he clings to like scripture.

he knows you like to read. that's a given.

he knows the cute thing you do with your nose when you're deep in thought, a slight scrunch, lips pursed just so.

he knows you hate writing in pen. he offered you one once, when you were caught without anything to write with, but you’d asked for a pencil instead. something about being accident-prone, you'd said.

he knows your handwriting is god-awful, an illegible scrawl that makes him abandon any idea of feigning interest in your notes as an excuse to talk. he figures it’s because your brain moves faster than your hands can keep up.

he knows you like flowers, sometimes catching you pausing by the daisies near the fountain on the way to class.

these little things, these quiet quirks you have, he catalogues them meticulously. they're important to him, these small habits you might not even notice yourself.

it's what makes it so real, so tangible. it makes him feel like he knows you, as pathetic as that might sound.

what you don't like is studying. so, when he sees your nose buried deep in the familiar green shade of a physics textbook, he's got every right to be a little lost. for the entire two and a half years he's known you, gojo has never seen you go out of your way to study.

he shifts his weight, from one foot to another. he could let you be, let you work. or, he could… work with you? would that even be okay? after a dreadful moment of hesitation, he slides into the seat beside you.

you’re surprised to see him; it seems like you always are, when it’s him. nonetheless, a smile touches your face, so it’s a pleasant surprise. "gojo, what's up?"

"just… reading through things, studying for finals," he says, watching you close the book. "you don't mind if i sit here, right?"

"no, not at all," you assure him, waving off his mild concern. "i might go crazy reading this dumb thing alone, anyways."

gojo laughs, and your heavy sigh turns into a little chuckle. "don't like physics?"

"don't like science," you correct, slumping in your seat. you click and un-click your pen, groaning, "it's so boring."

"sounds about right coming from a literature major." he hopes you don't focus on how he knows your major. it seems to be alright, though, because you know his.

playfully, you raise your brows. "seriously, i have no idea how you're planning on doing that for the rest of your life."

"you're not bad at it, are you? i mean, based on, like, your scores and… stuff."

"no. i guess not. all my absences are catching up to me, though, and i'm a little behind."

he supposes it makes sense for you to be struggling a little, at least. he's not sure how you do it in the first place, managing to pass at all without any visible effort. sure, gojo's smart, but he's not that smart. he wouldn't say he's envious, but he wishes he had that ability.

the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. "well, i could help you out," he offers. it comes out as more of a question, which he hates himself for. he also wishes he were more confident around you.

your eyes light up. "really? because field theory's kinda killing me." your gaze flickers from your notes to him, a little skeptical. you’re just not sure why he's hanging out with you in the first place, much less willing to, like, tutor you.

"yeah. if you want," his voice is a little less tentative, this time around.

"like… pro-bono?"

gojo chuckles. "sure. if you're up for aiding me in psychoanalyzing othello."

"you know what?" you ask, sticking your hand out. "deal."

he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, and he accepts your handshake. "deal."

your hand feels soft in his, and the mere touch makes him shiver. gojo inhales quietly, his eyes briefly glancing down to your lips.

it's the same strawberry-colored gloss. like a man down bad, all he can wonder is if it tastes like it, too.

୨୧ ⌞ act three: to get or not to get (some). ⌝

"i think we need to get you laid," shoko remarks, rather casually, the words cutting through the bass and chatter of geto's party. it makes gojo choke on his drink, a cheap beer in a red plastic cup, his grip tightening around it.

geto seems entirely too amused by this, a low laugh rumbling in his chest. "shit, sho, look at him, all red."

"shut up," he seethes, an unnatural flush creeping up his neck. he can feel the heat on his cheeks, a testament to his unexpected embarrassment.

she sighs, a faux melancholy. "poor guy. the clenched jaw tells me all i need to know."

"i don't— alright," gojo groans, quickly giving up. it's useless to argue with them when they're like this. "go ahead, abuse me like the great friends you are."

swirling her vodka with a straw, shoko snorts. "we are good friends, trying to save you from your newfound virginism."

"she's right," geto says pointedly, leaning forward. "you're like a male nun."

weakly, gojo repeats himself, "shut up." just as he’s reaching for his phone, a girl walks by. short dress, long legs, a smile that’s less friendly, more predatory, aimed straight at him. at some point, she would’ve been his ideal type, the kind of easy distraction he gravitated toward.

now? now, he doesn't even bat an eye. shoko looks at geto, a silent communication passing between them. geto looks at shoko. gojo glances up from his pocket, catching the sly, knowing looks his friends are giving him.

"or… maybe he's already getting some," geto nods, a mix of betrayal that he wasn't told and grudging impressment in his voice.

"you dog," shoko chuckles, nudging his arm with her elbow. "c'mon, who?"

"it's not— i'm not—"

geto sighs, "i didn't know we'd be around for the 'someone tied him down' era."

"guys—" he tries to interrupt, but then you walk by. his world narrows, the party noise fading to a dull hum. as if on instinct, his eyes get dreamy, following your path. his world stops, along with time itself, and gojo freezes, completely captivated.

they follow his line of sight, their gazes landing onto where he's looking. no, staring.

if he wasn't caught so off guard by shoko's low whistle, a sharp, clear sound in the sudden quiet of his world, he would have had a second to figure out why you were even here. "damn," she laughs, a genuine, unburdened sound. "if you fumble her, i call dibs."

"...didn't expect that. how do you even know her?" geto asks, a note of surprise in his voice.

"uh, she's in humanities with us," he says, a little annoyed that his friend, who shared classes with you, hadn't noticed you. he can’t imagine that possibility, especially not when you’re all gojo can seem to notice.

shoko squints, like she's trying to recall a distant memory. "oh, yeah. i think i've seen her, sometimes. doesn't she ditch, like, a lot?"

gojo shrugs. "i guess."

"i'm with geto. i wouldn't have pegged that, but congrats."

"it's not like that! we're just…" he’s about to say friends, but the word feels foreign, ill-fitting. he’s not even sure if you're that.

"no, no," geto shakes his head, a knowing smirk on his face. "sex is always great, man."

"we're not—"

the brown-haired girl cuts him off, her attention already elsewhere. "speaking of sex, i think i'm gonna have a go," she murmurs, vaguely gesturing to a pretty, curvy redhead across the room. downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, she's off before either of them gets a word in.

and, because god is good, a group of people walk in through the front door, and geto, ever the host, goes to greet them; it is his party, after all.

gojo sighs, weary, the weight of his friends' teasing momentarily forgotten. then he remembers: you're here. he’s practically racing away from the spot he's in, a desperate, though he hopes nonchalant, attempt to find you. had he been hallucinating? was he so crazy about you that he was now seeing you everywhere? oh, god.

gojo doesn't get any further with his worries, because someone runs into his back.

oh. oh, wait. the familiar, faint scent of strawberry shampoo. he turns around, heart already beating faster, a frantic rhythm against his ribs, when he sees you.

"jesus, i'm sorry. i didn't even see you." you look up, your eyes meeting his, and your apologies vanish into thin air, replaced by a soft, surprised expression. "oh, my god, hi."

"hey," he says, his voice a little breathy, holding his breath as if he’s scared to move, worried you'll simply vanish like a mirage.

"isn't it crazy how we keep running into each other?" you giggle, a light, melodic sound, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yeah, um, small world," gojo nods, straining a smile that feels more like a grimace. you give him a funny look, a slight tilt of your head, but thankfully leave it. "i didn't think this was really your scene?"

your shoulders slump, and you sigh, a familiar weariness in the sound. "it's not. my friend dragged me here, and then left to go have trashy sex with a trashy guy."

"oof," he winces, a sympathetic grimace. "that's alright. you can always stick with me, you know." the words tumble out, hopeful and a little desperate.

you put a hand on his arm, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt through him, sighing in relief. "once again, you're my savior. i'm stuck here until she's," you pause, a flicker of distaste on your face, "done."

"ah, well, if it's trashy sex with a trashy guy, it'll probably not be too long." he rubs the back of his head, a nervous habit. "i wouldn't mind if it isn't, though. i like talking to you," he admits, the confession coming out a little sheepish.

"oh," you say, your cheeks flushing so slightly he almost misses it. "thanks. i mean, me, too."

"yeah." there's a beat of comfortable silence between you two, the thumping of bass from downstairs filling the quiet space. "say, uh, wanna go upstairs?"

your eyes go a little wide, a startled deer caught in headlights, and gojo quickly backpedals. "to talk. it's— it's just loud, here."

you nod, a slow, deliberate movement, sighing in either relief or disappointment (he can't tell, but he desperately hopes it's the latter).

his fingers tentatively lace with yours, a hesitant connection, and he pulls you gently past bodies of people swaying to the music. he leads you into a less crowded room, a quieter haven, and shuts the door behind him. the muffled bass is a distant thrum now. "isn't this much nicer?"

"definitely, yeah." you take a seat on the edge of the bed, a quick, almost imperceptible glance around to ensure it's clean. "so… how's your day been?" it sounds awkward, a little stilted, and he's glad that he’s not the only one.

taking a seat beside you, a comfortable, close distance, he smiles, "good. very good. you?" he looks right into your eyes, letting the sincerity of his words reach you.

you return the smile, a soft, hesitant curve of your lips, debating whether or not to scoot closer. "s'okay. better, now."

"i know you don't like parties, but on that scale, how's this one been? be nice, i helped set it up," he warns, a playful glint in his eyes.

"it's good. i appreciate the lukewarm beer."

he holds his hands up, defensive. "see, i told geto to get more coolers. that part's not on me."

"okay, then, what part's on you?" you ask, crossing your arms, a hint of playful challenge in your tone.

"uh, i did the…" he frowns, trying to remember his own contributions to the party prep. "i taste-tested all the snacks. does that count?"

you snort, a small, endearing sound. "did you eat all of them, too? 'cause there weren't any left when i got here."

"i," a pause, a hint of guilt in his voice, "might have had a little more than i was supposed to, but those cookies were really good. so was the kikufuku."

"there was kikufuku?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"not anymore," he admits, a wry grin on his face. "that, i did finish."

laughing, a genuine, unforced sound, you tilt your head, "what parties have kikufuku?"

"the really, really cool ones."

"is that right?"

"would i ever lie to you?" his voice is teasing, but there's something else there, too.

"hm, maybe not," you hum, making a show of inspecting his features, your gaze lingering on his eyes. "you do have a really honest face."

"you have a really pretty one," he retorts, the words escaping before he can think better of them. it takes you a second to process, a faint blush dusting your cheeks. him, too, because… did he just say that? was that bad? he can't, for the love of god, read your face.

your mouth opens, a soft parting of your lips, but you're robbed of a chance to respond, because a couple barges into the room, their laughter loud and jarring. gojo flinches, startled. huffing, he says, "occupied!"

it's shoko and the redhead. shoko's eyes flit from you to gojo, a silent apology passing between them before she quickly steers the redhead back out of the room, shutting the door. god, out of all his friends,

he wouldn't have expected her to be the cock-block. well, at least someone's getting some.

୨୧ ⌞ act four: nepo-baby v. broke barista.⌝

the gentle chime of the bell above the door echoes through the quiet café, a familiar melody that always brings a sense of calm to satoru.

he pushes the door open, the scent of rich, freshly brewed coffee washing over him, a comforting aroma that instantly eases the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. he lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of contentment.

this, to him, is the best place to be.

his sunglasses, a constant fixture even indoors and in the dead of winter, are perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. he knows he probably looks a little eccentric, a touch out of place, but he doesn't care.

gojo’s soft, white hair, perpetually threatening to fall into his startling blue eyes, drifts gently across his forehead. with a practiced flick of his wrist, he rakes it back, the cool air a stark contrast to the warmth of the café.

he steps towards the counter, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the smooth, polished surface. his order was always the same, a creature of habit in a world that constantly shifts and changes around him, a small anchor of predictability.

“hi,” a soft voice says, breaking him out of his reverie. gojo’s eyes fix on the meticulously arranged cookies in the display case, and he’s caught between the choice of chocolate chip or macadamia nut.

chocolate, duh.

“hey, could i—” his gaze finally shifts up, and he locks eyes with the barista. but, because god really does have favorites, it’s not just any barista, it’s you.

he’s caught off-guard, seeing you, though he really shouldn’t be. not after having run into you unplanned this many times, already. it’s almost comical at this point.

“damn,” he shakes his head, a smile of disbelief slowly spreading across his face. “are you playing a trick on me?”

“god, no,” you laugh, a clear, bright sound. a few stray strands of hair escape from beneath the café’s branded hat, and you brush them out of your face with a practiced motion.

your smile is a little lopsided, charmingly imperfect, and he notices your apron is slightly askew, a testament to what must have been a busy morning.

“i come here all the time. don’t tell me i’ve been missing you… somehow, like, every single time,” he pouts, a playful whine in his voice.

“no, no. don’t worry, i’m new. i started yesterday. apparently, i’m more broke than i realized,” you confess, a wry smile touching your lips.

he nods in understanding, giving you a look of genuine sympathy. “yeah, i get it.”

“oh, do you, rich boy?” you tease, your gaze playfully raking over his expensive sunglasses, then his wrist to his watch, and finally the glint of a gold chain peeking from beneath his shirt. i

t’s not a secret that gojo is loaded, the son of gojo enterprises’ founder. he’s always gone out of his way to be humble about it, part of why he works so hard.

“yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, a dismissive flick of his hand. "speaking of, you gonna mess up my drink, newbie?"

"oh, haha. did you lose your stick? because i think i know where it went." you quip back.

gojo snorts, motioning to the register. “caramel macchiato, please. extra sugar.”

“aw, elitist baby can say please.” you pause, a faint wrinkle forming between your brows. “wait, did you say extra sugar?” you ask, making a face as you reach for a plastic cup and a sharpie. he nods, feeling his face flush under your intense, slightly disgusted gaze. “you know it’s already, like, super sweet, right?”

in return, he nods again, a little sheepish. gojo watches you scribble his name down on the side of the cup, your handwriting the same scrawl it always is. he shuffles to the end of the counter, waiting to receive his order.

your movements are a little clumsy, a novice’s hesitation in your hands, and you have to pause to remember the steps for making the drink. he even sees you gag, just a little, when adding the extra thing he’d gone out of his way to tell you.

“enjoy the, uh, macchiato.” you can't help the slight grimace as you push the cup across the counter. the smell alone was overwhelmingly sweet, amplified tenfold by the extra sugar he’d requested.

“you’re laughing. don’t knock it ‘til you try it,” he grins, a flash of white teeth against his pale skin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“nah, i think i’ll be knocking,” you giggle, shaking your head, a slight shiver running through you. “but, if that’s what you like, you do you.”

there's a beat of silence, and gojo watches you attention momentarily shift to a spilled sugar packet near the display. "we really should start planning our run-ins," he chuckles, his fingers brushing yours for a fleeting moment as he grabs the cup.

"they wouldn't be run-ins, then," you correct, a sly lilt in your voice.

"i… wouldn't mind that." the words are soft, almost a murmur, but loaded with intent.

the universe has a weird way of pulling people together, doesn't it?

୨୧ ⌞ act five: she loves me, she loves me not.⌝

gojo goes out of his way to plan this. he knows it's not a date, and he probably shouldn't pretend it is one. you had taken him up on his offer to hang out sometime, and he wanted it to be perfect.

you don't deserve anything less than that.

to anyone on the outside, he's sure it does look like a date. it feels like one, at least, if that counts. gojo picked you up, he dressed nice, you dressed nice, and he drove you to the park for a nice picnic. all of it sounds date-like, especially the part where he told you that you looked very cute today.

and, especially the part where he frantically back-pedaled, telling you; wait, you look cute today, but you look cute everyday. he doesn't just mean today.

and, especially, especially, how you'd teased him about it after. so, yeah, forgive him if he's having a hard time differentiating a platonic meetup and a not-so-platonic date.

gojo's picking off the petals on the daisy he's holding, hoping you don't notice how he's mentally playing she loves me, she loves me not. he glances at the small pile of discarded petals, then back at you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

you weave the stem of a flower into another, your brows furrowed in concentration on the crown you're making for him. "how long should i make this? you do have a really big head."

"hey, that's insulting. my head is perfectly normal-sized," he huffs, feigning offense, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. he leans closer, trying to get a better look at your handiwork. "are you sure you know what you're doing over there?"

"positive," you retort, not looking up. you wrap what you've got so far around his head, the cool petals a gentle press against his temple. "yep, definitely needs to be longer. see?"

"okay, rude." he pulls away slightly, inspecting the half-finished crown. "i'm starting to think you're just trying to wound my feelings."

you sigh, a dramatic, mournful sound. "truth hurts, right?" you glance up, your eyes locking with his, a gentle warmth in their depths. "this is really nice, by the way. i'm really glad we're doing this."

"me, too. feels a lot less rushed, compared to just seeing you around. not that i mind seeing you around," he quickly adds, the words tumbling out a little too fast, a faint blush creeping up his neck.

you smile, a soft, genuine curve of your lips. "yeah, i get it. you picked a nice spot. the gardens are so beautiful, i can't believe i've never been here before," you say, looking around at the vibrant roses beside you, your gaze lingering on their soft petals.

"you just wait, then, i've got a whole roster, baby." he means the pet-name as a joke, a casual endearment, but the sudden flicker in your gaze has his breath hitching, a silent question forming in his mind.

"you make me sound like your girlfriend," you laugh, the sound light and airy, a small puff of air escaping your lips.

"i bet you'd like that, huh?" he teases, pushing his luck, and you respond by playfully throwing a torn-off stem at him, which he easily dodges.

rolling your eyes at him, you scoff. "i just meant all this. you're really nice to me." your voice softens towards the end, a subtle shift in tone that he notices.

"well, yeah, we're," he hesitates, the word catching in his throat, "friends." sure, he's glad that you're even that, that you tolerate his presence, but it's still disappointing, only that.

"mm, friends," you repeat, the word echoing his own slight disappointment. he wonders if that's a similar ache he hears in the tone of your voice.

"what? you fallin' for me?" he asks, playing it off as a joke, a lighthearted jab, but, god, he wishes. he so, so desperately prays that a tiny part of it is true.

"oh, shut up," you huff, but the warmth on your cheeks contradicts your words, a tell-tale flush that brings a hopeful flutter to his chest.

he tilts his head at you, intently studying the familiar sparkle in your eyes, the way they crinkle slightly at the corners when you're amused.

taking one of the remaining daisies, he gently tucks it behind your ear, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of your neck. "you should call me satoru."

"yeah? okay, then, shut up, satoru." the corners of your mouth quirk upwards, a small, knowing smile.

he plucks off the last petal. she loves me.

୨୧ ⌞ act six: stay, little valentine, stay.⌝

"i hate valentine's day, you know," you frown, slumping down in the bakery's chair. the place smells sweet, a comforting blend of buttered croissants and something faintly fruity, like berries.

"of course you would. you're single," he remarks, casually, playing with the crinkly wrapping paper of his straw.

"you're single, too, gojo."

he points a finger at you, raising his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. "yeah, but that's different. i'm at peace with it."

shoving his index finger away, you whine, "what, like you aren't sick of seeing love-sick couples sucking each other's faces off, all day?"

well, he won't admit it (to you, at least), but he's mostly just been imagining what it would be like if those love-sick couples were you two.

before he can come up with a lame excuse, an employee, a young guy with a chipped name-tag stops by, checking in to see if you need anything else. "just letting you know, it's all half-off for couples today," they say, their tone far too cheery for your liking.

you say, "oh, no, we're not—" at the exact same time gojo says, "sure. another blueberry muffin, please. two, actually."

"are you crazy?" you whisper harshly at him, leaning across the table, your eyes wide with disbelief. "we're not even a couple." unbothered, he shoves your face away, a playful flick of his wrist.

instead, he smiles brightly at mark, and audaciously winks at you. "a couple of those strawberry tarts, too. my girlfriend here has a real sweet tooth."

your voice is strained, a desperate attempt to salvage the situation. "he's exaggerating. just the muffins, please."

with a click of their pen, they're telling you that you're an adorable couple, then walking off, already distracted by another customer.

"see? adorable. i'm already winning 'em over." gojo leans back in his chair, a smug look on his face.

you shoot him a look, a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "winning who over? the employee? or me, into wanting those things? besides, i didn't even need any."

"first, who said it was for you?" he retorts, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "second, it's half-off. it'd be a shame if we didn't take advantage of it."

"right," you laugh, shaking your head. he might be going crazy, but he's really fond of the idea that at least one person thinks you're dating. and, sure, that doesn't make it real, but it's a step closer.

"you know," he says, taking a sip of his smoothie (your smoothie, he stole it from you and you said nothing, which he considers a victory), "i think we'd make a good couple."

"oh? what makes you so sure?" you challenge, raising an eyebrow.

"think about it. i'm the brains, you're the… well, you're pretty good at complaining. we balance each other out," gojo claims, with a confidence that has you kicking his shin from under the table.

"ow! seriously?" he yelps, rubbing his leg.

"oh, is that your sales pitch? my top quality is complaining? how charming." you deadpan, crossing your arms.

"it's a very enthusiastic quality. plus, you'd never have to open jars again. or reach for things on high shelves. i'm basically a human step-stool with great hair." he gestures to his impeccably styled white locks.

"so, your criteria for a good relationship is purely utilitarian? i'm good for complaining and you're good for opening jars?"

"and looking good. don't forget that. i'm the eye candy. every couple needs eye candy. you can be good at appreciating my eye candy."

you fight the urge to stick a fork in his eyes. "right, because all i do is sit around and appreciate your god-given good looks."

"besides," he continues, ignoring your sarcasm, "that guy bought it. means we look pretty couple-y, right?"

you stare at him, a flat, unimpressed look on your face. "or, it means he's being paid minimum wage, and couldn't care less."

"you would know, broke ass." another swift kick, and he hisses, pouting exaggeratedly.

"excuse me?" you huff. "minimum wage or not, that man is doing his job. unlike you, who's just freeloading off my good reputation."

he nods, as if he's genuinely considering this profound statement. "good reputation? for hating valentine's day? that's quite the legacy."

defensively, you sit up straighter. "it's a very respectable stance! and i'm not broke. i just appreciate a good discount. like you, apparently, considering you just scammed a bakery employee into thinking we're an item."

he choose not to address you, taking a moment to meticulously tear the paper of the straw in half. "on the other hand," gojo says, eyes fixed on his paper dissection, "if you weren't single, you'd be far less grouchy all the time."

"you already said that," you huff, deadpan.

"it still holds true," he nods, finally looking up, a serious expression on his face.

snorting, you tilt your head up, looking at the cracks in the ceiling. "so… you're suggesting i need to get a boyfriend? are you also suggesting the boyfriend is… you? just to not be grouchy? okay, well, what if i prefer to be grouchy? what if that's, like, my thing?"

"not necessarily." he almost says yes, but catches himself. "but you should know, i'd make a gas boyfriend," he insists, puffing out his chest playfully.

"good to know," you hum, snatching your drink back. when you take a sip from exactly where he did, his heart does a little flip in his chest, a secret, happy flutter.

gojo clicks his tongue. "and, also, impossible. no one prefers to be grouchy. you're just… unfulfilled. a boyfriend would bring joy, sunshine, spontaneous acts of adoration. less frowning, more smiling."

"these are high standards to hold to yourself. or, like, this hypothetical boyfriend. also, i like the grouch. i think it's kind of like my core trait." you tap your chest, a definitive statement.

"that is such a sad, sad trait to base yourself off."

"oh, please," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "like the rich daddy's boy thing you have going on is any better."

he holds his hands up, defensive, but a grin splits his face. "well, one of us is paying for lunch, and the other isn't. you know, because she's broke." mildly offended, you kick him. again.

"hey! quit doing that. anyways, my point is, i've got all day to change your mind about valentine's."

"all day? what if i'm busy?" you challenge, a playful glint in your eye.

"nah. you wouldn't be here with me, if you had plans." he says it with absolute certainty.

he doesn't know it yet, but, yeah, even if you did have plans, you'd still ditch them for him.

୨୧ ⌞ act seven: strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you.⌝

gojo's phone died a little while back, and he has no idea what time it is. it doesn't really matter, though, not when he's walking in the dim-lit street with you, not when it feels like this moment will last forever.

he pulls you behind that same, tattered, gray building, the gas station he saw you at just a couple months ago. it looks the same, save for the dumpster that's against the bushes instead of the wall.

"oh, shit," he laughs, the sound a little breathless. "it smells rank back here."

you plop down on the familiar concrete ledge, scrunching your nose in agreement. "don't even start, you're the one who dragged me here. for your stupid matcha cravings."

pulling him down next to you, his shoulder bumps against yours. "wait, wait," you murmur, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket. holding a flame to the end, you cup your hand to keep the tiny light from going out in the faint breeze.

there's an odd feeling that passes through him, not quite nostalgia, when he sees that identical stain of strawberry-colored gloss on the end your lips are over.

"remember the last time i tried to smoke one?" he asks, a small, knowing grin on his face.

"yeah," you giggle, your shoulders shaking slightly as the smoke hits your lungs. "you almost died."

he's a little flustered, denying it immediately. "i did not almost die."

"close enough, you started choking and everything. wanna try again?" you ask, holding it near him, the lit tip glowing orange in the dim light. he eyes it, then looks back at you, a challenge in his gaze.

"damn, you tryna kill me?" he teases, but his voice is softer than he intends.

you lean closer, a pretty smile on your face that makes his voice catch. "would i get your money, if i did?"

his lips part, a hesitant breath escaping him, and you slip the cigarette between them. he can faintly smell the sweetness of the red. it's barely there, a ghost of a scent, but it's enough.

"relax," you hum, your voice a low, soothing sound. "you don't need to be so tense, it's just me."

but that's the thing — it's just you. just you and him, here again, alone in the quiet hum of the night. you're so close, invading all of his senses, leaving him breathless. how is he even supposed to think straight?

he, hesitant, inhales the smoke. he lasts hardly any longer than last time, turning away and breaking into a coughing fit, his shoulders shaking with the effort.

"oh, my god," you wheeze, patting his back, a mixture of concern and amusement in your touch. "careful. you're not supposed to suck in that much. just a puff, sato." the nickname, soft and intimate, has him blushing, and he has to duck his head, hiding his flushed face.

"one more time, or are you tapped out?" you ask, your voice still laced with laughter.

"one more," he breathes, tilting his head up to take in a smaller stroke. it's easier this time, irritates his throat less. he has to clear his chest, a low rumble, but he doesn't start writhing on the floor, so it's a win.

"oh, look! you did it," you smile, your eyes sparkling, and you gently pat his cheek. he wants to respond, but all he can manage is to lean into your touch. you don't move your hand, but stay cupping his face instead, your thumb stroking his cheekbone.

"hey, pretty," he whispers, his voice thick, feeling his breath mingle with yours in the cool night air.

you scoot closer, virtually pressed flush against him, and the sudden warmth of your body sends a jolt through him. "hi." his heart is beating loudly against his ribcage, a frantic drum, and he's afraid you can hear it.

gojo watches your eyes glaze over, a hazy, soft look, and how your long lashes flutter against your skin. you clutch his shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric, and your noses brush against his. and in a moment of a burst of raw courage, he presses his lips against yours.

it's not patient, but it's still loving, desperate in its urgency. it's clumsy, rather, messy, because both of you have been waiting too long for this to happen. your teeth clash against his, a soft click, as your lips, almost silkenly soft, move against his.

he tastes the faint sweetness of strawberries, a hint of something smoky and intoxicating. his hand, warm and firm, cups the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss.

the other hand fixes on your waist, keeping you there, pressed flush against him, as if he fears you might disappear.

it's awkward at first, tentative, because he's all too focused on the frantic butterflies that loop through his stomach, a dizzying swarm. it's like he's never kissed another person before, like he's forgotten how to. it was like his first one. his right one.

when he pulls away, you're panting little breaths, needing air, foreheads pressed together, your eyes still hazy. gojo presses another gentle kiss to the top of your hair, his nose nuzzled there, inhaling your scent.

you taste like strawberries and cigarettes.

unofficial permanent taglist: @jeonwiixard, @mia-can-yap-too did u guys know this is the longest fic ive ever written i should get head in the gc <33 big thanku to @mia-can-yap-too for beta reading i cannot be trusted to go back and do that myself i will cry also tagging myleslover @shokocide bc ur long fics inspire me + idk how u do it but share the talent !!! gatekeeping is bad incorrect buzzer

#gojo x reader

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sinnaminttoast · 21 days ago

Text

in another life, i would make you stay a gojo satoru (fix it) fic

pairing ⸺ reincarnated!gojo x reincarnated!reader

summary ⸺ you are a sorcerer, married to your husband who bears the burden of being the strongest. firsthand, you watch the love of your life fall apart, the world burdening him until, finally, he dies at the hand of sukuna. as you watch him through the broadcast, you blankly volunteer to be next and you die, praying to whatever merciful god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved— until you wake up from your dream, gasping. why the hell was your dream so vivid? you were some sort of magician? with a smoking HOT husband? and why the fuck does the guy that's ten minutes late to the first day of lectures look EXACTLY like him?

warnings ⸺ eventual smut fluff and angst (the holy trinity of aashi longfics), hurt/comfort, reincarnation fic, basically you and gojo have a miserable life in canon and get reincarnated into a modern au where i fix everything and give you the romcom you deserve, canon typical violence, jjk manga spoilers, mentions of blood and injury, major character death, fem reader implied

a/n i'll see u at the end :3

December 23, 2018.

“How do you feel?”

The both of you lay, side by side on the grass as you stared into the sky. The only sounds that surrounded you were the occasional rustle of leaves, the hum of the late afternoon cicadas, and the soft, almost inaudible rise and fall of your breathing.

The stars were really bright that day.

The sounds of nature were even more tangible in the absence of traffic. After the culling games had roped in both non-sorcerers and sorcerers alike, no one went out, so the roads were all virtually empty.

Satoru frowns thoughtfully, in a way that makes his nose scrunch up. His fingers play through your hair absentmindedly as he comes up with a response. With the way he’s thinking, your heart aches to tell him that you want his honest feelings, his doubts and fears, not some fake image he perpetually paints on for the rest of the world. You temper the urge.

“Fighting Megumi is gonna be…weird,” he says finally, with a sigh. “I’m just glad the real pain in the asses are out of the way.”

You remember the day he had come back from killing the higher ups. There was still blood matting his face and hair, dried and flaking. His eyes had long lost their light, and when you had got him alone in your shared room, grabbed a washcloth to wash his face. While you made sure none of the blood was still there, he had asked: Did I do the right thing?

It had taken three face towels to clean it all. The others had gotten soaked too quickly.

He continues. “I’ve been walking toward changing the system for so long, I forgot how to want anything past it.”

You tilt your head to look at him. His eyes are on the sky, as if trying to memorize every cloud.

“You can still want things,” you murmur. “Even now.”

What is left unsaid from you is, You can run away with me.

It’s a pipe dream at best. He was born with the shackle of the six eyes, born in the prison called The Strongest. Running away from it all was as possible as it was for Sisyphus to escape the burden of rolling the rock forever.

At your words, he huffs out a laugh and turns his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours. The blue of them is softer in this light, dusk and gold turning them the color of worn glass. “I do,” he says. “I want a stupid house with a stupid yard and a dumb dog who only listens to you.”

You laugh, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes. “The dog would accidentally eat your god-awful heap of chocolates and drop dead.”

“Okay, then maybe not a dog then,” he accedes. “I could do with a cat. Just don’t confiscate my chocolates.”

Your voice is a bit stuffy when you reply with, “I would never.”

“Good,” His smile is crooked now, warm. “If I had all the chocolates and the cakes you bake for the rest of my life, I would die a happy man.”

“You already have those, Satoru,” you laugh wetly.

“Yeah, but I want grocery lists and laundry days and boring Tuesday nights. Not endless mission reports. God, I’m definitely not going to miss the paperwork,” he groans, and his tone would sound petulant to anyone else; to you, it’s a reminder of how he’s been worked to the bone.

You roll closer to him, forehead brushing against his temple. “We’ll have all of it.”

There’s a beat of silence. The wind rustles through the trees again. He closes his eyes and breathes it in, like he’s trying to make a home of it. You can’t help but look at his serene face and think,

I love you.

It goes unsaid.

Then, “You’ll wait for me?” he asks, almost like a joke.

You turn to him, gaze softening as it lingers on the line of his jaw, the sweep of his lashes, the eyes you’ve loved in a thousand different lights. He’s so beautiful it aches—like something out of a dream or a poem scribbled by a lonely poet on a dirty street, staring up at a beauty wistfully peering out of a window of a high tower.

“Always.”

December 24, 2018.

He looks like he’s watching the sky again.

You are staring down at the shape of him broadcasted through Mei Mei’s crows. The ground is soaked, and the sky doesn’t seem to know whether to rain or just stay gray. His eyes are open.

But you know better. And still, you wait.

Around you, there’s chaos. Your students, in disbelief, are talking loudly but it’s as if everyone around you is talking underwater, none of their words comprehensible. You feel someone shake you, but you’re still staring.

His eyes aren’t closed, but he looks peaceful.

The air thrums with cursed energy, of people in utter shock, and with fear so thick it could choke.

But all you can think about is a stupid patch of wildflowers blooming in your yard. They would’ve been his favorite color—blue, like his eyes when he was teasing you. Like his eyes when he told you he wanted a dumb dog and boring Tuesday nights.

You were going to plant them for him every spring.

You were going to make him cakes every time he forgot his own birthday.

You were going to grow old together.

Instead, you’ll be the one laying flowers on his grave. Alone.

“I’ll go,” you say.

It’s too quiet. Someone protests. You don’t even hear who.

“I said I’ll go.”

You’re already stepping forward. The fight is miles away but it doesn’t matter—you’ll find it. You’ll find Sukuna. You’ll follow the stench of blood and ruin until it leads you to him.

You know your death is imminent, but there is nothing left to want anymore. Because a future without Satoru is no future at all.

As you make your way through Shinjuku rapidly, you can’t help but think of Yuji—his eyes wide and boyish, despite everything—as he shoved a flyer into your hand and told you to try that ramen shop with him once this was all over.

You remember Megumi’s ginger candies, the ones you had to keep hidden or Gojo would eat them all in one go. They’re still sitting in a dish by the kitchen window.

You remember Shoko’s voice when she said, “Just come back alive, okay?”

You remember Nanami, and Utahime, and Nobara. You remember every stupid, beautiful person you’ve ever loved.

You love them, but love doesn’t always save you; instead, it makes you walk straight into the fire.

Your life had begun when Satoru had saved you from that lonely, dark prison you were forced into; you remember how you had thought that he was akin to a glowing deity, descended from heaven to be your savior. A discarded animal like you, made to believe you were human again by this savior.

So it feels right, in a terrible, sacred way, that your life should end with him, too.

When you finally spot Sukuna, you put up a good fight, but anyone who watches you knows you are resolved, have accepted your fate and prefer death. You don’t scream or cry when it happens; you stare at his face when your body is cleaved into spilling your blood like an endless dam.

You just think: I kept my promise.

I waited.

Then, as you feel everything growing darker and darker, there’s only one thought left, just a silent prayer to whatever god that might still be out there:

Let us try again.

Please—let us try again.

…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

You wake up from your dream, gasping.

The noise your alarm makes is an unfriendly wake-up call; in your furious effort to locate your phone—which has found itself nestled in your messy blankets—you notice your roommate, Maki, blearily shifting. You madly search to minimize the yelling you’re going to get from her later in the day (you’re already cooked by this point), until silence blankets the room once more.

It’s only until your phone is silenced that you register how fast your heart is beating. Then, when you trudge over to the personal bathroom you and Maki share and flick the light switch, you see that tears had flowed down your cheeks in your sleep.

What a weird fucking dream.

One to have on your first day of classes for the semester, too. You squint at your reflection, the fluorescent light doing your sleep-addled eyes no favors as you grudgingly get ready, brushing your teeth and washing your face and all that. You don’t know why it was so vivid.

From the dredges of your mind, you first recall the flashing light beams and carnal violence in the destruction of the city, and then you. Were you some kind of magician? It was kind of like…Winx Club, but you weren’t a cunty fairy in cute clothes. Something about sorcerers, so maybe Harry Potter? Hunter X Hunter?

You spit out the frothy mix of your saliva and the mouth freshener. So ridiculous. You couldn’t even blame stress for the weird fanfiction at this point—classes haven’t even started.

Memories of the dream ebb and flow as you try hard to remember what else had occurred as you wipe your face. Gazing upon the white of the moisturizer you’re dabbing on your skin, a flash of white suddenly resurfaces.

Gojo.

A violent feeling overcomes your chest at the name, and you think you’re having a heart attack with the way it clenches like you’re almost about to weep in longing of a beloved. You gasp, cupping the left side of your chest as you try to lower your heart rate.

What hurts most of all is the searing pain, like a spiral of thinly corded string has branded itself on your ring finger. In your rush to look up in the mirror to see what could be hurting you, you don’t notice the red glow it forms. What you see in the see in your reflection surprises you: you’re crying again.

Tears have fully started streaming down your face with the pain, carving wet valleys on your cheeks as they went. After your heart rate slows down, you frown while looking down at your hands. Why were they shaking?

You repeat the name numerous times in your brain, each time causing you to physically tweak. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo, and then resurfaces Satoru, Satoru, Satoru—

It’s after the tenth time you repeat his name that your body seems to calm itself down and get accustomed to whatever emotional shock that coursed through your name after you mentioned his name. His name originally came up because you remember the main person in your dream: the white-haired man. He was the reason you decided to confront that…three armed man? Or did he have four arms? Regardless, you basically offed yourself after he died because you loved him, or something. With the way your body seems to physically shake at the sheer thought of his name, as if the utter image of longing, love may not have been enough to describe what you felt.

Realizing that you’ve drifted off at reminiscing sleepily, you start, as if suddenly animated. You pat your skin, setting in the final step of your skincare routine. Then, you click on your phone screen to check the time.

And notice immediately that you are going to be late.

Then ensues you scrambling to your room, putting on your clothes, tripping on the floor in the process, getting a sleepy glare from Maki that has doubly certified that you are getting a scolding, and then finally making it out the door. The somewhat cool fall weather hits your face as you walk on the pavement, checking your clock repeatedly to ensure it hasn’t hit 9am yet.

When you make it into the lecture, you realize that it is packed. There aren’t many seats—it is a gen ed class after all, something on some ancient history, and you notice two empty seats, side-by-side, tucked away in the corner of the lecture room. You have to carefully maneuver yourself down the seats.

Navigating the maze of limbs and backpacks, you mumble a series of "excuse me’s" and "coming through’s" until you squeeze past two guys—a stern-looking blond with glasses that scream "salaryman thirst trap" and a loud brunet beside him. Reaching your target, you slide into the seat that leaves an empty one between you and the blond. You’re very pleased about the extra breathing room.

Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

You prepare your supplies to take notes on the first (of many) syllabus reviews to come. In the meantime, you’re privy to hearing the mumble and grumble of people around you; it’s only when a throat clears itself at the head of the class do you see a man—probably the professor of this class, Yaga—who has the slides already up. Ancient East Asian History is branded on the big white screen in bolded, black Arial font. Clearly, graphic design was not his passion.

His voice projects through the mic and is fairly deep and resonant, so it’s clear to everyone, despite the number of people in the room, that class is starting. As expected, the next slide is titled “What is Ancient East Asian History?”

“Let’s delve deeper into what I mean by East Asian. Asia is a subcontinent that’s home to a diverse set of cultures, and even so in East Asia…”

As Yaga speaks, time ebbs and flows around you. The monotonous sounds of papers flipping, pens scratching on paper, and the clicking of keyboards surrounds you. You can’t help but think the fluorescent lights, harsh and white, had to be designed to keep students from falling asleep, because their intensity paints the lecture hall in this weird lighting. The mood created by it is something akin to the filter horror movies perpetually have on—vivid, but cold and dark. Like when you’ve been up for too long to the point that you don’t know if it’s night, or morning, because it’s still dark out. Then, dawn breaks, the sun enveloping the sky in its warmth.

Suddenly, the heavy set of doors that serve as your lecture hall’s entrance open loudly—louder than someone who is sheepishly entering late. Instead of the usual indifference reserved for a fellow student who had slept in, the room ripples with murmurs and giggles, shattering the silence that had settled—save for Yaga’s lecturing.

You don’t look at first. You look at Yaga, who is pinching the bridge of his nose as he mutters, “In Japanese culture, punctuality is a form of respect—something we are clearly still learning.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. But, like a current pulling you under, your gaze follows the crowd’s. And you see him.

Gojo.

Suddenly, your heart clenches violently, and you can only help but gasp hoarsely and shut your eyes. If you didn't, streams of tears would flow down your face once more. You couldn’t help but swear internally; you had thought you had conditioned yourself to be stable at the mention of his name.

But, almost as if it’s subconscious, you wrench your eyes open, desperate to view the boy. You’d assume something apologetic, maybe. Rushed. Someone with their hood up, mumbling an excuse as they shuffle into the shadows of the back row. But this—

This is someone who walks like he knows the sound of his own footsteps matters. His ivory hair is tussled, like he had just rolled out of your dream. He looks a bit younger than he did when you had seen him, but his eyes are the same unmistakable brilliant, cerulean color.

Now, he’s making his way down the stairs, skipping every third one with his long legs. Something leaves his lips, and it’s something humorous—depending on how girls and guys around him laugh, a shared sense of adoration in their eyes. You can only help but watch as he comes closer and closer to you, and you remember belatedly that the seat next to you is the only empty one in the whole lecture hall.

Yaga huffs and rolls his eyes, crossing his arms in barely concealed annoyance. “Nice of you to join us, Gojo.”

Gojo lifts a hand in a lazy wave. “Yaga, you ever tried finding parking on this campus?” The lecture erupts in barely muted half-sleepy giggles.

It’s only when a particularly loud high five he receives—by the brunet in your row—that you break out of your reverie and turn to your laptop, flustered. Any attempt to act nonchalant would be funny as if the thing that’s wrong with you—that invisible thing—hasn’t been rippling violently inside your gut the moment you laid eyes on him. Like your body has just been handed proof. Like a wound cracking open in slow motion.

He’s approaching, long legs trying to get through the sheer amount of people to where the empty seat next to you was, and when he’s there, right next to you, you shouldn’t look up.

But you do.

When your eyes meet his, something ancient and awful coils in your throat. A shiver, not of fear, but of recognition so buried it aches.

Pearly teeth and bright blue eyes glistening. A breathless, “Hi.”

And the invisible string, that had spiraled and corkscrewed itself into the jumble it was, pulls—until it is straight and wrung tight. You don’t know this boy. You’ve never seen him before.

So why does it feel like your heart just remembered how to break?

Your throat is dry, but you manage out a “Good morning.”

You turn back to your desk, your fingers quivering. By your side, he’s moving and rummaging through the contents of his backpack quite noisily, one that can be heard throughout the lecture hall if one were to tune out Yaga’s droning. In curiosity of seeing what was taking him so damn long to find, you turn your head slightly, and notice the heaps of wrappers—all pastel colored and bright, like candy and dessert wrappers—that his backpack is almost suffocated with. Then, he pulls out his laptop, opens it, and resumes the game of Run 3 he had paused beforehand.

Respectfully, what the fuck.

As if sensing your stare, he turns to you until meeting your eyes; you were caught. Like a deer caught in headlights, you helplessly stare back at him, heat creeping up your neck, and his gaze leaves your eyes to look at your lips, which you were biting.

Then, he leans in slightly—you also inching yourself back because why is he getting so close and why is your heart beating so fast—and whispers, “Do I know you?”

You’ve never seen him outside of the weird dream you had, and it would’ve been weird to admit that you’ve dreamed about him. “No, I don’t think you do,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

His lips quirk in response, but, to your dismay, he doesn’t retract. His brows furrow while he stares at your face, as if deep in thought, and nods, flirtatiously saying, “Makes sense. I feel like I wouldn’t have forgotten you if I had met you.”

Despite the cheesy line, heat creeps up your neck, and you can’t help but bitterly look down at your desk after giving him a quiet, “No, I don’t we have. I’m sorry.” If he flirted with a stranger like this, dream you must’ve had a really hard time as his wife. Shameless.

And thus the lecture runs its course. Throughout, you’re tense, the heat of his presence never letting you relax. You feel every movement of his fingers, his forearms, as he played his games or typed miscellaneous things that you didn’t see because you were physically forcing yourself to stare at the lecture slides, back ramrod straight.

It’s only until his leg starts shaking that you start feeling…weird. His reaction is completely normal; you don’t blame him, because Yaga’s been going over the syllabus’ section of projects and how you can’t change project partners for over thirty minutes. But it’s the fact that a steady wave of nausea is building up inside you, until a sharp piercing sensation overwhelms your head.

Then, a vision.

It’s hazy, as if projected on cloudy water. A shaking leg, clad in what seems like uniform pants, underneath a small wooden desk. Then, a hand reaches out to yours, grasping it firmly, and you feel a weird sense of nausea once more. However, it’s not the same feeling you’ve been feeling since your dream—instead, it’s a stomach upturning feeling of being teleported somewhere.

A bed.

It’s a small one, in a room that resembles a dorm. The hand grasping yours isn’t simply grabbing your hand; it’s now trailing up your sock-covered ankle, up your calves, and then under your skirt—

The murky vision gets even murkier until you can’t register anything anymore. Then, you suddenly return, the fluorescent lights being the first thing you register after the weird deja-vu-memory thing. The feelings you felt from the vision linger, including overwhelming feelings of euphoria, lust, and sheer happiness that bloom in your heart warmly, like a flower in fresh spring.

You’re so distraught from the complicated jumble of feelings that have thrusted themselves upon you that you don’t hear Yaga say his concluding words. It’s the jarring, obnoxious screech! of the chair next to you—Gojo’s—that you jump to your senses and realize half of the students have left.

Thus, you hurriedly pack your things and book it the fuck out of there because you would rather die than be the last person to leave class, lest Yaga think you were staying behind to talk to him. You’ve had more than your fill of East Asian Studies today.

Maybe it’s best if you avoid Gojo, lest you slip up. The dream—and the weird reactions your body seems to be having in his presence—are too…peculiar. If something happened, you wouldn’t know how to recover.

In your haste, you don’t realize you’ve left something behind, nor did you hear the “Wait! You forgot….this” that Gojo had called out to you, staring at the object in his hand—and your retreating back—with a complicated expression.

next. the aftermath (soon!)

a/n short chapter, but this series is going to contain a mixture of: a lot of crack and fluff, yearning (as always, yall know me), and debilitating angst ("who did this to you??" oh i loved writing the angst) and crazy reunion sex. comment down below to be added to the taglist!!

to be clear, unless otherwise indicated, reader is getting these moments from the past as "migraines" / flashes / dreams.

TAGLIST P1:

@nithica @rh-tg1 @tbzzluvr @spookytyphoonfire @vsynical

@totallyuniquenut @yamiyas @nishayuro @nariminsstuff @starmapz

@sylusonlylove @purplemint @elliesndg @gggellaa @arabellasolstice

@arrozyfrijoles23 @yeehawbrothers @that-one-lightskin @candyluvsboba @avaults

@iheartkhloe @angelcherrry @madamechrissy @xxemmarldxx @lovenbesos

@liveforkny @nattie-smack @cherryredribbons @introvertatitsfinest @starlightoru-gojo

@hyori2 @gxldencloset @l0v3m3m0re @cuntysaurusrex @nanamineedstherapy

@oikawasxx @littlemisspoets-blog @anuncalledbridge @watermelonmuntchers @zeyno-14

@k-kkiana @nanamiskentos @kviwi @evawts @forest-nymph420

@bontensh0e @viiennie @blossomedfloweroflove @6isek @dreamssfyre

#gojo x reader

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sinnaminttoast · 21 days ago

Text

SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⭑ 02. THE CAPITOL.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: profanity, mentions of forced prostitution, mentions of death & violence. — word count: 9.1k

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The train was too clean.

Satoru hated it: the sterile shine of the floors, the glassy sheen on the windows, the faint scent of synthetic citrus pumped through the vents. Everything about it made his skin itch. It was nothing like the salt-slick wood of his old home, nothing like the creaky floorboards of Reiko and Ren’s kitchen, where the kettle always screamed before boiling and the walls were yellowing from too much sun.

He didn’t remember standing. One moment he was lying on the cot in his cabin, staring blankly at the ceiling, fingers wrapped tight around the mockingjay pin burning a hole in his pocket. The next, he was walking down the corridor, urged by some inexplicable force—resentment, maybe. Or your voice in his head, sarcastic and furious, telling him to go ahead and starve if he wanted.

He didn’t want to starve. But he didn’t want to eat, either. His stomach roiled unpleasantly.

The dining car was draped in Capitol excess, down to the velvet curtains and the marble-effect table. You were already there, face drawn, picking listlessly at a piece of bread. Across from you, Coral was mid-sentence, droning about how dreadfully boring the off-season was in the Capitol. Satoru’s stomach turned.

“Do you never get tired of running your mouth?” he said, tone flat and venomous.

Coral blinked at him, clearly unimpressed. She sat reclined, long legs crossed elegantly, a half-finished glass of crimson wine in one hand. Her curls gleamed under the artificial lighting and her nails—painted a garish shade of turquoise—tapped idly against the crystal. She didn’t stop smiling.

“Oh, Satoru,” she sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking. It’s so unbecoming. You’ve been given such a rare opportunity. You should be thanking us.”

He stared at her, blankly. “For what, exactly? Watching a man get shot in front of his grandkid? Being yanked from our homes and shoved into this freak parade of a train like pigs on the way to slaughter?”

“You’re so crude. No wonder your little tributes didn’t get any sponsors last time, what with their mentor being so despicably uncultured. It’s a shame even the Career districts don’t seem to—”

“That’s enough,” you interrupted, finally looking up from your untouched plate. Your voice was hoarse; Satoru suspected it had been all day.

“Oh, you’re both so moody,” the escort drawled. “It’s a wonder they selected either of you. The Gamemakers won’t like that sulking thing you do.”

Satoru watched as you ladled some soup into a bowl and set it down across from you. He looked away. For a second, he thought he might actually lunge across the table and do something truly stupid—punch Coral, maybe. Rip the wine glass out of her hand and shatter it against the floor.

“They shot an old man in front of his grandson,” he said again, like it would make this air-headed Capitol bitch see sense.

“They did,” Coral agreed coolly, dabbing at her lipsticked mouth with a silk napkin. “And now here you are—alive, handsome and controversial. The Capitol eats that up, you know.”

Satoru felt something ugly lurch inside his chest.

Alive. He was alive. And she wasn’t.

Reiko and Ren’s mother was a good woman. She was the only adult who had looked at him after his Games without flinching, who had given him second helpings when he was a child and scolded him like he was her own. She had given him the pin with shaking hands, and said it belonged to his mother. His mother. He hadn’t even had time to ask her how she got it. She’d smiled at him, and then a Peacekeeper struck her so hard, her head hit the stone.

He hadn’t seen her get up.

Satoru gripped the back of a chair hard, knuckles bone-white.

“You should eat,” you said to him, not unkindly.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“Then don’t eat,” you snapped. “Just stop acting like a whiny little piece of shit.”

Satoru scoffed, bitter and humourless, and dropped into the seat. The soup in front of him steamed faintly, rich and full of spices. He stared at it. Picked up the spoon. Put it down again. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Do you children always argue like this, or is it just foreplay?” Coral said.

You stiffened. Satoru didn’t bother replying.

“President Snow is going to love you,” she added. “So tragic and rebellious. Just a hint of young, doomed romance. It’s positively Shakespearean.”

Satoru grit his teeth. You hunched your shoulders, tearing the crust of your slice of bread to pieces, over and over. The air inside the dining car was stifling—the cloying smell of rich food, the hum of the train tracks, the faint perfume Coral wore that reminded him of expensive flowers left too long in stagnant water. He still hadn’t taken a bite of his food.

Coral leaned back again, lazily inspecting her cuticles. “Well, you’d better find your spirit soon. We arrive in the Capitol tomorrow morning, and it will be televised. And unlike your precious little fishing town, image actually matters there.”

Satoru stood up so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor, harsh and metallic. He didn’t say anything—just took his bowl, still full, and dumped it into the disposal chute without a word. Then he turned and walked out, fists clenched at his sides.

The hallway felt colder now. He walked past mirrored panels and velvet-lined walls, down and down until he put as much distance as he could between himself and the dining car. The windows blurred past wilderness and darkness and nothing that resembled home. He didn’t stop until the hallway ended, and even then, he simply stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass.

His face looked like his father’s, who had drowned in a boating accident when he was an infant. His eyes, bright and startlingly blue, were like his mother’s, or so he’d been told. He’d never actually met her. She died while giving birth to him. Satoru had been raised by his neighbours until he was old enough to do odd jobs here and there, helping out the fishermen and earning a livelihood from it. Then, he’d been reaped, and he had to watch his fellow tribute—Amanai Riko, the smartest and kindest fourteen-year-old he’d ever known—get shot through the head.

The Capitol was still miles away, but already, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The pin in his pocket dug into his thigh when he moved. He took it out again, and turned it over in his palm. It was an old thing—worn, with the gold a little tarnished—but unmistakable. A mockingjay in flight.

He remembered the way the pin had felt in his palm: warm from Midori’s skin. And then the crack of the Peacekeeper’s hand across her face. And then the sound of his own scream.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He wasn’t going to be able to save anyone.

“Satoru—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t bother turning around. “You told me to starve, so I’m just following orders.”

You cursed under your breath. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

He heard you step forward anyway, the hallway narrow enough that even your silence felt like intrusion. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just kept his eyes on the blurred lights outside the train window like if he stared long enough, he could will himself out of this life and into another one.

“I was angry,” you said. “We’re all angry.”

“They killed her,” he said. “She was the only person left who gave a damn about me, and they didn’t even hesitate.”

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to lose people?” you said, shifting to stand next to him, hand tightening around the brass edge of the doorway. “To watch them die and not be able to do a single thing?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant.”

He turned to you then, finally. His expression was thunderous, eyes rimmed red like he’d been crying—or maybe like he wanted to and didn’t know how. “You think you know me? You think just because we’re stuck on this nightmare train together, you get to play therapist? Screw that.”

Your voice shook, but you didn’t raise it. “You think I want to be here with you? You think I want to be picked as some Capitol pawn, paraded around with a guy who hasn’t said a kind word to me since I was reaped five years ago? You’re not the only one who lost something.”

“Don’t twist this—”

“I’m not!” you snapped. “But you’re not the only person in the world who’s hurting, Satoru. We all are. I’m just not throwing a tantrum about it every five seconds.”

He laughed, sardonic and joyless. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is my grief inconvenient for you? Maybe I should’ve just smiled for the cameras, like a good little martyr.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You sure about that?” he said, voice rising now. “Because you sound a hell lot like Coral right now. ‘Tragic and rebellious’—isn’t that what she said? Maybe I should lean into the aesthetic. Sell myself to the Capitol. At least that way, someone might survive.”

You looked like he’d slapped you. “That’s not funny,” you said, quieter now. “Don’t talk like that.”

But he was shaking, eyes wild. “What else is there to talk about? Do you want to hear about the Games? About how I didn’t sleep for months because every time I closed my eyes I saw Riko’s face? Or maybe about how my best friend got reaped the year after me and I had to watch him die while you stood and did nothing? Or maybe about how Reiko and Ren’s mom died simply because she gave me a pin?”

He was shouting now. You let him.

“I was a kid. I was a kid, and they made me kill for their entertainment. And now they want me back. Again. Again. And you’re telling me to calm down. To eat. To behave. To get it together because the Capitol doesn’t like messy tributes.”

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you said, and he didn’t even realise tears were streaming down your face until he looked at you properly, chest heaving. “Fuck you. They killed my parents, too. They used my body year after year, every single time I was sent with you to the Capitol as a mentor. President Snow made me coerce secrets from their mouths with the use of my hands touching their skin.”

Satoru froze—no more words, no more rage. He simply stood, blinking like he’d walked into a wall.

You dragged in a shaky breath, shoulders taut, fists trembling by your sides. “I did nothing?” you repeated. “You think I had a choice?”

Satoru’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. You pressed on.

“They made me watch,” you said, your voice cracking. “They made me memorise names, families, weaknesses. You were the golden boy—District Four’s prodigy, our great bloody hope. But I was the one they broke open, again and again, year after year, because I had pretty eyes and a warm touch and they liked how easily people talked to me.”

Silence fell like a blade. Only the dull hum of the train beneath your feet remained.

You wiped your face roughly with your sleeve, as though you were angry at yourself for crying. “I did everything I could to protect our tributes. I smiled for the cameras and kissed the sponsors and sweet-talked the Gamemakers. And every time I closed the door behind me, I screamed until my throat bled. But sure, Satoru, tell me again how I stood and did nothing.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t ask.”

That hurt, and you knew it. He flinched like you’d thrown something.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” you went on, quieter now, the rage ebbing to something exhausted and spent. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. But don’t you dare pretend you were the only one who lost something.”

Satoru exhaled, long and slow. The silence between you stretched again, but it was different now. He was still breathing hard, eyes glassy, but the fury had dulled into something heavier.

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the roots. “I’m scared.”

“I am, too,” you admitted.

Satoru’s shoulders dropped a little. He looked away, ashamed. “I didn’t mean what I said. About you doing nothing.”

“Didn’t mean what I said either,” you said, shrugging. “About starving.”

His laugh was dry. “We’re a pair of fucking disasters.”

“President Snow’s favourites,” you agreed.

The train slowed to a crawl the next morning.

Satoru felt it before he saw it, like the very oxygen shifted the moment the Capitol came into view. The glass of the windows shimmered under the harsh gaze of too much light, too much colour, too much control. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until the screech of metal on metal echoed down the tracks, and the train eased to a halt.

He didn’t move.

Outside the Capitol sprawled like a wound that refused to scab. Towers of glass and gold cut into the sky like knives, their angles too clean, their beauty too deliberate. The streets below swarmed with people in grotesque, glittering costumes—some with skin dyed cerulean, some with implants under their flesh that pulsed like veins full of starlight. Feathers. Jewels. Artificial wings. Faces that barely resembled people anymore.

They were all smiling. Satoru hated that he remembered what it was like to be in awe of it. He hated more that some part of him still was.

You brushed your shoulder against him once, standing by the door. He nodded. He could do this. He had done this. But it didn’t get easier—not with the Capitol’s scent already curling in through the cracks: roses and blood and something chemical, sweet, and sharp enough to sting his eyes.

The train doors hissed open.

The moment he stepped out, the world exploded in colour. Cameras flashed. A Capitol woman shrieked his name from somewhere in the crowd, her voice high and warped by excitement. Someone else held up a sign that read “Satoru: Our Second Coming”, glitter glued in thick, uneven letters.

He swallowed bile.

“Smile, darlings,” Coral hissed through gritted teeth. Satoru tensed. He didn’t know when the escort had shown up, but she was behind him now, trailing that scent of that sickly-sweet perfume she used and her face powdered blue.

Satoru didn’t turn to look at her. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, spine locked into something almost regal—if only to spite her. The cameras loved that posture, and so did the Capitol. The Victor they remembered wasn’t allowed to look small, or scared, or tired.

He was a symbol. A trophy polished to perfection. So he smiled.

Not the soft kind. This was the Capitol smile: sharp at the edges, glittering with menace. His lips curled like he knew something they didn’t, like he liked the attention, like he was their second coming.

Beside him, you didn’t smile at all. He didn’t need to look at you to know this. Coral didn’t seem to notice, or she did and didn’t care. She was already waving, stepping out onto the platform, her dress of coral-pink feathers trailing behind her like smoke.

Peacekeepers flanked the entrance, white uniforms spotless, helmets reflecting the overhead lights like polished bone. One of them nodded once. That was the only greeting they ever got from them.

Satoru scanned the platform. Still, the cameras flashed. He heard his name again. Then again, and then louder.

“Satoru! Look here—just a quick wave!”

“How does it feel to be back?”

“Tell us about the lucky girl! Are the rumours true?”

His stomach churned. Lucky, they said, as if being chained to memory and the Capitol’s golden leash was some kind of blessing. As if winning the Hunger Games hadn’t broken him into pieces he still didn’t know how to glue back together.

He kept smiling.

He reached the car, which was sleek, black and armoured, though you wouldn’t know it unless you’d ridden in one before. You opened the door before the Peacekeeper could. Satoru ducked his head, and slid in without a word. You slid in after him, careful to avoid Coral’s train, which caught in the door and earned an irritated noise from her throat. She snapped something at you, but you didn’t reply.

The car drove away from the platform like it had done a hundred times before, tires humming against the smooth black road with mechanical perfection. The doors sealed with a hiss, insulating them from the frenzy outside—but not completely. Not even the Capitol’s best engineering could mute the roar of spectacle.

Satoru let his head fall back against the seat. The leather was too soft. The kind that cost more than most families in the districts made in a year. The kind they gave to Victors because comfort was currency here—another way to keep them quiet.

He could feel the static of the cameras still clinging to his skin, like spiderwebs. Like ghost hands.

The Capitol blurred past the tinted windows, too saturated, too symmetric to be real. Every building was a statement; geometry turned violent. The sky split with spires of glass that caught the light like they wanted to blind him, all chrome and gold and shimmering edges. Below, the streets crawled with people like insects in silk, each more grotesque than the last.

One man wore a suit of mirrors that fractured the sunlight into shards, throwing it across the asphalt like confetti. A woman walked a pair of cats with scales instead of fur, their tails split like serpents. A child skipped across a plaza in stilts shaped like wings, her giggles echoing through a speaker embedded in her throat.

Everything was noise. Everything was too much.

And still—God, still—some part of him felt that flicker of wonder. That traitorous, sick little spark remembered the first time he saw it, before the arena, before the blood. When he was just a boy, pulled from a grey world into a place that glittered so brightly, it felt like dreaming.

He hated that boy. He hated that he could still remember what it felt like to hope.

You sat across from him, quiet, your hands folded in your lap. Your posture was tight, controlled, but your gaze drifted—to the window, to him, then back again. He could see it: the calculation, the exhaustion. The way your shoulders sank half an inch lower when you thought no one was looking.

Coral babbled on across from you, scrolling through her Capitol-issued tablet like her life depended on it. She rattled off times and locations with a breathless efficiency, fingers fluttering like the feathers stitched into her ridiculous sleeves.

“Meeting with President Snow at noon. Tribute rehearsal at fourteen-hundred. Full prep schedule locked in by sixteen. We’ll need to trim that hair, obviously,” she added, glancing at Satoru like his pale curls were a personal insult.

Satoru said nothing. Instead, he watched the skyline twist as they turned a corner, the whole city unfolding like a living organism. The air smelled like roses. Not real ones—the chemical kind, the ones that clung to everything in the Capitol like perfume and rot. It was too sweet; too sharp. A scent that made his nose sting. It mixed with something else, too. Smoke. Ash. The faintest hint of ozone.

He remembered that smell. He remembered breathing it in as he watched Riko die.

Outside the window, a billboard flickered. His face stared back at him, a younger version—hair slicked back, eyes fierce, jaw set. A crown of fire had been edited into the shot, curling above his head like he was some kind of deity.

“SATORU GOJO: THE STORM THAT SURVIVED.”

“They love you,” you said flatly.

He turned to look at you, the Capitol’s reflection dancing in your eyes. “They love their idea of me.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you looked out the window again, and your fingers curled into fists.

“Must I remind you to smile again?” Coral sang, catching your silence with the lilt of her voice. “President Snow won’t be pleased if you’re sulking.”

You both ignored her. The car slowed again.

They were approaching the Presidential Tower’s annex. It was all columns and balconies, soft blue lighting and manicured hedges sculpted into the shapes of snakes and songbirds. Satoru thought it looked like a mausoleum.

The car stopped. A Peacekeeper opened the door. Satoru stepped out, and the Capitol swallowed him whole again.

Everything felt thinner here: the air, the silence. Like even the space between his bones had to be approved by Capitol decree. He felt eyes on him already, from the windows above, from the cameras he couldn’t see. From the insects masquerading as stylists and sponsors and hosts, watching from the glittering towers.

Each step towards the building felt like the ground recognised him, like it remembered his blood.

He was back. The boy who won. The man who never really left.

Somewhere behind him, you followed—just as you always had. Just as he had once asked you not to.

But here you both were, again, just like the Capitol wanted.

The elevator ride up was silent. Not the kind of silence that soothed, but the kind that gathered in your lungs and settled like ash. Every second ticked by like the loading of a gun. Satoru stood rigid in the mirrored walls, his reflection splintered from a dozen angles, all of them wearing the same grim expression.

You were beside him, close but not touching. Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t anything to say. The doors opened with a sigh into the top floor of the Presidential Tower, the highest place in all of Panem.

It was colder up here, though Satoru couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the lack of colour. The entire corridor was white—white floors, white walls, white marble polished to an unnatural sheen, as if even dust had been outlawed here. The air smelled of antiseptic and roses, so thickly perfumed that it made Satoru’s throat itch.

Guards lined the halls, motionless in gold and black. Their visors reflected Satoru and you as you walked past, giving him back no expressions or names. Just hollowed-out silence in humanoid shape.

At the end of the corridor, beyond the skeletal archway of thorn-shaped beams, was President Snow, seated like a spider in the centre of his web.

The office around him gleamed with deliberate elegance—glass-paned walls looking out across the Capitol skyline, a blood-red carpet beneath his desk, and behind him, a flowering wall of roses, growing in unnatural white and red, vines crawling like veins.

The president smiled before he even approached.

“Ah,” he said, standing. “Our victors.”

His voice slithered across the room like fog: low, papery, always polite. He gestured with a skeletal hand. “Please, sit. You must be tired after your trip.”

Satoru remained standing. You didn’t budge an inch, either.

Snow tilted his head, still smiling, like someone indulging a pet. “No? Very well. Let’s get to it, then.”

He folded his hands behind his back.

“You two have caused quite the stir,” he drawled. “Young minds are so… impressionable. All it takes is a single phrase, a single image, and suddenly the Capitol is flooded with whispers. Symbols.” His smile widened. “Martyrs. And you know what happens to martyrs, don’t you?”

Satoru said nothing.

The President turned slightly, studying the Capitol through the glass like it was a snow globe he’d built himself. “I find it… fascinating,” he said, “the way stories spread. A flicker becomes a flame, and suddenly there’s smoke in places it doesn’t belong. District Four. District Eleven. Even whispers from Twelve, and we all know how dangerous whispers can be.”

He turned to face you both, face still smooth, voice still gentle. “You are not martyrs,” he said. “You are actors. You perform. You smile. You play the part we assign you.”

Satoru’s throat felt dry, but he forced his voice to remain steady. “Everything we said was true.”

“Truth,” Snow echoed, amused now. “Truth is irrelevant. Believability is power. You’re lucky. We’ve spun something from this mess. A story the Capitol can digest. A romance. A tragedy. A pair of haunted lovers forced to return to the arena—but this time, together.”

His eyes gleamed. “The people are already eating it up.”

You shifted beside Satoru, the slightest hitch in your breath the only indication that you were listening.

“But I’ll be clear,” Snow said, taking a step closer. “If either of you deviate from the narrative—if you hesitate, or slip, or speak one wrong word—I will end the story myself.”

He reached up and adjusted the rose on his lapel, the petals shining blood-red in the artificial light.

“And not with dignity.”

Satoru wanted to scream. To lunge. To shove every inch of marble and rose and power down this sick man’s throat, but he knew he couldn’t, because he knew the stakes.

Snow circled slowly back to his desk and sat once more. “You will go to hair and makeup after this. You will hold hands. You will cry, if you must. You will kiss, perhaps.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever it takes.”

Then, almost as an afterthought: “Oh. And remember to thank me during the interviews. For giving you a second chance at love.”

The words stuck in Satoru’s spine like needles. The President turned away, already finished, and said, “You may go.”

The guards didn’t move, but you did: a single step, steady. You didn’t look back. Satoru followed you out into the hall, his feet like lead, his heart a roar beneath his ribs.

The prep team arrived two hours later—or maybe earlier; time didn’t pass properly in the Capitol. It stretched and buckled like melted sugar. One second, he’d been lying stiff on the too-soft bed in the penthouse suite; the next, the door had slid open and in they came, all perfume and sequins and chirping voices.

“Satoru!” cooed Lume, her eyes rimmed with rhinestones and something vaguely reptilian about the way her lips curved too far. “Oh, we’ve missed you so much. Didn’t we say he’d look taller in person, Davi?”

Davi—a man whose eyebrows were replaced entirely by a row of sapphires—clasped his hands together as if seeing Satoru was akin to witnessing the birth of a star. “Taller and paler,” he sighed. “He’s like a marble statue.”

“Mmm, delicious.” The third one—Krin—circled him with a tablet in hand, analysing angles. She had fins today, literal ones, shimmering gill-like extensions curling from the sides of her neck. “Still lean. So perfect.”

Satoru said nothing, because they didn’t expect him to, anyway.

The prep team didn’t speak to people so much as at them, monologues wrapped in cotton candy and electric laughter. They fluttered and hovered and gestured, and eventually ushered him towards the marble-tiled bathroom where the true transformation began.

It started with the clothes. Off, first. They made a show of not looking, but they always did—covert glances as they peeled the shirt from his frame, as they noted the new scars like collectors inspecting a rare coin. Satoru let them. Resistance was worse.

“Still no body hair,” Krin muttered, almost disappointed. “Is it natural, or—”

“Don’t ask,” Lume interrupted, slapping her hand away from his chest.

They scrubbed him raw. Water that smelled faintly of flowers and bleach poured over him, too hot. Hands moved with choreographed precision: one lathering his hair with a shampoo that tingled like mint and metal, another scraping calluses of his palms with something sharp. A third held a mirror up to his face, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the near-imperceptible tremble in his jaw.

“He’s not sleeping,” Davi whispered, scandalised. “That won’t do. Coral will throw a fit.”

“No need to worry,” Krin said cheerfully. “I’ll send for the white drops. They’ll brighten the sclera, just enough to fake vitality.”

Fake vitality. That was all the Capitol ever wanted, wasn’t it?

By the time they were done with his skin—lotions, creams, serums with names he couldn’t pronounce—he felt scraped clean. Empty. A mannequin waiting to be assembled.

Then came the clothing. Today’s look, they informed him, was a study in tragic resilience. His stylist hadn’t yet arrived, but the outfit had been couriered ahead of time: a tailored suit in stark white, lapels lined with metallic thread that glinted like sunlight bouncing off the ocean’s waves. Beneath it, a high-neck shirt the colour of sea-foam. A single silver pin sat in the shape of a rose. Satoru wanted to throw up when he saw it.

“It’s so… haunted,” Lume said breathlessly, helping him into the jacket. “So wounded-boy-meets-iconic-messiah. Very in this season.”

Satoru stood still, arms out, as they fastened the cuffs.

He stared into the mirror.

The boy in the reflection was not a boy. Not anymore. He looked sharp enough to cut—his hair pushed back from his forehead, revealing his cheekbones; his skin unnaturally smooth, his lips touched with the faintest hint of colour.

He looked like someone who could inspire revolutions. He looked like someone they’d shoot on sight.

The prep team was still fussing, adding final touches—powder here, a dab of gloss there. They argued about whether or not to conceal the scar on his temple.

“Leave it,” Satoru said hoarsely.

They all turned. It was the first thing he’d said all morning.

“...Of course,” Krin replied quickly, nodding. “Yes. Of course.”

They said nothing else after that.

Lume smoothed the shoulders of his jacket and smiled too brightly. Davi handed him a small flask of something herbal “for the nerves,” which Satoru tucked into his pocket without looking. Krin stepped back and made a note on her tablet.

They left Satoru alone.

The room shimmered with Capitol excess—dripping chandeliers, crystal vases full of genetically modified orchids, and a wardrobe larger than his old house in the District. Everything smelled like artificial lemon.

Satoru’s mind was somewhere else.

Back in the Victor’s Village. Back on the train. Back to you, with your trembling hands and your resolute voice. The things you’d said. They want a hero, he thought, but he was never that. He was just a survivor.

He smoothed his jacket. Straightened his spine.

Coral would be here any minute to lead him down to the Tribute Parade. The cameras would start rolling. The world would be watching.

He looked one last time in the mirror, and let them see what they wanted to see. Let them believe the lie.

Satoru stepped out of his suite and closed the door behind him with a gentle click, then stood there for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides. Hearing the sound of soft footsteps, he turned before he even heard your voice.

Your outfit matched his in almost every detail—the same pearlescent fabric, the same oceanic shine in the metallic thread that edged your cuffs and collar. Only yours had a veil. Translucent and whisper-thin, it hung from a small comb tucked behind your ear, falling like frost over your shoulders. You didn’t bother lifting it.

They’d done this on purpose. He could see it now, how calculated it all was. The paired whites, the blue accents, your stupid veil. A wedding aesthetic without the ceremony. The Capitol didn’t need to announce your love. It was already in the details, and anyone watching would assume it. Would need to.

Satoru’s hand curled into a fist at his side, the other smoothing down the line of his jacket, more out of habit than vanity. The tension in his shoulders was a low, coiled thing.

“Snow has a sick sense of humour,” he muttered.

Your lips quirked behind the veil. “What gave it away? The matching outfits or the part where we’re supposed to pretend to be in love on national television?”

“Take your pick.”

“He’s serious about this,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked over your shoulder down the hall, then back at him. “So. What do we do?”

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it. His hands found the edge of his sleeves, fiddling with the cufflinks. The hallway lighting threw shadows beneath your eyes. Maybe they’d tried to cover them up. Maybe they’d left them there on purpose, for the tragic appeal.

“We play along,” he said.

“You mean—”

“I mean we pretend,” he interrupted, “until we figure something else out. We’ll give them what they want. They love a good story.”

“Funny,” you said. “You’ve never been much of an actor.”

“Neither have you.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you glanced down the corridor where Capitol handlers were no doubt waiting just beyond the next corner, armed with cameras and microphones. The Peacekeepers would follow soon after.

“Do you think they’ll believe it?” you asked sardonically. “That Satoru Gojo, the Capitol’s golden boy, suddenly fell in love with the girl he’s spent years hating?”

“Hating you was easy,” he said. “Pretending not to will be harder.”

You turned your face to him fully then, veil catching the light as it shifted like water. “Then maybe don’t try too hard. Your disgust might pass for passion if you squint.”

Satoru didn’t know why he stepped closer. Maybe it was instinct, that old, ruthless Capitol instinct to perform—to charm, to command a room, even when the room was empty. Maybe it was something else, something far less useful and far more dangerous. But he didn’t let himself dwell on it.

From this close, he could see the faint shimmer dusted across your cheekbones. He could also see the stubborn glint in your eyes, that familiar spark he’d hated the moment he saw it all those years ago in the Training Center, the spark that said you’d rather go down swinging than even let someone else win.

“Hold still,” he said quietly, almost low enough to be mistaken for tenderness.

Your brows rose behind the veil, but you didn’t move when he lifted one hand and let it hover in front of your face. His fingers hesitated for a heartbeat too long before he gently pinched the fabric near your temple and adjusted the comb just slightly, letting the veil fall a bit straighter. There—less crooked, more symmetrical. Picture-perfect.

He told himself it was about optics. Always optics.

“There,” he said. “Now you look fit to be a bride.”

His joke was in poor taste. You didn’t thank him. Of course, you didn’t. You tilted your head slightly and looked at him through the thin mesh, studying him with the same wariness you always had—like you were waiting for the knife behind the compliment.

He wished it annoyed him. It used to.

Before he could say anything else, Coral’s heels clicked into the hallway. But even after she reached them, even as she began her chirping monologue about camera angles and choreography, Satoru didn’t look away from you.

He didn’t like you. That part hadn’t changed. You were reckless and infuriating and always two steps ahead of him in ways that didn’t make sense. He remembered the first time you’d beat your fellow tribute, Suguru Geto, in a sparring match. You’d won not because you were stronger, but because you were meaner, cutthroat in a way he hadn’t expected. It had rattled something in him.

That was the problem. You rattled him.

Even now, arm looped with yours, as Coral guided you both down the corridor, he could feel it—the gnawing hum of something pulling taut under his skin. Not attraction, not exactly. More like gravity. Something unpleasant and inevitable.

Satoru Gojo did not fall in love. But he did play the game, and if the Capitol wanted a love story, they were going to get one so dazzling they wouldn’t know where to look.

The elevator doors opened. He let you step in first. As the doors slid shut behind them, sealing off the world beyond, he looked at your reflection in the polished paneling. The veil shimmered. Your lips were pressed into a grimace.

He wondered, not for the first time, if you could put on an act convincing enough to fool President Snow, too.

He hoped so. He really, really hoped so.

The staging hall behind the Remake Center was cavernous and cold, the kind of cold that wasn’t from temperature but from gleaming walls, sterilised floors, and that metallic scent of too much money. Gold and glass chandeliers hung above the waiting area, casting warped halos over everyone beneath them. Like the Presidential Tower in the City Centre, and the penthouses in the Tribute District, it was too bright, too perfect, and too quiet.

Satoru stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that was entirely performative. He didn’t glance at the cameras tucked discreetly into the corners of the room, but he knew they were there, humming softly, hungry for any flicker of tension or weakness. He’d learned long ago that Capitol cameras didn’t blink. They just watched, and waited.

You stood beside him, slightly angled away like you couldn’t stand to be too close. Not that he blamed you. The veil still hung from the comb behind your ear, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the way it moved when you breathed—shallow, steady. Controlled.

You were always so good at that. Controlled.

There were already a few pairs gathered in the hall—other victors summoned back to die for the Capitol’s amusement in this sadistic Quarter Quell. Some Satoru recognised instantly. Some he hadn’t seen since they stood on podiums with blood on their faces and flowers in their arms.

He saw Kento Nanami, standing near one of the pillars like he’d rather be anywhere else. Satoru wasn’t surprised he was here. District 11 hadn’t produced many victors in the last few decades, but Kento had been a quiet legend in his own right: clever, composed, and ruthless in the arena when it mattered. Rumour had it he’d won his Games with a broken rib and a shattered wrist. The Capitol had tried to dress him afterward, sculpt him into something shiny, but even now, years later, Kento still looked like someone who didn’t quite belong in these rooms.

His uniform was darker than most, muted bronze with a charcoal sash over one shoulder. He was speaking in low tones to his district partner, who Satoru didn’t immediately recognise. Probably a younger victor. A new lamb for slaughter.

“You think if I throw up before the parade, they’ll cancel it?” someone piped up cheerfully nearby.

Satoru turned to see Yu Haibara, from District 7, beaming at him with a sort of unshakeable optimism that made Satoru’s teeth hurt. The kid was barely older than twenty, his brown curls slightly mussed by the stylists, his uniform stitched from dyed bark and deep green velvet. A nod to his lumber roots, no doubt.

“If it’s on camera,” Yu added brightly, “I might get extra sponsors.”

“You’d better empty your guts dramatically then,” Satoru drawled, slipping easily into Capitol charm. “Preferably mid-spin.”

Yu laughed. “Maybe you can catch me if I faint too. Really sell the tragic romance angle.”

Satoru flashed a grin. “Sorry. I only catch people I like.”

“Oh? Then she’s lucky,” Yu said, gesturing loosely towards you.

You didn’t smile. Not even a twitch. Satoru could practically hear the words you were not saying through the veil. But you stepped just slightly closer to him, shoulder grazing his, and for the Capitol’s invisible audience, it was a performance worth millions.

“Do you think Snow’s going to make us dance next?” Yu asked after a beat. “Like, literally dance? Before he lets us kill each other?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Kento said, walking up to you three. He offered a stiff nod to Satoru, then to you. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were tired. “Though if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll send the mutts in before the waltz.”

“Have to keep the pacing up,” Satoru murmured. Mutts, or muttations, normal animals genetically modified in the Capitol’s labs into creatures more grotesque than he could ever imagine, were the least of his worries. “Wouldn’t want the audience to get bored.”

“God forbid,” Nanami replied dryly.

Satoru’s smile faded just slightly. There was a hollow spot behind his ribs that hadn’t stopped aching since the reaping.

Yu reached into his sleeve and produced a bright red candy. “Want one?” he offered Satoru. “Tastes like synthetic strawberries. Or so they say. I’ve never actually had strawberries before.”

Satoru blinked at him, then took the candy and popped it into his mouth.

“Very sweet,” he confirmed. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d tasted in the Capitol. That title still belonged to whatever poison they called oysters.

Kento’s eyes flicked from Satoru to you. “How long do you plan to keep this act up?”

Satoru tilted his head, smiling like the answer didn’t matter. “As long as we have to.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Kento rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push. Not here, where every word was being catalogued, where even the smallest twitch of tension could be repackaged and broadcast in high definition.

You spoke up then, voice quiet but clear. “It’s what they want, isn’t it? A star-crossed twist. All’s fair in love and war, and whatever other fuckery goes on in their heads.”

“You guys sound fun at parties,” Yu said.

“We used to be,” Satoru muttered.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened with a sudden, echoing click. A handler in Capitol lavender beckoned them forward. The chariots were being prepped. The parade was about to begin.

Satoru sighed once, long and shallow. He extended a hand towards you, palm up. Your fingers were cold. Or maybe his were. Either way, they fit too easily.

Yu winked as he passed. “Try not to upstage the rest of us, lovebirds.”

“No promises,” Satoru said, walking forward with you on his arm, every step a silent, glittering lie.

The Avenue of the Tributes stretched out before Satoru like a burnished mirror, polished till the cobblestones shone. Spotlights hovered above on silent rails, casting pools of white-gold light that tracked each chariot as it rolled through the wide boulevard, flanked on either side by rows and rows of screaming Capitol citizens.

Satoru stood at the front of the chariot, spine straight beneath the pearlescent jacket that shimmered in the light. Every movement made the fabric catch on itself—blue, then green, then silver—like he was wearing the ocean on his skin. At his side, you stood just as poised, your hand tucked loosely into the crook of his elbow, veil trembling slightly in the wind.

Your other hand was hidden between you, fingers curled around his. For balance, you’d said when you climbed into the chariot. You hadn’t let go since.

Cheers echoed through the corridor of lights and screens. The hover-cams whirred softly as they zoomed in, projecting close-up feeds of each pair onto the giant curved panels looming over the avenue. On one, Satoru caught a glimpse of his own face—mask-like, unreadable—and yours beside it, half-concealed by your veil. Together, you looked like the climax of a fairy tale, right before everything fell apart.

Good. That was the point.

“They’re eating this up,” he murmured, not turning his head.

Your voice floated back just as quiet. “You sure it’s not the outfits?”

“I think it’s the misery.”

You let out a faint huff that might have been a laugh. Or maybe a sigh.

Ahead of your chariot, the chariot from District 3 turned the final bend, where the wide boulevard narrowed into City Centre. From here, Satoru could see the Presidential Tower rising like a blade of glass into the night sky. All the light in the world seemed to pool at its base—cold, brilliant, all-consuming.

He hated that tower.

The chariot began to slow.

Coral had instructed him to do something big when they reached the end. “A gesture,” she had said, fluttering her manicured fingers. “Something iconic. They need to fall in love with the idea of you two.”

Satoru had nodded absently. He knew how this worked. He knew what sold.

He also knew that every camera would be trained on you and him in the next sixty seconds. President Snow would be watching from his perch, eyes like twin chips of frozen steel. Every Capitol citizen and every grieving mother in Panem would be holding their breath, ready to believe in the lie if he made it beautiful enough.

So when the chariot began to slow, and the crowd’s screams peaked into something shrill and hysterical, he turned to you.

Your eyes met his behind the veil, and just for a second, everything stilled. He saw the fatigue carved beneath your lashes. The way you held your chin just high enough to not look scared. The way your mouth parted slightly like you were about to say something—then didn’t.

Satoru reached up, slowly, and pushed the veil back.

It slipped over your hair like mist, pooling behind your shoulders, baring your face to the cameras. Gasps rippled through the crowd. You flinched, almost imperceptibly.

Satoru stepped closer, one hand still in yours. The other lifted to your cheek, resting there with the barest pressure.

“This is a terrible idea,” you said, breath brushing his lips.

“That’s what makes it romantic,” he said, and kissed you, not softly or chastely.

He kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the story with his mouth. Like if he kissed you hard enough, the Capitol might forget what this parade really was. Like maybe he could forget, too.

Your lips parted beneath his. You didn’t pull away.

The crowd screamed. Fireworks ignited above the tower in bursts of crystalline white and glittering crimson. Cameras whirred. Screens flashed. Satoru closed his eyes against all of it.

When he finally pulled back, your lipstick was smudged and your expression unreadable. The veil fluttered behind you, untethered. Your fingers were still tight around his. He forced a smile, something charming and rakish, for the Capitol. You didn’t smile back, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

The chariot rolled to a halt in front of the Tower. The anthem swelled, deafening now, but all Satoru could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat and the whisper of your breath against his collar. He stood there, hand still cradling your cheek, eyes on the President’s balcony, where a single white rose gleamed in a crystal vase.

He wondered what the Capitol saw at that moment. Their golden boy and his beloved? Or just two more corpses with pretty faces and perfect timing?

Let them choose, he thought bitterly. Let them believe whatever version of the lie they liked best. He could play this role until the end. He had to.

The applause didn’t fade so much as shift, muted behind the tall glass doors of the Training Center as the chariot peeled away into the underground corridors. The quiet was jarring, sudden, like someone had clamped a hand over the Capitol’s glittering mouth.

Satoru released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The veil was still pushed back, your fingers still tangled loosely in his, a quiet echo of the performance you’d just sold to the entire nation. He loosened his grip before you could pull away first. You didn’t look at him as you adjusted the comb in your hair. He didn’t expect you to.

Coral’s voice chimed in beside him—overly chipper, as though she hadn’t just watched you both broadcast a staged kiss to millions of viewers. “Darlings, you were stunning. President Snow’s aides are going to be in a frenzy by morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if he requests an exclusive interview before the interviews. Now, you two will—naturally, of course—be sharing a suite with a single bedroom. Lovebirds, and all that pizzazz.”

Satoru muttered something noncommittal and let her guide him down the main hallway. The Training Center was the same as always: gleaming floors, ceiling panels aglow with sterile light, the soft scent of something floral piped in to cover the antiseptic undertones. Every year, he remembered it being too quiet. Too polished. Like the building was pretending not to be what it was.

Prison. Vault. Mausoleum.

The elevator opened with a soft chim, and Coral stepped in with you, instructing the Peacekeepers to wait below. District 4’s floor was near the top, just underneath a few high-scoring districts. The doors slid open into a carpeted hallway lined with glass doors, each suite labeled in a metallic script. He hadn’t even reached his assigned room before a voice called out from the end of the hall:

“Satoru! Hey!”

Satoru turned to see Yu again, grinning as brightly as he had back before the parade, his dark curls windswept. He was still in his tribute outfit. Beside him, Kento leaned against the wall, eyes flicking between you and Satoru with a kind of calm interest.

“District Four’s really making a statement tonight,” Yu said, jogging up. “I knew you’d pull something like that.”

“Glad to give the people what they want,” Satoru replied easily.

Yu shot a teasing glance at you. “He always this romantic when cameras are off?”

“Worse,” you said, not missing a beat.

“Theatrics aside,” Kento said, walking over, “it was well-played. You’ll be the Capitol’s sweethearts by tomorrow.”

“Is that a good thing?” Satoru asked.

“Only if you don’t mind being watched,” Kento said. “Constantly.”

Another door opened down the hall.

Yuki Tsukumo stepped out barefoot, wearing an oversized black robe that barely grazed her knees. Her hair was still styled from the parade—loose curls and golden embellishments tucked behind one ear—and she walked with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t mind being the centre of attention in the room.

“Ah,” she said, eyes lighting up as she caught sight of your little congregation. “The lovers of the hour.”

Satoru barely had time to brace before she was in front of him, eyes dragging over the details of his still-buttoned jacket and the faint trace of lipstick smudged near his mouth.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Gojo,” she crooned, tilting her head. “I always thought you were more of a solo act.”

He offered her a smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“True.” Yuki stepped closer, unabashed. “But I’d love to find out.”

From the corner of his eye, Satoru caught sight of your shoulders stiffening just slightly. He said nothing.

Yuki’s hand reached up, smooth fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “Nice stitching. Did your stylist tailor it just for you?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“I like a man with taste.”

“And I like a woman who doesn’t waste time,” he replied, stepping just out of reach. “But unfortunately, I’m spoken for now.”

He reached for your hand before he could second-guess it.

Yuki’s eyebrows lifted, clearly amused. “Well, how tragic for me.” She turned her gaze to you, lips curled. “But lucky you. If you ever get bored of the Capitol’s golden boy, let me know.”

You smiled. “If I ever get bored, I’ll be too dead to care.”

Yuki laughed and lifted two fingers to her brow in a mock-salute before sauntering back to her suite. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Yu let out a low whistle. “District Two really doesn’t believe in subtlety, huh?”

“She’s just bored,” Kento said simply. “She’s already won once. Flirting’s just another way to stay sharp.”

Coral clapped her hands, clearly uncomfortable with the whole exchange. “Alright! Let’s get you two settled in. Training begins tomorrow, and I’d hate for either of you to look anything less than breathtaking at breakfast.”

You let her drag you towards the suite, your fingers slipping out of Satoru’s grip somewhere along the way. Yu yawned and pressed the button for the elevator, before waving goodbye and stepping inside. Kento, however, stayed where he was.

Satoru glanced at him.

Kento’s voice was low. “Keep your eyes open, Gojo. That kiss was a declaration—not just to the Capitol. To the other tributes as well.”

“What of it?” Satoru didn’t look away.

“You better be careful.”

Satoru said nothing.

When he finally stepped into the suite and the doors closed behind him, the noise of the hallway faded; all he could think of was that kiss, the way your breath caught against his cheek, the soft tremble he hadn’t imagined. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew they were all watching now.

He wasn’t sure he could afford a single mistake from here on.

You didn’t enter the bedroom at all that night.

Satoru padded barefoot into the common lounge, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, hair still tousled from tossing against Capitol pillows that, though soft, offered him no comfort. You sat on the low couch near the window wall, knees tucked to your chest, gaze fixed on the glowing skyline of the Capitol.

You didn’t turn at the sound of his footsteps, though you’d clearly heard them.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Didn’t know you were capable of whispering,” you said back.

He smirked, but didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the opposite end of the couch and lowered himself onto it slowly, stretching one leg out and letting the other rest lazily against the floor. His elbows found his knees.

“That kiss…” you said. “You really sold it.”

“You kissed me back,” he said.

“We’re playing a role.”

“Sure,” he said. “You still kissed me back. You don’t have to be afraid, you know.”

You turned to him, eyebrows lifted.

“I mean,” he continued, leaning his head back against the couch, “not of me. If you want… I can sleep on the couch tonight. You can take the bed.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You seemed on edge. I figured having someone else awake nearby might help.”

Satoru didn’t have to tell you what he was actually referring to. He thought about your argument on the train more often than he should have, something dark and ugly and twisted slithering about in his chest every time he remembered your words. He wanted to kill all those fucking sponsors who’d touched you, tear their limbs off one by one—he didn’t like you, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to protect you. Suguru would have wanted it.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “Just offering.”

a/n: thanks for reading! and thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading :) comments are appreciated!

art credit: _3aem

#gojo x reader

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sinnaminttoast · 27 days ago

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You ever think about how Vincent learned how to heal because of what happened to Lovely, and then the one time he was going to save them from dying, he couldn’t? Because this time it wasn’t an actual physical wound.

#redacted audio #redacted asmr #redactedverse #redacted vincent #redacted lovely

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sinnaminttoast · 30 days ago

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SWEET 18 : GOJO SATORU

sum. he’s your ex-boyfriend and you haven’t seen him in years. years after you left him and your friends, years after leaving town. years of his ribs having no home. and even when you come back, all you ever want is for him to forget you

wn. non-sorcerer! gojo satoru, angst no comfort, under influence gojo, ex-boyfriend, almost 30 you. if you watch lovestruck in the city, you know where this fic inspires from.

your palms sweat like they're whispering secrets you don’t want to hear, a nervous kind of betrayal, slick and shameful. breath stumbles out of you, shaky and unsure, curling into the cold like a ghost that doesn’t know where to haunt. for a moment, it paints the air with little clouds—soft, shapeless, gone in seconds. you rub your hands together, not for warmth but maybe to remind yourself you’re still here, still flesh, still trembling. lungs take in air like it’s made of glass, and you’re afraid to break it.

your eyes wander, restless things, trying to do the impossible—trying to see past the thick frost-glazed windows of the restaurant across the street. maybe if you stare hard enough, the glass will dissolve, and you’ll see the table where everything is about to fall apart. or maybe it already did. maybe this is just the funeral.

reunion, they called it. as if broken things always want to be pieced back together. as if time is a kind seamstress instead of a butcher.

you haven't seen these people in years—since you were eighteen, maybe. or was it nineteen? or maybe you misplaced three years like losing keys in the backseat of your memory. three years gone or ghosted or gutted, and the rest of your twenties? a blur, a flatline, a running joke with no punchline. just echoes and static and flashbacks—those little bastards. they don’t knock. they just crash through the windows of your mind like bricks wrapped in nostalgia and needles.

it hurts. god, everything hurts in ways that don’t even make sense. the snow touches your shoulder like it’s mad at you, like it’s saying see, even the sky is tired of you. the new shoes—stupidly expensive, laughably uncomfortable—are bleeding you dry. you bought them for this night, this mess, this spectacle. to look nice. to look tolerable. to look like someone who isn't unraveling from the inside out.

for him.

just enough so he wouldn’t see the fracture line running down your cheekbone, wouldn’t hear the hollow behind your laugh. wouldn’t notice the earthquake that lives behind your eyes when you look at him. wouldn’t feel the way your silence is just a scream dressed in pearls.

you’re dressed like survival in disguise. pain tucked under perfume. sorrow smudged into mascara. you wish to show up as a whole cathedral of ruin, praying no one sees the fire in the pews.

the light turns green, and your legs, traitorous things stitched with old want, begin to move—without command, without caution—dragging you into the inevitable. they betray you in the same way hope does: sweet at first, then rotten. step by step, as if the concrete is whispering his name beneath your shoes. like the street remembers. like it knows. and you walk anyway, don’t you? not because you’re brave, no, but because your cowardice is a circle—you flee, only to find yourself back where it began. in front of him. again. like always.

and you know. god, you know. it will hurt. you know the burn behind the smile, the silence after hello, the flash of something once-called love rusting between forks and glass cups. but knowledge does not equal prevention. pain has no respect for intelligence.

so you stand now at the restaurant door—old, wooden, slightly warped as if it too has weathered too many reunions, too many entrances full of trembling bones. your hand rises but pauses, midair, suspended like a sentence you’re too afraid to finish. your reflection in the glass pane stares back: fractured, familiar, wearing a coat that doesn’t keep the cold out. eyes hollowed by memory. lips pressed into the shape of regret.

you exhale.

you push the door open, and it groans like it’s in mourning.

warmth spills over you—artificial, suffocating. laughter somewhere deep inside, silverware scraping porcelain, wine glasses clinking like tiny guillotines. your feet drag you forward again, your voice caught in your throat like a scream that never learned to fly.

“reservation under… zero-eight,” you say, numbers dry and brittle on your tongue.

the host nods. nods like this is normal. like your heart isn’t gnawing on its own ribs. like you aren’t the walking ghost of a former self wrapped in wool and shaking. he leads you through the labyrinth of tables, past strangers who have no idea the war you’re waging with each breath, the riot in your blood, the cathedral collapsing quietly in your chest.

and then—there.

the table.

your purgatory.

six people.

six ghosts.

six knives shaped like love.

shoko and her cigarette already half-burned, eyes bored, but soft at the edges like she still forgives you. utahime with posture stiff, but there’s a flicker of worry in her glance. nanami, neat as always, time etched into the corners of his mouth, and yet you can tell he still measures you in silence. haibara, a smile that hasn’t aged, so bright it hurts, like nothing ever broke. geto, the same, but not. eyes darker, smile thinner. a part of him still stuck in the version of you that left without explanation.

and then—

him.

satoru.

gojo satoru.

the beginning and end of all your stupid poems.

his hair is different, maybe. or maybe the light just hates you tonight.

his eyes—

his eyes.

still that impossible shade, like snow learning to burn. they find you, instantly, like they never stopped searching. like they always knew you'd walk through that door again, dragged by memory’s leash.

your knees threaten to fold, your throat to burst.

this is it. this is the table where your past sits, polished and painful.

and you— you’re the ghost arriving late to your own funeral, wondering if anyone will say your name without venom. you take a step forward. the floor doesn’t collapse. you take another. still standing. the world, somehow, keeps turning.

no one says anything yet. they just look. and the silence says what words never could :

you left.

you broke.

you hurt us.

and still—we missed you.

god help you. you missed them, too. more than air. more than peace. enough to walk into the fire again and beg it to remember your name.

but they are warm. impossibly warm. warm in a way that feels like standing too close to a memory you once tried to bury under cynicism and time. they open to you not with hesitation or punishment, but with something far more dangerous—forgiveness. as if your silence hadn’t carved holes into them. as if absence doesn’t rot love like fruit left out in the sun.

shoko is the first to rise—slowly, gracefully, like a tide you didn’t expect to come back. her eyes flicker with a light that could be joy or just the flare of the cigarette burning soft between her fingers. it doesn’t matter. her gaze holds you, tender and bone-deep, and then she moves—no warning, no ceremony—and pulls you into a hug that breaks something inside you with the soundlessness of a tree falling in a forgotten forest. bone-crushing, spine-shaking, a hug that says you’re back, and i hate you for it, and i missed you anyway.

you gasp, or maybe you weep. maybe it’s the same thing now.

utahime follows like muscle memory, arms wrapping around you with a gentleness you never thought you deserved. she smells like citrus and tired days and unspoken loyalty. no one says anything. but she holds you long enough that you almost believe the time apart hadn’t been a chasm with no bridge. then haibara, sweet, unkillable haibara—bursts like sunlight through a crack. he throws himself at you, laughs loud and bright like a matchbox exploding. he squeezes too tight and talks too fast, and he’s everything you remember: a child built of joy and sugar and grief that never stuck to his skin long enough to leave scars. you laugh—god, you laugh. something you thought you buried in the dirt with your better selves.

and it feels like—

old time.

a dream held up by thin wire and memory glue.

you are smiling. god help you, you're smiling. especially when geto—that devil-saint, all sly eyes and poison-dipped words—leans in with a smirk already dancing on his lips. he says something stupid, something petty, something wonderfully cruel in that teasing way only he ever could.

you scoff. roll your eyes. hit his arm.

the ache in your chest swells like a tidal wave at the edge of cracking.

and then he hugs you. tightly. all arms and warmth and history. he kisses your cheek and it leaves a phantom of something lost.

you could almost cry.

you almost do.

and even nanami, who has always worn restraint like a religion, lets something soft escape his composure. a quiet sigh. a small nod. and then— he, too, hugs you. brief. precise. meaningful in the way only nanami can be. his kiss on your cheek is clinical and affectionate, like checking for a pulse on a ghost.

you almost forget where the pain lives.

until you see him.

gojo satoru.

he hasn’t moved. hasn’t spoken. just watched. his eyes—those goddamn eyes, galaxies stitched with winter and war—are still locked on you, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re real or some hallucination born out of a long-starved dream. you look at him, and it’s like looking directly at a solar flare.

and all you can give him is a smile—fragile, fleeting. a ghost of a thing.

a nod.

just that.

because even that feels like setting yourself on fire.

you cannot touch him. you cannot be touched by him.

because skin to skin with gojo satoru is not touch—

it’s combustion. it’s standing in the center of a burning house and pretending you don’t know the flames by name. you are afraid. not of him—but of what he awakens in you, the old hunger, the tender rot, the ache you never healed.

you stay where you are, still smiling, still nodding. like a sinner bowing at the altar of everything they once destroyed. and he, still silent, still watching, smiles back. a twitch of lips. a flicker of sorrow. a word unsaid.

you are a spark hovering too close to the dynamite. and the reunion goes on. but your heart—it stays paused in that breath between him and you. between almost and never again.

you shrug your coat off with the kind of grace that shouldn’t carry weight, but somehow does—like a monarch shedding its wings before crawling into the dirt. and it shouldn’t mean anything. it’s just a coat. it’s just fabric. but to him, it’s the gates of eden creaking open again. it’s the first light after exile.

and gojo satoru—the strongest, the brightest, the most untouchable—falls. not gently. not sweetly. he plummets.

again.

as if the heart isn’t a one-time bomb but a ritual of detonation, and yours is the trigger he was built to press.

he watches you. really watches you. like a starving man studying a banquet he can no longer touch. like a god exiled from his own temple. your skin glows beneath the weak yellow restaurant lighting—gold, soft, unreal. the kind of softness that memory overexposes with time until it hurts to remember. and fuck, he remembers.

your wrist.

your collarbone.

the delicate shell of your ear.

the way your hands twitch when you're nervous, the way your lips press together when you're trying not to cry. he remembers the sound of your breath hitching under his name like a prayer that never reached heaven.

his fingers curl slightly where they rest on the table, knuckles paling from the pressure. they twitch, like beasts trapped behind glass, aching to roam again across familiar land—your skin. the old kingdom. the fallen empire. he used to know every inch like scripture. and now he doesn’t even have the right to blink too long in your direction.

his lips are sealed into a taut, flat line. but they betray him anyway, trembling like they remember the softness of your name on their altar. they remember your taste, your voice, the way you used to say i love you without actually needing to say it. they remember too much.

and it isn’t memories pelting him now—it’s architecture. full-fledged walls slamming down around him, one after another, building a goddamn mausoleum of what once was. in front of him, behind him, above and below—you, you, you. your memory is spatial. it has mass. it breathes. it’s a fifth dimension he never learned to escape.

even the floor groans under the weight of it. like it's preparing to crack open, to split wide and suck him under into some subterranean exhibit of you. every laugh fossilized. every moan etched in stone. a museum of sins and sacred things alike. you—his relic. his ruin. his religion. just. . . his.

his chest feels too tight for lungs. ribs caught fire long ago, and they’re burning clean now, white-hot, holy. and all these years of silence—of stillness—of pretending not to bleed in the absence— and you walk in like nothing happened. like god didn’t die inside him when you walked away.

you still have him.

that’s the real horror. not that you’re here. not that you’re close. but that you still hold the switchblade that carves his name into the inside of your mouth, even if you never say it again. he wants to laugh. wants to scream. wants to run until his bones snap from trying to carry this ache that has no language.

instead, he just stares. because what a fucking joke.

after all this time—

after all these years—

after all that silence—

he still wants to build a home out of your shadow.

but you don’t need to know that.

the table breathes. you swear it does. its bones groan beneath elbows and glasses and the weight of everything left unsaid. your coat now hangs limply behind you like the ghost of an apology you’ll never give voice to. you sit, and the chair creaks as if even inanimate things remember your weight, your shape, the way your absence once haunted the fibers of every place you left behind. the table trembles slightly when your fingers graze the edge—your touch too holy for wood, too cursed to leave untouched.

they talk first. of course they do. how else to dam the ocean threatening to collapse the room?

shoko leans in, the scent of smoke already woven into her sweater like a second skin. “you still hate parties?” she mutters, a smile twitching at her lips, lazy and weathered. “or is this your way of showing growth?” you scoff softly, eyes flicking down. “maybe i missed suffering.”

“you always did like dramatic exits,” utahime cuts in, eyebrows raised but fondness softening the edges. “figured you’d at least like a dramatic entrance, too.“

“you got both,” haibara chirps, voice too bright for the dim lighting. “you disappeared like a magician and then showed up out of nowhere. like a cursed trick!” you laugh. you actually laugh. and god, it sounds foreign in your own mouth. “i’m full of surprises, no?” you whisper.

geto watches you over the rim of his glass, something wolfish curling around his smirk. “you look good,” he says, and it’s not a compliment—it’s a tease, a jab, a soft knife for old wounds.

you glare, but it doesn’t land. “still an asshole.”

he leans in and plants a kiss on your cheek. “only for you.”

you wipe the spot with mock disgust. “gross.”

“affection,“ he shrugs, like it’s nothing. like he didn’t cradle pieces of anger, annoyance to his best-friend’s heart. like the years didn’t warp everything between you into both ache and fondness.

nanami is quiet but not cold. his eyes are still the same—sharp, clear, painfully perceptive. “i’m glad you came,” he says simply. his words feel like bridges being rebuilt, slowly, plank by plank. glass of wine between his fingers, eyes golden behind the rim of his glasses.

you nod. “me too.”

and you mean it. even if your lungs beg to collapse.

then there’s silence. the kind that swells. thick. pregnant with all the unsaid years.

you don’t need to look to feel him— he is a language carved into your bones, a prayer you never meant to memorize but find yourself whispering every time silence clutches the air.

gojo satoru. your once lover. your unfinished poem. the echo of god’s laugh wrapped in white hair and ruin.

he is too much for the room— not because of his height, but because he exists like a collapse, a star falling in reverse, an entire sky crashing into your lungs with every breath you steal. his presence bends gravity, pulls the blood up to your cheeks as if shame is a kind of worship.

your stomach knots— not in fear, but in recognition.

like the sea remembering a storm or a violin string remembering the hands that once made it sing and scream and break.

maybe he was too big for your heart, maybe that’s why you gave up loving him— five years of building a house in a field of landmines, five years of loving a god with no church to bury your prayers in. five years of being the altar. . . and never the offering.

but fuck—

maybe you don’t know. maybe you never knew. maybe you forgot, or maybe you refused to believe that gojo satoru, the man who grins like war and walks like divinity, would let you— you, with your flint-forged teeth and your flame-slick tongue— sink into the softest part of his neck and draw blood like an oath.

he’d bare his throat not out of weakness, but reverence. as if you were the altar and he the lamb, as if your rage was holy and your pain a hymn. he’d let you gnash at his skin, tear through flesh like scripture rewritten, if only to die at your feet— glorious and ruined, a monument of want, spilling his devotion in the red language he never dared speak aloud.

and even then— even as death circles like a vulture over the carcass of his once-beating heart, he’d smile, stupid and soft, and whisper to the silence, “i’ll come back. i swear to every god that ever spat me out, i’ll come back— just let me hear her voice again.”

because love like that doesn’t rot. because your name tastes like resurrection on his tongue. because hell, to him, isn’t fire or chains or suffering— it’s a world where he can’t touch you. where your laugh doesn’t live in his ears like prayer.

and fuck.

you’ll never understand, will you?

what it means to be worshipped so quietly, so violently, so utterly— by a man who would destroy the heavens just to carve you a seat on his ruined throne.

maybe that’s why you walked away. maybe that’s why the hole he left in your ribs still howls like an animal during winter. a hunger not for food, but for the way he used to say your name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

and now, he sits. close enough to touch. too far to reach. you dare not turn your head. you fear your eyes might betray you, that they might look at him the way a desert looks at rain— with desperation, with longing, with a kind of madness only absence can plant and let bloom.

and he—

he does not speak. but he burns. he is fire in every quiet moment.

he is the ghost of the man you loved and the god of the man you could never stop. you don’t need to look to feel him. he’s already inside every room you enter, every breath you steal, every line of poetry that tastes too much like ache.

and still— your ribs whisper his name like a country mourning the flag it had to lower. like a home that remembers who once set it alight

and called it beautiful.

he doesn’t say anything at first. doesn’t move. just watches you. his gaze, not sharp like a knife, but aching like a prayer long abandoned by its god.

you finally risk it—meet his eyes.

and you swear the earth forgets to spin for a second.

“…hey,” you say.

and it’s nothing.

a whisper.

a crumb of sound.

but to him, it might as well be divine thunder.

because it’s your voice, after all this time. still soft. still yours.

he blinks.

his voice comes out lower than usual. slower. like it had to travel through fire.

“…hey.”

and that’s it.

that’s the whole damn apocalypse. two syllables shared across a battlefield of broken years. you don’t touch.

not yet.

your fingers stay folded in your lap like caged birds. you don’t dare get too close. you’ve seen what fire does to paper. and right now, he’s a wildfire dressed in a suit. but you see it in him—the way his throat works around words he’ll never say,

the way his fingers twitch like they’re mourning the absence of your skin, the way his eyes drink you in with hunger and grief braided together. and somewhere deep in your ribs, you wonder how long you’ll last before you burst into flames, too. because, you’re fucking obsessed with standing by the smoke just to get burn. eating your skin alive, your soul, and maybe death can do you and home him together.

maybe that's what brought you here— after the dinner plates were cleared, after the laughter was rinsed from the corners of everyone’s mouths, after the ghosts at the table stood and decided it would be good, a good idea, to drown what couldn’t be spoken in neon light and fermented poison. the reason? blurred like rain on old glass. gray like grief. black like closed eyes. blue like the bruise of memory blooming too soon, too fast.

bar-hopping, they said. for old time’s sake. for the ruin. for the memory of what you used to be when the world was less cruel. maybe they missed you. maybe they wanted to stitch you back into the tapestry you tore yourself from. or maybe—just maybe—they wanted to press salt into every wound you thought had healed, using gojo satoru as both knife and bandage. punishment draped in nostalgia. revenge kissed in the shape of reconciliation, a justice, a soft, smiling revenge with music too loud and drinks too bitter.

or maybe— maybe it was punishment in disguise. a blade dipped in sugar. because how dare you vanish? how dare you vanish and still wear his name like a wound you never stitched?

you didn’t ask. you didn’t want to know.

you just… ended up here. with the weight of old laughter in your coat

and gojo satoru sitting alone at a table like a war-torn monument left in the middle of a city too afraid to rebuild. his hair is no longer immaculate, no longer kissed by the arrogant sun. it's disheveled,

sacrificed to the cold wind and some dark thought he wouldn’t dare speak out loud.

his cheeks are flushed— not the pink of joy, no— but the bloom of something frozen and fermented, winter’s mouth pressed too long against his face and liquor swimming inside the boy who always hated its taste. his tolerance was never there— always a child before the bottle, always glass in the hands of fists too drunk with grief.

you approach. and his head lifts like it’s a dream stirring awake.

his eyes soften. a broken smile tries to rise but fails halfway. you sit across from him. a round chair. a round table. two broken halos facing each other over spilled liquor and wasted years. your fingers brush against the glass; it’s sticky, like guilt, slick like all the things you never said. and it clings to you like the past— like him.

he blinks. slow. as if your silhouette might vanish with the next gust of wind. “you’re really here,” he slurs, softly, like prayer, like disbelief wrapped in threadbare hope. “for hours i thought i was dreaming.”

“i’m here,” you murmur, barely. the syllables fall from your mouth like old leaves.

he chuckles. a sound that should’ve been joy but dies somewhere in his throat. he takes another sip, then rests his arm on the table,

lays his cheek on it, and looks at you with eyes that are lakes about to flood. his gaze crashes into yours. soaking you. drowning you. and still, you don’t look away.

you copy him. arms folded, chin resting. you tilt your head, just enough to fall deeper into those irises— that endless, violent blue. blue like bruises you never healed from. blue like sky you prayed to and never got an answer.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers, like it hurts to say it. like your beauty has always been the blade pressed to his neck. “so stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?” you ask, voice a breath, as your finger ghosts across his cheek, wiping away the tear before it commits the crime of falling.

his eyes flutter shut. he hiccups. his smile— god, that crooked smile— it still lives in some unholy cathedral in your chest. “with pity in your glassy eyes,” he mumbles, “all i am to you is a tragedy, right?”

you don’t answer. what answer would suffice for a man who once held your soul like scripture and shattered it like a mirror? you scoff—because you want to laugh, you want to scream, you want to throw the table over and shout, you idiot, you beautiful, stupid man—

don’t you know i have a whole goddamn forest growing inside my ribs, and your name is carved into every tree? don’t you know every breath i take still tastes like your fingertips? don’t you know that i built an entire religion around forgetting you and still ended up praying to your absence?

so you don’t answer. you hum. quiet and dangerous.

because this stupid man— this stupid, beautiful, broken man—

has no idea. no fucking idea that you have a whole goddamn forest living inside your ribs, and every tree bears his name carved deep in the bark, like devotion, like desecration like you never stopped loving him, you just ran out of air.

and still, he looks at you like he’s begging to be forgiven for sins he never understood. and still, you look at him like you’re begging him to sin again.

he pushes himself up with the weight of a thousand silences pressing on his spine, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself by folding his arms on the table like a man trying to keep his ribs from spilling open, like a man holding the crumbling temple of his own heart together with nothing but the memory of a touch he hasn’t felt in years—his head tilts, just slightly, as if he’s still searching for your warmth in the air between you.

his smile weak and war-torn, barely stitched together by the ghost of better days, and those eyes—those impossibly blue eyes, rimmed red with exhaustion and something far crueler than grief, the way soft snowfall turns into frostbite when you’re not looking—he looks at you like time has never moved, like this is still 3 a.m.

and your limbs are tangled in the dark, in sheets still warm from laughter, in promises still half-whispered and whole-hearted, as if the world hasn’t split open, ended, collapsed in on itself three separate times and somehow rebuilt without you by his side, as if his voice isn’t still the saddest sound you've ever known, a symphony of mourning wrapped in velvet and regret, and when he breathes in—sharp and jagged—it stumbles out as a sob, a soft implosion of a man who’s forgotten how to survive you.

you hum—barely, like your voice has to climb out of a grave to answer him—and nod, slowly, gently, with lips twitching at the corners as though caught between kindness and cruelty, because you know the smile will undo him, and it does, it always has; and oh, gojo satoru, the man who once held up the sky just to keep you from crying, now hates himself so profoundly he can feel the hate as something physical, tangible.

sitting in the hollowness of his chest like wet ash, like an ache so ancient it must have been born before language, a feeling that writhes in his ribs like some caged animal desperate to escape, to crack bone and tear through skin, to burst out and land in your lap just to scream—here, here, here is the broken wreckage you left behind, the useless cage I still carry like a shrine, because you refused to come home and now this, this is all I have: splintered bone and empty halls echoing with your absence.

he takes another breath—another knife dragged down the center of his throat—and his lips tremble, they falter, they fail, and then the first tear falls, silent and warm, like summer rain on a ruined battlefield, and he doesn’t bother wiping it away because he’s tired of pretending he’s anything other than devastation.

and he lets out a breath that could’ve been a laugh in another life but now comes jagged, frayed, a desperate sound clawing its way out of grief, and his voice cracks open like glass, “why am i annoyed to hear you’re doing well?” he asks with a bitter chuckle that tastes like rust and old wine and dying stars.

even the night outside holds its breath for his answer, because everyone knows it’s not really a question—it’s a confession, it’s a plea, it’s the sound of a man trying not to drown in the idea that you’ve moved on, that you survived him, that you found a way to bloom without the soil of his love beneath you.

like a wounded dog with its ribs pressing against the silence, you whimper—no sound made noble, no dignity left to guard your chest as it tightens like a locked gate beneath your skin, breath hitching on thorns of memory that refuse to die, and the tears fall down your cheeks in steady surrender, not like rivers, no—like wounds reopening themselves because healing would mean forgetting, and forgetting would mean killing what little warmth you had left—“can you just forget about me?” you beg, as if he hasn’t made a home of your name in his lungs, as if his heart doesn’t echo in your syllables every time it beats.

and he looks at you with those eyes, red at the corners, drunk and broken and somehow still holy, and replies, not with anger, not with grace, but with the simple clarity of a man who has built his life from the ruins you left, “how can I forget about you?” his voice cracks around the truth like old glass. “we are married.”

and you shatter.

not because you didn’t know.

not because you forgot how his hands used to tremble when he touched you like he feared you were too good for this world. but because something deeper than your bones still remembers being loved by him, being known by him, being made a whole new language in his presence.

and now your flesh, your skin, your very name no longer feels like your own, as if he branded you gently, kindly, beautifully, and you—ungrateful creature—still asked if you could bite him, if you could take blood and memory from a man who gave you the universe and called it yours.

“it was a joke, ’toru,” you whisper, voice raw, breaking like the spine of an old book, “we were eighteen.”

but he only smiles—no joy, only ruin—because tears, tears, tears, and they don’t stop. not from you. not from him. not from the night itself.

he shakes his head slowly, like sorrow is pulling strings in his neck, like grief has turned him into a puppet of devotion. “no,” he whispers, and his voice is so fragile it could collapse if you breathe wrong. “no, it wasn’t a joke for me.”

and then, like a child showing a scar, he raises his hand, fumbling and drunk, as he shows you his ring finger. the ring. your ring. his ring. the one that bound your souls together before either of you understood what eternity could cost.

“I never took the ring off,” he says softly, touching it like it burns and comforts all at once.

and it feels like the world tilts, spins the wrong way, because people—they always say you'll have many versions of yourself at eighteen, that you'll fall in love again, that your heart is a traveler and not a prisoner, that you’ll learn to love better, wiser, gentler.

but how do you love again when your body still barks like a loyal dog for the hands of the man you abandoned, when every smile at another feels like betrayal because your soul remembers, because even your shadow aches for the one you walked away from—not out of cruelty, but fear?

“why not?” you sob, because it’s all you have left. all you can say. the question you scream into your own pillow every night.

and he looks at you, eyes shining like the last stars before morning, his voice swollen with alcohol and truth, “because you told me not to.”

and there it is—your ruin. your miracle. your grave. your home. all in one sentence.

you sob—no, you collapse, inwardly, violently, like a cathedral folding in on itself, like your ribcage can no longer carry the weight of all the ghosts living inside it, like grief has nested in your sternum and refuses to leave—and your hands press hard against your lap, as if anchoring you.

as if your own flesh could offer forgiveness, or at least a moment of silence from the storm within, and you close your eyes with the desperation of a prayer, hoping—no, begging—that if you shut them tightly enough, you’ll wake up in your apartment, alone, wrapped in the artificial safety of solitude, and call this night a nightmare, a fever dream stitched by guilt and memory.

but no.

when your eyes open, the cruel mercy of reality stares back in the form of him—his gaze soft, impossibly soft, as if you hadn’t ripped his throat open with your silence, hadn’t buried your goodbye into the marrow of his bones and left him to bleed and stitch himself up in the dark with trembling hands and a heart too faithful to curse you for the pain.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper through the wreckage of your sobs, your voice a broken seashell echoing with waves of regret, and still—still—he smiles.

not the kind of smile meant for joy.

but the kind that feels like watching the sun set over a battlefield.

warm. soft. broken.

“you are mean,” he says, not cruelly, not accusingly, but like he’s reciting a truth he carries gently, like a wound he tends to every night just to keep it alive, just to remind himself it was real.

and you—coward, runner, storm-disguised-as-woman—you tell him, “that’s why you should forget about me.”

as if forgetting were a door he could choose to close. as if your name didn’t linger in every breath he took. as if memory didn’t wear your face and your voice wasn’t embedded in every “good morning” he never says anymore.

he chuckles, bitter and hoarse, head shaking with a sort of surrender that feels too old for his age, and for a moment he pulls away from the table, just long enough to wipe his endless tears with the back of his wrist—like a child who’s learned not to ask for comfort—and then he returns, folding his arms again on the table like a man returning to his altar.

“you know…” he begins, voice cracking under the weight of unspoken years, “as you can see right now, day by day—literally, day by day—I’m dying a little more inside.” and then his eyes find yours, not with blame, not with bitterness, but with the kind of love that bleeds and never dries—“still, i love you.”

and you sob—god, you sob.

like every part of you finally understands what you’ve done. like the music can’t drown out the screaming in your chest anymore.

you reach for him—trembling, reckless, human—your hand crossing the table like a confession, your fingers cupping his cheek with the tenderness you once buried, your thumb wiping tears that never asked to be seen, and through it all, you whisper the only truth you think you have left, “i’m a horrible woman.”

and his skin doesn’t flinch. his eyes don’t turn away. because in his world, even your worst version is still the only home he knows.

his cheek leans into your palm like it remembers the shape of your hand, like skin itself carries memory deeper than bone, like even after everything—after the silence, after the vanishing act, after the years where your name was a wound he nursed behind closed doors—his body still believes you are warmth, even if your love came with fire.

he doesn’t speak right away.

he just breathes—ragged, trembling, like the act itself is difficult beneath the weight of your touch—and you realize then how delicate this moment is: him, holding himself together like wet paper in a storm, and you, the storm that never stopped.

“you’re not horrible,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, not forgiving but true—a truth he speaks the way someone confesses their final prayer—“you were just scared.” and that breaks you in a way nothing else ever could.

because fear was the reason you ran, wasn’t it?

not hate. not indifference. just fear. fear that his love was too soft for your jagged edges. fear that one day you’d rot in his garden, unworthy of his sunlight. fear that someone so golden would crumble trying to hold someone like you.

but he never crumbled.

no—he stayed. waited. kept the door unlocked, the light on, the ring on his finger. like his love had no expiration date. “you say that,” you whisper, throat burning from all the saltwater you’ve held back, “but look at you. you’re not even whole anymore.”

and he laughs, bitter and sweet, like a song played out of tune, “i was never whole to begin with. not before you, not after you. i think i was always meant to love you in pieces.”

you cry harder.

not the quiet kind. the kind that trembles your shoulders. the kind that makes your hands useless. the kind where your ribs feel like glass and every inhale feels like bleeding.

he watches you, not with pity, but with that same unbearable tenderness he’s always reserved for you, the kind that says, i know you’re the reason i’m in ruins, but i’d still choose this ruin over any peace without you.

you look at him, eyes red, breath shaky, mascara in smudges and heartbreak etched across your face like a painting only he could love.

“what do you want from me, satoru?” you ask, voice almost a whimper, like a child lost in the middle of a battlefield. “after everything… why do you still want me?”

and he doesn’t even pause.

he just blinks slowly, his own tears still quietly falling, and answers like it’s the easiest question in the world, “because it was never about wanting you. it’s that i am you. i don’t know how to exist in a world where you’re not part of me.”

and somewhere deep inside, something in you breaks open, gentle and violent all at once—

like spring thawing through winter.

like a dam finally giving way.

and for the first time in years, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—love this cruel, this consuming, this patient . . . wasn’t a curse. but a kind of salvation. a home you left behind. a home that never stopped waiting.

#gojo x reader #gojo angst

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sinnaminttoast · 1 month ago

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rereading gotsm and it hits me sometimes how painful it is to see Jem grieving Will and having to find a way to live on without him precisely because the assumption that Jem would be the first to go was so explicit all throughout tid. I was never prepared to be grieving Will and seeing Jem left behind.

this has been said before, I know, but oh how I wish they could have had more time together. how badly I wish that they could have had a few careless years together, in possession of the knowledge that Will was never cursed. how I wish Will got to see Jem healthy, and for Jem to have been able to live to his fullest at Will’s side. Will had so little time to let himself love and be loved, and to express it openly; and when he finally could, Jem was lost to him almost immediately. when Jem was finally back to good health, Will was already long gone.

so much about their tragedy lies in unfortunate timing, which is painful because it allows for too many what if’s. but the greatest tragedy, of course, would have been if they had never met. so in the end, they were incredibly lucky, even if it also brought them great tragedy.

#heronstairs #will herondale #jem carstairs #I will never recover from them #I was depressed for a straight week after tid

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sinnaminttoast · 1 month ago

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★ SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⋆ 01. THE REAPING.

★ pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader ★ tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: alcohol consumption, profanity, death & violence, blood. ★ word count: 6.2k

series masterlist ⋆ 02. the capitol

District Four didn’t have much to offer, but there was always the beach, and the sun, and the sand. Satoru could collect seashells if he wished—he had a pile of them already, in the corner of his bedroom. He didn’t have to work. The Capitol provided him that luxury, at the expense of twenty-three lives.

He could spend his days ambling over the soft, golden sand of the strip of coast right outside the Victor’s Village and drink himself to oblivion. If Satoru lived alone in the Victor’s Village, he might’ve.

Small joys in such a cruel, cold world.

He wasn’t the only victor District Four had to its name. There was you, who won the Hunger Games right after he did. He had mentored you, taught you all the right ways to play the Capitol crowd and win favours. He had honed your cunningness and cleverness, and helped you survive in the arena. You weren’t his favourite tribute—the twelve districts had to send one boy and one girl, each; he had favoured your fellow tribute—and truth be told, Satoru had had no idea what he was doing. It was his first time being a mentor, after all.

Your victory was a fluke.

It had been five years since your Hunger Games, and six years since his. This year marked the 75th Hunger Games—a grim anniversary draped in spectacle. Seventy-five years since the thirteen districts of Panem had dared to rise against the Capitol. Seventy-five years since the thirteenth had been razed to ash and silence. The thought was droll, in a bleak, bitter sort of way. Nothing in Panem ever changed. Only the methods of punishment grew more inventive.

On the morning of the Reaping, Satoru rose before the sun did and made his way to the beach.

He could’ve slept in. Reaping Day was the one day the people of the districts were granted a few extra hours of sleep—if they could manage it. The ceremony itself wouldn’t begin until the afternoon, when the Capitol’s cameras were in position in the district square and the selection of the tributes was broadcast live to all of Panem. But Satoru knew that sleep rarely came to anyone on this day. Not to the children. Not to the families who might lose them. And not to the victors who knew exactly what it meant.

He walked barefoot down to the shoreline, sand still cool against his feet. The sea stretched endlessly before him, indifferent and eternal, like it had been watching all this time and simply chose not to intervene. He envied it, sometimes—the sea’s freedom. Its refusal to care.

The Victor’s Village sat far enough from the rest of District Four that the sounds of waking life didn’t reach him here. Satoru could almost believe, if only for a moment, that there were no Hunger Games; no Capitol; no Reaping. Just the salt air, the breeze tugging at his shirt, and the slow pull of the waves crashing onto the shore.

He was crouched in the sand, fiddling absently with a broken piece of sea glass when he heard footsteps.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked dryly, not looking up.

Your voice came from just behind him. “Didn’t even try.”

He stood slowly, brushing the sand from his hands and tucking the sea glass into his pocket. The two of you hadn’t spoken much in recent months—not since the last Games. He didn’t like you much, though it was a stupid thought to entertain. You’d done what you did to survive, the same as he had, and yet, every time he closed his eyes, all he could picture was his best friend lying prone on the arena’s ground, while you stood over his dead body.

You stepped closer, the crunch of sand underfoot sounding louder than it should’ve in the morning hush. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, tangling through your hair and tugging at the hem of your jacket. You stopped beside him, arms crossed. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You looked older than he remembered, but so did he. The Hunger Games did that to a person.

“I ran into Pearl last week,” you said. “The new Peacemaker whose husband works for the Gamemakers.”

Satoru resisted the urge to snort. A Peacemaker, in charge of maintaining discipline in the districts, married to a Gamemaker who lived in the Capitol and worked on creating the Hunger Games, was an odd pair, at least by his standards.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, dragging a tired hand through his hair. “You’re going to have to be more specific. This new batch of Peacemakers is nothing more than a bunch of rich bastards with too many opinions.”

“She was drunk,” you continued, ignoring his jab. “I think she told me something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the Quarter Quell—”

“I know that,” Satoru snapped.

The Quarter Quell, held every twenty-five years, was a special edition of the Hunger Games. This year would be the third Quarter Quell. In the words of President Snow, they were designed specially to keep the memory of the districts’ rebellion fresh in each generation’s mind.

“Just get to the damn point,” he said.

“She said that the Quarter Quell would be different this year. Something symbolic.” Your lips curled into a sneer at that. “A return to the Games’ original purpose. A reminder that no one’s truly safe—not even us. She said that this time, they’d be reaping from the pool of victors.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s just Capitol talk. They love theatrics.”

“Do you really think the Capitol would joke about this?”

Yes, he wanted to say, but truthfully, it was hard to decipher between what was true and what was a lie when it came to the Hunger Games. Like trying to differentiate between poison and nectar when both looked the same and smelled sweet.

Satoru finally turned to face you, the morning light catching the pale glint in his eyes. You didn’t flinch—or perhaps, didn’t allow yourself to—but he suspected that it had always unsettled you, the way he looked at people like he was trying to peel back their skin just to see what was underneath.

“So you think it’s real,” he said.

“I think the Capitol would never waste a good opportunity for cruelty,” you said.

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was trying to find a lie in your face. He wouldn’t. Not about this, at least. A gull cried overhead, its shadow skating across the sand. You shifted your weight, arms tightening around your frame. The breeze whipped your hair into your face, but you made no move to push it away.

You both knew the rules. District Four had only two victors. If the Capitol wanted a show—wanted irony, cruelty, symmetry—then of course they’d make you two fight. Mentor and tribute. Killer and survivor. The boy who taught you how to win, and the girl who used it to kill the person he loved most.

“You should’ve let me die,” you murmured, turning to the sea. Your eyes scanned the horizon like the ocean might offer a different reality. Foolish, Satoru thought. The sea was unforgiving, no matter how adept you were at staying afloat.

“I tried,” Satoru said.

“Not hard enough,” you said.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t worth the effort.”

But the venom in his voice wasn’t convincing. You both knew what it was: guilt, calcified into something meaner over time.

The sun rose higher, casting everything in amber. Soon, the district would stir. Faces would fill the square. Two names would be drawn, and for once, no children would be volunteered as tributes.

Satoru didn’t often indulge in alcohol during the day. The numbing haze it offered was tempting—too tempting, most days—but he liked his senses sharp. A victor inebriated was about as useful as a tribute dead. And dead was something he still wasn’t ready to be.

He’d left the beach not long after you’d spoken. The words still sat heavy on his chest, like water in his lungs, refusing to drain. That was three hours ago.

Now, he sat in one of the Victor’s Village’s garishly upholstered armchairs—Capitol chic, which was to say it was both uncomfortable and absurd. Deep maroon with golden trim, stiff in the wrong places, and far too elaborate for a man who still slept on the left side of the bed, because the right side used to be occupied by somebody else.

Shoko dropped a packet of nicotine patches onto the glass coffee table between them. The foil crinkled; it landed beside his half-finished glass of dark liquor, casting a warped reflection in the amber. Their ritual was familiar: Capitol alcohol for black market medicine. She never asked why he drank. He never asked who she was patching up in the alleys near the docks.

He also didn’t have the heart to tell her that he wouldn’t have any use for her exchanged goods after today.

“You should be getting ready,” Shoko said, pulling back her brown hair into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“For what? A glorified roll call?” he said.

“For someone who’s about to be paraded in front of the entire district, you’re unusually morose.”

He picked up his glass and tipped it towards her. “Must be the company.”

“And here I thought we were friends,” said Shoko, deadpan.

They were. Or, at least, they were what passed for friends after the Games: two people bound not by warmth or laughter, but by the quiet understanding of what survival cost. Shoko hadn’t set foot in an arena, but she had pieced enough broken bodies back together to know the rules didn’t end when the cannon fired. If anything, they only got worse. She was the last thread tying him to who he was before—before the arena, before the fame that stank of blood and nightmares, before he lost his best friend.

Satoru, for all his evasions and sardonic grins, hadn’t dared cut that thread yet.

He didn’t respond, just leaned forward to pour another finger of liquor into his glass. The liquid sloshed slightly, but his hand wasn’t trembling. He couldn’t allow it to. Shoko’s gaze drifted to the window. Outside, the cobbled streets of Victor’s Village gleamed under the Capitol-mandated maintenance—fresh flowers, freshly-polished plaques, marble clean enough to reflect light. An illusion of peace, gilded and enforced.

“Where’s the victor girl?” she asked.

“Do I look like her babysitter?” he snarked.

“I’ll never understand why you can’t forgive her,” Shoko said slowly, shaking her head. “Poor thing.”

Satoru stayed quiet. If he said something now, it would be only out of anger, and he didn’t want his last words to Shoko to be something he didn’t mean. He lifted his glass and drained it in one gulp, then stood up just as the first of the district bells began to toll.

“You ought to go,” he told her, “or they’ll punish you for being late.”

“And they won’t punish you?”

He smiled faintly. “Victor’s privilege.”

Shoko didn’t move. She stared at him with the same expression she wore when inspecting a wound she knew she couldn’t stitch closed—measured, resigned, maybe even a little angry at the fact that she cared at all.

“You keep hiding behind that title like it protects you,” she said.

“It does,” Satoru replied.

The second bell rang, lower than the first, echoing across the district. Outside, the shadows of Peacekeepers could be seen filing into position, lining the walkways between the manicured hedges. It was a parade for the Capitol cameras, all pageantry and propaganda. The returning victors, the new tributes, and, hidden underneath them all, the reminder: you can survive the Games, but you’ll never leave them.

Shoko stepped around the coffee table, retrieving the nicotine patches. She tore one open and handed it to him, hesitating only a little. “Here. In case you decide you want to live a little longer.”

He took it without a word and slid it into the pocket of his jacket. Their eyes met once, briefly, the tiniest amount of affection they would allow themselves to show to each other.

“Don’t let them twist her into you,” she said quietly, turning around to the door.

Satoru didn’t reply.

He waited until the door shut behind her, until her footsteps disappeared down the pristine path. Then, slowly, he turned toward the tall mirror by the fireplace. The Capitol had commissioned it, of course—tall and ornate, trimmed with a frame of curling leaves and thorns dipped in gold. His reflection looked out of place in it. Older than he should be. Less victorious than they claimed.

He tugged at the collar of his jacket and stared himself down.

Forgive you? No, not yet.

The third bell chimed, sharp and final.

Satoru Gojo stepped out the door with a smile plastered on his face.

The streets of District Four were deceptively beautiful.

Stone-paved and sun-warmed, they twisted lazily along the coastline, lined with whitewashed cottages and storefronts draped in netting and dried coral. Bougainvillea climbed the walls, fuchsia and silver-white against the salt-stained brick. Wind chimes made of driftwood and shell danced in the breeze, their soft clatter mingling with the distant crash of waves. Wooden boats bobbed in the harbour, their sails furled tight, hulls painted in colours once bright but long faded by the sun. If someone passed through the district quickly enough, they might even call it peaceful.

Satoru knew better.

Every flower was trimmed for the Capitol’s cameras. Every cottage window was scrubbed clean; every storefront was made to look quaint but never poor. It was curated beauty, scrubbed clean of anything that might offend the Capitol’s delicate sensibilities.

Every child was trained for the sea, and then—inevitably—for war. District 4 was a district of fishermen, yes, but it was also a district of Careers. A place where kids learned to wield spears before they learned to read, where swimming and fighting were taught in the same breath, and discipline came in the form of bruises and bent knees.

There was pride here—too much, perhaps. Pride in strength. Pride in surviving. Somewhere along the line, that pride in survival had turned into pride in bloodshed, and now it was hard to tell one from the other.

And yet, for all their training and tradition, District 4 had only two victors to its name. Two, in over seventy years of Games. It was a quiet disgrace, a smudge against the reputation they’d worked so hard to polish. The Capitol never said it aloud, but the resentment was there, simmering beneath their sugar-sweet praise. Their tributes were supposed to be killers, paragons of grace and brutality, but most died with their throats slit in the first few days.

When the Capitol looked at you and Satoru, it looked with expectation. Pressure. Hunger. You weren’t just victors; you were proof that District Four could produce something lethal. The Capitol wouldn’t let you forget it, and it was evident in the way the Peacekeepers trailed you and Satoru as you made your way to the square.

So, no. He didn’t buy the pretty picture. He’d come to loathe it and love it, in equal parts.

“Is it weird that I feel… relieved?” you asked, looking down. Your boots scuffed against the cobblestone.

“Relieved that no kid has to die this year?” Satoru said, his voice low. “No. That’s not weird.”

Last year, it was Junpei and Mai Zen’in. The year before that, the mayor’s daughter and the butcher’s son. The year before that, it had been the twins from the cliffs, Reika and Ren. They’d held hands as they climbed into the transport, matching defiant stares fixed on the cameras. Satoru may not have seen eye-to-eye with you, but in this, as the only mentors your district had to offer, you were jointly determined. It was cruel, the way the Capitol spun the twins’ narrative. There was nothing more tragic than siblings being put in a bloodbath and forced to kill each other.

You and Satoru did all you could to ensure their survival. They’d died anyway—Reika on the second day with an arrow to the heart; Ren lasted three more before he threw himself off a ledge rather than be cornered.

Ten tributes in the five years since yours, two more since his. Satoru remembered them all. Names, faces, screams. He kept them catalogued like wounds, sharp and painful. You didn’t forget your district’s dead—not when their ghosts walked the streets in the form of little siblings, grieving mothers, empty chairs at dinner tables.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes catching the tremble in your jaw. You didn’t say anything, but he could tell this wasn’t just about relief. It was guilt, too. You’d won. They hadn’t. Satoru knew perfectly what that felt like.

You exhaled. “They always look so small when they’re called. Doesn’t matter how tough they act, how many knives they’ve trained with. They always look like kids.”

“Didn’t we?” Satoru said.

He didn’t mean for it to come out as cruel as it did. You flinched, just barely, but he saw it: a crack in your composure, hairline thin, quick as lightning. Satoru looked away. The breeze picked up, bringing with it the sharp tang of brine and the distant screech of gulls. Somewhere in the harbour, a rope hit a mast with a dull clack clack clack, rhythmic and lonely.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You did,” you said quietly. “But it’s fine.”

It wasn’t, not really. But what else was there to say? You had looked like kids. You’d been eighteen—too innocent, too young, bruises blooming purple down your arms after weeks of Career training. Satoru remembered seeing you on stage beside him, hands clenched into fists, mouth pressed into a line like you’d rather spit than smile. It had been his first year as a mentor, and despite his Games having left him shaken already, it was your Games that truly wiped any traces of joy from his mind.

“The twins’ mom still leaves candles by the pier,” you said. “Every month. Two. One pink, and one blue.”

“Yeah. I know,” Satoru said.

The hill began to slope downward, toward the square. The stage always felt out of place here—too polished, too clean. Like someone had taken a piece of the Capitol and dropped it into the heart of District 4 without bothering to see whether it fit. The wood was sanded smooth, gleaming under the afternoon sun, and the Capitol banners draped behind it fluttered; red silk, gold trim, all show. Two glass bowls were placed on pedestals, and normally, they’d be filled to the brim with narrow slips of paper. This time, there was only one piece of paper in each. A microphone was placed between them, tall and thin.

Children were already gathered below, arranged by age, corralled behind thick ropes like livestock awaiting auction. Girls to the left, and boys to the right. The youngest looked terrified, faces drawn tight with fear at their first ever Reaping. The older ones stood stiff-backed, trying to appear braver than they felt. To the side stood those who had outgrown the age for the Games: men and women with sunburnt faces and wind-bitten hands who stood with their arms crossed tightly.

The Peacekeepers led you and Satoru down the path, in between the girls and boys. The children looked at him, wide-eyed and stricken; the older ones stared at him with more wariness. He looked away, fingers curling into fists inside the pockets of his jacket. The Head Peacekeeper—the new one, who’d inadvertently let slip the secret about this year’s Hunger Games—nudged you both up the stage. Satoru stood with his hands behind his back, the bitter taste of judgement and expectation lodged in his mouth like rot.

The metallic clatter of heels against the stage broke the silence. The Capitol’s escort for District Four ascended with a flourish.

Coral was her name, and she’d been the conductor of the Reaping since Satoru was born. She was dressed in seafoam and pearl, hair coiled into a towering spiral that mimicked the curl of a nautilus shell, the tips dipped in shimmering silver. The strands were woven through with glinting beads and wire shaped like sea creatures—delicate crabs, jewelled anemones, and a single translucent fish pinned just above her ear. Her lipstick was the same shade of a coral reef just before it bleached. Her lashes batted with forced warmth, eyes bright beneath a mask of powder and paint.

“What a fucking clown,” he heard you mutter under your breath. Satoru snorted and disguised it as a cough. There was no love lost between you both and Coral. Your disdain for each other only seemed to multiply with each new Reaping.

The Capitol, he thought grimly, had a twisted sense of humour. A woman named Coral for the district by the ocean. It was almost funny, if it weren’t so cruel. Everything about her was an imitation of the sea—costume over understanding, performance over truth. She smiled as if she hadn’t just flown in on a private hovercraft to announce death in front of children.

“Welcome, welcome!” she trilled into the microphone, loud and obnoxious, in that strange Capitol accent of hers. “District Four, it is always a pleasure. Happy Hunger Games—and what a special occasion this year’s Reaping promises to be!”

The crowd murmured. You cursed at her quietly once more. Satoru bit back his smile; you were providing some amusement, at least, before Coral announced the inevitable.

“This year marks the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games,” she continued. “And as you all know, every twenty-five years, we celebrate a Quarter Quell—a commemorative twist designed to remind us of the sacrifices that brought us peace.”

Her voice lifted slightly on the word peace, as if it were something alive, fluttering in the air like the Capitol’s gaudy banners. Satoru fought the urge to look at you, because if he did, he might laugh, and if he laughed, he might get shot.

Coral stepped back from the microphone, flourished a glittering envelope from her sleeve, and held it up.

“With the approval of President Snow,” she announced, “it is my honour to read the card that was sealed in this envelope seventy-five years ago by the original founders of Panem, to be opened today.”

She opened the envelope with a dramatic flick of her fingers.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Hunger Games,” she read, “as a reminder that not even the strongest among us can overcome the Capitol… the tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors.”

Gasps rippled through the square. Some of the children whimpered. A few of the older teenagers exchanged wide-eyed looks of disbelief. A boy—not even thirteen, probably—turned to the boy next to him and whispered something frantic, something like what does that mean? only to get knocked on the back of his head by the nearest Peacekeeper.

Satoru didn’t blink. The performance had begun.

Coral gave the crowd a moment to process. She nodded solemnly, as if she actually gave a shit, and spread her arms.

“As District Four has only two living victors, there will be no draw today,” she said. “No need for names. By default… our tributes for the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games will be Satoru Gojo—” she paused, smiling as though his name was something to be treasured—“and…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you muttered, and, grabbing Satoru’s hand, you stepped forward, nudging Coral out of the way.

“What are you doing—”

“People of District Four,” you said loudly, ignoring Satoru’s flabbergasted glare and Coral’s protest. “We are your victors. We survived the Hunger Games. We were supposed to look after those who were sent in after this, and in this—in this, I regret to say, we’ve failed.”

Coral’s mouth opened in shock, but no words came out. Her wide eyes flicked between you and Satoru, who still hadn’t moved, his hand slack in yours. The crowd had quieted, like someone had pulled a thread too tightly—and now, everything was still, holding its breath.

You stepped forward once more.

“We failed them,” you continued. “We smiled for the cameras and waved from our trains and made speeches written by people who never saw a child die. We survived—and then we disappeared into the Victor’s Village, and the comfort and silence it gave us.”

Satoru could feel Coral’s fury simmering behind you, the way her breath turned short and shallow. She was probably already thinking of how this would look to the Capitol. What it would cost.

He didn’t care, and neither did you.

Satoru looked out at the people of District Four—his people. He saw the girl in the front row with the callused hands and the storm-coloured eyes. He saw the old man with the limp, gripping the hand of a child too young to understand what you were saying. He saw Shoko, standing to the side, her eyes wide and her mouth parted slightly. He saw grief.

He saw fear.

“We’re not proud of what we’ve become,” you said. “We were kids when they threw us into the arena. But we came back. And I—I can’t live with pretending that what’s happening now is normal. I won’t.”

There was a rustle behind you, the shift of fabric as Satoru finally stepped up. He raised his free hand—not waving, not saluting. Just open, trembling slightly; he was unsure what gesture could ever be right here.

“I—” he started, then stopped, and cleared his throat. “What she said. All of it.”

Someone in the crowd let out a choked laugh, but it was the kind that came too close to crying.

“I used to think,” Satoru said, steadier now, “that surviving was enough. That if I could just get through it, I’d earn the right to be left alone. But the truth is, we’re not alone—and we never were.”

His hand squeezed yours.

“And maybe we don’t have power,” you said. “Not compared to the Capitol. But we have voices. And I think—I think we should start using them. Before it’s too late.”

It was the old man with the limp who acted first, his eyes fixed on you both. His hand, weathered by time, trembled as he brought his thumb to his lips; then, slowly, he moved his hand across his chest before lifting it outward, palm open, towards you and Satoru.

The old sailors’ farewell. Satoru remembered being a child and playing at the docks when some of the older fishermen taught him about it. It was the gesture made to those who were being sent to sea, with long voyages ahead—a gesture for them to come back, safe and sound, with tales of joy and abundance. No one had ever used it since Panem was created.

Like a stone being dropped into still water, others in the crowd began to mirror him. One by one, people raised their hands to their lips, then pressed them to their hearts, before lifting them towards you. It spread like wildfire, like the way a spark can catch in dry grass. He didn’t know if it was a sign of solidarity or defiance, but at that moment, it didn’t matter.

It was a rebellion all the same.

The crack of a rifle split the air like lightning.

The old man, his back straight despite his age, crumpled to the ground in a spray of blood. His limp body collapsed as a single shot rang out from a Peacekeeper’s rifle. His grandchild, confused and scared, began to wail, covered in his grandfather’s blood.

The child’s wail cut through the stunned silence like a blade, sharp and raw and impossibly small. For a second—maybe two, maybe ten—no one moved. You were frozen behind him, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like you couldn’t believe what you’d just seen.

Neither could he.

The blood seeped quickly across the stone, impossibly red against the grey, reaching the child’s shoes.

Screams tore through the square. People surged backwards, pushing and tripping over one another. Mothers grabbed their children, elders stumbled, younger ones shouted in protest and disbelief. Some tried to run. Some simply stood there, lost in horror.

Satoru tried to jump off the stage, acting before he could think, arms outstretched towards the child, towards the body, but strong arms grabbed him and held him back.

“Get off me—let go—” he snarled, teeth bared like an animal. You were shouting too, your voice cracking as you fought the Peacekeeper trying to drag you away.

“You killed him! He was unarmed!” you screamed, writhing, kicking, doing everything you could to make them hurt. “He saluted us! That’s all he did!”

“Let go of her!” Satoru roared, lunging towards you, twisting violently, only for the butt of a gun to slam into his gut. He doubled over with a groan, teeth clenched, and still, they carried him away.

The Peacekeeper holding Satoru grunted, pulling his arms behind his back with bruising force. “Enough.”

“No,” Satoru spat. “Don’t you dare fucking tell me that. That was a child’s grandfather—”

“Stand down or we shoot again.”

That made Satoru freeze.

You were still thrashing behind him, a wild thing burning in the sunlight, but when he said your name—just once, low and urgent—you met his eyes, and you stilled. Not because you were afraid, but because you understood.

They would kill someone else. A child. You. Him.

“Take them,” the Head Peacekeeper barked.

They dragged him from the platform. Somewhere in the distance, someone cried for help. Somewhere else, someone shouted murderer.

But he wasn’t allowed to look. He wasn’t allowed to stop. Your feet caught on the steps as the Peacekeepers forced you down them. Satoru was only a few feet behind you, but it still felt like miles. His hair was falling into his eyes, his back bent slightly where the rifle butt poked into him. Still, he fought against every hand that tried to hold him still, even if it was more subdued now.

The child’s sobs followed him like a phantom.

The doors of the Justice Building yawned open before him, all pale marble and clean lines and hollow promises. The air inside was colder than it had any right to be, and it swallowed the sunlight in an instant.

You were shoved into a corridor, Satoru beside you now, guards on either side. You looked at him. Your lip was split where one of the Peacekeepers had hit you in your struggle. Satoru was sure he didn’t look any better; the scratches nicked on his cheeks stung.

“I saw it,” he said, hoarse. “I saw his hand.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “So did I.”

“He was saying goodbye.”

“He was hoping we’d come back.”

The guards didn’t care. They didn’t speak; they merely kept moving you forward, step after step, deeper into the building, deeper into the Capitol’s grasp.

Satoru closed his eyes and imagined the frail, lifeless body of that old man. He was going to be sick. He thought about the years they’d all lived through, about everything that had brought them to this point. All those people who had died before them, who had given up their lives just for the chance of a better one.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You and he weren’t supposed to be this.

He turned to look at you again, and for the first time in five years, he felt that familiar feeling creeping in—the feeling that no matter how much he wanted to fix things, he couldn’t.

“You’re okay,” he muttered, more to himself than you. But it felt like a lie. He didn’t know what was happening anymore.

The Peacekeepers shoved you inside a room. “Sit,” one of them ordered gruffly. “We’re receiving orders from the Capitol soon.”

Satoru had forgotten that the Reaping was always being broadcast live to everyone in the country. His head hurt. Numbly, he moved to the nearest chair—some old, stiff wooden thing—and collapsed onto it.

Did you know what you’d done?

You didn’t sit. Your arms were still trembling, and the moment the door clicked shut behind the last guard, it was like all of it—everything he’d swallowed down to keep from screaming—came clawing its way back up.

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” Satoru said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You shouldn’t have—you shouldn’t have said anything about using our voices, or—” He was staring at the floor, hands pressed against his mouth like he was trying to physically hold back everything he wanted to say. “We should’ve just let the Reaping happen like it always does.”

“He was shot in front of us. He saluted us, and they shot him—”

“Because of us!” Satoru exploded, finally looking up at you, eyes wild and bloodshot. “We incited this! You think President Snow won’t twist this into some Capitol propaganda? You think he won’t use that child’s face?”

You shook your head. “So you’d rather we be their good little Victors again? Keep our heads down while they murder people in the square?”

“I’d rather you stay alive!” he snapped. “I’d rather not be left alone, all over again.”

The silence that followed was thick and ugly. He dropped his gaze again, chest heaving like the fight had drained him of all the air in the room.

The door opened once more.

“What an entertaining little lover’s spat,” a voice sang out mockingly, clapping slow, deliberate hands. “Really, I should’ve brought popcorn.”

Satoru’s gaze snapped up.

Coral pouted, sickly sweet, leaning against the doorframe. “Unfortunately for you both, the fun’s over. We must leave immediately. President Snow wants to see you.”

Neither of you needed to ask why. Both of you already knew.

Satoru rose slowly from his chair, his shoulders stiff and aching. You walked out first, following Coral out of the Justice Building.

“Chin up, darlings!” Coral tossed a cruel smile over her shoulder. “After all, it’s not every day you start a rebellion on live television.”

After the Reaping—if it could even be called that—the crowds had emptied. What remained were scorch marks on the stone, drops of blood already dying in the last light of the day, and the haunting echo of that child’s sobs still ringing in Satoru’s ears.

You walked ahead of him, shoulders squared, back straight, silent. Peacekeepers flanked you both, rifles in hand, boots smacking against the concrete.

The train that would take you to the Capitol loomed just ahead, lacquered ink-black. It wouldn’t be his first time boarding this very train, but, with his pulse pounding in his throat, Satoru desperately hoped it’d be his last.

“Satoru!”

He turned instinctively. He knew that voice. It had raised him, fed him, scolded him. He’d known it since he was a boy too small to reach the docks without running.

Reiko and Ren’s mother, Midori, was pushing her way through the barrier, eyes glassy. A Peacekeeper stepped forward to stop her, but she ducked under his arm and threw herself in front of Satoru.

She looked older now, greyer and more wrinkled than he remembered. The toll of losing both her children at the same time had not failed to leave its scar on her. Satoru felt a lump form in his throat; he’d been too ashamed to look her in the eye, ever since he had broken his promise of keeping her children safe. But her hands were still strong when they grabbed his, shoving something into his palm, curling his fingers around it before anyone could see.

“You listen to me,” she hissed, close enough that only he could hear. “This was your mother’s. She would have wanted you to have it.”

Satoru opened his fist. A golden pin, drawn in the shape of a mockingjay—a muttation created by the Capitol—rested in his palm, warm from her hands.

“I kept it hidden all these years,” she whispered. “Don’t let them take you too.”

A Peacekeeper barked something unintelligible and shoved her backward. Before Satoru could react, the Peacekeeper who’d tried to stop her from reaching Satoru stepped forward and struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand. The sound echoed down the platform like thunder.

She crumpled to the ground, blood at the corner of her mouth.

“No—” Satoru lunged forward, but two Peacekeepers grabbed him, dragging him towards the train. “Let me go! She didn’t do anything!”

You were screaming now, too, struggling against the grip on your arm, reaching for him.

The doors were already sliding open.

The last thing Satoru saw before he was shoved into the train was Midori’s body being dragged away, her feet scraping against the concrete. The door slammed shut behind him.

“Fuck!” Satoru twisted away from the Peacekeepers holding him, chest heaving, eyes fixed to the window. His hands were shaking. He tucked the pin into his pocket, trembling. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck—”

You wrenched him by his shoulders, forcing him to face you instead. Your lip was bleeding again. “Look at me.”

“They—”

“Get your fucking act together, Satoru,” you said.

He nodded once. Again. Closed his eyes, and hid the shaking of his hands by fisting his fingers together in his jacket pockets.

The Capitol was waiting. Satoru found himself hoping—perhaps foolishly—that the odds, no matter how bleak, would be in his favour.

a/n: thanks for reading! sorry for such a short first chapter, but i wanted to use this as a prologue of sorts. rest assured that all the future chapters will be much, much longer :) thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading & letting me ramble about this fic with her ♡

art credit: _3aem

#gojo x reader

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sinnaminttoast · 1 month ago

Text

You heart that? That’s my heart shattering into a thousand pieces

THE SONG OF A THOUSAND CRANES | G.S.

SUMMARY: forged from sin and lilies, you are the curse suguru is destined to destroy. yet beneath his blade blooms a tenderness more dangerous than death.

PAIRING: samurai!geto suguru x curse!fem!reader CONTAINS: angst, doomed romance, myth and folklore inspired, edo period japan, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff??, slow burn, forbidden love, paper cranes, a forest that acts as a guardian, samurai suguru supremacy WC: 16.6k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation

–THE MYTH

PROLOGUE: THE CURSE WAS SLAIN BENEATH THE FULL MOON And the forest fell silent ever after.

In ancient days, beneath the watchful gaze of distant gods, there lay a village cradled between towering mountains and dark forests–a village prosperous and proud, guarded by traditions as old as the mist that lingered between the trees. It was a village that knew tranquility only as intimately as it knew fear, for peace is ever fleeting, fragile as petals shaken loose by a storm.

A storm indeed had come–but one fashioned not of wind nor thunder, but sorrow. Born from shadow, born from grief, from the wicked whispers and the unspoken crimes of those who walked in daylight and wore masks of virtue, the curse emerged like a bloom opening under moonlight. In the darkness of a forgotten temple, where broken bells hung rusted and voiceless, she took her breath and opened ruinous eyes that reflected only the bitter sins of the living.

They called her a curse, a wraith formed from their collective suffering. A spirit wrought from sins too grave to name and sorrows too deep to bury. Some whispered she had been born when a child was left to perish, crying beneath silent, uncaring stars. Others murmured darker things–tales of violence done in shadows, of innocent blood spilled onto soil that yielded nothing but lilies, pale and ghostly under the moon’s watch.

She rose each night like mist from the temple grounds, a shadow among shadows, a silhouette outlined in moonlight, her robes billowing soft as spider silk, carrying the fragrance of lilies–sweet and heavy, intoxicating, suffocating. Her hair flowed like water, never quite touched by the moon’s silver glow, eyes cold and unfathomable as the bottomless lakes hidden deep within the mountain’s embrace. Her skin, though no one had clearly seen it, was said to be as soft and supple as fallen petals on frost, as smooth and deadly as polished jade.

The curse spoke no words to the villagers, but she sang. And when she did so, the villagers trembled. Her voice was not loud nor shrill–it was soft as mourning doves at dawn, sorrowful as an abandoned lover, sweet as poisoned honey dripping from a comb. Her song was beautiful, terribly beautiful. It stole the breath from the chests of men and women alike, filling their lungs with fragrant despair, until they wept tears of madness and joy intertwined, choking upon her tragic melody. Those who heard her song were found in the morning–faces pale and twisted, eyes frozen open, lips parted, breathless and beautiful in their deathly repose.

When the villagers tried to fight, their weapons rusted and rotted. When they ran, their paths twisted and turned back toward her shadowed temple. Always, when she took her victims, the bells of the abandoned temple would toll–hollow, mournful echoes filling air that stood still as though bound by unseen chains. No wind ever stirred the ancient chimes, yet their tolling marked death with relentless certainty.

Thus, the village languished beneath her reign, helpless, praying to deaf gods for relief, until the lord shogun himself took pity upon them. A messenger arrived with scroll and seal, proclaiming that the shogun, wise and merciful ruler, had sent one of his most loyal samurai–a warrior with a blade blessed by the priests and tempered under the watchful eyes of the gods–to slay the curse and restore peace.

The samurai’s name was Geto. His hair was long and dark as raven feathers, bound tightly back to reveal a face calm and stern, eyes clear as polished obsidian, devoid of fear. Geto was not merely brave–he was fearless, steadfast. He had faced countless foes upon countless battlefields, his katana a whispering judgement that had never faltered, never failed.

He entered the village upon a pale horse, its hooves silent as death upon mossy paths, and asked no comfort from the fearful people who cowered behind closed doors. With only his katana, wrapped carefully in fine silk, he made his way to the temple in the heart of the forest.

At the threshold of her cursed sanctuary, Geto paused only briefly, sensing neither dread nor hesitation. He stepped forward, fearless as he was honor-bound, into the shadows where lilies grew wild upon stones that bore forgotten names. The ghostly flowers parted like subjects before a king, bowing beneath the weight of his righteousness.

She came to him, then–silent as mist, beautiful as midnight, terrible as love betrayed. Her gaze was ice and poison, disastrous eyes seeking to entrance, to ensnare. Her voice rose, as soft and sad as a mourning wind, rich with longing meant to break a heart and steal a soul. Her hair floated as though submerged in water, her hands lifted gently, beckoning him forward to certain death.

But Geto was unmoved. Her voice could not stir his heart, her beauty could not dim his resolve. The samurai stood firm, katana unsheathed and shining with moonlight, pure silver against her shadows. She reached toward him with fingers lithe and lovely, her touch deathly soft, whispering sweet temptations to let go, to rest, to stay with her in the darkness forever. Yet he resisted, strong as a stone beneath storm, unwavering as the mountains that loomed above.

And when she saw that he could not be swayed, the curse screamed–not in song, but in fury. Her lovely face twisted, lilies scattering like broken promises under her wrath. She lunged, ethereal form shifting like smoke, hands becoming claws tipped with sorrow and despair. But the samurai was swifter than her rage, blade slicing clean and true through shadows that bled moonlight instead of blood.

The curse fell, defeated, vanishing like mist burned away by dawn. Her final cry echoed through the forest, ringing through the silent temple, drowning beneath the solemn tolling of bells. And as the last echo faded into silence, Geto sheathed his katana and turned away, never once glancing back at the emptiness left behind.

When the villagers awoke, they knew peace once more. Flowers grew again without pain, the wind sang softly through trees no longer haunted. The temple, though empty, was quiet. The bells ceased their tolling, finally silenced by the samurai’s divine justice.

Thus was peace returned by Geto, whose name lived in whispers and prayers, revered for courage that could not falter and honor that could not tarnish. And the curse, who had bloomed only to wither beneath a righteous blade, was forgotten–nothing more than a shadow in stories told to warn children, a whisper of danger that no longer dwelt among the living.

Yet some still wondered, quietly under the silence of stars, why the forest lilies remained so pale, so fragrant, so unbearably sad. And though the bells were still, why on certain nights, beneath the full moon’s sorrowful gaze, one might hear the ghostly strains of a beautiful voice–soft, mournful, forever singing of a love never born and a peace that was never truly found.

–THE TRUTH

PART I: SHE ROSE FROM ASH AND SORROW Born of grief, she fed on sin and silence.

You did not remember your birth, for you were never truly born. You were made–woven together, strand by strand, breath by breath, from the bitter threads of grief, betrayal, and despair. In a forgotten corner of a land tormented by hunger and shadow, your spirit was conjured from a darkness the villagers feared yet refused to name. They whispered of demons, specters, and curses, yet never spoke of the hands that shaped your existence, the sins they buried beneath the cold soil, watered by tears shed only in secret.

The village, beautiful in the daylight, thriving beneath the summer sun, masked unspeakable horrors in the privacy of its night. It was a village of silence, where children learned early never to cry loudly enough to draw attention, where mothers hushed weeping newborns by forceful hands, suffocating innocent breaths out of fear. It was a place where fathers gambled away their daughters underneath the flickering lanterns, where the starving stole scraps and paid for their desperate courage in fire. In those dark alleys, hidden among tangled pathways, bodies vanished, sins bloomed, and souls were traded like worthless coins.

It was from these atrocities that you rose–woven from sorrow and wrath, from despair and fury. From the woman who hung herself in the old stone well after listening helplessly to her child’s cries, until silence overtook them both. From the young girl whose pleading eyes did nothing to halt the flames that consumed her alive, a punishment for taking what she needed simply to survive. From the man whose greed devoured all his love, who sold his wife to wealthy travelers for riches that turned to ashes in his trembling hands. You were born of broken promises whispered by betrayers, of mutilated bodies abandoned without rites, of screams drowned beneath laughter and festivity.

When at last you drew your first breath–if breath it could be called–it filled your lungs not with air but with choking grief. You rose, neither alive nor dead, neither flesh nor wholly spirit, but something in between: a shadow wrapped in twilight, carrying sorrow in every unseen pore. Beneath your form lilies bloomed, pale and ghostly, feeding off bones long dissolved under fertile soil, their fragrance heavy and mournful as the scent of fresh graves. They clustered around your ankles, winding softly upwards like gentle chains, whispering reminders of sins that could not be forgiven, nor forgotten.

When you first opened your eyes, you stood upon the crumbling stones of a temple abandoned by gods who had long ceased to listen. The villagers had forsaken this place, left it to rot with moss and neglect, believing it would bury their crimes beneath creeping vines and fallen leaves. But the temple remembered everything, the earth hissed of deeds unspeakable, and from that sorrowful memory, you rose–silent, wondering, confused.

At first, you understood nothing. You wandered the crumbling shrine, floating quietly among rusted bells that had long lost their voices, touching worn stone carvings depicting gods whose names were erased by wind and rain. You did not know who you were, nor why you felt such pain, such overwhelming grief, as if mourning lives you had never known, hearts you had never touched.

Then came your song.

It emerged from your lips the way lilies unfurled beneath the moon: slowly, achingly, beautiful and deadly. Soft as silk, woeful as a widow’s lamentation, your voice carried melodies older than memory, dripping melancholy like honey. You sang because your sorrow demanded release, because silence was unbearable, because your soul overflowed with pain not truly yours but that you felt with cruel intimacy. You sang because it was all you knew, unaware of the death your song carried on its gentle notes.

The first time your melody drifted beyond the trees, it reached a man lurking at the edge of the woods–one whose hands were stained with the blood of those he betrayed. You did not see him. You did not know him. Yet your voice wrapped around him softly, quietly, inescapably. His lungs filled not with air but with flowers, delicate blue lotuses blooming invisibly beneath his skin, bursting with silent agony as he fell, choking, staring upward at the moon with desperate eyes. When he drew his final, anguished breath, the rusted bells in your temple tolled forlornly, without wind or hand.

You wept in confusion at your unintended cruelty, your tears vanishing into the earth, nourishing lilies that grew thicker, brighter, heavier with sweet sorrow. You hid within the temple’s shadows, ashamed of your very existence, yearning for understanding yet afraid of yourself.

It was not long before others came, drawn not by curiosity, but by their sins–by lust, greed, ferocity. Your forest, older than their crimes, took them before your voice could reach them, vines and thorns piercing flesh, roots rising hungrily from soil fed by innocent blood. The bells tolled, steady and solemn, as the earth reclaimed what it had lost, burying their bodies quietly underneath lilies and moss.

The villagers, terrified, spoke of a curse who sang and slew, blaming you rather than acknowledging their deeds. They cast stones upon your temple’s steps, whispered hateful prayers beneath frightened breaths, condemned your name without ever knowing it. No innocent, however, ever stumbled onto your grounds. It was as though purity itself shielded the good from your presence, and you soon understood why: you had been made to punish, crafted to reflect their sins back upon them, a mirror of their own cruelty and despair.

Slowly, painfully, you accepted this truth. If you could not control your song, nor tame the forest that guarded you fiercely, you would at least embrace the purpose forced upon you. You no longer wept when your melody brought death, nor mourned when the bells rang through quiet nights. Those who came seeking destruction would find only their own. You learned solitude, learned silence when possible, learned acceptance of a duty no spirit ever asked for.

You lived alone, cloaked in shadows, hidden from stars that watched you woefully, their silence deep as the universe. Days and nights became meaningless as you drifted through the ruined temple, brushing fingers over lilies that curled affectionately around your touch. You were neither evil nor righteous–only a vessel of justice born of tragedy. A ghost fashioned from living sin.

But in quiet moments, beneath moonlight filtering gently through tangled branches, you wondered if perhaps, had the villagers been kinder, had they not spilled innocent blood, had their cruelty never awakened you… perhaps you might have been something else. Something kinder, softer–a guardian rather than an executioner.

Yet they had shaped you in cruelty, in bloodshed, in unspeakable horrors. They had given you voice only to lament, hands only to claim souls. The forest was your ally and your jailer; it protected and imprisoned, loved and smothered you. You belonged to the lilies and the shadows, to songs and silence.

One night, beneath a moon heavy and full, you stood at the heart of your temple and raised your eyes to the stars. Your voice rose gently, without command or wish, flowing like silk upon the air. A new song, mourning all you had become, all you could never be.

And in distant homes, behind barred doors, villagers trembled, whispering prayers to gods who would never answer, hiding their sins underneath desperate pleas. For in your voice lay judgement woven delicately through sorrow, inevitable as the lilies that blossomed beautifully, mercilessly, beneath the silver moon.

PART II: THE WARRIOR CARRIED THE GODS IN HIS BLADE His sword did not tremble. His heart did not yield.

Geto Suguru hears of the curse long before the messenger arrives. Rumors drift through the shogun’s capital like smoke through silk curtains–soft whispers behind paper screens, murmured exchanges among retainers in dimly lit halls. Tales grow like weeds in the courtyards: villagers found with faces twisted in agony and beauty, lungs flowering from within, temples overtaken by lilies and ghosts. Some speak of a siren song that kills softly, of bells tolling where no hand pulls the rope. The stories twist with each telling, painted thickly with superstition, dread, and awe.

He sits silently at the edge of the shogun’s hall, eyes half-lidded, listening to the voices ripple across the room, soft like rain on rooftops. In his mind, Suguru separates truth from embellishment, filtering superstition from reality, leaving only bones and blood and logic. He understands well enough what these whispers mean: another monster born from the rot of men, another slaughter he must carry out in the name of peace.

He watches from the corner of his vision as the messenger is ushered into the hall, head bowed, trembling hands gripping a sealed scroll. This village–one that supplies the shogunate with rice, lumber and silk–is too important to lose. Its suffering cannot be allowed to continue. Too many have died, and too few shipments have reached the capital in recent months. The shogun, compassionate only when it suits his reputation, will not tolerate disruptions to his precious order.

When the summons comes, Suguru rises fluidly from his kneeling position, his movements precise, practised. He crosses polished floors, feeling countless eyes follow his steps, their gazes heavy with reverence and envy. They see him as fearless, incorruptible–like iron tempered beneath priestly chants, immune to rust or doubt.

In truth, Suguru is merely weary, resigned to duties performed again and again, tasks grown repetitive and meaningless. But he carries his weariness like a badge under layers of silk and steel, hidden deeply, unreachable to the eyes that watch him so closely. His hair, dark and neatly bound, marks his rank, his face unreadable, flawless in its practiced stillness.

“Geto Suguru,” the shogun addresses him, voice authoritative yet detached, “you have heard the whispers, I presume?”

“Yes, my lord,” Suguru answers, lowering his head respectfully.

The shogun gestures for the messenger to speak. The man stumbles forward, pale and sweating, proffering the scroll as if holding fire in his shaking palms.

“My lord,” he begins, voice quivering, “the curse has killed many. We find our people dead each dawn, faces marked with strange blossoms, their lungs filled with flowers. No weapon can harm it, no prayer drives it away. It haunts the old forest temple–”

Suguru takes the scroll, unfurls it slowly, methodically. Elegant calligraphy stretches across ivory paper, detailing the village’s plight with more drama than truth. He scans quickly, folding it again with careful precision.

“What exactly have you seen?” Suguru asks calmly, eyes pinning the messenger’s fearful gaze. “Describe the curse.”

The messenger swallows hard, wiping his forehead with a trembling sleeve.

“It is a woman, they say, though no one sees her clearly. She sings, sir–sings softly, beautifully, yet whoever hears her dies choking, flowers sprouting from within. Lilies bloom everywhere, sir, even atop graves. Bells toll when she kills, though no one touches them. They say she guards the temple and takes vengeance on all who enter.”

“Vengeance,” Suguru echoes quietly, thoughtfully.

The shogun interrupts, impatient. “This curse must be felled. Take your blade, Geto. End it swiftly.”

“As you command, my lord,” Suguru replies smoothly, bowing once more, obedience etched clearly in every disciplined movement. He steps backward gracefully, turning to leave the hall, feeling the weight of countless eyes following his path.

Outside, servants await him with his horse, saddled and ready, the pale animal standing motionless as a statue beneath the sunlit sky. He approaches quietly, patting the steed’s neck in silent greeting, fingers tracing familiar patterns through its silvery mane.

His katana rests at his hip, wrapped lovingly in silk, the hilt familiar and reassuring beneath his palm. This blade is indeed special, though not because it carries any blessing from gods or priests. Its strength comes from steel alone–folded, tempered, sharpened by human hands skilled in the art of destruction. No divinity resides within its polished edge, no heavenly voice guides its strikes. Only Suguru’s steady grip and honed instincts give it power.

He mounts swiftly, guiding the horse toward the city gates without looking back. As he rides, the bustle of the capital fades gradually behind him, replaced by quiet fields stretching under wide, empty skies. With each step, the rumors settle deeper within his chest, taking shape, whispering questions he cannot answer, doubts he will not entertain. He feels neither brave nor cowardly–only numb, resigned, driven forward by a duty that has become mechanical, detached from meaning.

Something about this particular tale, however, lingers just beneath his thoughts–an unease stirred by words like lilies, bells, and song. Perhaps it is merely exhaustion whispering uncertainty, or perhaps it is intuition–a quiet warning that this task might differ from countless others he has executed without hesitation.

He allows himself no further contemplation, burying doubt underneath resolve, silencing uncertainty with practiced discipline. Yet the whispers persist softly in the quiet spaces of his mind, following him as he moves steadily toward the village’s darkened horizon, toward a forest said to be cursed, toward a temple haunted by a song he has never heard, but already knows will plague him.

His blade, untouched by gods, unblessed by priests, rests silently at his side, promising only steel, judgement, and finality.

In truth, Geto Suguru feels neither valor nor fear–only a distant weariness, like the first breath of winter frost, chilling and familiar.

Suguru reaches the outskirts of the village at dusk. The sky is bruised in shades of violet and ochre, like old wounds fading beneath gentle skin. He pauses at the village’s edge, breathing deeply the scent of smoke and decay that lingers even here, thinly veiled by aromas of cooked rice and burnt incense.

He steps down from his pale horse, guiding it quietly along paths overgrown with weeds. He notices the unnatural silence, how the crickets hesitate in their chorus, how even the wind holds its breath as though afraid to disturb the hush of the land. Lanterns flicker ahead, casting a weak, uncertain glow over the clustered homes–each one crouching low, hunched under the weight of invisible guilt.

Word spreads fast of his arrival. Doors creak open cautiously, releasing villagers who pour forth like shadows into fading twilight. Faces hollow and pale peer at him anxiously, eyes glittering with a mix of reverence and fear. Voices murmur and hiss excitedly, clawing at the air with whispered accusations and desperate prayers.

They surround him quickly, reaching hands extended to touch the sleeves of his kimono as though grasping at a fragment of salvation itself. Their voices clash and overlap, incoherent, pleading, ugly in their desperation.

“Samurai-sama,” a withered woman calls hoarsely, grabbing at his wrist, her fingers thin as dried reeds, nails caked in dirt, “you have come to slay the demon at last!”

“The curse has stolen another child!” another voice shrieks, wavering with hysteria, shoving forward to meet his gaze, teeth rotted and blackened. “It sings, it sings–and flowers bloom in their throats. It mocks us, even as it kills us!”

Suguru’s eyes move slowly among the gathered crowd, observing their faces carefully, neutrally. He sees twisted grief, sour anger, but beneath it something darker–fear tempered by guilt, suspicion grown from sin. They seem repulsive to him in this moment, grotesque in their eagerness to place blame on something unseen, rather than confronting the rot within their own hearts.

He is no stranger to curses. Nor is he ignorant of their nature: that they are not truly born but rather shaped, molded, nurtured by darkness within human souls. He has felled many, yet none so hauntingly described, none cloaked in lilies and song, none heralded by mournful bells. These signs trouble him, the quiet beauty wrapped delicately around the death they bring. They speak less of malice, more of sorrow–something that silently demands understanding, not blind violence.

The villagers continue their bombardment, oblivious to his hesitation. An old man pushes forward, his back bent double, eyes rheumy, voice crackling with age and venom. “She is a seductress of souls, Samurai-sama! A demoness who wears beauty like silk and sings to ensnare good men. She has bewitched the forest itself, summoning vines and thorns to tear flesh from bones!”

Beside him, a woman hisses, “She rose from the grave of a woman drowned for her sins–a wicked harlot punished by the gods themselves!”

“She lures the innocent–”

“No,” Suguru interrupts quietly, gently lifting a hand to halt their tangled voices. “Innocent?” He scans their faces once more, thoroughly. “Has she taken the innocent?”

A silence heavier than guilt settles thickly upon them. Eyes shift nervously downward, fingers clutch sleeves, feet shuffle anxiously. They avoid his gaze, haunted by something deeper than mere fear–something like shame.

Then the bells ring, softly at first, clear yet impossibly distant. They ripple outward gently, mournfully, filling the empty spaces between breaths, weaving through silence like silver threads of melancholy. The villagers gasp collectively, shuddering, turning frightened eyes toward the forest shrouded in darkness.

Suguru stands still, listening intently. Another soul claimed, yet he cannot help but wonder at the gentleness of these chimes. They ring with sorrow, not triumph. They toll with regret, not joy.

He shifts his katana into its saya slowly, deliberately, the soft metallic whisper silencing the villagers once more. He tucks the silk away. “Enough,” he speaks evenly, authority tempered by weariness. “Show me where I am to rest. I ride at moonrise.”

They lead him to a home more spacious than the rest, its floor mats worn, faded, yet carefully swept. He is seated respectfully, offered rice and fish and tea, which he accepts without enthusiasm, tasting emptiness behind each bite. They chatter endlessly, recounting each incident, embellishing deaths into horror stories filled with seductive spirits and clawed demons.

He eats mechanically, listening without interest. Their tales bore him, their voices scratch at his patience, their desperate lies and half-truths growing thin. Yet he remains quiet, passive, allowing their fears and suspicions to drain into him, absorbing without agreeing, observing without judgement. He has no taste for the way they blame their suffering upon phantoms when their own shadows bleed sin into the soil beneath their homes.

Outside, the bells have stopped tolling. The villagers have retreated, leaving him alone in fragile silence, moonlight filtering through paper screens and painting patterns of light and darkness across his folded hands. He sits still, empty plates before him, gaze trained on shadows dancing softly upon the floorboards.

He knows curses too well. He has seen too many shaped by human cruelty, bound tightly in bitterness and blood. Yet lilies–pure and pale beneath moonlight, their fragrance heavy yet sweet–have no malice. Bells, solemn and soft, speak grief rather than rage. And songs… Songs are never weapons in the hands of monsters, but laments of souls wounded beyond healing.

Perhaps, Suguru thinks slowly, thoughtfully, it is not the villagers who need protection from this curse. Perhaps it is the curse who needs protection from them.

He rises, straightening his garments, adjusting his katana at his side. He steps into the courtyard, looking skyward to see the moon climb steadily into place–full and pale and watching solemnly, impartially, as though it already knows the truths he has yet to uncover.

Suguru mounts his horse quietly, hands steady, heart uncertain but disciplined into silence. He looks toward the forest now silhouetted against moonlit clouds, dark and mysterious, awaiting his approach.

He knows what is expected of him. He will ride into the forest. He will find the curse.

But his thoughts remain unsettled, unsure, drifting toward lilies blooming from sorrowful soil, toward songs trembling in grief, toward bells ringing softly without cruelty.

He nudges his horse forward, hooves moving soundlessly across moss and dirt. And as the village disappears behind him, Suguru carries within him only the questions he cannot answer, the doubts he cannot quiet, and the faintest glimmer of curiosity–something he has not felt in a very long time.

Tonight, beneath the watching moon, he rides toward death or revelation–perhaps both. But he knows now, in his bones and blood, that the truth he seeks lies far deeper than steel alone can reach.

PART III: HER SONG LURED MEN AND WOMEN TO DEATH Soft as snowfall, sweet as rot.

The forest greets him like an old enemy–coldly, silently, awaiting his misstep with patient cruelty. As Suguru steps away from the moonlit clearing where his horse stands tethered, he pauses, breathing deeply. The air here is thick, heavy with moisture, dense with the fragrance of lilies and the deeper, cloying scent of decay hidden beneath the sweetness.

He proceeds carefully, each step precise, thoughtful, moving through shadows cast by trees whose branches weave together like hands clasped in desperate prayer. Moonlight becomes a rarity underneath this living canopy; starlight is but memory here, consumed by ancient foliage. The trees crowd closer, whispering softly in a language older than any human tongue–warning, mocking, testing him with every heedful advance.

Branches reach gently at first, brushing him like the hands of uncertain lovers–tentative, mild. Gradually, they grasp tighter, pressing, scraping, dragging against his garments. He winces silently when thorns graze his cheek, his sleeves torn as he pushes onward, deeper into this labyrinthine heart. Vines snake hungrily around his ankles, yet he pulls forward, determination quiet, relentless. He knows the taste of violence intimately, wears atrocity like a hidden scar beneath his clothes; the forest recognizes this scent of bloodshed and sins unredeemed.

He steps over roots swollen like veins atop dark soil, ducking under moss-laden boughs thick as burial shrouds, until he stands breathless yet unyielding before a path carved reluctantly into shadow. Lilies bloom here, luminous and ghostly in their beauty, crowding the narrow path as though eager to bar his entry or welcome him intimately–he cannot yet discern which.

Beyond the lilies rises the temple: ancient, broken, hauntingly serene despite the rot eating away at its beams and foundations. Its doors hang crookedly open, vines climbing desperately over splintered wood, as if trying to heal wounds of abandonment with their gentle embrace. Bells rusted and tarnished hang solemnly above, motionless yet watching carefully, silent sentinels waiting for their cue to toll once more.

Suguru crosses the threshold, blade sheathed at his side. He takes measured breaths, eyes adjusting to shadowed depths that whisper sorrowfully, greeting him not with malice but melancholy. Inside, the air is cooler, almost comforting, scented faintly with incense long extinguished and forgotten prayers. Shadows drape themselves gracefully over ruined altars, old statues shattered yet dignified in their brokenness, faces worn smooth, voiceless yet eloquent in their muted despair.

He touches nothing, simply observes with eyes darkened by shadows of his own deeds, feeling strangely out of place, as though his very presence here is an intrusion upon a sacred grief that does not belong to him.

Then he hears it–a voice rising gently, softly, like mist unfurling over a still lake. His breath halts sharply in his chest, caught suddenly by that fragile melody, each note trembling, achingly beautiful, profoundly sorrowful. The song drifts toward him like an offering carried by delicate hands, wrapping tenderly around his heart in ribbons woven of regret and longing.

It is the sweetest agony he has ever known.

His chest tightens painfully, lungs fluttering beneath the pressure of that melody, as though petals are blooming within him, flowering steadily, suffocatingly, winsomely. Suguru remains standing, firm despite shaking breath, defiant against the seduction of surrender. He listens carefully, absorbing each note like precious silk unraveling around his resolve.

He wonders quietly, almost breathlessly, how something capable of killing so softly can hold within its voice so much tenderness, so much pain–nothing of cruelty, nothing malicious. It is mourning set to music, grief distilled purely into sound, its lethality an afterthought rather than intention.

Slowly, his eyes lift, searching through shadows for the singer whose voice haunts him now so beautifully. He sees only darkness, the fluttering of moths that drift lazily around lanterns long extinguished. The voice pauses briefly, hesitating–aware of him, perhaps cautious of this intruder who carries steel but wields no weapon.

Suguru’s lips part, breathless words escaping before he can halt their flow:

“Is it you who kills?”

He hears no response, only silence stretching gently between them like silk threads spun in darkness, yet he feels eyes upon him, observing, quiet and watchful, uncertain of his purpose as he is unsure of his own.

The voice returns warily, flowing toward him once more, slightly softer now, vulnerable in its honesty, fragile but inexorable. He listens, heart aching beneath the weight of emotions he does not understand, emotions he had long believed he had buried under discipline and bloodshed.

“Do you sing to mourn or kill?” he murmurs softly, again.

No words come in reply–only song, tender as morning rain, heartbreaking as a child’s plea for mercy. His chest tightens further, his eyes grow warm with a sorrow he has never permitted himself to feel until now. Tears prick painfully yet remain unfallen, withheld stubbornly behind eyes trained to never reveal weakness or doubt.

He breathes deeply, forcing control into limbs that quake softly, hands that ache to find something solid upon which to anchor himself. He has felled curses before–monsters, spirits, nightmares shaped by human cruelty–yet he has never faced something so clement, so terribly, tragically beautiful, whose lethality is accidental, whose presence seems rooted in woe rather than malevolence.

And so, though he should draw steel and sever song from sorrow, he remains passive, blade untouched at his side. He stands still under the temple’s broken roof, moonlight filtering through cracks like silver threads woven among shadows, breathing softly, deeply, letting the song touch him with kind fingers that promise nothing but sadness, nothing but truth.

You watch from the shadows unseen, cautious, wary, prepared for violence yet curious about the silence of his weapon. You have killed many, though never by choice, never with joy–always mourning those your voice claims gently, relentlessly. But this one stands calmly, his heart troubled yet quiet, weapon sheathed, as though awaiting something other than death.

You wait, hidden and watchful, feeling neither safety nor threat, but rather a strange, brittle interest. For the first time since your unholy birth, a human hears your voice clearly and remains alive, unbroken, unharmed.

He does not raise his katana, and hope stirs tentatively, dangerously in your wounded heart, as frail as moth-wings brushing moonlit air.

Your song fades like the ending of a dream, leaving behind an aching stillness heavier than any melody. The temple becomes a tomb once more, shadows reclaiming their hold, moonlight slicing through broken rafters in sharp ribbons, illuminating dust and memory. The silence hits Suguru with the force of a blade, a sudden, violent cessation of something he had not realized he depended upon for breath.

And suddenly he collapses, knees striking cold stone as his hands claw at his chest. His lungs burn with a strange, exquisite agony–as though flower buds, tender and merciless, had begun blooming inside him, unfurling petals that now wither into dust as your song vanishes. He gasps, heart stumbling erratically, vision clouding as though caught between drowning and awakening.

From the shadows you emerge like mist pulled forth by moonlight–form vague yet captivating, features softly defined in pale glow and ink-dark shade. Your robes drift like silk upon water, cascading around your ankles in ripples of silver. You gaze at him warily, lips parted slightly, unsure how to address a man who still breathes after your voice has touched him.

“How?” you murmur at last, your voice devoid of song but heavy with disbelief. “How did you come so far?”

Suguru meets your eyes, lungs raw as he draws careful, unsteady breaths. He tastes lotuses, feels ghostly petals wilt upon his tongue. His voice is low, rough with lingering pain. “I do not know.”

“None survive my song,” you reply, a note of distant regret threading through your words. “No one reaches this shrine without punishment.”

“The forest tried,” he whispers, standing with slow determination, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself. “But it seems I am difficult to kill.”

You narrow your eyes, studying him with cautious curiosity. “The forest claims only the guilty,” you say, your voice softening almost imperceptibly. “It kills without mercy, punishing the sins brought into its domain.”

He nods, understanding you without admission. “Yet here I am.”

“Yes,” you agree, neither accusation nor judgement in your voice–only confusion, perhaps awe. “And I do not know why.”

He regards you with quiet scrutiny, taking in the softness of your form, the sadness haunting your expression. Nothing in you resembles the malevolence whispered by the villagers, the wickedness described with shaking tongues and fearful hearts. He sees only melancholy wrapped in moonlight, sorrow clothed in silk. Your eyes reflect neither malice nor cruelty, only a weariness too profound for words.

“I’ve slain curses before,” Suguru finally says, “but none like you.”

You tilt your head to the side, cautious still. “What makes me different?”

“You have no claws,” he answers, quiet yet firm. “No teeth that rend flesh. Only a voice. Only flowers and bells.” He pauses, eyes dark with contemplation. “Only death that comes unbidden.”

Your gaze falters slightly, voice lowering, nearly breaking beneath the burden it carries. “I do not choose to kill. I would halt it, if only I knew how. But this curse–my curse–is beyond me. My song rises without permission, my forest guards me fiercely, punishing only those whose crimes stain deeply.”

He exhales slowly, understanding settling upon him with undeniable clarity. “The villagers speak as though innocent blood marks your hands. Yet I see no innocence in them.”

You regard him solemnly, lips pressed into a delicate, sorrowful line. “Innocence does not stray here,” you murmur, gaze distant, haunted. “Those who enter carry darkness heavier than their bones. The forest senses it, devours them whole. My voice finishes what their deeds began.”

“They blame you,” Suguru says, bitterness coloring his voice. “Rather than face their own shadows.”

“Of course,” you reply, voice tinged with gentle resignation. “It’s easier to fear a monster than confront oneself.”

Silence spreads between you once more, weighted by understanding and sorrow unspoken yet deeply felt. You watch him warily, recognizing in him a complexity you’ve never witnessed before–a strength tempered by weariness, a darkness unwilling yet unmistakable. He is dangerous, yes–but you sense he is not dangerous to you.

“You should leave,” you tell him finally, softly insistent. “You’ve seen enough.”

He stands motionless, observing you intently. “Are you not afraid I’ll return to end your existence?”

“If that were your intent,” you reply quietly, eyes steady, unflinching, “you’d already have tried. But your weapon remains sheathed, your hands empty.”

He almost smiles–almost. “You assume I am stronger than I am.”

“Are you not?” you ask, neither skeptical nor challenging–simply curious.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes shadowed with something unreadable, fragile beneath layers of practiced discipline. “No,” he whispers. “I am not strong at all.”

You say nothing more, respecting the quiet truth behind his words, acknowledging a sorrow he does not give freely but which radiates from him nonetheless. The silence deepens, heavy yet peaceful, a frail truce binding two being accustomed only to solitude and suffering.

Slowly, you step backward into shadow, withdrawing carefully from the delicate intimacy born of shared pain. “Do not return here, Samurai,” you murmur gently. “I cannot guarantee your safety again.”

“You will not harm me,” he replies, soft certainty coloring his words.

“It is not I who would harm you,” you remind him quietly. “My curse is beyond control. It does not spare those it finds.”

He nods slowly, understanding yet unwilling to give promise. You vanish wordlessly, like smoke dissolving into darkness, leaving behind only moonlight and silence and lilies that bloom eternally upon stained earth.

Suguru stands for several moments more, breathing deeply the air still fragrant with lilies and loss. Eventually he turns, stepping back into the forest, passing once more through branches and vines that no longer grasp hungrily but hang motionless, subdued, respectful of something unspoken yet understood between curse and samurai.

He reaches his horse at dawn, the sun bleeding gently across the horizon, banishing shadows yet unable to erase memory. He rides back to the village, meeting the villagers with careful, practiced deception.

“The curse is stronger than anticipated,” he lies smoothly, voice authoritative yet hollow. “I must prepare differently. Stay indoors, avoid the forest. Wait for my return.”

He does not stay to witness their fearful nods or whispered thanks. He retreats to the quiet house prepared for him, isolating himself carefully, thoughts haunted by your presence, your voice, the quiet sorrow that cloaks you.

That night, beneath lamplight softened by paper screens, Suguru sits alone, folding paper with meticulous fingers, transforming blank sheets into delicate cranes, each fold precise, intentional, filled with silent wishes he does not yet dare to speak aloud. He does not fully understand why he begins this quiet ritual–only that each crane eases slightly the ache lodged deep within his chest.

Outside, the forest waits silently, guarding secrets gently, lovingly, until night descends once more, and your voice rises again softly–woeful and beautiful, calling to darkness, mournful yet mercifully unheard by human ears tonight.

PART IV: HE WITHSTOOD HER SEDUCTION Even when she wept in moonlight.

The next night, the moon ascends with reluctant grace, slipping silently through clouds heavy with hidden rain. Its pale, half-veiled face casts a hesitant glow over the forest path, painting trees and roots in silver melancholy. Suguru moves deliberately, breath steady, heart uncertain, though he hides doubt behind careful silence. He carries no lantern, drawing guidance from memory, senses sharpened by years of following darkness toward unknown ends.

The forest welcomes him less kindly this time, its vines snaking aggressively toward his ankles, roots grasping fiercely beneath his sandals. Branches rake at his face, leaving thin, stinging cuts along cheek and brow, reminders of countless sins etched invisibly into his skin. His robes snag on thorn-covered bushes, cloth tearing quietly in protest as he moves forward, determined despite whispered warnings carried by rustling leaves.

Suguru understands the forest’s anger, its fierce desire to punish what he represents–bloodshed ordered in hushed councils, the wordless crimes committed under a banner of justice. He bears the forest’s punishment without resentment, enduring sharp thorns, bleeding in silence, knowing well the price exacted for the truths he has buried deeply. He pushes onward however, unyielding beneath the weight of guilt, guided by something he cannot name just yet–something drawn forth by sorrowful songs and lilies blooming from sadness.

As he breaches the tree-line and stands once more before your crumbling temple, your voice rises instinctively, lifting into the night as delicate as the scent of lilies carried on an evening breeze. The first notes waver like whispers upon water, mournful, sweetly tragic, before abruptly fading–choked, halted suddenly by recognition. Your voice fails you, notes dissolving like mist caught by sunrise, leaving behind startled silence.

You emerge from the shadows swiftly, robes rippling gently around you, eyes bright with disbelief and frustration.

“You returned?” Your voice shatters the quiet sharply, incredulity tangible in your breathless words.

Suguru regards you calmly, ignoring the scratches on his skin, the torn edges of his clothing. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“You are going to get yourself killed,” you snap, exasperation mingling with worry, emotions unfamiliar and uncomfortable. “The forest will not allow you passage again. Why have you come back?”

He does not answer immediately, only watches you closely, quietly, something unreadable lingering in his dark gaze. You sense a softness behind the disciplined mask he wears, though he offers no words to reveal it.

“I know you were sent to kill me,” you press softly, eyes narrowing, voice low with tension. “Yet your blade remained sheathed yesterday. Why?”

“Perhaps,” Suguru replies carefully, “I found no need to draw it.”

“That’s absurd,” you retort, anger tinged with confusion, a strange heat rising beneath your calm facade. “You felt my power. You felt the death woven into my song. Do you think you can resist it again?”

He tilts his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting his lips, gentle yet stubborn. “Your song did not kill me last night. Nor tonight. Perhaps it won’t try again.”

You stare at him incredulously, fingers curling tightly into your sleeves. “You risk your life on assumptions.”

“Not assumptions,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily. “Instinct.”

You fall silent, unable to fathom such obstinate behavior. He is different from any human you’ve encountered–unyielding, resolute, calm beneath the harshness of your warnings. You realize suddenly he carries something in his hands–a small wooden box, carefully wrapped in silk.

He notices your gaze, steps closer carefully, offering the box with outstretched hands. “For you.”

You hesitate, wary, uncertain how to respond. Never before has a gift been presented to you, never before has a human shown such gentle persistence. Your fingers tremble faintly as you accept the box, lifting away the silk cover to reveal glistening candied plums, sweet and fragrant, something delicate and lovely you’ve never imagined tasting.

“What is this?” you ask quietly, eyes flickering toward him in curious wonder.

“An offering,” Suguru answers simply, “to prove I mean no harm.”

You pick up one of the plums, cautiously tasting sweetness upon your tongue–strange, intoxicating, beautiful. Your guarded expression softens lightly, unable to fully hide your astonishment or delight.

“Why?” you whisper, eyes lifting to his, questioning his intentions but no longer angry.

Suguru’s expression gentles further, a subtle warmth entering his dark eyes. “You don’t seem accustomed to kindness.”

“I’ve had no reason to be,” you reply, the truth feeling fragile in your mouth.

He reaches slowly into his sleeve, pulling forth a stack of flimsy sheets of paper, pale as moonlight, thin as breath. Carefully, deliberately, he sits upon the stone steps leading into the temple, smoothing the paper upon his knee, his long fingers moving in practiced precision.

You watch him closely, fascinated despite yourself. “What are you doing?”

“Folding cranes,” he murmurs without raising his eyes, fingers moving gracefully as each fold transforms the paper into something delicate, elegant, alluring.

“What purpose does it serve?” you ask cautiously, drawn closer by interest, kneeling prudently beside him.

He pauses briefly, eyes flicking toward you with quiet contemplation. “They are a tradition. They represent hope and desire.”

“For what?”

He does not answer, only continues folding with care, face calm and unreadable. You observe in silence, memorizing his motions, learning this gentle ritual from him. He finishes the crane, placing it delicately upon the ground between you both, wordless invitation in his action.

Slowly, you reach forward, fingertips brushing over paper shaped like wings, marveling quietly at its beauty. “Will you teach me?” you ask, voice barely audible, hesitant, yet oddly hopeful.

He nods, passing a fresh sheet of paper to your hand. “Watch closely.”

You follow his movements, mimicking his folds precisely, each crease becoming the bones of something beautiful and intricate, until a second crane rests in your palm.

“Do you fold these often?” you inquire softly, turning the paper bird in your fingers like it’s made of glass.

“Not until last night,” he answers quietly.

“Why?”

His eyes drift toward you, hesitant yet unwilling to speak his reasons aloud. He simply says, “Because it calms me. Because I wish to.”

You sense there is more hidden behind his words, yet do not press further. Silence settles over you both comfortably, punctuated only by rustling paper, soft breaths mingling between you, cranes forming one after another upon the stone steps.

After several more cranes, you pause again, holding one carefully in your hand, regarding him thoughtfully. “You truly intend no harm?”

He meets your gaze steadily, eyes filled with sincerity. “None. You believed I was stronger than I was. Perhaps you were correct.”

You nod once, unsure but choosing to trust him despite the uncertainty. “Then stay, if you wish,” you whisper. “But only briefly.”

“Understood,” he murmurs, continuing his folding.

You remain quietly beside him, watching moonlight reflect upon folded paper, lilies blooming faintly around you both, the fragrance filling night air with sweetness born of melancholy. Your heart beats gently, unfamiliar yet strangely comforting, your thoughts lingering upon the warmth of his presence.

You do not fully understand why he returned, nor why he chooses this companionship, but you ask nothing more, content to share this moment between shadows and sorrow. With someone who does not want you slain.

Later, after he departs into darkness, you gather the folded cranes he left behind, cupping them in your palms with utmost care like precious treasures. You wonder about their hidden meaning, suspecting the depths of intention he has not revealed.

And in your chest, fragile hope blooms delicately once more, like paper wings taking shape beneath careful hands, waiting to discover what wish these silent cranes might one day grant.

Every night, as stars climb solemnly into the darkened sky, he returns. And every night, the forest wages its familiar war against him. Branches scratch and snag his robes, thorns bite into his skin, roots grasp hungrily at his ankles, yet never deter his resolve. He pushes forward, relentless yet calm, enduring the forest’s fury with silent patience, until he stands again at your temple, moonlight illuminating his quiet determination.

Your voice no longer rises to meet him. Your curse has learned him, memorized the gentle rhythm of his footsteps, the muted purpose that carries him through your defenses. Instead, you await him at the shrine steps, fingertips brushing the wood of the doorframe, your expression cautious but welcoming. You watch him approach with restrained curiosity, wondering what new offering he brings tonight.

Some evenings it is candied fruits or delicate pastries wrapped in thin silk, others a carved wooden comb or a polished stone shaped like a crescent moon. Each gift he places carefully into your hands, eyes holding yours as if the offering itself is secondary to the simple act of giving. Tonight, he offers a single silver bell tied with red thread–a small thing that rings with clarity and sweetness as it settles into your palm.

“For protection,” he murmurs, eyes glinting faintly in the moonlight.

You run your fingers across the smooth metal surface, listening to its voice resonate softly. “Do you believe I need protecting?”

His lips curve into something gentle yet unreadable. “Perhaps.”

You smile then–a hesitant, shy thing blooming upon your lips like a flower uncertain of its right to exist. It is the first smile you’ve allowed yourself since your existence began, tentative and luminous as dawn breaking slowly through clouds. He watches this transformation, eyes widening briefly, astonishment flickering in his otherwise guarded expression.

“You smile,” he notes softly, wonder threading through his voice.

“Should I not?” you ask, eyes searching his face for disapproval.

“No,” he replies, “you should smile often.”

An unfamiliar warmth settles within you, comforting and strange, as you turn and lead him inside the temple. The interior is gradually coming alive again, each night enriched by the folded cranes he leaves behind. They dangle like ornaments from ancient rafters, paper wings suspended in still air, breathing life back into this forsaken shrine. He notices their careful placement, recognizing your silent gratitude in each crane positioned lovingly about the temple.

As always, you fold together, seated on worn cushions by flickering lantern light. Tonight, your fingers pause, your gaze filled with interest as he quietly counts each crane before departure, his voice barely more than a whisper as he numbers them.

“Two hundred sixty-seven,” he murmurs.

Your eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Why do you count them each night? Is there a certain number you seek?”

He glances upward, hands poised gracefully on another fold. “Perhaps there is.”

“You never tell me,” you remark with mild accusation.

“One day,” he answers, eyes meeting yours with an intensity that startles you, “you will understand.”

You tilt your head, thoughtful but willing to trust him, even in mystery. Your gaze returns to the crane forming in your hands, movements becoming practiced and graceful under his careful instruction.

“Do the villagers not scorn you for your hesitance?” you ask, folding another wing neatly. “Surely they demand proof of your deeds.”

“They do,” he admits, expression darkening slightly. “But I sin in that regard. I deceive them instead.”

You consider this quietly, your eyes fixed on the crane. “Do you not fear their anger?”

His voice is heavy. “Their anger is rooted in their shame. They fear themselves far more than any curse.”

You nod, understanding him clearly. “Perhaps their fear is justified.”

“Perhaps,” he agrees softly.

One evening, beneath the moon’s watchful gaze, you gather lilies blooming near the shrine steps, their petals radiant and luminous. Sitting beside him, your fingers weave blossoms into the silken cascade of your hair, fragrance drifting around you. He watches, his gaze filled with an unspoken admiration you do not fully comprehend but feel deeply.

“You adorn yourself,” he murmurs appreciatively.

You glance away, warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Does it please you?”

“It suits you perfectly,” he replies gently.

A small silence settles comfortably, before you find the courage to speak again. “Would you teach me a human song?”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods. His voice rises slowly, carefully teaching you words to a melody that speaks of springtime, new beginnings, warmth born from winter’s ending. Your voice joins uncertainly at first, gradually finding harmony alongside his deeper tones. The temple fills with your interwoven sounds–untrained, yet beautifully matched, alive with joy neither has fully known.

When the last notes fade, you glance toward him, your expression open, vulnerable. “Tell me of yourself,” you ask. “Why do you come here each night? You are unlike others–unlike any I’ve met.”

He exhales, eyes shadowed with memories long repressed. “I once believed myself righteous–a warrior serving justice. But I saw the truth beneath the shogun’s commands: cruelty disguised as honor, bloodshed masked as righteousness. Monsters are rarely monstrous, only broken souls twisted by pain.”

“And now?” you whisper.

“Now,” he replies, meeting your gaze steadily, “I serve neither justice nor cruelty. I follow only what my heart recognizes as truth.”

He lifts his hand slowly, carefully, touching fingertips gently to your cheek, as if testing whether this fragile moment might fracture beneath his touch. Your breath catches slightly, yet your skin remains smooth, unmarred. His palm does not wither, his fingertips do not blacken; there is no decay between you.

Your voice trembles slightly. “You still have not answered my question clearly. Why do you not kill me? You were sent for that purpose.”

His gaze remains fixed upon yours, hand lingering against your skin. “If harm were my intent,” he echoes your words from the first night you met, “I would already have tried.”

“You told me then,” you whisper, repeating the words etched deeply in memory, “that I assumed you stronger than you truly are. Is that still so?”

He shakes his head slowly, a faint smile curving his lips, resigned yet sincere. “I am weaker now, I think. Each night I return, my resolve weakens further.”

“Why, then?” you press, desperate for truth. “Why return if your purpose falters?”

He draws a slow breath, eyes serious and unwavering, hand lowering from your face, fingers brushing your fleetingly before withdrawing fully. “Perhaps because, for the first time, weakness is not shameful–but something worth surrendering to.”

You do not fully understand his meaning, yet warmth spreads through your chest, comfort mingling strangely with confusion. You look away quickly, shyly, heart unsure yet beating steadily.

He stands finally, preparing to depart into night’s embrace once more. Before stepping into shadow, he counts cranes again, softly murmuring their total. “Three hundred twenty-two.”

He leaves silently, your gaze following until darkness swallows him. Alone once more, you cradle a crane in your palm, considering its precise folds, wondering about his wish, his purpose. A faint smile returns, tender and hopeful, born of uncertainty yet unafraid.

You begin to hum quietly, the melody he taught you rising into the night air, tentative but growing in strength. It carries toward the forest, toward darkness now familiar, reaching gently toward the man who walks back to his village cloaked in silence and regrets.

And beneath the temple’s watch, you hang one more crane among the others, each paper bird a promise, a wish unspoken, waiting patiently for fulfillment.

PART V: THE BELLS RANG TO MARK HER KILLINGS They tolled with no wind, in mourning or mockery.

Almost a month passes, and the village seethes like a cauldron simmering over low flames, murmurs boiling into restless accusations. Suguru’s nightly departures into the woods have etched a narrative in blood and bruises upon his skin–his clothing torn, features darkened by fatigue–and the villagers nod knowingly, whispering sagely among themselves. In their eyes, the samurai battles fiercely against the sinister force in the forest, locked in unending combat with the curse they fear so profoundly.

Suguru does not correct their beliefs. Instead, he wears their mistaken reverence as a mask, a thin veil of falsehood draped across his truth. He allows them to think him noble, tireless, though the cuts and scratches speak only of the forest’s bitter attempts to bar him from you. Each dawn he returns, breathing laboriously, stepping through their clustered gazes without comment. Each dawn he speaks gravely, somber voice declaring the curse too powerful, too elusive for one man alone.

He watches resentment bloom like weeds among them. They once revered him as a hero, their respect glistening like fresh lacquer, polished and bright–but now impatience corrodes that shine, turning admiration into suspicion, gratitude into irritation.

Then one evening, as Suguru readies himself at the village’s edge, he sees torches ignite like stars beyond the fields. Villagers approach–men armed clumsily with pitchforks and old swords, their bodies tight with reckless bravado. They march toward him, resolve distorted by anger, fueled by ignorance.

A man steps forward, eyes bright with defiance. “We tire of waiting, Samurai-sama. Tonight, we join you. We will defeat this curse ourselves.”

Suguru straightens, folding his arms within the sleeves of his kimono, stern composure etched across his features. “Do not be foolish,” he warns them, his voice heavy with the gravity of experience. “This curse is not so easily subdued. Return home.”

Another villager thrusts forward, clutching a rusted blade. “If you cannot defeat it alone, then together we shall. We cannot endure another night of waiting while death hovers at our doorsteps!”

Their desperation paints their faces starkly in torchlight–each man bearing his own hidden guilt, each soul weighted by fear and shame. Suguru senses their stubbornness rooted deep in fear’s fertile soil, and he knows his words fall on deaf ears. He shakes his head once, sharply, but steps aside.

“You go toward your deaths,” he tells them sternly. “The curse will not spare you.”

They pass by him, their torches flickering and shadows stretching long as though attempting to hold them back. He watches until their forms are swallowed by the forest, torches dimmed into distant sparks consumed by darkness. He waits, heart tightening within his chest, for the inevitable.

The bells toll suddenly–piercingly clear, mournful, ringing in slow procession. Each strike resonates like iron upon stone, echoing through the village. One, two, three–each chime another life lost. Suguru closes his eyes, bowing his head slightly as the villagers behind him cry out sharply, wails rising into the night.

Women burst from homes, children cling to skirts as frantic voices cry names into the empty air. The ringing bells do not cease their count, do not soften their judgement. Seven tolls in all, each more devastating than the last.

The villagers rush forward, grasping Suguru’s clothing desperately, sobbing openly, knuckles white as they claw at silk sleeves. “Why?” a mother shrieks, grief shattering her voice like porcelain upon stone. “Why did you not protect them? How could you let them go?”

Suguru’s expression grows harder, colder, forcing their hands away with controlled strength. “You accuse me of failing to protect those who refuse to heed my warnings?” he retorts icily. “I warned you clearly–why rush blindly into darkness I myself have yet to conquer?”

They flinch, recoiling from his reproach, their grief momentarily silenced by the sting of truth. His words hand between them like heavy smoke, and they step back slowly, eyes downcast, mouths trembling, unable to challenge his accusation.

But news travels swiftly as misery itself, carried upon winds to the distant capital. The shogun’s message arrives days later–a scroll sealed in crimson wax, delivered by a stern-faced messenger who regards Suguru coldly. The message is curt, starkly written, each character a dagger plunged into Suguru’s resolve.

“You have failed thus far, Samurai,” the messenger declares with impassive contempt. “The shogun grants you one final moon to eradicate the curse. Should you fail or refuse, your family will bear your dishonor. Should you perish, another shall take your place until success is achieved.”

Suguru holds the scroll tightly, its edges crumpling slightly within his grasp. He acknowledges the decree with a nod, voice steady yet heavy with suppressed bitterness. “Tell your lord the curse shall be dealt with. He has my word.”

The messenger departs immediately, leaving Suguru alone in silence that bears down upon him oppressively. He retreats into the home provided by the villagers, sliding the door shut with weary finality. Seated beneath flickering candlelight, he reaches for sheets of delicate paper stacked carefully nearby, fingers moving with rapid intensity, folding cranes without pause, without rest.

The night deepens, candle flame guttering uncertainly as each crane emerges crisply formed from skilled fingers. He folds one after another, determination etching lines of strain into his features. His heart pounds insistently, whispering desperate hopes and hidden fears, counting silently the paper birds that scatter across tatami mats like fallen blossoms.

His eyes blur with fatigue, shoulders tightening with tension. He folds relentlessly, the sound of creasing paper loud in the room’s suffocating stillness. Each crane is a plea, a prayer formed from desperation–a quiet rebellion against fate and duty.

At last, he pauses, breath heavy, fingers trembling faintly as he surveys his creations spread around him. His voice, worn yet resolute, whispers the count into emptiness:

“Seven hundred and fifty-two.”

Outside, the wind stirs trees into restless murmurs, moonlight cold and unyielding. Suguru knows that time runs thin like candle wax melting into nothingness. His chest aches, not merely from exhaustion but from knowledge–knowledge that soon he must face a choice impossible to avoid.

He gathers the cranes into his palms, placing them alongside the others carefully stored, each crane delicate yet resilient, a silent testament to his resolve and the unspoken wish he holds secret.

Tomorrow he will return to the temple, to lilies and songs he now longs for more fiercely than he can admit even to himself. Tomorrow he must tell you of the decree handed down, of the cruel demands made upon him.

But tonight, Suguru sits alone, wrapped in shadows cast by flickering flame, surrounded by cranes born of desperation and quiet defiance.

He does not sleep. He simply waits–heart clenched tight, breath measured precisely–as the night deepens further, as the moon watches impassively, counting silently with him.

PART VI: SHE TRIED TO STEAL HIS SOUL With hands like silk and breath of lilies.

The temple air bristles with tension, heavy like storm clouds threatening lightning. You await him near the crumbling pillars, fingers restless, twisting lily petals into tight spirals that bruise their velvet softness. Night has stretched its shadows thick across your shrine, its depths filling with the murmurs from trees and rustling vines–a forest alert, uneasy.

When he finally steps into view, you rise sharply. Your chest tightens, your voice brittle, sharp as flint. “You didn’t come last night,” you accuse him immediately, words breaking from you like shards of porcelain. “Seven villagers died in your absence.”

Suguru pauses mid-step, his expression clouding with weary regret, shoulders weighted by the accusation. “I tried to stop them,” he answers, voice low, worn like river stones polished by relentless currents. “They would not listen. Their stubbornness drove them to ruin.”

You step forward abruptly, frustration radiating off you, eyes blazing fiercely. “You believe I am responsible?” you demand, bitterness coloring each word. “I swear upon whatever gods may still listen–I did not take their lives. My voice was silent; my hands untouched.”

He meets your wild stare without wavering, speaking deliberately, each syllable laden with conviction. “I believe you,” he says simply. “I know your truth already. It was not your doing. The forest guards you jealously.”

Your shoulders slump, anger seeping out, replaced by weariness more potent than rage. You move closer, hesitantly reaching forward, your fingers brushing lightly over the torn fabric of his kimono. The touch, your first initiated, startles both of you–intimacy without consequence, contact without destruction. His body remains steady, unmarked, whole. Relief blooms faintly in your chest.

“I wish you had come,” you whisper, anger now supplanted by something softer, more painful. “Perhaps then, those men would not have ventured here seeking me.”

Suguru regards you thoughtfully, his eyes revealing deep conflict, a weight he bears silently. “Do you think,” he asks carefully, voice edged with cautious hope, “it might help if I spoke your truth to the villagers? If they understood your innocence?”

You shake your head instantly, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “No. They are blinded by fear and hatred, deafened by superstition. Even if they believed you, my curse remains. My song would eventually claim them, or the forest would strike without mercy. It protects, it punishes–it does not listen to reason.”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident, tension woven deeply into the lines of his jaw. Slowly, he withdraws a scroll from within his kimono, handing it to you reluctantly. You unfold it gingerly, reading the inked characters that command his hand, that threaten his lineage. Each word sends a chill twisting through your veins.

You lift your eyes to his, hands shaking faintly with dread. “Will you kill me now?” you ask plainly, steady despite the vulnerability threading your question. “The shogun commands it. Spare your family the shame.”

His expression hardens, eyes darkening with quiet defiance. “If I fail or refuse, my family suffers dishonor. If I die in the attempt, another takes my place–but my kin remain untouched.”

You study him closely, apprehension curling tightly within your chest. “Well, I will not harm you,” you whisper forcefully, your voice cracking beneath the weight of honesty. “You must believe this.”

A charged silence fills the air, heavier than any spoken word. Suguru stands tense, the struggle within him tangible, his fists clenched tight enough to strain knuckles white. “I believe you,” he says finally, his voice taut with controlled anger–not at you, but at fate itself, at the cruelty of commands he despises but cannot ignore.

You turn suddenly, moving toward a corner where moonlight spills through cracks in broken timbers, illuminating a scattered array of small, folded shapes. “I have been folding,” you announce quietly, kneeling to collect leaf cranes you’ve crafted with painstaking care. They are not as neat as his paper creations, yet beautiful in their imperfect sincerity. “Nearly one hundred, fashioned from leaves.”

Suguru joins you, taking one into his palm, examining its form closely. His fingers brush yours briefly in the exchange, warmth mingling between skin. He counts each crane methodically, adding your leaf-bound offerings to his ever-growing tally.

“You still won’t tell me their purpose,” you murmur, your voice edged with faint accusation and gentle curiosity.

He shakes his head slowly, a wistful smile flickering across his lips. “Not yet. In time.”

You accept his silence, though frustration lingers stubbornly. Carefully, you set aside the leaf cranes, arranging them lovingly alongside their paper counterparts that adorn the shrine like relics of devotion.

Turning back toward him, you sense turmoil twisting through his being, emotions barely restrained beneath a surface smoothed by practiced discipline. Without conscious thought, you reach again, your hand resting lightly against his sleeve, tracing the pattern of fabric thoughtfully.

“Why do you hesitate so strongly?” you whisper earnestly. “Your honor compels you, your duty demands it–yet still, you spare my life. Why?”

Suguru studies you for a moment, the silence pregnant with unsaid truths, his eyes betraying secrets even he dares not speak. Finally, his voice emerges, low and strained with sincerity. “Because I see no monster in you. Only pain sculpted into a form misunderstood. Because the shogun sends me to strike down beasts, yet I find only souls lost and wounded.”

Your fingers tighten upon his sleeve, desperation surfacing in your words. “Yet still–your family, your honor–these must come first.”

“My honor is worthless if it demands cruelty,” he answers bitterly. “I have learned that now. And my family would grieve more deeply if I betrayed myself.”

You exhale unsteadily, your fingers reluctantly releasing him. “Then we both stand condemned by forces beyond us.”

He does not answer immediately, but the subtle incline of his head acknowledges the truth in your words. He watches the cranes thoughtfully, then murmurs softly, “Eight hundred and forty-seven.”

You nod solemnly, the number carrying quiet weight–a promise, a hope still hidden. He rises, preparing to depart, tension lingering between you both, unresolved yet deeply felt.

At the threshold, Suguru pauses, turning back slightly. “Will you continue to fold?” he asks, voice strangely hopeful.

“Yes,” you promise. “Though I wish I understood why.”

He offers no answer, only inclines his head gently in farewell, stepping into darkness that swallows him swiftly, completely. You remain within your temple, fingers tracing leaf cranes with reverent touch, uncertain but resolute.

Your heart breaths a rhythm unfamiliar yet welcome–longing tempered by cautious hope, intimacy born from understanding, not theft. The cranes, woven from leaves and dreams alike, guard secrets you cannot yet decipher.

Outside, the bells rest silent, trees hold their breath, and the land itself mourns quietly for what may soon be lost or gained, awaiting the outcome neither of you yet dares predict.

PART VII: THE CURSE BEGGED FOR MERCY AND WAS DENIED Even monsters may kneel. Even demons may cry.

Two days remain until the moon swells full and pale, poised in the heavens to bear witness. The forest has grown restless, the air dense with expectation, leaves whispering secrets among branches bent like supplicants. You await Suguru at the temple’s entrance, feet planted on the steps worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, the stone cool against your soles. Lily blossoms cluster close, petals luminous in moonlight, releasing perfume heavy with memories.

When he appears at the forest’s edge, you step forward, meeting him in the clearing. The night’s pale glow etches harsh lines upon his face, tracing shadows beneath his eyes, revealing a fatigue he no longer tries to mask. Your hand lifts instinctively, brushing tenderly over the fresh scratches and bruises marring his skin. His eyes close briefly under your touch, relief softening the tension buried deep within him.

“You are hurt again,” you murmur, your voice thick with worry.

He breathes deeply, leaning slightly into your touch. “I have endured worse. The forest resents me more fiercely with each passing night.”

You withdraw your hand, fingers curling uncertainly at your side. “Two nights remain. Have you decided your course?”

He hesitates, eyes flickering toward the direction of the distant village. “I have thought endlessly about your origin,” he says finally, voice heavy as a winter storm. “I see clearly now–how their darkness created you. Their cruelty, their betrayals, their sins–they shaped you, formed you into something they could hate. They are the true monsters, not you.”

His confession strikes you, painful yet freeing, your chest tightening with recognition. “Yet they are blind to their faults,” you respond bitterly. “They cast blame outward, refusing to acknowledge their own ugliness.”

Suguru nods gravely, regret shadowing his features. “I too have been blind–blind to my own complicity. I have walked among monsters, serving their whims without question. Perhaps the greatest beast is myself.”

“You are no monster,” you whisper sharply, voice trembling with sudden conviction.

His hand rises, fingertips gently brushing strands of hair from your face, his touch lingering tenderly. “You are too forgiving. You know nothing of the blood on my hands, the innocent lives taken in the shogun’s name. Every atrocity I committed was masked by duty and honor, yet honor is no justification for cruelty.”

You reach up, capturing his hand between both of yours, holding it reverently against your chest. “I see clearly,” you say firmly, your heartbeat thrumming steadily beneath his palm. “I know you carry guilt, and pain, yet a true monster would not feel remorse. A true monster would not return here night after night, risking everything simply to share my company.”

His expression softens, eyes reflecting emotions rarely permitted. He lifts your joined hands, pressing a fleeting, tender kiss to your knuckles. A simple gesture, yet rich with vulnerability and restrained longing. “You honor me far more than I deserve.”

You stand close, moonlight enfolding you in silver warmth, intimacy deepening gently. “Tell me of the cranes,” you ask quietly once more, hope and curiosity weaving through your tone. “Will you finally speak their meaning tonight?”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, mysterious yet affectionate. “Not yet,” he murmurs. “Patience a little longer, please.”

Frustration flickers briefly in your chest, but you yield gracefully, trusting despite the doubt. “You torment me,” you complain playfully, warmth coloring your voice.

He laughs–rare and transient, surprising even himself. “Never intentionally,” he replies, eyes filled with tenderness. “I swear to you, soon enough the cranes’ meaning will be revealed.”

You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder, savoring the comfort and strength radiating from his presence. The night settles around you, sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife providing harmony to your shared moment.

Eventually, Suguru speaks again, voice solemn yet determined. “I promise you this–I will find a way to free you of this curse. I don’t know how yet, but I will search every path, challenge every god if I must.”

You lift your head, expression guarded, hope tempered by ambivalence. “The curse binds tightly. My songs, my forest–they follow their own laws, beyond human influence.”

His eyes darken with resolve, fingers tightening around yours reassuringly. “Then I will defy those laws,” he states fiercely. “I will rewrite fate itself if it means your freedom.”

Your chest aches painfully, heart struggling against the walls of caution you’ve constructed carefully around your hope. “Why risk so much for me?” you whisper.

“Because,” he replies quietly, a rare vulnerability surfacing in his voice, “for the first time, I see clearly what is worth fighting for. You have shown me gentleness amid cruelty, grace amid brutality. You taught me compassion where I believed only violence existed.”

His words sink deeply, resonating powerfully within your chest. Your hand lifts again, cupping his cheek affectionately, savoring the warmth beneath your fingertips, marveling at how this man–marked by violence, burdened by guilt–has become something precious to you.

But even as you savor this intimacy, dread curls bitterly in your stomach. “But your family, your honor–the shogun’s demand–”

“My family would understand,” he interrupts gently, certainty coloring his voice. “They would want me to uphold honor by following my heart. And the shogun’s demands no longer control me–not when their price is your life.”

Your chest tightens, words tangled within your throat, heart swelling painfully with emotion too profound for speech. Instead, you cling to him, your embrace intense, protective, desperate.

For a moment, he holds you, his heart beating strongly against yours, heat shared dearly. Finally, reluctantly, you pull away, moonlight illuminating regret upon both your faces.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs heavily, “is the last night before the full moon.”

You nod, sorrow etched into your eyes. “Then I will see you tomorrow.”

He steps back slowly, lingering gaze upon your face, memorizing this moment with quiet reverence. “Until then,” he whispers softly.

He disappears into darkness, leaving you alone with your thoughts and cranes scattered across temple steps. You sit, gathering your folded leaf cranes lovingly into your lap, counting each creation quietly.

“Nine hundred and three,” you whisper to yourself.

As night deepens, your hands continue folding, turning leaves carefully into wings, hearts, dreams–each crane a silent plea, a wish for freedom, for truth, for hope still unspoken but deeply felt.

Nightfall brings no relief, the air taut as bowstrings drawn and held, tension vibrating through the temple stones and flowering vines alike. The moon, almost perfectly round, rises imperious in the darkening sky, bathing everything in a luminescent glow, silver and severe. You await Suguru at the threshold of your sanctuary, anticipation tightening your chest, breath thin as mist upon glass.

When he finally appears from the shadows, his expression carries exhaustion, deepened by restless conflict etched starkly upon his features. You move forward swiftly, your fingers reaching instinctively for his, your grip firm yet tender. He exhales in relief at your touch, body sagging slightly under unseen burdens.

“You have come late tonight,” you murmur softly, guiding him toward your collection of folded cranes, arrayed lovingly upon the steps like offerings before forgotten gods.

He sighs, nodding wearily. “The villagers held me back, their fears boiling into demands. They demand reassurance, proof that tomorrow night the curse will finally be lifted–or that I perish by your hand.”

A faint tremble threads through your fingers. “I am sorry they burden you so.”

He squeezes your hand gently, a faint warmth suffusing the motion. “It matters little now. We have more pressing concerns.”

You kneel beside the cranes, your fingers brushing reverently over the crafted wings, each bird a testament to patience, trust, and dreams yet unfulfilled. “We have nearly reached one thousand,” you whisper, voice edged with awe. “Yet tonight, you bring none.”

“I had no opportunity,” he admits quietly, regret shadowing his tone. “They accosted me and would not relent.”

Your fingertips pause, hesitation coiling in your throat. Finally, you voice the question burning insistently within your chest. “Will you finally tell me the meaning of these cranes? Is there a certain number to be reached, or do we fold forever?”

Suguru remains still, his eyes lifting slowly to meet yours, profound emotion shimmering behind them. He breathes deeply, gathering resolve, before speaking at last. “A thousand cranes,” he begins carefully, voice low and steady, “crafted in earnestness and sincerity, is said to compel the gods themselves. They grant a wish–one wish, spoken from the deepest truths of one’s heart.”

Your breath stills abruptly in your chest, understanding settling heavily upon your shoulders, realization dawning like sunrise–slowly, inexorably, flooding your heart with clarity and anguish intertwined. You stare at him wordlessly, your lips parting as comprehension reshapes your entire perception.

“All this time,” you whisper, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “you have folded them to change my fate.”

His expression betrays quiet acceptance, his posture humble yet resolute. “I had hoped to spare you the burden of knowledge until certainty could follow. I wished not to raise false hope.”

You pause, then lean toward him, your eyes intent, searching his face for truth and reassurance. “Are you a man of your word, Suguru? Would you honor a wish if I ever asked it of you?”

He nods without hesitation, sincerity illuminating his face vividly. “Always. If it were within my power, there is nothing I would not grant you.”

Your pulse quickens wildly, your words quavering slightly in vulnerability. “Do you truly believe the gods will listen? Or do you intend to carve your own path, defiant of divine decree?”

His hand rises to cup your cheek, his palm warm and comforting against your skin. “I have spent my life serving the will of men who play at gods,” he replies earnestly. “I find little comfort in hoping divine beings might listen now. Yet still, I fold these cranes, hoping desperately their promise is real. And if not–then yes, I shall forge my own path, gods or no.”

Your hand covers his tenderly, leaning subtly into the embrace of his palm, eyes closing for a moment in contemplation. “Such defiance carries heavy consequences. Do you not fear the cost?”

“Fear has held me hostage long enough,” he answers firmly, thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. “If I must pay a price, it will be one I choose willingly. You are worth any consequence.”

A gentle ache fills your chest, sweet and painful in equal measure. Without conscious thought, you press your forehead lightly against his, sharing breath, heat, the rhythm of hearts beating closely in tandem. His other hand finds your shoulder, sliding carefully down your arm, grasping your fingers with unwavering tenderness.

Doubt, however, clings to your spirit, persistent as shadow, whispering bitter truths of duty and sacrifice. “Tomorrow night brings judgement,” you murmur sorrowfully, heart heavy beneath the weight of the unknown. “Either you suffer for sparing me, or I perish to free you. Is this balance fair, Suguru?”

He exhales deeply, resolve mingling with regret. “Nothing in our circumstances is fair, yet fairness matters less to me now than truth–than the certainty of my heart’s convictions.”

You lift your head, your eyes meeting his with intensity, emotion raw and vibrant within your chest. “Should you truly suffer for allowing me to live?”

His answer is immediate, voice low and unyielding. “If living freely, truthfully, costs me suffering and strife, I embrace it. You deserve life, happiness–not punishment for crimes that never belonged to you.”

A faint smile curves your lips, bittersweet yet deeply grateful. “You are a rare creature, Suguru–one who sees beauty within darkness, hope amid despair.”

He returns your gentle smile, expression warm with quiet affection. “And you, a being who shows compassion where none was ever granted you. Perhaps we were destined to find one another, to forge a path toward truth beyond suffering.”

You lean close again, savoring the intimacy of proximity, your heart whispering of hopes and fears still unspoken. Tomorrow’s confrontation looms darkly ahead, yet tonight you hold tightly to the warmth and strength Suguru offers unconditionally, allowing yourself the sweetness of shared affection, even as dread coils persistently within you.

Finally, and reluctantly, Suguru rises, gently releasing your fingers. He surveys the cranes, counting once more, a soft exhale marking their number. “Nine hundred and eighty-seven,” he whispers.

“Nearly complete,” you murmur, heart twisting at implications unsaid yet profoundly understood.

He nods, lingering briefly at the temple’s entrance, eyes soft with longing. “Rest well,” he bids you quietly, voice tender yet tinged faintly with sadness.

“You as well,” you reply softly, watching until darkness swallows him fully.

Alone once more, you kneel before the cranes, fingers deliberately shaping the final folds needed to reach completion. Your thoughts linger on Suguru’s whispered promise, the uncertain hope of divine intervention or determined defiance guiding his actions.

A decision weighs heavily upon you, quiet yet inexorable–your own resolve sharpening steadily as the last crane emerges from your fingers. Tomorrow night, beneath the full moon’s cold stare, a choice will be made–one of sacrifice or salvation, suffering or freedom.

The cranes rest quietly before you, their folded wings poised gracefully, each bird bearing the weight of silent wishes and dreams unsaid. You lift one, heart aching at the fragility of hopes now entrusted to your care.

And as the moon climbs higher into midnight sky, you wonder–heart heavy yet undeniably clear–if perhaps his suffering need not continue, if perhaps your fate has always been to grant mercy by surrendering your own.

PART VIII: HIS BLADE STRUCK THROUGH HER SHADOW Steel meeting sorrow, moonlight meeting mist.

The moon hangs vast and luminous above the temple, a silver orb so full it seems swollen with unspoken promises. Its pale fingers brush across the forest, illuminating pathways tangled in shadow, touching lilies that lift their blossoms in reverent surrender. The night is impossibly still, suspended as if caught between breaths, waiting with the patience of ancient spirits.

Suguru approaches with measured steps, his presence etched sharply in moonlight. He appears weary, a man worn thin by obligations and decisions too heavy to carry alone. You await him on the temple steps, your kimono pale in the moon’s glow, hair cascading freely down your shoulders, lilies woven delicately among its strands. Your eyes meet across the distance, speaking truths that words have yet to express.

When he reaches you, you move instinctively toward him, your fingers rising to rest upon his cheek. His exhaustion reflects back at you from dark eyes shadowed by sleepless nights and restless contemplation. “You are tired,” you murmur, a quiet ache resonating through your voice.

He inclines his head slightly, leaning into your touch with weary relief.

“What of the village?” you ask, concern threaded in your voice. “Have they relented their demands?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes filled with regret and resignation. “They await either victory or my end. Their patience has frayed entirely. Tonight, they anticipate resolution–one way or another.”

Your heart clenches sharply, dread and guilt molded together within your chest. You lean slightly against him, seeking comfort from the warmth radiating through his robes. “And the shogun?”

Suguru exhales heavily, frustration clear in the set of his shoulders, the tension carved along his jaw. “His command stands unchanged. If dawn rises and you remain alive, my family bears disgrace. Another warrior will be sent swiftly in my stead.”

Your fingertips trace gently along the tired lines of his face, memorizing each contour as though you might soon lose the right to touch him. “Have you made your decision?” you ask, voice steady despite the tremor beneath its surface.

His eyes lift, holding yours, unwavering in his resolve. “I will not harm you,” he answers firmly, conviction unshaken by doubt or hesitation. “I refuse to be their executioner. I would rather face whatever consequence awaits me.”

Your heart tightens painfully at his sincerity, knowing the cost his words carry. You take his hand, guiding him toward the shrine’s interior, where one thousand cranes rest proudly–paper and leaf intertwined into silent prayers. Moonlight dances across their carefully shaped wings, illuminating their fragile beauty.

“I finished folding,” you tell him, pride mingling with bittersweet awareness. “One thousand.”

He draws a single folded crane from within his kimono, the final offering cradled reverently in his palm. You gather your collection, arranging them carefully before him. Together, you count softly, voices mingling like gentle currents in a stream. Your hearts thrum with expectation and uncertainty, whispers blending until they fall silent at the final tally.

“One thousand,” he murmurs, voice hushed with hope. Then he lifts the crane held in his hand, eyes solemn. “And one.”

Your eyes flicker toward the final crane, curiosity stirred deeply. “How does it work, exactly?” you ask quietly, apprehension threading your tone.

Suguru regards the crane thoughtfully. “I believe,” he begins softly, unsure yet hopeful, “one holds the crane, speaks their wish aloud clearly, sincerely–and prays the gods listen.”

You nod, looking at the cranes, heart pounding insistently within your chest, the weight of your decision pressing down heavily upon your spirit. Your fingers brush tenderly across their wings, absorbing the earnestness in each fold, every careful crease imbued with hope.

Suguru prepares himself, drawing breath deeply, shoulders squared against the weight of his wish. Just before he speaks, you reach out, touching his wrist, voice tenderly imploring.

“May I see it first?” you ask innocently, carefully masking your true intention.

He hesitates only briefly before handing it to you, trusting without reservation. You cradle it lovingly within your palms, fingertips tracing carefully over words once commanding violence, now transformed into something poignant and beautiful.

A silence settles between you, expectation heavy in the air. Suguru waits, his patience quiet yet palpable, unaware of the decision already solidified inside your heart.

Before he can comprehend your purpose, before understanding can fully dawn, you lift your eyes to his face, tears shimmering faintly in their depths, moonlight refracting gently upon your lashes, and your lips part suddenly, voice quavering with quiet intensity as you speak your wish–one meticulously concealed until now, its revelation shattering peace, quietude, hope itself.

“I wish,” you whisper, your voice breaking, words carrying heartbreaking clarity, “that by your hand, Suguru, my life and curse shall find their peaceful end.”

The air cracks sharply around you both, the temple trembling faintly beneath your words. Horror flashes sharply across his handsome features, realization striking violently. He lunges forward instantly, hands grasping your shoulders firmly yet gently, desperation threading tightly through his voice. “Stop–please, you must not–”

Yet your words have already fled into the still air, each syllable ringing with finality, sealing fate irrevocably. The crane shakes within your fingers, paper softening beneath falling tears.

“Do not ask this of me,” he pleads urgently, eyes searching your face for reprieve. “Not this.”

Your fingers lift tenderly to his cheek, thumb brushing across his skin, tracing paths already familiar. Tears spill from your eyes, silver trails glistening upon your skin, your heart aching deeply with quiet certainty.

“It must be so,” you whisper, voice breaking under the weight of finality. “Your suffering ends only if mine does first. Your family, your honor–I cannot allow you to lose everything because of me.”

He grasps your hand tightly, anguish burning in his gaze. “No, there must be another way. Please, do not leave me alone with this burden.”

You lean forward, forehead resting lightly against his, warmth shared intimately, breath mingling softly between you. “You promised me,” you murmur, voice steady despite tears. “You vowed you would grant any wish within your power.”

“It is cruel,” Suguru chokes out, voice hoarse with despair, fingers shaking where they now clutch your hand, “to force my hand against the only truth I’ve ever known.”

His breathing comes unevenly, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm, pain vivid in his eyes like storm clouds ready to rupture. He pulls you closer in desperation, as if proximity alone could shield you from fate already decided.

“You promised me,” you whisper, your voice gentle yet firm, holding his grief with tender reverence. “You vowed that if the gods would not listen, if fate refused to yield, you would grant me any wish within your mortal power.”

He shakes violently, teeth clenched tightly, sorrow battling rage within his heart. “Not this wish–never this,” he snarls, anger splintering through his voice like shattered porcelain. “You are no monster; you carry no guilt deserving death. The villagers should atone–their lives, not yours. They crafted your curse from their own wretched sins, shaped you from cruelty and betrayal. They bear responsibility. Not you.”

His body trembles fiercely, the usually steadfast samurai now stripped bare by grief and fury alike, heart openly bleeding beneath the pale moon’s cold judgement. You reach up, your hands cupping his anguished face with infinite care, fingertips tracing the tension locked within his jaw, soothing the pain etched deeply upon his features.

“Do not speak such dark thoughts,” you implore softly, voice steady despite heartbreak pulsing sharply in your chest. “Vengeance only breeds further strife. We both know this truth.”

His eyes close tightly, breath shuddering between parted lips, shoulders shaking beneath an unseen weight he can no longer bear. “How can this be justice?” he whispers brokenly, voice cracking like brittle ice under unbearable strain. “How can I harm the only soul who has ever shown me true compassion? Why must I wield my blade against innocence?”

“Because it must be done,” you murmur carefully, your thumb brushing tears tenderly from his skin. “Your honor, your family–your life deserves freedom from suffering. Mine was forfeit the moment I became this curse. Let me bear this ending willingly, with dignity.”

He opens his eyes slowly, dark irises glistening wetly, gaze haunted yet resigned. “It is not fair,” he whispers weakly, heart aching beneath his confession. “Nothing about this is fair.”

“Fairness is irrelevant now,” you reply, moving closer to embrace him fiercely, your warmth enveloping him completely, binding you both together in shared grief and quiet resolve. “We found each other despite impossibility, shaped peace from turmoil. Such joy outweighs tragedy. Let that memory endure.”

He wraps his arms tightly around you, breathing deeply your scent, imprinting forever upon his memory your heat, your touch, your essence. “I fear life without you,” he whispers hoarsely into your hair, his voice trembling with vulnerability laid bare. “I dread the emptiness left by your absence.”

“Yet you will live,” you remind him not unkindly, pulling back to meet his gaze lovingly. “You will remember me kindly, honoring my memory by living fully and freely. This, too, you promised me.”

His fingers trail reverently across your cheek, his forehead pressing firmly against yours, breath mingling intimately in shared warmth and pain. “You ask the impossible,” he whispers painfully, eyes dark with devastation.

“I ask only what must be,” you answer, tears falling freely down your face, tracing silver pathways upon your skin. Carefully, your hands reach for his katana, fingers quivering faintly yet resolute, drawing forth the blade from its sheath.

His breath catches sharply, body stiffening beneath the weight of impending loss, yet he does not resist, hands shaking as you guide his fingers gently around the hilt, your touch steering him unwaveringly, determination mixed with infinite sorrow. The blade glimmers coldly under the moonlight, steel sharp yet beautiful in deadly grace.

“Forgive me,” he whispers desperately, voice choked by anguish, tears spilling unrestrainedly down his face. “Forgive me for failing to save you.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” you answer softly, gaze holding his with profound compassion. “You gave me purpose, love, dignity. You gave me life, Suguru–even if fleeting. For this, gratitude remains eternal.”

His tears fall faster, grief wracking his body with an anger, but you remain steady, guiding his trembling hand until the blade rests lightly against your heart, steel cool yet not unwelcome.

“Know this,” you whisper, your voice steady despite imminent finality. “You will carry no blame nor guilt. Only memories cherished deeply.”

He nods faintly, whispered response broken yet sincere. “I shall remember you always, honor your memory until death reunites us once more.”

With endless tenderness, he leans forward, lips brushing gently upon your forehead, a final gesture of reverent affection, whispering softly against your skin, “May peace welcome you warmly, beloved. May lilies bloom perpetually where your spirit rests.”

Your breath stills, heart stuttering under final words exchanged sweetly between you. “May your life blossom freely, Suguru. May you forgive yourself as fully as I forgive you.”

Then, resolutely yet with infinite gentleness, you guide his hand forward decisively, steel piercing carefully through flesh, your breath catching, eyes widening briefly in quiet acceptance. Pain comes quickly, sharply–then fades softly into warmth, peacefulness blooming deeply within your chest.

Suguru cries out softly, blade falling softly from numb fingers, grief flooding forth uncontrollably as he cradles your body tenderly against him, heart breaking irrevocably beneath the weight of unbearable loss. “Forgive me,” he sobs desperately, pressing kisses softly upon your forehead, your cheek, whispering brokenly between sobs. “Forgive me, forgive me–please, forgive me.”

Your fingers lift faintly, brushing weakly across his wet cheeks, breathing final words into night’s quiet embrace. “I forgive you wholly, eternally. Farewell, Suguru.”

Your form shimmers under the moonlight, edges softening into countless lily petals, drifting gently upon night breezes, fragrance filling air sweetly yet mournfully. Suguru watches helplessly as petals scatter around him, tears falling silently, heart aching with irrevocable loss.

Above, the bells begin tolling mournfully, their voices solemn, resonant, grieving openly beneath night’s watchful gaze. The forest itself weeps, leaves trembling softly, vines twisting woefully, sorrow resonating deeply throughout nature itself.

Suguru kneels numbly, misery overwhelming yet cleansing, heart opened fully to pain and love intertwined. He gathers scattered petals within shaking fingers, pressing them softly against lips quivering with anguish and tenderness.

“Rest now,” he whispers brokenly into night air thickened by the scent of lilies and sorrow. “Rest gently, beloved.”

And the moon watches above, silver tears hidden beneath distant surface, bearing silent witness eternally to love found unexpectedly yet treasured infinitely, lost tragically yet remembered beautifully.

Forevermore, lilies bloom endlessly where your spirit rests gently–memory enduring faithfully, bittersweet but cherished deeply, long after final echoes fade into silence profound and eternal.

EPILOGUE: THE FOREST KNOWS ONLY PEACE NOW But the lilies still bloom pale, and the bells toll for one.

They say the samurai returned triumphant, sword cleansed in moonlight and righteousness, the village freed forever from shadow’s grasp. They speak of Geto Suguru as a hero, a slayer of nightmares, whose courage dispelled darkness like sunlight piercing through winter’s fog. The villagers celebrate openly, torches lifted high, sake cups raised joyously, laughter echoing brightly through streets no longer clouded by dread. They fashion songs in his honor, paint scrolls detailing bravery forged from steel and heart, their gratitude inscribed permanently within carefully folded legends.

Yet Suguru himself never sings these songs, nor does he linger to taste the bittersweet sake poured generously in his honor. He does not join their revelry nor share their jubilant laughter, though they implore him fervently to remain. Instead, he departs at dawn, a solitary figure cloaked heavily in grief and memory, his shadow lengthening solemnly beneath the rising sun’s tender gaze.

The villagers rebuild swiftly, eager to erase lingering memories of horror now banished by heroism. They scrub carefully every bloodstain, dismantle shrines dedicated to darker forces, constructing new temples filled with sunlight, prosperity, hope. Their memories, selective and convenient, reframe their tale into something palatable, digestible, righteous.

The forest, however, remembers clearly, unwilling or unable to forget truths carved deeply into ancient bark, whispered persistently by leaves shivering restlessly in gentle winds. Lilies bloom continuously, luminous petals whispering quietly of love lost tragically yet cherished deeply. Their fragrance, sweet yet mournful, drifts faintly into village streets during twilight hours, unnoticed by villagers celebrating obliviously beneath starlight’s forgiving embrace.

At the forest’s heart, your temple remains untouched, vines claiming every stone, wood slowly crumbling beneath patient hands of decay. Paper cranes still adorn rafters, countless delicate wings suspended patiently, each bearing whispered wishes forever unanswered. Moonlight bathes the shrine reverently, illuminating quiet beauty born from loss and devotion intertwined inseparably.

Each full moon, bells ring softly through forest depths, their voices solemn yet tender, resonant yet respectful, marking passage of time felt keenly yet invisible to mortal eyes. The villagers claim ignorance of their meaning, dismissing gently ringing chimes as mere echoes or tricks of imagination. But deep within their hearts, unease stirs persistently, memories suppressed yet lingering, truth pressing against fragile walls of denial.

Suguru returns frequently to your temple, stepping across moss-covered stones, fingers brushing against lily petals trembling faintly in greeting. He kneels within the moonlit sanctuary, folding fresh cranes lovingly, adding carefully to the endless collection, each bird a whispered promise, a confession, an apology carried silently within soft creases.

He speaks aloud sometimes, voice almost inaudible yet clear, recounting memories painstakingly guarded within a heart aching under the weight of irrevocable loss. He recalls warmth shared intimately beneath the silver moon’s watchful gaze, laughter blending with hushed truths, fingertips tracing along skin warmed with stolen moments.

He tells you often how the world feels emptier, colors more muted, sounds softened slightly since your absence, yet how memories of you sustain him, guiding his steps forward despite the grief interlaced inseparably with love. He describes vividly lilies and lotuses blooming persistently within his dreams, fragrance sweetly recalling your presence lucidly, comforting him quietly within sleep’s gentle embrace.

Over years, villagers forget carefully constructed myths, names of heroes fading slowly into obscurity, tales reshaped by time’s hands. Yet the forest retains memories clearly, truths whispered by rustling leaves, petals trembling beneath moonlight’s tender caress.

And Suguru remembers eternally, carrying within a heart broken yet profoundly grateful for love found unexpectedly and treasured infinitely, pain accepted willingly for the brief moments shared under the moonlight.

Eventually, his visits cease, footprints fading slowly from temple paths, paper cranes yellowing beneath the patient eyes of passing years. The forest continues to hold every truth, the lilies blooming perpetually, fragrance drifting faintly, and memory sustained within the timeless embrace of nature’s arms.

Legends shift, evolve gently, village tales reformed into distant folklore, yet the truth remains woven deeply into earth, stone, lily petals blooming in the night.

The myth proclaims victory, finality carefully constructed from convenient lies, but within the forest’s depths, bells continue tolling softly, petals trembling gently, memory persisting eternally, truth remembered profoundly and lovingly.

For the forest never forgets.

And neither, quietly and endlessly, does he.

A/N: thank you so much for reading! and thank you @gojover for proofreading. (sorry i made you sob) i was inspired by the senbazuru tradition, and this was birthed. i feel like i lost the plot midway, but i think we made it back toward the end (art by mitsimeow_ on X)

#geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #suguru x reader #THIS HURT SO GOOD #😭 im so sad

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sinnaminttoast · 1 month ago

Text

THIS WAS EVERYTHING TO MEEEE

slim pickins

good graces | bed chem | busy woman

they were never yours - so what if you find someone who could be?

pairings: toxic!Satosugu x ex-roommate!reader, rebound!Sukuna x f!reader

content: MDNI, angst and smut, heavy pining and yearning, satosugu are dicks, oral (m! receiving), rough sex, consensual recording during sex, unprotected piv sex, arguments, men fighting over you, will the men learn their lesson??, PETTY reader, multiple povs, happy ending

art by @winterrbluess + dividers by @i-mmaculatus

It had been 143 days, eighteen hours and approximately twenty-seven minutes since the day Satoru found your key on the counter.

It might as well have been yesterday.

Your note was in his wallet. Folded up and slotted between his credit card and a Polaroid of you he'd taken a lifetime ago, the ink scribble on the paper seeping through his thoughts still. A blot that he suspected had permanently stained him.

He didn't need to pull it out anymore, by day sixteen he already had every curve and line memorized. Slotted neatly in the box in his brain right next to your smile, the shape of your body when it was folded underneath him, the sound of your laugh.

Seven words were all the past four years were worth to you.

Moved out! Sorry for the short notice :)

That was all.

Seven measly words and the memory of you picking your clothes off the floor, the pout on your lips and the purr of your voice, a bitter last goodbye he hadn't seen for what it was.

Walking away from them with a pretty smile on your face and your phone in your hand.

What killed him the most was how casual it was. Like you had just gone to grocery store. Not emptied out your whole fucking room and dropped off the face of the earth.

Did he not mean more?

Was that all years of friendship had dissolved into? Sharing snacks and sneaking kisses? Limbs tangled and longing stares? Just to be nothing now?

Suguru didn't like talking about you. Didn't want to listen to his never-ending concerns and complaints. Didn't want the reminder of what part he played in pushing you away.

But Satoru couldn't stop.

What were you doing? Where were you?

Were you happy now, at least? Without him? Without Suguru?

It didn't matter how badly he wanted to know, how many hours he spent sitting in your barren bedroom and counting the seconds in silence, how hollow his heart felt in you absence. Because none of it would bring you back.

None of his pining would piece him back together.

Or make you belong to him again.

"You're moping," Suguru dryly commented, reading the ingredients off the back of some cereal box.

Satoru huffed, looking around the empty aisle and leaning against the metal shelf.

Grocery shopping sucked.

It used to be fun. He used to wrap his arms around your waist and plant kisses across your collarbone when no one was looking. He used to throw candy after candy into the shopping cart while you scoffed and scolded him, putting half back up and hiding the smile that curled up on your face when he whined and tugged at your clothes.

They didn't need a cart anymore.

Not when they were only shopping for two now.

But now he kept catching himself absentmindedly tossing your favorite foods in, forcing himself to put it back on the shelf and wonder if you were eating enough without them to cook for you.

Maybe your boyfriend made you meals.

Satoru hoped he hadn't stuck around.

Sure, it was selfish, but wasn't that what Satoru was? Had always been?

If he couldn't have you, he certainly couldn't fucking stand the idea that someone else did.

That another man might be sleeping in your bed and tangled in your sheets. That while he was staring at the ceiling wondering what went wrong, you were staring up at someone new, getting split open and stretched out without even giving him a second thought.

"I'm fine," Satoru forced a strained smile, folding his arms across his chest.

Suguru glanced over at him once, but didn't say anything, just dropping the box in the shopping bag.

And that was the problem, wasn't it?

They knew it was wrong and waited for it to fix itself? For you to be fine?

"I'm gonna go look at the protein bars," Satoru murmured, walking away before he could get stuck spinning in the same circles he'd been in for months.

He was supposed to be moving on.

But if he was still thinking about you, surely, he had to be on your brain too. There was no way you'd just forget the fun times, the fucking, how freely you used to giggle at his dumb jokes.

Suguru just didn't understand.

He could say he loved you, and yeah, he did, but Satoru was the one who found you first, had forced fate to tie you together.

It was his idea to introduce you to each other, his idea for you to live together, his idea to share you after Suguru snuck his way into sleeping with you first.

What kind of world was it where you weren't his too?

Sometimes, on those shitty nights where he ended up counting the seconds on the clock, he sorta wished he'd knocked you up when he had the chance.

At least then you couldn't completely cut him out of your life, like he was some sickness you had to cull.

He glanced up at the signs hanging over the aisles, searching for the one he was looking for. It wasn't their usually grocery store. Suguru's suggestion - a silent way of saying he was sick of hiding from your shadow too. But even going somewhere that held no memories of you didn't help the creeping feeling that you should be here.

With them. Him.

Satoru found the aisle, turning the corner just to freeze at the familiar outline and pretty face waiting for him.

Maybe fate hadn't forgotten him after all.

꒰ა ⠀ ໒꒱

"The fuck are these so overpriced for?" Sukuna grumbled, dismissively picking through the selection of protein bars while you tried not to smile.

"I dunno," You hm-ed, sneaking peeks at him while you looked through the shelves. He wasn't your boyfriend. But you guessed grocery shopping together post-sex wasn't too bad. "We could probably order some online cheaper."

He spent half the week at your apartment anyway.

You might as well stock up on them.

He hmph-ed, but after the past few months of forming a genuine friendship (and sleeping together), you'd figured out that was his way of agreeing.

"Chocolate? Or vanilla?"

You glanced over your shoulder, holding up equally-overpriced protein shakes in each hand as you offered them out to him.

Sukuna huffed, but he shuffled closer anyway, snagging the heavy shopping basket from off your arm after tossing both bottles in. His scowl only softened when he noticed you watching him.

"No strawberry?" He muttered, scanning the shelf in front of you.

"Nope," You hummed, glancing down the aisle and slipping away to find the next item on your grocery list while he trudged after you.

He never let you stray too far though.

A hand squeezed your wrist right as you turned into the next aisle, nearly making you crash into the chip bags lined up on the end cap before you turned around to see someone who wasn't yours - not anymore.

"Hey gorgeous."

Charming smile. Pretty blue eyes. Wild white hair.

Your former roommate.

You didn't get the chance to breathe before Sukuna was shoving Gojo away. Hard. And he did crash into the next end cap over, a few gift cards falling off their hooks and hitting him in the head while Sukuna stepped between you.

"Try that again," Sukuna didn't have to snarl or shout, just three short words in his husky tone was threat enough.

Your second assessment of Satoru Gojo was more critical. The wrinkles in his shirt and the dark circles under his eyes, the once soft buzz of his undercut grown out.

Recognizing that awful ache in his eyes you'd once seen in your own reflection.

He looked like shit.

"Sukuna," You forced his name out, swallowing hard as you folded your arms across your chest, as if it'd do anything to shield you from how hollow you felt seeing Satoru Gojo again. "Let's just leave."

Wherever Satoru was, Suguru was probably close behind.

"Don't," Gojo sounded panicked, his plea cutting through as Sukuna only stepped back enough to wrap an arm around your waist, still glaring at him. "Can we please talk? Just us? You know, catch up?"

You didn't understand how he couldn't see there never had been an us.

There was only ever a them.

"No thanks," You shook your head, settling into Sukuna's side. His grip was tight on your hip, like you might actually slip free and take Gojo up on his offer.

You ended up telling him the entire convoluted history one night half-wasted on wine coolers while you were supposed to be watching some movie, the tv forgotten and the volume turned down so he could listen to every embarrassing detail. How pathetically in love you were. How long they left you out. How empty you felt after being used so easily.

Sukuna hadn't said much in the moment, but his face made it obvious he loathed them even more than you did.

And even though you both established you weren't really looking for a relationship, he fucked you that night like you were, slow and sure, his mouth on yours and his hands holding your wrists.

"They don't bother you still?" He had murmured in your ear afterwards, your fingers coming through his hair as you laid flat on his chest.

"I blocked them," You shrugged, sighing as he pulled you up so he could press a kiss to your forehead.

For a guy who claimed to be only be concerned about getting his cock wet, he was hellbent on aftercare anyway, making sure you were comfortable and carrying you to the bathroom and checking the temperature for the shower or bath before letting you step in.

But it wasn't like you could compare him to Satoru, or even Suguru.

He was just different.

"Sweetheart," The Satoru in front of you now protested, standing up straight and ignoring the gift cards now scattered by his feet. One had gotten caught on his jacket, but he hadn't realized it.

A petty part of you hoped he would try to leave with it and set off the sensors.

But mostly?

You didn't really feel anything for him anymore. The holes in your heart had been patched up. Caulked and painted over until it was brand new. Or as close as you could get.

Time was funny. The past four months had felt longer than the last four years.

You accepted what happened already. You could blame them and point fingers and cry about it, but you had to face the fact you let them. Love wasn't an excuse.

"I hope you're doing okay," You managed a polite smile, letting Sukuna start to pull you back towards the cash registers.

"I'd be better if you heard me out," Gojo called out, his voice still saccharinely sweet, a pretty purr that stopped working on you long before you'd left him. "Two minutes, please."

If you gave him an two minutes, he'd ask for an hour. And then what? Beg you to come back? Promise he missed you? That all he wanted was to try again?

"Your boyfriend really won't let you talk to me?" He just couldn't help himself, could he? Bitterness bleeding through, a big dramatic pout probably plastered on.

He only cared when you slipped through his fingers.

Gojo would never be your boyfriend.

And sometimes you wondered if he'd ever really been your friend.

You didn't reply, chewing on the inside of your cheek when he reached back out, his fingers grazing your arm, about to grab you before Sukuna caught his wrist.

"Touch her, and I'll break your fucking fingers," Sukuna scoffed. You suspected he would've done it already if this wasn't where you regularly shopped at. A few of the cashiers were glancing nervously at each other, one of them reaching for the phone to call the manager or maybe even the cops before you pulled Sukuna back.

"Come on," You murmured, tugging on his sleeve as he let go of Gojo with a disgusted sigh. "He's not worth it."

Satoru made a sound that was half a scoff, and half, well, you weren't sure what.

Something hurt? Wounded? Betrayed?

You decided it didn't matter.

The show was over. You bowed out. Whatever you were to each other now, it wasn't anything more than background extras.

Sukuna slipped his hand into yours, fingers holding on tight as he followed you to checkout, mumbling something about what a fucking idiot Gojo was under his breath and readjusting the shopping basket hooked over his other arm.

"Goddamn prick," Sukuna muttered, throwing a mean glare over his shoulder as he started taking items out of the basket and setting them on the conveyor belt.

"It's whatever," You replied, trying not to find the fact he was more bothered than you funny. You snagged the basket when it was empty, glancing around to where the others were stacked. "I'm gonna put this back."

"Fine," Sukuna grumbled, digging his wallet out from his jeans. "But I'm paying."

You cracked a smile, watching him out of the corner of your vision while he tried to answer semi-politely to the cashier's small talk while you walked over to add your basket to the stack.

But a flash of something dark caught your attention.

Suguru was watching you.

Maybe had been for the past few minutes. A basket of his own hooked over his elbow, filled with familiar foods and snacks you hadn't tasted since you'd lived with them.

He didn't make any move to walk over. His hair piled on top of his head in a messy bun, bangs swept away from his face so you could see how intently he was observing you. Dark brows knitted together, a phony smile he couldn't pretend reached his eyes.

His hand lifted up to wave, and you hesitantly returned it.

They missed you.

But you hadn't missed them.

꒰ა ⠀ ໒꒱

"Seriously," Sukuna huffed. "Who the fuck does he think he is?"

You giggled, getting up on the tip of your toes to put up a box of pancake mix. He grabbed it from your hand, neatly putting it up on the shelf for you while he sighed. His hand settled on your hip though, his chest to your back and broad frame blocking you from slipping away. You looked over your shoulder at him. "Kuna."

"Don't 'Kuna' me," He wryly said, face scrunched up. "I should've beat his ass for just talking to you."

You did laugh now, unable to stop yourself when his jaw clenched, lips tugged down in a serious frown.

"I'm not joking."

"I know," You grinned, shaking your head like you disapproved.

If you were somewhere else, a dingy bar or out on the street, he probably would've hit him. Grabbed him by the collar and given him a black eye or a broken nose.

You might've liked it a few months ago.

But you didn't need him to defend you now.

"You should go blow off some steam," You softly said, twisting so you could brush his hair back, running your fingers through the soft pink strands and craning your neck up to plant a kiss on the hard line of his jaw.

"Yeah," He reluctantly grumbled.

He leaned down to capture your lips against his, your back hitting the door frame as his greedy hands traced over the outline of your waist down to your ass, squeezing like it was some stress toy for him. His kiss was greedy, tongue lapping at your lower lip before hurrying to slip between them, to remind himself you were his to taste. You broke away first to catch your breath, lungs straining for air.

Sukuna groaned, his nose brushing against yours and sharp eyes searing through you.

"You're right."

"Usually am," You hummed back, offering one more peck to his cheek before slipping out of his grasp to finish unloading the groceries you'd managed to buy before you were interrupted.

"I guess I'll go the gym," He relented, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Yeah, you could ask Jin to go with you," You suggested before he could try to ask you.

All you wanted to do was nap. Catch an hour or two of sleep while you had a free afternoon since a certain someone would probably be cutting into how much you'd be getting tonight.

He helped you unload the rest, putting up the stuff that went on the higher shelves while you stocked the fridge. But when he went to pull out his phone, you snuck out to your bedroom, peeling off your shirt and jeans to change into something more comfortable, a thin tank-top and pajama pants. You tossed your phone on the nightstand before crawling in bed and pulling the blankets over you.

Sukuna popped in right as your eyes started to shut, squatting next to the bed to flick your forehead. You swatted at his hand before rolling over, hiding your head under a pillow.

"I'm heading out," He sighed, and you felt something in your hair, a small pull for your attention, or more likely, him fighting the temptation to tug on it.

"Okay." Your voice was muffled by the pillow, but you didn't bother peeking out.

"I'll come over after," He added, like he didn't really want to leave.

"You don't have to," You shrugged under the covers. Maybe you were friends with benefits, but it was on your terms this time. You enjoyed his company, but you didn't expect anything from him. If he wanted to go out afterwards and fuck another girl, it was fine by you. If you didn't see him again for weeks, oh well.

Being alone wasn't bad at all.

Sukuna huffed, his steps shuffling in place.

"I want to," He begrudgingly admitted.

"You can take my key then, I guess," You yawned, readjusting the blanket as you got more comfortable in bed. "Not going anywhere anyway. Just lock the door behind you."

Sukuna tch-ed, and you were glad the pillow hid how hard you rolled your eyes.

He'd been hinting at wanting a key to your place for the last few weeks. Well, hinting was an understatement.

The reality was he told you point-blank it'd be easier if he could just come and go as he pleases instead of texting and calling and feeling like he had to make an appointment to see you when he was over all the damn time anyway.

But he wasn't your boyfriend.

Shouldn't he have to make an appointment?

That's what this was? Or well, you wanted to think that's what this was.

Without a title, without something concrete and certain - which you weren't even sure you could handle - you didn't want to hand him a key into your heart home.

"Where's it at?" He grumbled, not pushing the issue though.

"On the counter," You hummed, trying not to yawn again, something about his warmth, his presence so close was lulling you closer to sleep, eyes getting heavy.

"I'll be back soon," He muttered, and there it was again. Fingers in your hair. But then he kissed your back. A handful of seconds where his lips brushed against the exposed skin of your shoulder.

You listened to him leave. Counted his footsteps and felt your heart stutter at the door shutting behind him.

And just maybe?

You might miss him.

꒰ა ⠀ ໒꒱

You woke up to the slam of the front door. It didn't startle you, probably because you'd just sort of adapted to the sound of him stomping around. The heavy footsteps and the thump of his gym bag hitting the ground. Making himself at home.

Settling back in and shutting your eyes again, face nuzzling into the pillow while you listened to the shower start in the spare bathroom down the hall.

It was almost cute, supposing he probably remembered you were sleeping and was trying to be quiet after he already woke you up.

You'd actually almost fallen back asleep before he walked in. It wasn't that he said something. But it was the silence that made you sit up, the fact he hadn't even grunted or offered some raspy hey.

Sukuna was just standing there, glaring at something on his phone, one of your towels slung low around his hips. Muscles defined and still damp, beads of water dripping down his sculpted chest to his happy trail peeking out. You had to drag your eyes up to his face, forcing yourself to focus despite the dreamy haze the world seemed to still have.

You were accustomed to attitude.

This was just different.

His eyes were too dark, his frown too tight, shoulders sagging with stress. It took him a few seconds to really look at you, and even then, his stare felt strange. Like you were some problem to solve.

"Wha' happened?" You yawned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

His head dropped down, combing through his still-damp strands of hair. "He was there."

"Oh," You breathed.

"Yeah," He grunted, all gravelly and rough.

His attempt to seek solace from Satoru had backfired. Your problems following him wherever he went.

"Well," You slowly spoke, and he met your eyes again. "You're the one here."

He didn't even smirk.

No smugness in any of the lines of edges of his face. Your stomach flipped, unsure what you could even say. Yeah, you had terrible taste? Yeah, Satoru was an idiot?

Sorry for sleeping with someone so stupid?

"You know what he said?" Sukuna slowly drawled, his scowl etched so deeply into his skin you wondered if it'd ever fade.

You didn't say anything, blinking at him with your lips still parted, waiting for everything to somehow get worse.

"To have fun fucking you while I could," Sukuna scoffed, disgusted at just repeating it. "That you'd be back in his bed once you got tired of this."

Like you were just having a tantrum.

"What?"

You had tolerated a lot from Satoru. Missed meetings and cold meals and more mistakes and broken promises than you could count. But to beg you to speak to him and turn around to what? Fucking slut-shame you? Treat you like a toddler acting out for his attention?

"I almost hit him," Sukuna begrudgingly admitted, frowning at the memory. "But they kicked me out first."

"What?" You repeated, still too stunned to form a full thought.

"Guess I'll have to find a new gym," He muttered, unclenching his jaw as he finally stepped closer to you, some of the tension starting to melt.

So what? Gojo had managed to get your not-boyfriend banned from his gym and cut your grocery shopping short all in one day.

What was left for him to fuck up?

"He's full of fucking shit," You grumbled, mulling over his words and wishing they didn't drag such a visceral reaction out of you. Hot, angry, coals stirring in your gut, searing through you and demanding you do something.

Being the bigger person didn't work when the person who pissed you off was a prick.

You wanted to hurt him, carve out a piece of his heart and crush it the way he'd do casually done to you, for him to be wounded and withering and for once in his fucking life, feel an ounce of regret.

And maybe it made you an even bigger idiot than Gojo, but you were grabbing your phone off the nightstand, unlocking it and pulling up the list of blocked numbers until you landed on a familiar one.

"What are you doing?" Sukuna deadpanned, watching you closely as your brows cinched together.

"Unblocking Gojo," You casually said, the seeds of the idea already planted.

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

You'd never actually heard him so upset. His molars grinding hard, reaching out to grab the phone from you. You held it behind your back, slyly smiling as he tried to snag it again.

"You wanna show him just how much fun you have fucking me?"

He paused, his jaw slack and his eyes widening for a brief second when it struck him just how serious you were.

"Give it to me," He grumbled, grabbing the phone. But instead of tossing it away or blocking Gojo again, he angled it carefully, reaching over to fix a strand of your hair.

"Whatever you wanna do, you know, just-" You offered, giving him free reign to fuck you and fold you and bend you until he felt better.

Oh, and whenever Gojo got the message.

"I'll take care of you," He huffed.

Sukuna kept his promises.

He flipped the phone around, the option to video call Satoru Gojo already pulled up, one click away. You knew he'd answer.

But you still hesitated, just for a second, before peeling your shirt off first, leaving you in a lacy little bra you'd only kept on for Sukuna to see tonight. Then, shuffling out of your pajama pants to reveal the matching underwear.

"You don't mind?" You asked, giving him an opportunity to back out, but he just scoffed, looking down to hit the button for you. The phone started ringing, and your face flushed, the idea suddenly seeming terrible but your fingers freezing around the phone, unable to move and hit the button.

He answered on the third ring.

"Angel," Satoru chirped, clearly fucking pleased-as-can-be, his smile bright and carefree as his face came into frame, too close to the camera. "I haven't stopped thinking about you, y'know, I was really hoping you'd-"

"Satoru," You hummed his name as sweetly as you could muster, lashes fluttering.

"Y-yeah, baby?"

"Are you with Suguru?" You asked, pitching your voice to sound breathy, tilting your head at the camera and chewing on your lip.

His face flushed. A few wispy strands of white hair were stuck to his forehead, and you recognized the wallpaper of his room behind him.

Fresh out of the shower too.

"Nah, not right now," He finally answered, taking in your appearance. The sleepy, seductive eyes. The sharp edge of your canine biting down on your bottom lip to to remind what it once felt like to kiss it. "Are y-"

"You wanna record this for him?" You casually suggested, slowly pulling down the strap of your bra, making a show of your fingertips grazing against your collarbone. "Or will this be our little secret?"

You knew what he would pick.

But it was cute he tried to act torn.

"Our little secret," He answered, and you were pretty damn sure he was already palming his bulge. A bet you'd be willing to take by the way the lump in his throat bobbed.

And sure, he said that, but there was no fucking way he wasn't screen recording already, thinking it'd be something to save and fuck his fist to again later.

"Oh yeah?" You glanced past the camera up to Sukuna, who was staring down at you like he was imagining all the different positions he was going to put you in after this.

The signature smugness returning as you winked at him.

How would Satoru feel to be the one left out of the secret this time?

You tapped the button to flip the camera around, letting Sukuna take the phone.

"Fuck."

Not great, you guessed.

You got down on your knees, tracing the edges of the towel and tugging it down to reveal Sukuna's cock, a shade of pink just as pretty as his hair, swollen and throbbing in your palm when you delicately wrapped your fingers around it. Slowly stroking upwards, collecting the pre-cum as you stared up at the camera. You sorta wished you could see Satoru's face, but Sukuna's surprisingly fast fingers snapped a screenshot.

To hide your giggle, you leaned in to drag your tongue over the thick vein bulging along the side of his cock, taking your time before wrapping your lips around the very tip of it.

Normally, Sukuna would scoff and scold you, grabbing your hair to guide you or flip you over and give you head instead. But he was indulging your dramatics, even groaning at the ginger way you lapped and licked every inch of him.

"S-sweetheart, you can't be fucking serious," Satoru flipped from needy to nervous, but he didn't hang up.

"Is there a problem?" You innocently asked, pausing from peppering kisses across Sukuna's shaft, before his free fingers found your hair, wrapping it around his knuckles and pushing you forward until your lips were brushing against his leaking tip again, parting them so he could press inside.

Satoru made some strangled sound when you started sucking on the thick cock shoved into your mouth. Watching you choke and gag on it, bumping into the back of your throat while your nails sunk into Sukuna's hips, grabbing onto him for purchase while he fucked your face.

When he didn't reply, you tapped on Sukuna's hip to get him to pull out, his cock still bumping against your lips while you directed your attention up. "You wish it was you?"

"Fuck, yes," Satoru groaned, and you didn't have to see him to know he was getting off on this.

Although, what he really wished for was probably that it was Suguru's cock you were sucking.

"Too fucking bad," Sukuna wryly mocked, using your hair to force himself back in, hips bucking forward to drive his cock deep enough your airway was closing around him.

"Who do you think taught her to do that?" Satoru snapped back, his voice hoarse and raspy, the sound of his fist furiously pumping his cock filling the background.

Sukuna took the bait.

One second his cock was bruising your throat, and the next you were being half-tossed onto your wrinkled blankets, bent over and your panties torn off.

Something wet and heavy hit your bare ass, glancing glossy-eyed over your shoulder as Sukuna's cock rested on your ass while his free hand traced over your spine.

He drew it out, his rough fingertips running over every ridge. You shivered at the touch, wiggling your ass back, but he didn't budge.

"You wanna watch me fuck her till she can't remember your name?" Sukuna casually asked, holding the camera up as his other hand slid back down, delivering a light smack to your ass, just enough to make it jiggle before he pried you apart.

Slotting two fingers in first, stretching you out in one single, rough thrust, down to the knuckle before pulling them back out to put on display.

Giving Gojo a front row seat to how soaked you were, skin damp and slick, spreading your thighs and teasing your entrance with his swollen tip. A mean grip on your hip, holding you in place no matter how much you squirmed around him.

"You asshole-"

"Sorry," Sukuna bluntly cut him off. "This is a private show."

He hung up on him, throwing the phone on the bed, but it barely took him two seconds to sheath himself inside you, the full length of him forcing past the first ring of resistance before you could stutter out his name.

"Shit," You gasped, clawing at the bedsheets as his hips smacked harshly into your skin, driving himself in to the base, having to lift your hips to fully sink himself in.

You tried to breathe, but each time you sucked in air, it seemed like there was nowhere for it to go, too full to do anything but pant when he bottomed out, grinding his tip in to get you to stop moving so much.

"He doesn't get this," Sukuna muttered, pressing your back into a pretty arch for him, your moans muffled into the blanket as he rutted into you. The fingers on your hip were bruising, nails scraping against your skin. He leaned over, most of his weight resting on you so he could angle himself impossibly deeper.

You didn't know what to make of that.

Or him right now.

Usually sex was the sort of drawn-out affair where you'd yank each other's hair or let him tie you up or fuck until you couldn't feel your limbs.

Switching positions just to try them out, to see how many different way he could drive you insane.

But this was undeniably intimate.

The possessive rhythm of him pounding into you, the weight of his chest on your back, the longing kisses he kept pressing into the crook of your collarbone and across your throat, how he would let his cock throb and stall when he was buried so deep the only sound you could make was weak whimpers.

"K-Kuna," You whined, sweat making his skin stick to yours, his teeth sinking into your shoulder blade while he groaned. You gasped at the pain, but then the hand on your hip forced itself around to find your clit, his thumb dancing over it before rolling it between his fingers just to tease you.

"You don't know what you're fucking doing to me," He grimaced, and you wished he'd just tell you instead of taking it out on your sore and swollen bud.

Massaging harsh circles around it while he readjust to slam into his favorite little spot in the back, the one that made you yelp every time he found it, squeezing around him as he rocked his hips against your ass. The pressure and tension pulling tighter with every brutal thrust, each drag of his thumb back over your clit sending stars across your vision.

You were seeing white when you came undone, eyes scrunched shut as you stammered out a second shattered cry of his name, trying to squirm forward to escape the intensity of it, but he dragged you back down to fuck you through your high. Dumb and pliant on his dick, letting him pull you how he wanted for him to shove himself in-and-out again and again.

He barely pulled out in time, fucking his hands until cum splattered across your back, thick drops of it dripping down the curve of your spine.

You opened your mouth, about to suggest him just grabbing the discarded towel to clean you off so you could go for a second round after a water break. But he was already wiping you clean, flipping you over into your back to trace over the scratch marks and broken skin he left on your hips, frowning at the sight.

"We match," You muttered, dazed and dreamy and still trying to catch your breath while you gestured to where you scratched his hips earlier.

Sukuna wasn't so amused.

"He's not going to leave you alone," He finally said.

"Does it matter?" You hummed.

"I hate him," Sukuna grumbled bitterly.

"You hate everyone," You reminded him. Sometimes, you wondered why he even tolerated you.

Or if he was just like them - what you said, what you did, it didn't matter much if you were sleeping in their sheets.

"Not you."

꒰ა ⠀ ໒꒱

It was stupid to show up somewhere they used to frequent. To order a drink at a bar you'd gotten wasted at too many times to count, retreating to one of the few places of solitude you'd found.

Every time you'd ever gone with them, you just ended up alone anyway. Drinking in a corner booth by yourself while they talked to other girls and try to make you jealous.

Still, it was better than staying home. You felt like you were suffocating inside the apartment. Sukuna hadn't shown up all week.

He left when things were still weird, looking at you like he saw you in some new light. Part of you wondered if he'd realized he didn't want to deal with your past.

You told yourself it was fine.

That you were okay with that.

But every day that passed with just a few awkward texts exchanged, the harder it was to breathe. Going to bed early just so you wouldn't have to think about him.

Wouldn't have to wish he was there.

And terrifyingly enough, you were just now struggling to face the fact you just wanted him.

Wanted him to come stomping through your door and over your heart, hear his grumble and feel his hands on your side.

You'd been shoving all those feelings down, scared to accept the risk that he might hurt you the same way Satoru and Suguru did.

He was giving you space, you guessed. Waiting for you to call him and tell him to come over. But you couldn't bring yourself to unlock your phone, to tap a few buttons and break the silence first.

You should.

You should suck it up and ask him to show up. See if he wanted to re-enact your first meeting and fuck in the backseat of his car.

Back when you thought you'd never see him again.

The thought of that happening now had started to curdle in your stomach. All sour and screwed up, the same way you used to be.

But you changed.

And he'd never been Satoru or Suguru to start with.

You sucked in a sharp breath, frowning to yourself when you shared your location with him. You couldn't think of a message to send him. But he would know what you wanted.

It was just up to him to take you up on it.

Although, after a handful of minutes passed without a reply, you were starting to get anxious. Readjusting the hem of your tiny dress and fixing the straps while you debated on getting another drink.

Had he seen it?

Was he just done?

So like an idiot, you called him. Just to feel like the biggest fool on the planet when he didn't pick up.

What did you expect?

Him to come running to your rescue? For him to promise to pick you up? Or maybe just a drinking partner since he wasn't your real one?

You couldn't take your eyes off your phone, polishing off the rest of your glass before you even noticed it was near empty.

But it didn't buzz or light up, even as the clock ticked by, getting later and later.

You were about to leave.

Call a cab or order an Uber.

"Hi, pretty." A soft purr. Velvet and honey and so smooth you sorta wanted to slap him for it.

Once again the wrong man.

This time though, you didn't entertain it. Didn't even look at him. Just got out of the booth and slipped past his broad frame, shoving your phone in your purse while you tried to squeeze between the sea of bodies.

You thought you blended in, or at least he'd have half a brain and know you didn't want to speak to him.

But he was right on your heels, following you outside the exit and into the warm air.

"What do you want from me?" You turned, exasperated and exhausted from bearing the brunt of their expectations for so long. Even after you left.

Suguru stared like a cat who caught his prey, looming over you like you were his favorite little mouse to play with. You'd forgotten how it felt - to be shrunk down to size when he was around. The guilt that gnawed at you.

Satoru made it easier.

He was all sweet talk and saccharine smiles and pretty sentences meant to make you melt until you were a puddle in his palm.

With Suguru?

He saw you. Could see through the lies you tried to sell and counter it until he had you cornered. But knowing you didn't mean he cared enough to change for you.

Suguru only wanted to piece you back together into a shape that suited him.

"Just to talk," He answered, and he sounded so sincere, you might've believed him if you were a little stupider.

Then again, you'd been dumb for deceiving yourself into thinking you were worth more than a few fucks and a fun game for them to share and see who could make you crack first.

"I heard that from your friend already," You bitterly muttered.

No matter what he said, or what they did, it was just a simple fucking fact of life. Satoru and Suguru were a pair. Friends, soulmates, whatever label you wanted to tack to it. You would just be a prize for them to share.

There wasn't space for you.

Not in the way you ever wanted.

And that was okay. You were over it. Didn't need any part of them. Didn't want it.

So why the hell did they have to just keep rubbing it in your face? Why couldn't they just go have sex with some girl that looked like you? That was all you'd ever been good for to them anyway.

"My friend?" Suguru echoed, a brow carefully arched up. "You know he misses you. I miss you."

"I don't care," You hissed, shaking your head. They needed to get that through their thick skulls.

"You don't mean that," He protested, not pushy, but subtly trying to convince correct you.

"I really do," You scoffed, stepping away and glancing around the street at all the people passing by, a few staring at the handsome man you were trying to get away from.

"I saw the video," He spoke up, and you threw a glare over your shoulder at him.

"Yeah? You enjoy the show?" You sarcastically asked.

He rolled his eyes, and you couldn't help but huff at him.

"I got the point." You sincerely doubted that when he was staring at you like he wanted to take you home and spank you. Like you were a pet he spoiled too much and had to reprimand. "Now come back home."

No waterworks. No begging. No getting on his knees and asking for forgiveness. Not even a fucking apology.

"You don't even care why I left," You spoke carefully, barely able to keep your voice even. It had never been your home. Only ever theirs.

"Of course I care," He murmured, again trying to bridge the distance, reaching out to grab your hand before you smacked it down.

"Don't fucking touch me."

"I'm sorry," Suguru apologized, but you could see the surprise registering in his eyes. It was faint, but uneasiness started to creep into his features, swallowing hard. "I know you're hurt and angry, but we never meant to-"

"I'm not," You interrupted, eyes hardening. "I don't feel anything for either of you anymore."

"Don't say that," Suguru said, and you just shook your head. "This is fixable. We-"

"There isn't a we. And I'm not something you can fix," You mumbled, biting down on the inside of your cheek. "I'm just done, okay?"

"Could I just take you out to dinner?" He hadn't changed. Maybe he'd try to coax you into thinking otherwise - but he still couldn't listen. "One chance?"

"You had a million," You sharply declined. Him and Satoru both. They wouldn't get another one.

His stare hardened, and he tried to step closer, but before he could, someone was moving in-between you, blocking your view.

You heard it though.

The sound of skin hitting skin. The distinct thud of a fist connecting with a face.

It took you a few seconds to process the picture being painted in front of you. The splashes of pink and red. The hint of black. The tan skin.

Then Sukuna brought his fist back and slammed it into Suguru's jaw.

You grabbed at his shirt, trying to pull him back, your lips parted in a protest that just wouldn't come out. Sukuna was seething though, probably seeing the same red that was splattering the concrete.

"You heard her," Sukuna snarled as Suguru spit out a thick glob of blood by his shoes.

"Kuna," You started, but you weren't even sure he heard you.

The door to the bar swung open, and a familiar head of white hair popped out, but Satoru froze before he stepped out, the heavy wood hitting him.

"You must be fucking brainless if you seriously thought she'd ever take your ass back," Sukuna scoffed, shoving Suguru back before turning to you. He grabbed your hand, knuckles still split and bleeding, but you didn't want to let go.

"Yeah?" Suguru dryly asked, wiping the blood away from his mouth, but it was already dripping all over his shirt. Satoru started to walk over, his brows furrowed and frowning at the scene, but you were already tugging Sukuna back.

You were sick of this.

Maybe years from now, when all of this had faded and none of it was fresh, you could stomach their presence. Could look back and find nostalgia in the good moments instead of drowning in the bad.

But not right now.

"Can we go home?" You got up on the top of your toes to whisper in Sukuna's ear, squeezing his hand soft enough you wouldn't hurt his bruised fist.

He nodded, but Satoru was trying to catch up.

"Hey, hey," He called out, once again desperate for attention you didn't want to give him.

"I swear-"

"Just let me," You murmured to Sukuna before he could potentially face a second set of assault charges.

Satoru sighed in relief when you glanced back at him.

"Thank you," He half-groaned, already holding his hand out like he really thought you'd let go of Sukuna's to take his instead. "I know you-"

You weren't really listening.

Studying his face, the softness of it, the pretty eyes you used to adore, the shape his lips made when he said sorry.

What happened to the man you met all those years ago?

The one who laughed and teased you? A sneaky hand under the table and a sloppy kiss to the cheek? Who looked at you like you were the sun instead of some burnt-out star?

Or had this always been him? Selfish and inconsiderate and shallow?

You supposed none of it really mattered.

"I'm not interested," You bluntly said, and Sukuna's palm tightened around yours, fingers pressing into your knuckles.

"What?" Gojo blinked, not comprehending even when you so clearly spelled it out for him.

"Whatever happened, happened, okay? It's over. I don't want to keep doing this," You replied, not caring how short and sharp it sounded.

And part of you felt a little bad, watching his face fall as it finally started to set in that nothing he said or did would change the words coming out of your mouth.

"I don't hate you, but I don't want to see you or talk to you or pretend to be friends when we never were to begin with," You rushed through your words, wincing at the word friends as Sukuna's arm brushed against you, an accidental anchor.

He was here for you.

Not to make you feel like shit or guilt trip you for standing up for yourself.

But you called and he came.

"You're my girl, you've always-" Gojo protested.

"That's bullshit and we both know it," You spoke softly, biting your lip hard enough to split it open, the metallic taste of blood on your tongue.

Suguru was just staring behind him, holding his sore jaw and watching you with those unreadable eyes.

"I meant it before, I hope you're okay," You forced yourself to finish. "Take care of yourself."

"I'm sorry," Gojo was half-begging, panic flaring up in his face at every step back you took.

"Yeah," You shrugged your shoulders slightly, the thin strap to your dress threatening to fall down as you swallowed hard. It felt like the last time. A proper farewell. "Bye, Gojo."

He opened his mouth to speak just to shut it, pausing just for his lips to fly open again for one final bargain. "Can't we just try again? Please?"

He sounded broken. Voice cracking and breathing stuttering.

But you repaired yourself before.

They would just have to do the same.

"Maybe in another life," You half-heartedly said, and then you turned away.

Let Sukuna lead you back to his car. Open the door and buckle you up. Turn the key in the ignition and pull out into the road.

One glance back in the rearview as you left them behind.

"My place or yours?" Sukuna grunted once you hit the first stop light, his intense stare carefully assessing you in the faint red glow. His hair looked darker, his face suddenly seemed so much more mature, knuckles strained and bone-white under the bruises and blood.

"Mine," You quietly answered.

He curtly nodded, reluctantly turning his attention back to the road as the light turned green again.

"I'm not letting it happen," He abruptly interrupted the quiet a minute or two later, and you almost laughed at your firmness of it, the way his face scrunched up and he didn't even know it.

"What?" You asked, lips struggling not to turn up in a smile despite the night you had. The past week of wishing you were with him.

"You being with them," He muttered, like he was a little embarrassed to say it. "Even in another life."

"Yeah?" You giggled. "You're gonna save me?"

"You make it sound so sappy," He grunted, as if he hadn't started it.

"Uh-huh," You covered your mouth to hide your smile.

"Shut up," He grumbled, and maybe it was the stoplight, but his cheeks looked almost pink.

"Let me clean your knuckles when we get home," You softly requested.

"Fine."

But once you got in, he ended up placing you on the cold marble of the counter, hoisting you up by your waist and digging out the first aid kit from underneath the sink.

He didn't wince or cringe while you wiped the blood away, letting your fingers tenderly examine the scrapes, but he held his breath when you gently brought his hand up to your lips to kiss those sturdy fingers.

"Isn't it s'pposed to be the other way around?" He asked, but he didn't pull his hand away either.

"What? Like you're a knight?" You laughed, trying to picture him in the whole getup - the shiny armor and heavy helmet.

"It fits."

You couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or not.

"What does that make me?" You tilted your head to the side. "Your princess?"

"If you want to be," He shrugged.

"And if I do?" It slipped out before you could stop it.

And strangely, you found you didn't want to take it back.

Sukuna's lips smashed into yours. Hard and hungry and filled with something you'd both been desperately denying until now.

Moaning into his mouth as his cold, calloused hands slid under your short dress, one reaching around to hold your back and pull you close while the other tugged your breast free from your bra, rolling your nipple between his fingers. Dragging the pad of his thumb over the bud and toying with it until it hardened, his tongue slipping past your lips to trace your teeth.

"My dress," You complained between kisses, trying not to smile and giggle when he huffed and struggled not to tear it when he pulled it off of you, briefly breaking the kiss to lift it over your head.

"There," He murmured, immediately shutting you up with another kiss.

He wasn't rushing though, no, he seemed to try and make each second last. It wasn't a heat of the moment make out or hookup. You weren't just meeting each other's needs. It meant more.

The start of something serious.

Where you would be his and he would be yours and it really was just that simple.

"Hey," You breathed, planting a soft peck on the edge of his lips and cupping his cheeks to stop him from suffocating you with another starving kiss.

His nose brushed against yours, his dark eyes locking onto you. And for the first time in forever, you wanted the intimacy. Wanted to share and soak in the feeling of falling in love.

"Hey," He murmured back, rough and low, sucking in an uneven breath. His hands were harsh, heavy in each touch, but he tried to be soft. Tried to be tender.

You were worth the effort to him.

The risk of putting your faith, your future, into him didn't seem like anything to fear anymore.

"You still want that key?"

꒰ა ⠀ ໒꒱

Suguru stuck to his habits.

Tea instead of coffee. Keeping to a schedule - even when Satoru tried to bend it. Refusing to break even when he, they were fractured.

Filling in the empty spaces with meaningless drivel, anything to occupy his heart and mind enough to not thing about what or who was missing.

And it worked. Most of the time.

But some days?

He still thought about you.

In the park. Watching tv. Washing dishes. Wondering what could've been - and what should've been.

Hearing footsteps in another room and picturing you padding around barefoot, or Satoru chasing you down the hall, protectively wrapping an arm around you when you tried to hide behind him.

He saw you in the shirts you used to steal from him. Felt you in the empty bed. Heard you in your old favorite songs.

Years had passed and yet, you still haunted him. Hung over his head ready to rain whenever he forgot his umbrella.

Suguru supposed he was just a man made up by old mistakes. If moving on meant he'd never get those glimpses of your ghost, he didn't care for it.

He readjusted the shopping basket over his arm. Fingers tracing over a bag of your favorite chips, junk he used to tease you for liking, but he was tempted to buy them anyway, just for old times sake - give it a try himself.

Someone else grabbed it first.

"Oh, sorry." His stomach dropped. "Didn't see you - oh."

Yeah, oh.

He had to force himself to turn.

Body switching into manual, his head slowly swiveling as he swallowed hard. Shifting focus to face the phantom from his thoughts.

"Hi, Geto," You acknowledged him with a pretty smile, one that was genuine, painfully real, like he was an old friend.

He expected sharp words, a pointed glare, to repeat the same conversation he'd come to regret. But you looked at him so softly.

"Hey," He breathlessly replied, unable to drag his dark eyes away from your face. How could he when he had no idea if he'd ever see it again? "Been a long time."

"It has," You laughed a little, and there were only a few signs of the years that passed in your face. A few extra lines, all the smiles and frowns and laughter he missed out on now faintly etched into your skin. Your hair was styled differently, and he suspected the lip gloss you were wearing no longer tasted like candy.

"How have you been?" Suguru heard his own voice asking, sounding far more collected than he felt. His throat was closing up, his chest too tight, heart and lungs straining to hold the rest of him together while he subtly picked at his cuticles.

"I'm great, how are you and uh-" You paused, like you were trying to decide if Satoru was still around or if it'd be rude to ask without knowing. You changed your mind, restarting the question entirely. "Anything new with you?"

Satoru was actually with him. Off raiding the candy aisle, probably. All it'd take was a text or a shout, and he'd show up.

But Suguru had never been good at sharing you.

"Nah, not too much," He started to answer, but then his gaze shifted down and he froze.

You were pregnant.

A soft hand resting on the swell of your stomach, probably what? Six months along? Seven? A cute little sundress clinging to your body, the bag of chips in your other hand and a gleam of gold and diamond glittering on the fourth finger.

You belonged to someone else.

"Never thought I'd see Suguru Geto speechless," You teased, seemingly unbothered by his stunned expression. He hated the way you said his name now.

Like he really was just a stranger.

"Baby, huh?" He slowly said, struggling to find the words that wouldn't make him sound like a jealous asshole when he was so desperately trying to be happy for you.

"He's due in a couple months," You smiled again, and Suguru's composure threatened to crack. You were having a boy, one that would have some stranger's eyes or nose, that wouldn't have his last name or even Satoru's.

He watched the way your hand settled on your baby bump, the affection in the simple gesture. His stare returned to the engagement ring on your finger, the wedding band below it.

And of all the times he imagined you'd get married, he always pictured himself playing the groom, or at the very least, the best man you'd be sleeping with after the ceremony. He never considered he wouldn't even get an invite.

"How long have you been married?" He asked, nodding towards the rings.

Your cute cheeks flushed pink, tilting your head to the side to do the math. "Almost five years now."

Half a decade.

It was longer than you ever lived with them.

"Your husband's a lucky man," Suguru managed to say, soft and low. He meant it. He'd probably trade anything to be in his shoes.

"That's what I tell him," You casually giggled, so carefree compared to the last time he'd seen you. Softer now. Happier.

There was the squeak of a shopping cart, a toddler laughing just a little too loud, and you were both glancing back to look.

Suguru recognized him immediately.

Sure, he had a few more tattoos, his hair grown out a little longer, but what grabbed his attention was what he already knew he'd find - a matching wedding band. The jealousy simmering in his blood had barely started to boil before he noticed the little girl swinging her legs in the cart. One with your hair and his eyes.

"Dah-dee," She whined, glaring at him. "Wan' candy."

"Yeah? You want cavities too?" Sukuna half-scolded, a relaxed quality to him Suguru had never seen before. Content somehow.

"I brush my teeth," She pouted, although it sounded more like teef. Sukuna was about to roll his eyes, looking up just to spot Suguru standing with his pretty, pregnant wife.

His scowl was immediate, his jaw clenching before you were already walking towards him, dropping the bag of chips in the cart and getting up on your toes to kiss his cheek.

"Look who I bumped into," You smiled, as if the last time the three of you had been in the same room, Sukuna hadn't given him a black eye.

Sukuna didn't say anything, just giving him a cold once-over before his stare returned to you. The warmth returned to his face almost immediately, the hard edges softening, his muscles relaxing, like he couldn't control the effect you had on him.

"Who're you?" The toddler in the shopping cart turned to him, a scowl she probably learned from her father plastered on her face.

"He was my friend before I met daddy," You hummed softly, poking her cheek and fixing a lopsided hair clip while your daughter continued to huff and stare at Suguru displeased.

Friend.

He guessed he had never asked for more.

Watching you wrap your arms around another man, his hand on your stomach and your kid begging for snacks in the shopping cart. A heavy ring on your finger and a baby in your belly.

And after this, you'd offer him a little wave and walk out of the aisle and away from him for good, oblivious to the part of him still pining for you, for the family you could've built together. That wished he was the one who'd be kissing your forehead and glaring at any asshole that approached you.

Maybe in another life.

Wasn't that what you said?

a/n: ten bucks says him or Satoru crash out and get another girl pregnant after this and sixteen years later reader and sukuna's son brings home a daughter that looks a little too much like someone they used to know lol - for my girls that love pain and suffering I would be willing to do an alternate ending (I was thinking like a time-travel fix-it but yknow just if y'all are interest lemme know)

taglist: @nylve @sukuxna0 @aldebrana @ginginha @hon3yjaxx @shibataimu @tsukuhoe @iluchuuya @imm0rtalbutterfly @sukunasballstickler01 @moncher-ire @atiny-99 @sleepykittyenergy @uhnosav @bxnfire @unbaed-you @leaario @evilari111 @good-mourning0 @curlsnchxos @vamqyx @migueloharacumslut @diduzzula @rikiswifeyyy @violetpurplez @beepbeepyddgjj @trsh-kitty @00frenchfries00 @teenbreakup @chososlefteyeball @ghostreadersthings @stargazing-with-choso @froggkat @tojiwoah @thesunxwentblack @miizuzu @miscellaneous-misty @wisepeachwitch @esnocookie @sadmonke @dazed-lavender @rosieandthethorns @sttm99 @victoria1676 @bunnygirlgonewild

#sukuna x reader #this is definitely one I’m gonna reread #my heart was shattered and then put back together #this fic made me love sukuna

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