#and i think satoru understood suguru better than anyone in the end | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

nariism · 2 months

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letters from heaven — g. satoru

"i think i'm in love with you" + "wait, don't pull away... not yet." + oblivious pining

synopsis. love tastes like chocolate ganache topped with fresh strawberries. that was satoru's first thought when he accidentally blew your cake shop into smithereens.

wc. 2.4k

— for the lovely @hanrinz 🎀 | event masterlist ✉️

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

If you had asked Gojo Satoru what love tasted like two years ago, he would have answered with a lump in his throat.

Like curses, he would have told you. Like death and destruction. Fire and ash.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Satoru was surrounded by love from his very conception.

Wrapped in silk blankets and bathed in warm milk when he was born into this world—it was as if the nurses thought he had been spoonfed ambrosia by the gods themselves.

He knew what it was like to have his entire clan at his feet with their foreheads pressed to the floor; to be dressed in the finest cloth and only by the most nimble hands; to get anything and everything he ever wanted without question.

He was above everyone and had the eyes to prove it. He knew love like it was his only purpose.

Satoru was always a head in the clouds kind of guy. He understood his place in the world better than anyone else. That he was special. Gifted. Born with a blessing that only happens once in a millennium.

He hated the righteous above all. The ones who wanted to change the world that was promised to him from the moment he took his first breath. It was insulting; an act of defiance against the gods. Against him.

That is why he hated Geto Suguru—someone who wanted to change the world.

Satoru believed that he was too down to earth. It irritated him. But he never stopped being surrounded by love and never stopped loving, either.

For some reason, there was a strange comfort in standing alongside another.

Perhaps it was that Suguru had never once bowed down before him—the fact that he had gotten the chance to memorize every inch of his beautiful face. Or maybe it was the tender way he had spoken his name, so soft and filled with adoration.

For the first time in his life, he felt like he was more than just his eyes.

Satoru adored and despised every part of Geto Suguru. He always would, even in death.

He thought that secret would die with him. That there was no one else worthy of standing by his side. He never thought he was capable of loving another again.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

(He was about to learn that love would loom over him wherever he went. It would chase him relentlessly, even if it were to the ends of the earth.

After all, Gojo Satoru was born to be enveloped in silk and sugar and everything wonderful in the world.)

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Love tastes like chocolate ganache topped with fresh strawberries.

That was Satoru's first thought when he accidentally blew your cake shop into smithereens with a misfired blast of energy.

There was nothing particularly spectacular about you. There you were: horrified, head in your hands, crying over the phone to what he presumed to be your parents. He'd never seen someone doused in flour like you before, as if you had been plucked straight out of a cartoon.

Yet he remembers that his breath was stolen from him the way books described it.

Your very existence felt like it was built up from cubes of sugar. He was embarrassed that it was his first impression while you glared horribly at him.

The lawsuit came in the mail a few days later.

He paid, of course, without argument. And he tried to get your number afterwards because he really wanted to try that cake you were decorating before he blasted your shop to pieces.

You slapped him across the face and he let you. He even released his technique just so you could.

To your dismay, he kept showing up at the shop after it had been rebuilt. But he was a paying customer, and who were you to deny him a slice of butterscotch pie?

Still, he laughed at your ever-growing irritation with his presence. How he would preorder cakes days in advance just so you could anticipate his arrival. The way he would drop an extra five thousand yen on the counter and tell you to keep the change.

"Don't make me get a restraining order," you had once threatened him while he browsed the cupcake selection for the day.

"You wouldn't," he sang. And you didn't, because he knew your type.

You were the opposite of the one he loved most in the world. You wanted to make as little of a splash as you could—to bake pies and frost cakes with buttercream roses and wipe down your counters until they sparkled.

You knew your place in the world just as much as he knew his. And it seemed to be right behind the counter with a scowl on your face because of another poor attempt at flirting.

You didn't want to change the world. You just wanted to live in it, flour and all.

He found comfort in that, too.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Satoru became your midday companion when business slowed down. The sound of the bell strung to your front entrance brought you comfort when you were stressed about your little shop.

A part of you knew that this man was no ordinary human being. His eyes shimmered bluer than the sky when he would look at you with affection, nearly making your knees buckle beneath you on more than one occasion.

"What do you do at work?" You asked him curiously one afternoon as he sat on a stool watching you mindlessly pipe frosting.

"...Nothing important," he panicked, the thought of scaring you away when you had just started opening up to him too much for him to handle.

"Nothing important," you hummed, repeating his words until your eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"I am," he admitted shamelessly.

You looked at him in confusion, not missing the way he avoided making eye contact by burrowing his head into his arms. Through the glass of your display case, you could see his shoulders bunch up in distress.

You decided to drop it. It wasn't important.

"Here," you said softly, reaching around the glass separating you to place a dessert in front of him. "Don't worry about it."

Satoru gazed at the plate before him. Chocolate ganache and strawberries layered between sponge cake.

"This is for me?" He asked, poking at it with the fork as a grin split his cheeks.

"Just for you," you smiled. "As an apology for slapping you."

"I deserved it. I blew up your shop."

Your smile only deepened. "Sometimes things need to be destroyed to be rebuilt even better."

The strongest Jujutsu Sorcerer of his time was reduced to a puddle at your next words,

"I met you, after all. Didn't I?"

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Love tastes like champagne-raspberry truffles and cappuccino chocolates.

On the day he planned to confess, you unconvincingly glared at him as he approached you with his hands behind his back.

You pursed your lips, expecting him to demand you make him something out of season. Outlandish requests were not new from him, but you always managed to whip up something that had fruits imported from South America, or using that expensive hojicha he insisted you take off his hands.

Instead, he held out a box of lavish chocolates he bought in Belgium.

Nervousness replaced the confidence that was permanently etched into his every feature, and your expression melted into something mellower than the warmth simmering in the pit of Satoru's tummy.

He had been pining for you for months. There was something about your company that made him feel whole again—more whole than he had been in all the time since Geto Suguru left this earth.

You laughed as if it were a joke, using your palm to hide how you flushed slightly.

"Satoru..." You quirked a brow. "What's this?"

The way you said his name stuck arrows through his heart. You could act like you hated him all you wanted, but the way you smiled at him when he wasn't being a prick was enough for him to feel comforted.

"Chocolates from Europe," he straightened up, trying to shake off his nerves.

"Why?"

Why? His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth and he sucked on it in anxious thought, suddenly unsure of the right thing to say even though he had practiced all night.

Wasn't it obvious that he liked you?

You took the box from his hands and placed it down on the counter. Then you rounded it, picked up your spatula, and continued folding your meringue.

Satoru's silence made you glance back up, scrutinizing his downcast, troubled expression. You huffed through your nose with an exasperated little shake of the head.

"Save some nice things for yourself, too."

He was surprised when you reappeared in front of him. His eyes trailed from your sneakers, up your dirty apron to your smiling face.

Chocolate was melting between your fingers.

His grunts of protest were muffled as you stuck the treat against his lips, forcing it into his mouth. He glared at you, but ate it anyway.

Sugar coated his tongue and eased his nerves. You only laughed at his fluster.

He pinched your cheek.

You didn't know that Satoru already had everything else he ever needed. The only thing left was standing right in front of him.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Love is easy to taste when it's on your lips.

At least, that was the thought driving Satoru insane.

He didn't know when such an obsessive idea started plaguing him, or how to remedy it. For the first time in his life, he felt like a boy with a silly, childish crush.

Worst of all, you seemed none the wiser. All his attempts to make a move on you fell flat—though, he wasn't very good at following through with them in the first place.

It culminated in his final attempt to rid the terrible thought from his mind: he was going to avoid you at all costs until it blew over.

If he could just have the time to get over you, to move on from his feelings, he could probably act with some normalcy around you again. It was tiresome to tread on eggshells around you, even if you were blissfully unaware of it.

You, however, did not take his avoidance very well. He did not see that coming.

Satoru's phone rang at 3:24 am, well past your store hours. In fact, you were supposed to be waking up in another hour and a half to get all your prep done.

"Hello?" Your timid voice crackled through the static of his phone and he jolted upright, fisting his blanket in anticipation. "Satoru? Are you up?"

He swallowed thickly, mouth moving to formulate an answer with a strange amount of effort. "Yeah," he said, voice hoarse from sleep.

The other end of the line was silent for another moment before there was a loud crash, and he could make out the distinct clatter of metal bowls hitting tile.

He could imagine you standing there in defeat, surrounded by dirty dishes and drowning in work, trying to catch up for the next morning.

The thought was enough for him to rip out of his sheets, a flurry of limbs as he got dressed to find you.

"Hang on," he told you over the phone, then hung up.

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You had not anticipated that Satoru's very obvious avoidance would take such a toll on you.

You'd let it escalate until you were overwhelmed with emotion, unfocused at work, and not able to untangle the feelings you had for him.

And now he was standing in your shop again, helping you pick up everything you had clumsily scattered across the ground.

Whipped cream and icing spilled on the floor, painting the tile an array of pastel colours. You grimaced at the mess, thinking maybe you should just close the shop for the day and take a vacation.

Satoru was dutifully wiping up cream as if he were being paid to do it. But he wasn't—he was just too kind to you. Too generous. You desperately wished he would get mad at you for waking him in the middle of the night.

Instead, he only seemed concentrated and slightly concerned.

"That's enough," you told him quietly, standing up to discard the towels you used. "I'll clean up the rest tomorrow."

Satoru stood up with you, trying to decipher the doomstruck expression on your face.

"I'll come by tomorrow to help."

You shook your head. "It's okay, you've done so much already. Thank you."

Everything about him had grown so familiar, so warm. You missed him more than you cared to admit, and that scared you. In the three weeks since you had last seen him, it finally came crashing down on you.

You liked Satoru.

The thought was heady and overwhelming in your mind. You stumbled a bit and he caught you by the shoulders.

"Woah there," he chuckled lightly, finally able to make out the look in your eyes.

"Sato—" your lip wobbled and he stopped it with his thumb. Then, he used his fingers to clean up the icing decorating your face.

"I got you."

He snorted softly at your dazed expression, drawing away from you. Your hands shot up to grasp at him, keeping him in your bubble.

"Please don't pull away."

Satoru stilled, letting you drag him back into your personal space. "M'not going anywhere."

You weakly punched him in the chest, fist remaining there for a moment before you let it fall limp. Glaring at him, you sniffled.

"You're avoiding me."

"I was," he admitted.

"What happened?"

"I realized that I liked you a lot more than I thought."

Silence hugged your bodies, heavy and stiff. You blinked at him in surprise, having trouble processing his words.

"H-Huh?"

"I like you," he said again, more adamant. More confident.

"Oh," you breathed. Heat enveloped Satoru's heart at how relieved you sounded. "That makes me..."

Your face morphed from relief to realization. Realization of the situation, of how close your bodies were.

"Really happy," you concluded, squeezing your eyes shut as his hands adjusted to cup your face a little more intimately.

He kissed the apple of your cheek, making sure not to skip over the spot where icing lingered.

The thought entered his mind: I am exactly where I need to be.

Gojo Satoru was born to be loved. It tastes like maple buttercream. And it's spilled all over the floor, stained on his hands and knees. Between his fingers. Melting on his tongue.

#— whispers in the wind: 1k event ✉️#undertale reference .............#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk fic #gojo fluff #gojo fanfic #satoru gojo x reader #gojo satoru #jjk gojo #jjk fanfic #jjk fluff #also i'm so sorry i had to repost this it flopped so embarassingly bad

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seravphs · 3 years

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ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GETOU X FEM READER

Some people have embarrassing exes, ones who are too childish, or overly controlling, or just downright way under their league. You have Getou, a mass murderer and criminal on the run. You are not coping well with that information.

wc — 12.2k

contains — Gojo My Favorite Deus Ex Machina Satoru, mention of kids (sorry), my blatant favoritism of Utahime and Nanami, angst with a happy ending, deviates from canon, death, violence, suicidal tendencies for a bit, grief, loss, mourning, imo most of this is happy though, i’m not joking like 50% of this is just jujutsu high shenanigans idk why the tags are like this

One of the primary purposes of education at sorcery school was to beat mercy out of it’s child soldiers. It sounded brutal, but in reality, it was an understood necessity - brutality was what kept you alive in your line of work.

That meant it was surprising when your classmate took his foot off your windpipe in the middle of sparring, having only rested it there briefly without crushing it hard enough to leave bruises. You blink up at him from your position in the dirt, winded but already preparing for another fight. That was the way sparring worked - fight until you either beat him or collapsed. At least this time, you hadn’t been paired against Gojo or Yuki. Yuki wasn’t even a student anymore, she just liked coming back to train the new generation. In your opinion, she enjoyed the fights a little too much, but no one had asked.

Getou kneels beside you and against your training, you close your eyes, only to snap them back open when you remember. It’s always better to be able to see a hit coming, even if you can’t avoid it. His hand comes towards your face. With sick humor, you think mockingly of how the bruise will at least match the black eye already blooming over your left eye, when his hand skirts past your cheek entirely and places itself on your shoulder, steadying you.

“You need a break.”

The first thing you learn about Getou Suguru is that he is not a typical sorcerer. Anyone else, even your mother, would have pressed you to keep going. Growth only comes from being pushed to your limits, but for some reason, Getou spares you the exhaustion and puking your guts out over the toilet from overexertion.

Ignoring your protests about your ability to still fight (complete lies, which he’s aware of, since you’re barely able to stand), he pulls your arm over your shoulder and half carries, half walks you to the dorm. He knows which room is yours.

“Creep,” you accuse, which isn’t really fair because he’s trying to help you out, but admittedly, it is a little weird.

“Don’t go thinking you’re special,” he snorts. “I remember everyone’s room numbers.”

“We’re having a rematch later,” you demand. You don’t understand why he would show you mercy, but you’re determined to make it count. He’s going to regret letting you off easy when you kick his ass. That’s just how sorcery works - empathy isn’t rewarded.

He looks amused when he tells you that he doesn’t fight the weak. His kindness stings more than an outright insult.

You’re surprised Getou’s succeeding so well in class when he so flagrantly ignores the most important rules of sorcery. Kindness is forgivable. Generosity isn’t, and yet Getou shows no end of it. He’s always willing to give up a snack he loves because someone else was looking at it, to brace Utahime when she trips over her skirts in a fight, to sit with Gojo when no one else can bear how annoying he is. You suppose it’s a virtue of the strong - they can afford to be empathetic without worrying what it might cost them.

In the few weeks since you first joined Jujutsu Academy, you've learned a few more truths about sorcerers, besides needing to be vicious. All sorcerers have terrible sleeping habits. They might as well be nocturnal.

This gives you free reign of the campus, with no one to bother you, if you can get up early enough in the mornings, but Getou surprises you by also being in the kitchen when you walk in. He’s always doing that, the unexpected, ever since your very first week here.

“Hey,” he greets you like he didn’t attempt to choke the life from you again yesterday. To be fair, he had held back, which is more than you can say for your other classmates. You wince, thinking of Yuki’s arms as strong as iron, the way one hit from her felt like it had cracked your ribs open. You’re still a little miserable at your easy defeat, and it probably shows on your face.

He slides a piece of warm, buttered waffle dipped in syrup in your mouth before you can greet him back. Your eyebrows raise before you can control your expression. He looks amused when you say, “You can cook?”

“Even better,” he says, bending down to check the oven. “I can bake. While we wait, can you come with me for a second? I want to show you something.”

He takes your hand without argument - his skin is so warm, probably from the heat of the stove - and guides you out the back of the dorms.

You walk a bit, and then he turns around, forcing you to stop or bump into him. “Do you trust me?”

Your first instinct is to say, “Not at all.” You don’t trust anyone that’s not from your clan, and you’ve only known Getou for a few weeks, but the sudden memory of him anxiously peering over you while checking your face for injuries stops you in your tracks. If he wanted to hurt you, he could’ve done so already, and without punishment.

Wordlessly, you nod, though you’re still cautious. He covers your eyes with his hands and directs you, “A little left, a little right, good, now straight forward.”

When his hands leave your eyes, you’re standing in a clearing, surrounded by a grove of trees. Their branches are woven together in a dome overhead, various flowers and vines clinging to their lengths, and wildflowers beneath your feet. It’s beautiful, and not something you would’ve expected from Jujutsu Academy.

Getou looks pleased with himself. “It’s pretty, right? Yaga-sensei told me about this place. He got engaged here.”

Pretty isn’t enough to describe it. It feels like you walked into the set of a movie. Getou laughs at your awestruck expression.

“It’s so quiet,” you whisper, almost afraid to break the peaceful atmosphere.

“It’s not far from the campus itself, but I think the woods are a good insulator. It’s a nice place to think, right?” He reaches his hands out to brush the trunks. With his long black hair, his white pajamas, he looks almost like he belongs there. A forest sprite, something not quite human, destined always for something beyond you.

“Thank you for showing me this.”

He shrugs off your gratitude, and you fall into awkward silence. Itching to break it, you cast around for anything, any topic of conversation to be interesting. He did bring you here after all. It’s an olive branch. You want to offer him something too, but instead you insult his best friend, because that’s the kind of person you are. He laughs it off, because that’s the kind of person he is.

“I kind of wish Gojo wouldn’t find out about this. He’d hog it every day and then we’d never get this silence again.”

He looks at you in consideration. “Okay, so don’t tell him.”

“But he’s your best friend.”

“My best friend, for what, two weeks? If you want me to keep this a secret, I will.”

A moment of tense silence stretches between you two. He’s waiting for a reply, you realize. “I want you to.”

He smiles.

When you return, Utahime is up, and her expression is thunderous. “Which one of you left this-“ she holds up a charred, unrecognizable black lump of coal, “in the oven?”

You and Getou realize at the same time that you’d neglected to set a timer.

Utahime taps her foot impatiently. “I’m waiting. You could’ve burned the house down!”

Out of the corner of your eye, Getou, ever responsible and kind, steps forward to take responsibility. Maybe you’re paying him back for the breakfast or the shared secret, maybe you’re just sick of him being so good all the time, but you take the burned remains from Utahime’s hands. “I did it. Sorry. I wanted Getou to accompany me on a walk and I just forgot.”

She sighs but melts somewhat. “As long as you don’t do it again.” She perks up again at the mention of a walk. Even though you’ve both been on campus for at least a few weeks, you’ve been too busy training to really explore. “Did you at least see anything interesting?”

You feel Getou’s eyes on your back, curious, but you refuse to turn around and meet his gaze.

“No, not at all.”

Shoko comes later in the year, having been exempt from the earlier classes as a non-combatant, but she’s immediately taken under Utahime’s wing, just like you are. You’re grateful that your upperclassman takes such good care of you, and a little surprised - your mother had always told you that kindness was weakness - but she’s adamant in her doting.

“Yuki Tsukumo did it for me, and now I’ll do it for you,” she says. Yuki graduated already, but occasionally she comes back to wreak havoc, cause more of Yaga’s gray hairs, and train Gojo as the one of the few people in the world that can put up a fight for him, though perhaps not for long, at the rate he’s improving.

It’s not just in classes though. You’ve never had friends like Shoko and Utahime, not back home, where your mother had kept you separated from the Three Great Families, and by extension, the rest of Jujutsu Society. Utahime insists on sleepovers and parties and all the things friends do, and you’re glad to indulge her. You can admit, even if it’s only to yourself, that the one that’s really being spoiled is you.

She barely complains when you throw yourself over her on the mattress, lying across her stomach. Shoko climbs up after you, though she’s much more dignified, choosing to sit at the foot of your bed instead. She pulls out a cigarette, but reconsiders after Utahime’s furious face. “You haven’t perfected your technique yet. Put that away.”

It’s easy to fall into inane conversation with your girls - the bodies in Shoko’s morgue, your attempts to master swordplay, Utahime’s constant fighting with Gojo.

“Speaking of,” Shoko says, the gleam in her eyes signifying she’s up to her usual mischief. “Are you sure there isn’t something else there, Utahime?”

Turning bright red doesn’t help her case, but she tries to play it off anyways. “What are you talking about?”

“Just that you’re awfully cozy lately,” she hums. “Yeah, you fight all the time, but no one can get under your skin like he can, huh? And you’re really touchy with each other.”

“I’m disciplining him. Are you really going to call it touchy if I’m slapping his hand? It’s not like that!”

Shoko grins. “Yeah, but it’s different if he likes it. What, you can’t tell? He’s always making excuses for you to touch him.”

Come to think of it, Shoko’s right. You chime in, “Remember this morning? He’s always grumpy when he’s just woken up, but Shoko, what did we walk in on?”

Utahime throws her hands up. “Stop, stop!” She pushes you off her, but you keep going.

In unison with Shoko, you strike. “Who was that sprawled over your lap like a large cat, Utahime? You know, the one you were petting, your hand in his hair?”

Utahime blows her bangs out of her face in a frustrated huff. “Fine, you want to play that game? What about you and Getou? And Shoko, don’t think I haven’t noticed the massive crush you have on Yuki.”

“What crush,” Shoko says, as collected as always, though the effect is lessened by the light blush covering her cheeks. “I just think she’s interesting. A good fighter.”

“Getou and I,” you start, then hesitate. What are you and Getou? You’re certainly closer than you are with anyone barring Shoko and Utahime, and you do hang out a lot alone, but still, you pause. It’s a deadly mistake that Utahime intends to make use out of.

“You’re whipped,” she marvels.

“What? No, I’m not! We’re just friends.”

“Come on,” Shoko says. “You can’t tell me you’ve never noticed the tension between the two of you. When you had him pinned down on the mat this morning, didn’t you see the way he was looking at you?”

You remember all too well, which is the problem. He had been the one that taught you the move you used on him. Ever since he realized you were frustrated with being unable to keep up with the more physical aspects of fighting, he had taken it upon himself to personally train you, leading to spending hours stretching into the night wrestling and sparring with him. The feeling of his body under yours, the shocked look on his face when you managed to throw him off his feet for the first time - your veins still sang with pleasure. You flex your hand, his phantom touch lingering, the way he had guided your movements.

Shoko gags. “Ugh, look at her face, Utahime. This isn’t fun if you’re going to get all lovesick about it.”

“I’m not in love!” Your protests fall on deaf ears.

Taking on missions is usually reserved for the upperclassmen, but with fewer and fewer sorcerers being born, they've accelerated the curriculum. You're only a second year when you get your first solo mission, in a few years, perhaps they'll be giving them to first years.

You shudder at the thought. You're very fond of your new underclassmen, Nanami and Yuu. Imagining them fighting curses alone is horrifying, especially sweet Yuu, whose empathetic nature always leaves him crying right alongside the mourning mothers of victims.

The special grades, on the other hand, were taking solo missions by the end of their first year. Utahime had been green with envy. You had taken one look at Gojo (you had thought he was invincible before this), freshly back from a mission and bleeding profusely, and decided that you were more than happy to wait your turn.

You had never seen Gojo's blood before that. Thinking about your classmates in various states of distress isn't the way you'd prefer to go to bed, but it's been several hours already, and your eyes have yet to shut. You toss and turn in your bed for thirty more minutes before you get up and head to the kitchen, resigned to the fact that you won’t be getting any sleep tonight.

It’s normally easy to find everything you need for your sleeping tea because Utahime meticulously organizes the kitchen when she wants to destress, but someone’s ransacked it. There’s a trail of blood leading from the front door to in front of the white cabinets, where it pools, like the unknown person had stood there for a while. The cabinet itself is thrown open and the first aid kit is missing. Following the trail, the light of the bathroom shines under the crack of the door.

You did say the box with the bandaids and alcohol should be kept in the bathroom, but no one wanted to listen to you because Gojo always cut himself when he cooked and he couldn’t be bothered to make the five foot journey.

Mentally, you run through a list of who was out on missions tonight - almost everyone but you and the first years. If it was Utahime in the bathroom, you’d keep her company while she cleaned herself up. If it was Gojo, you would either laugh at him, or, if it was really bad, distract him from the pain.

The door swings open, leaving you blinking in the harsh light. It’s Getou, white towel pressed to a gash on his forearm, hair slicked back from his forehead with sweat.

“Need a hand with that?” You nod at his arm. Judging by the defiled kitchen and the way the towel is quickly turning brown-red, he’s lost a lot of blood. Shoko’s off scamming admissions officers to let her into medical school, and won’t be back before dawn. That means it’s up to you, the second best nurse besides Utahime, who’s good at everything, to tend to him. You aren’t really giving him a choice, just being polite.

He turns you down anyways, like the headstrong idiot he is. He hates being compared to Gojo, but in some ways, he really is. They’re both too proud to accept help, and often, they don’t need it. Not today, though.

“I wasn’t really offering. Give me your arm.” He almost snatches it back out of your grip as soon as you grab it, but it must really hurt, because when you tighten your grip, his face goes white and he bites back a groan.

“Sorry.” You’re not really. Serves him right.

Up close, the wound doesn’t look as bad as all the bleeding suggests. Whoever cut him must have been terrible, missing all the important veins.

“Want stitches?”

He gives you a horrified look and resumes trying to yank his arm out of your grasp, making you regret your little joke.

“I was just kidding, it’s not that deep. You’re still going to need to disinfect and bandage it though.”

“It’s alright. I can do it myself. You should go back to bed - don’t you have a mission tomorrow?”

“I can’t sleep anyways. ”

Taking a clean towel from the stack set aside specifically for this purpose, you set to work washing the wound as gently as you can, doing your best to ignore the fact that he’s pale and sweaty and barely biting back whimpers.

“Hey.” You touch the back of his hand. “Are you still with me?”

“It’s not that deep,” he says, parroting your words back to you.

“That doesn’t mean you have to just suffer through it.” You’re almost amused with the childishness of it. “If you had just asked me for help, you know I’d be more than glad to. Here, take this.”

Dutifully, he dry swallows the pills you give him and makes a face. You wonder if it tastes like curses.

“You can complain, you know. I’d be mad if Gojo did it, but it’s okay if you want to. I know it hurts.”

“It’s fine,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Just finish, please.”

“Actually, it’s not a choice anymore. Doctor’s orders. Stop trying to chew through your lip, you idiot. If it hurts, just say so.”

“That won’t help it heal.”

“But it feels better.”

You get through it together, Getou squeezing his eyes shut against the burning pain of you pouring disinfectant into his cut. True to your words, he doesn’t try to muffle himself anymore. By the time you’re done bandaging him up (it’s not deep but it’s long, white cloth now covering his entire forearm), he looks like he’s about to pass out.

He’s gross and dirty from the mission, but this is probably the best you’re getting out of him for tonight. It’s not like you haven’t slept in worse conditions before. Coming home tired enough to sleep in barely cleaned off monster guts and sweat is unfortunately just part of being a sorcerer.

“Come on,” you say, letting him lean on you as you guide him to his room. “Get some sleep. When you wake up, Shoko will be here and everything will be better.”

You ease him into his bed with a sigh of relief. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He mumbles something into his pillow, but since he’s speaking with cloth in his mouth, you don’t understand.

“What was that?”

“Thank you.”

He peers at you over the covers, eyes exhausted and dark circles prominent, but you can tell from the way the corners of his eyes crease that he’s smiling. His hand reaches for yours, clutches it, brings it to his lips.

“Thank you,” he says again, his breath ghosting over your skin. It tingles where he’s touched you.

You head back to your own room feeling faintly pleased, but also uncomfortable for a reason you can’t quite place until later that night. The last thought you have before you fall asleep is of Getou. Doesn’t he know there are other options to suffering?

Apparently not, because he’s fresh-faced and ready to accompany you on your mission tomorrow, sitting at the breakfast table chewing a slice of toast while Yaga debriefs him on the details.

“You’re not coming. Yaga, tell him he’s not coming.”

Your teacher looks apologetic. “Sorry.”

“Are you kidding me? He just got back!”

Shoko twirls her hair around her finger thoughtfully. You have no idea why she’s looking at you like that, but her expression is a little like a cat who's found a particularly interesting mouse to play with. “It’ll be fine, calm down. It’s not like he’s actually fighting. You’ll be doing all the real work, he just has to swallow the curse at the end.”

In the end, it’s 3 against 1, and Getou ends up with you on the train to Osaka. It’s supposed to be a simple exorcism, but the town the site is located in has cats running all along the streets, and you can’t help but stop and feed them. Getou brings out the dried fish he packed as a snack, so they’re all over him. Watching them bat at his shoelaces makes you laugh so hard you almost fall over in your unbalanced crouch, and he slides an arm over your shoulders to steady you.

Shoko watches you and Getou play with the cats with a smug look on her face, like she knows something you don’t.

“You have a thing for taking in strays, don’t you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You raise an eyebrow at her, but she just brushes off her cryptic comment.

“Nothing. You’ll figure it out eventually. Probably.”

You fall asleep on the train ride back and wake up with your head pillowed on Getou’s shoulder. It’s such a small, simple thing. You had always thought if you ever fell in love, it would be something monumental, like the fairytales your mother used to read to you when you were little. You would see them and know that they were right for you, know that this is who you were meant to be with. Instead, your heart stutters in your chest because you’re realizing what Shoko meant, a series of small realizations piling on top of each other until it’s impossible to ignore.

You’re in love with Getou.

A quick glance at his face tells you he’s still asleep and so is Shoko, but it’s now or never. You can’t wait, or you’ll lose your nerve.

“Getou.” He grumbles and slouches further into his seat. “Getou. Hey! Wake up!”

His eyes snap open. “Who am I fighting? What is it?” His voice is still drowsy.

“I’m in love with you.”

“What?” He shakes his head slowly, like a large dog waking up. “Hang on, what was that? I think I misheard you.”

“I’m in love with you.”

His jaw drops open. “Are you serious? Is this a prank? You’re not funny.”

“I’m in love with you.” It’s like it’s the only thing you can say, all the nerves in your brain completely burned out in the all encompassing fear that he might say no, that he might laugh at you - but you can’t stop yourself. You don’t regret it. You had to tell him.

He hangs his head and peers up at you through his eyelashes. “You’re hopeless.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. “So you don’t-“

And then he’s kissing you, and it’s the most right feeling in the world, like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be. You sigh into his mouth; the kiss more like a fight, like the way it started between you two, him stealing your air, you biting his lips. He kisses you, and kisses you, and doesn’t stop until the moon is fully bright in the sky and your lips are bruised, eyes bright.

Across from you, Shoko says, “Gross.”

You start dating the next morning.

As soon as you walk into class, Gojo can’t help himself. Shoko’s a horrible gossip. He jeers, “Look at the two lovebirds! Can you manage to keep your hands to yourself during class, at least?”

“Says the man who can’t even get a girlfriend,” your boyfriend comments, casually getting his writing utensils out of his bag.

Gojo blinks, and then turns his attention to you. “Can you get your dog? I don’t like when it bites back.”

Dating Getou doesn’t change much. You’re the same as you’ve always been, teasing, fighting, laughing together, but the knowledge that you love him, and he loves you, is always there. Love is always present, in the way your heart flutters when you wake him up for breakfast and his voice is rough, in the lump in your throat when he presses his lips to your neck as you cuddle.

You’re in bed together, since he’s taken to sleeping in your room. Strange conversations always happen at night, your idle mind wandering, but he humors you and your weird, stray thoughts.

“Would you want kids?” You murmur against the crown of his head, the stray hairs tickling your face. He stills in your arms (you’re the big spoon today), then rolls over so you’re face to face, breath to breath. His eyes are half closed, watching you with languid pleasure. It makes you restless, wanting to kiss each eyelid, scatter your love across his cheekbones and nose bridge and all of him, until he’s squirming away from you in laughter.

“Do you?”

You consider it. Kids, adulthood, even marriage are all things that seem so far away, like death. Eventually you’ll grow up and perhaps you’ll decide to start your own family, just like eventually you’ll die, but in the warm light of your room, shadows of butterflies scattered over the walls from the lampshade Getou cut shapes out of and presented to you as a gift, everything feels so hazy and far away. It’s just the two of you in this moment, you can’t even begin to imagine what tomorrow might look like, much less years later.

“I’m not sure. I haven’t decided.”

He hums in agreement. “I want whatever you want.”

“You better,” you laugh, and slap his arm playfully. “But have you ever thought about it?”

His fingers ghost over your hips, tap a steady rhythm on your ribs as he thinks. “Maybe two girls. I think I’d like daughters.”

“You would,” you agree. “You’d spoil them rotten.”

It all feels so far away. The conversation slides from your mind as easily as the memory of the day’s breakfast, only to stab you in the back in the not so distant future.

Nothing changes between you and Getou, but that doesn’t mean the world around you doesn’t shift to accommodate this new thing blooming between the two of you.

You meet Getou in the hall. “Any idea why Yaga wants us?”

He shakes his head. “Not a clue.”

You’re ambushed as soon as you step into his office.

“I’ve heard you’re dating.” Yaga turns his steel gaze on you. You’re not sure if you’re allowed to laugh, but this feels like a joke.

“Sir, with all due respect-“

“In my experience, people usually say that before something disrespectful,“ he says.

“I feel like you have better things to do than meddle in your student’s love lives. Do you need us to set you up?”

He stiffens at the last bit. Getou raises his eyebrows, but before he can ask, Yaga recovers. “As impertinent as ever,” he sighs. “I’m just looking out for you. Love for a jujutsu sorcerer isn’t the same as other people’s, you know. You will live and die alone.”

You’ve heard this bit before, but he continues. “I’ve seen husbands and wives torn apart. The anguish of being the one left behind -“ the way he looks at you sends chills down your spine. “I hope you never experience it. I would rather you not.”

“Speaking of kids,” Getou cuts in. “Shouldn’t you be encouraging us? God knows we need more sorcerers.”

Yaga’s face goes white. “Are you-?” He can’t finish his sentence. “Tell me you’re being safe.”

You shoot Getou a horrified look. Is this his idea of helping? “We’re not!”

“You’re not?” Yaga looks furious.

“We’re not doing anything,” you amend. “Yaga,” your tone softens. “Thank you. I appreciate it. But I’ve already chosen him.”

He sniffs. “You're both so young. What do you know of love? What happens when Getou dies and you’re left behind? What then?”

Getou cuts in again, face deadly serious in a way that it hadn’t been before. “I can love her from beyond the grave.”

Yaga says nothing. The way he’s looking at you makes you so uncomfortable, like he’s already seeing the future, one where you have to live without each other, separated by the greatest divide in the world. You’re reminded that your teacher, for his youthful appearance, is old. He’s taught and watched as hundreds of sorcerers, his students, came and left and died. His face is unhappy, but he touches both of your brows, brushes back your hair, and says, “Then you have my blessing. I want happiness for you both.”

The conversation with your teacher stirs something in you, apprehension lurking under your skin, but all that disappears when you return to the dorms.

It’s one of the rare days when none of you have missions - you suspect Yaga saw the schedule and took on Utahime’s mission for himself so you’d all be together - and everyone is in the common room: Gojo, sprawled across the top of the couch like a particularly annoying cat; Nanami, sitting on the bean bag Gojo had begged Yaga to get for you all; Yuu, reclining against the bean bag with his back braced against Nanami’s thighs; Utahime, flicking idly through channels on the TV, seated on the sofa and ignoring the imminent threat of being crushed by Gojo; and Shoko, head in Utahime’s lap and legs dangling off the couch. Utahime smiles up at you when you walk in. Getou selects a paperback from the shelf and collapses in on himself like a deflated soufflé in the armchair, absorbed in an instant. You join them, sitting at the foot of Getou’s chair, head pillowed against his knee.

For a while, everything is peaceful, then, as always, Gojo stirs things up. He’s been talking incessantly about his failed attempts to master purple for what feels like hours. You’ve long since tuned him out, but every once in a while you check back in to see how much more frequently Utahime’s eye twitches. You're running an experiment to analyze the number of twitches it’ll take before she loses it, but surprisingly, it’s Shoko that snaps first.

You watch in amusement as she gets up. “I’m not listening to this drivel anymore.”

“Shut up, yes you are,” Gojo hauls her back. Shoko thwacks him on the head, but he tosses a ten dollar bill and a fistful of candy pulled from his pocket in her lap.

You make a face. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you. It probably has lint on it.”

“Gojo germs,” Getou says agreeably.

“Gojo,” Yuu says, horrified, “you don’t have to pay her to listen to you. I’m listening, don’t worry.”

It’s him that should be worried, you think. Somehow he’s gotten the idea into his head that Gojo’s being bullied by the four of you (being Utahime, Getou, Shoko, and you) and is determined to give him support and attention so he can flourish and stand up for himself. Gojo, of course, is eating it up, and takes every chance to burst into theatrics in front of the boy when he can remember he’s supposed to be a victim.

Above you, Getou snorts. “What’s so funny?” You tilt your head back to see his smile.

“Nothing. Just wishing we could be like this forever.”

No one’s listening to you in the middle of the full on war of words being waged between Gojo and Utahime, but you rest your head back against Getou’s leg again. “Yeah. Me too.”

Nanami rolls his eyes at Shoko. While you weren’t paying attention, somehow they started fighting. “Don’t get me started on you.”

“Oh yeah? Guess all that respect for your upperclassmen is just an act. Hey, Gojo! Ask him what his cat’s name is.”

“You have a cat?” Gojo blinks.

“His parents got one a week ago!”

Nanami flushes. “Haibara!”

“What’s the cat’s name?” Getou plays along.

“None of your business.”

“Either you tell them or I will,” Shoko teases, her voice sing-song.

You take pity on poor Nanami, if he gets any redder he’ll burst into flames. Just as you open your mouth to settle the tension, Shoko shakes her head in mock pity.

“Ding! Times up. He named his cat-“ she pauses for dramatic effect. Nanami scrambles over his seat to try to get to her and slam his hand over her mouth, but she’s faster. “Gojo!”

Gojo blinks, and then he’s the one blushing. None of you expected the mortified expression on his face. “You…named your cat after me?”

“You’re flattered?” Getou says. “It’s a cat.”

“Shut up, Getou! You wish Nanami liked you enough to name his cat after you.”

“I didn’t name my cat after you!”

“I don’t need Nanami, I have a girlfriend.”

“Ooh, does little Nanami have a crush?”

“Shut up, Shoko!”

The room dissolves into chaos as it usually does when you’re all together for too long, but your wish remains the same.

Things are going so well that you really should’ve expected it. The blame is on you for not having the foresight to see it coming.

It’s supposed to be a routine mission, if more important than any they’ve taken in the past. They’re the strongest. There is no one in the world that can beat them, certainly not if they’re together. But the man with the heavenly restriction obeys no rules.

You’re the one that finds them. Utahime took you off campus for a day off. Shoko couldn’t come because she had to convince her biochemistry professor she didn’t cheat on her final (she did, but not because she needed to, just because she didn’t want to put in the effort). It was supposed to be a fun day for both of you, returning home drunk off the taste of sugar sweet cake and tea - until you saw the pool of blood near the front gates. Immediately, you knew something was wrong. Utahime rushes towards the red pool immediately, but you hold her back, scanning the area for lingering signs of the intruder.

Everything in your brain is screaming at you that this is wrong. Jujutsu high is protected by barriers - there is no one who could get in without Yaga’s permission, no one who could hurt you. Your mother had promised when she sent you here.

A chilling thought occurs - had Yaga let them in? It dissipates as soon as you think of it. Your teacher would never hurt you, would put his life on the line to defend you. He had before.

It’s not a good idea to split up, but it’s worse to stay together. You have to take your chances. Utahime goes to alert the teachers and you go to find the Getou and Gojo. At this point, you still had faith that they were alright, if not perfectly intact. They were the strongest. You had no doubt in this fact. The pool of blood could have just come from an injury, but almost nothing was fatal as long as you had Shoko.

Then, you step on a dead body. For a second, you think it’s Getou, the long black hair covering the face of the corpse, and your blood chills in your veins. You don’t think you’ll ever breathe again, but then you move the bangs, and it’s not him. It’s a girl. The relief that comes with the realization is a guilty one, but you’re grateful nonetheless. As long as he’s not dead, everything will be okay.

Even when you have his body in your lap, you believe it’ll all be okay, because it’s them. They’re the strongest. Even when you’re applying pressure to his wounds, trying to buy time for Shoko to get here, you have to believe in him. You have no other choice.

The first thing he says when he wakes up is, “I’ll kill that damned monkey,” even as you’re crying over him. He doesn’t talk again until he sets out to find Gojo, leaving you behind even though you insist on going.

You’ve fought and killed and been hurt before, all of you have. Being a sorcerer was synonymous with a life of violence. But none of you had come as close to death (or in Gojo’s case, actually died), and so your friends were divided as you had never been before. On one side, Gojo and Getou stood, having gone through a trial by fire and came out forged into something different. On the other side were the rest of you, unable to understand them, though not for lack of trying.

Utahime said it best, alone with you and Shoko in your room, the place that you had taken to become the designated spot to discuss the change in your boys. They were no longer quite human, but you loved them all the same. You couldn’t help it. Love didn’t die, even when there might be a reason for it to.

Normalcy doesn’t come for a long time. In fact, it doesn’t come ever - what you have is a very good imitation of it, but you’ll take what you can get. During the day, Gojo has somewhat returned to normal, aside from randomly falling asleep for the first week and zoning out for hours at a time. Getou’s also different. He’s quicker to enrage, slower to apologize. His eyes are dark, and sleeplessness has left a semi-permanent bruise under them. He has nightmares that he can’t escape.

You almost shriek when you hear the knock at your window, the dark outline of a figure looming outside in the darkness. Then he moves closer, into the light, and it’s no one scary after all, just Getou. You’re moving to let him in before he knocks on the window. He looks more dead than alive, and you rush to usher him into your bed, no need for words. He shows up because he knows you won’t turn him away, even if you’re fast asleep, even if you’re still working on mission reports.

He doesn’t need to ask, but does so anyway. “Can I sleep here tonight?

Under the blankets, you wrap your arms around him, squeezing like you can hold him together through physical contact and sheer force of will. His head rests against your breast bone and that’s how you can tell, even when his breathing evens out, that he’s not asleep. He doesn’t for the entire night.

This goes on for several weeks until you can’t take it anymore. “I don’t know what’s wrong and I can’t help you if you don’t tell me. You told me you were fine. Is it Riko? We can talk about it.”

He looks at you with his woeful, tired eyes (he never seems happy these days). “You wouldn’t understand.”

“God, you can be such an asshole sometimes, you know that? Do you think you’re some kind of enlightened martyr? Just spit it out!”

He just keeps watching you with his dark eyes, and you have the horrifying feeling that he’s not seeing you, not really. Like he’s looking through you.

It’s like your words are only cementing whatever dark thought has taken root in his brain.

“The monkeys,” he mutters in his sleep. “I have to get rid of them all.” You only hold him tighter, like you can keep him together through sheer force of will. But eventually, he stops coming to you at all. You can feel him slipping through your fingers, and you don’t know how to stop it. You’d ask him if he still loves you, if he still wants to be with you, but you’re scared of the answer, so you don’t.

He shrugs you off all the time now, so you didn’t expect him to call you after his mission. In the darkness, you grope around blindly for your phone. It nearly falls off the side table and hits your face before you catch it. It’s a little annoying to be woken up, but all of your anger melts away when you see the caller ID, and beneath, a picture of Getou, face frozen in surprise, his smile completely candid. It was from a trip you’d taken back in your first year.

“Oh, you’re up?” Getou’s voice crackles through the other line. The connection must be poor - he did say he was going to a village in the mountains for his next mission.

You laugh softly, still half asleep. “How are you surprised that I picked up when you called?”

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding mildly shocked himself. “I wasn’t planning to call you, it just sort of happened. Guess I’m too used to your voice at night. Sorry. It must be late.”

It’s too much to hope that he’s returning to himself, but you do so, anyways. Maybe the fresh air and countryside did him so good. Maybe all he needed was to get away for a little bit, and then he’d return. You’d never expect him to be immediately normal after what had happened, but you want to see progress, for him to recover, even if it is slow.

When you can’t hold yourself back from yawning, he laughs softly on the other end.

“You say you’re sorry, but you’re not going to let me sleep, are you?” You accuse him.

“No,” he agrees. You can almost see his smile on the other end. “It’s my last night before I head back.”

“You couldn’t wait a day?”

“You don’t want to hear from me? That’s fine, I’ll hang up.”

It’s an empty threat, but you protest anyways, spluttering out apologies that only make him laugh harder.

You’re still sleepy, but it’s nice, hearing his voice. Even when he’s miles away, the simple thought of him puts you at peace. You roll over to a more comfortable position, face pressed against your pillow, so you can hear him talk about mundane things, the low timbre of his voice familiar and comforting.

“How was your day? Miss me too much?” He’s teasing, but you’re completely honest when you answer. It’s been so long since he’s been like this.

“Way too much. You should come back as fast as possible.”

He doesn’t respond.

“Getou?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”

He’s been apologizing a lot. Maybe it’s true what they say, that distance really does make the heart fonder. Maybe he’ll come home, and everything will be okay.

This is your first relationship. You don’t know how these things work, but you’re scared all the time that you’re messing up, that you’re a terrible girlfriend, that you’re making Getou worse.

You flinch at the sudden intrusion of unwelcome memories and try to remember the breathing exercises Shoko taught you. In through your nose, out through your mouth, don’t think about finding a pool of Gojo’s blood, a fourteen year old girl’s corpse, Getou’s mutilated body. Don’t. In through your nose, out through your mouth, breathe, breathe, breathe. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You squeeze your eyes shut as if that will take away the images.

His voice breaks through the panic. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” You’re both liars when you need to be. Maybe that’s why your relationship works so well.

“How was the mission?” You wish you could take it back as soon as it falls from your lips. It’s routine for any other sorcerer. For Getou, it’s a touchy question.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he snaps. He apologizes just as quickly. “Sorry. You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

It’s fine, you want to say, but nothing comes out. Instead, you say, “Getou.”

“Hm?”

“Bring me back a souvenir.”

He’s quiet for a moment. It’s a strange night, because it feels so much like he’s returning to his old self, and yet not, at the same time.

“Getou?”

“Babe, I’m in a village. You want me to bring you some grass or something?” You roll your eyes, then tell him you’re rolling your eyes when you realize he can’t see you. Somehow, you don’t think that’s what he was about to say, but you don’t push it.

“Come back soon, okay? Gojo and I are going to kill each other without you, and then you’ll have no one else to love in this miserable existence.”

“Yeah, okay. I wouldn’t let him kill my girl.”

“Hey! Maybe I’m the one killing him. Don’t underestimate me.”

To anyone else, this would sound insane, but you’re sorcerers. Death, murder, and betrayal are the norms of your life. You breathe out a sigh of relief, because everything’s okay. You shouldn’t have worried. Getou is going to be fine.

You yawn again, and that’s when he relents. His voice is soft when he tells you to go to sleep.

“Good night, babe.”

“Love you. Come home safe.”

Before you hang up, he speaks so quickly he slurs his words and has to repeat himself, more slowly. “Wait, can you not hang up yet?”

“Suguru, I have to sleep.”

“I’ll hang up when I’m done, just stay on the line a little longer.”

“You want to hear me fall asleep? Alright, weirdo. Not like you can’t come home and do it when your mission is over.”

“Just humor me.”

And so you do, drifting off with his voice in your ear, the words indistinguishable but the sound comforting. Then you wake up to Gojo throwing your sheets off and hauling you out of bed, kicking and thrashing.

“What are you doing? Is this another prank?” You’re too tired from staying up all night with Getou to deal with more of his antics.

Then you notice his appearance. Gojo doesn’t cry - perhaps it’s a side effect of his six eyes, you’re not sure if he can cry - but you’ve seen signs of panic in animals in Shoko’s textbooks. He has all the same features, the preternaturally wide eyes, the heavy breathing, the high flush in his cheekbones.

“Gojo?” You ask carefully. If he’s actually snapped from stress, you don’t want to be in the same room with him.

“Did you know? Did he say something?”

“What are you talking about?”

His face falls. He looks almost concerned for you, if Gojo had ever cared about your feelings in the past. He opens his mouth, and your world falls apart. Life after Getou murders an entire village, kidnaps two girls, and is on the run goes on as normal, if you can call it life.

This is not what you thought he meant when he said he wanted two daughters. It almost feels too normal, for things to continue when he’s gone, but the world doesn’t stop. The missions don’t stop, even when you’re sad and confused and hurt, and nothing makes sense. You throw yourself into your work, because those are straightforward. It's like a mathematical equation: fighting until you’re dead or the enemy is infinitely less confusing than dealing with the aftermath of his departure.

“I think that’s enough,” Ijichi says timidly, when you demand another mission. You glare at him, stalking towards him so you can rip the file out of his hand, but he pulls it back away from you. He looks almost surprised at the sudden nerve he has, but he stands his ground, albeit cowering.

“You need a break.”

It’s what Getou first said to you, and that’s exactly why you can’t do this right now. You need to be fighting, need to be in situations where you can’t think about anything besides how not to die. Ijichi shakes his head when you reach for the document again, and that’s when you relent.

“One more,” you plead.

This is probably karma for being so terrible to him. You’ll have to buy him a present once this mission is over.

Someone’s calling your name, but you refuse to turn around, because you know who it is. You grit your teeth and resist the urge to curse Ijichi because this probably isn’t his fault. You’ve overworked him, since he accompanies you on all your missions and you’ve been working nonstop since Getou left.

Still, a part of you is affronted. He never warned you there was a curse capable of creating hallucinations here, and you’ve hated any kind of curse that has the ability to mess with your mind ever since the incident. Still, there’s nothing to be done now, so you soldier on, ignoring the voice until the arm belonging to the owner of the voice forces you to look at them, and you promptly sock them in the face.

A curse with the nerve to show itself to you in the form of -

Your heart in your throat, tears in your eyes, you get ready to punch it again. There’s no need for knives when a good, old fashioned beat down will best relieve you of your sorrows (in the back of your mind, you hear Gojo accusing you of being a delinquent) but he raises his hand and rasps, “Stop, wait, it’s me.”

You don’t stop, if anything, you hit harder.

He cries out, “I told you once if I had kids, I would want two daughters.”

Your fist hovers in mid air, cursing your weak heart because this is a trick. Gojo killed him, and Gojo never, ever fails.

He failed Riko Amanai, you think.

There’s no way.

Getou sits up, forcing you to topple off of him before he catches you. He settles you on his long legs. You’re dazed and sad and tired of denying yourself hope, but even more tired of hoping only to have your dreams crushed.

Everything hurts. There’s pressure behind your eyes like you want to cry but the tears won’t come the way you need them to, great heaving sobs like the night Getou died, purging and cleansing. Instead, you hiccup and dry heave like a child, clutching his yukata in your fists, torn between hoping and not hoping, knowing both of them will hurt you either way.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he croons, pressing your foreheads together, and at first you want to push him away but the other part of you rebels, clinging desperately to him like he’s a ghost that will fade away without your touch. You’re disgusted with yourself but you want more. You’ve never had the discipline that Utahime has. Getou is a liar and a criminal and a traitor, and you want him all the same, your innocent, bloody villain.

“Come back home,” you whisper. “Please.” It shocks you as much as it shocks him because you didn’t think anything close to that would be the first thing out of your mouth, but you mean it. You want him to come home, to hell with the elders. You and Gojo would fight everyone and everything to keep Getou with you. It’s an impossible request, but you’re asking anyway, hoping he’ll say yes.

“The problem is you still think it’s home.”

You don’t know what else to say, because you’ve played your last card, your only card, really. Getou’s always been better with words, and you hold no hope of persuading him if he’s outright refusing. You wait patiently for him to ask you to come with him, forfeit your entire existence to murder the very people you swore to protect, and wonder if you’re going to do it. After all, you’ve surprised yourself a lot today.

He doesn’t offer. He really just wants the chance to explain himself and say goodbye. You want to bash his skull in with your knife, and you want to kiss him until he cries. You can love him, but that doesn’t change who he is - a monster who killed his own parents and an entire village.

Somehow, it was easier to accept that when he was dead. Probably because then, you had no hope of him reciprocating, so you could love and mourn him in peace, doing no harm to the dead.

This is different. This is an ethical transgression on unparalleled levels because he is a murderer, and you love him enough to not care, and it terrifies you.

The familiar sound of his gentle voice calling you sweetheart burns. “I can explain everything, I swear, but I need time. Can you give me that? Can you believe in me?” His face is so earnest and sweet, and he looks so much better than he did before he went rogue. There’s no trace of exhaustion in his face, his shoulders are strong and broad, his hair shiny. You didn’t know criminals on the run had time to hair mask.

“You didn’t kill them?” You ask, heart in your throat. You know the answer. Gojo would never agree to hurting Getou if there was a chance, however small, he hadn’t committed the crimes he had, but his simple presence here is a miracle. What’s one more?

That’s the problem, when good things happen. You get greedy.

His denial is like waking up to cold water. “No. I definitely did.”

You shove his arms off your shoulders and clamber off of him even though every cell in your body is screaming at you to go back, close your eyes, pretend this isn’t happening and just love Getou like nothing had ever gone wrong, but you refuse. You’re a jujutsu sorcerer. You’re used to doing the hard things, even when it hurts.

“You disgust me,” you snarl, and you get ready to -

To what? Are you going to kill him? Bring him in? That would be the same as sentencing him to death, too.

In the middle of your deliberation, Getou suddenly clutches at his head like it’s being split open. You’re not sure what’s going on, if this is just another manipulation tactic of his to have you rushing back to him in forgiveness, but that’s when you notice the long gash in his head, stitched closed.

“Run.” He says. He grabs your sleeves and hauls you down so you can look into his eyes. “Run! You have to go, he’s coming, he- Ugh.” He slumps over, breathing hard and fast, hand still scratching at the barely healed over stitches.

You’re confused and scared and lost, and you obey, running through the forest like the devil himself was on your heels. You don’t think, just flee, all the way back to your car. When you get back to campus, you’re determined not to tell anyone. It was a hallucination, a cruel trick your beleaguered mind played on you, aided by the technique of curses. Later that day, you come back to finish the curse off, and Getou’s gone. It’s what you expected, and yet, some part of you is disappointed. Your resolve hardens to steel.

You can’t tell anyone about this. The greater part of you thinks it a hallucination not worth telling. If the elders found out, they’d probably throw you in the mental ward like they did with all “hysterical” women, and good riddance. They’d be glad to wash their hands of you, a sorcerer too weak to be helpful to them.

The other, quieter part of you fears that if he’s real, if somehow, you’ve really been granted a second chance - then he’ll die again. Turning him in is a death sentence. You just have to hope that if it wasn’t an illusion - and you have hope, you always do, even when it’s idiotic - he’s smart enough to stay away, to leave the jujutsu world behind for good. You swallow hard.

Even if it means leaving you behind.

For a while, everything is fine, or as fine as it can be, given the circumstances. Getou’s a curse user now, and you’ll never see him again, but you can live with that as long as he survives. You don’t think he’s dumb enough to show his face in the jujutsu world again. Secretly, you hope that he escaped and is living somewhere in paradise with the little girls he rescued, in a nice, warm cottage with strawberry plants in the garden and a fluffy white cat. You’re starting to believe that he made it, that he’s off living it up with his little found family, because you’re naive, and no matter how many times your miserable existence tries to beat it out of you, hope insists on making a fool out of you. You can’t stop, even when you know it’s futile for any sorcerer to imagine anything besides the worst case scenario in any situation. Bad things happening is the way of life, good things is a stroke of luck, a momentary reprieve before nature resumes its course. You even dare to think that he’s lucky, because he escaped the hell that is the jujutsu world.

Life is never that kind to sorcerers - even ex-sorcerers, though, in this case, one could say Getou brought it on himself, attacking the entirety of the jujutsu world in such a way. When Gojo Satoru kills your boyfriend, at least the kids aren’t around to see you lose it (because Getou injured them so badly they’re all hanging out in the morgue with Shoko). You’re torn between grief and rage, because you know he deserves it. You still can’t reconcile the image of him in your head, sweet, kind, Getou, who would always go easy on you, with the man that nearly murdered your students. But you also can’t stop blaming Gojo.

Jujutsu sorcerers aren’t supposed to have regrets, but it’s hard, looking back, not to feel sorry for attempting to murder Gojo Satoru the day he came home from killing your boyfriend. It wasn’t his fault, after all, even if it had felt like it at the time.

No one told you what Gojo’s last mission was because of your relationship with Getou, but as soon as Gojo walked back onto campus, his white hair matted with blood that wasn’t his and his shirt stained with sprays of red, you just knew. You had been running to greet him because attempting to jump Gojo whenever he came back from a mission was an age old tradition, born of him always being first in class and power rankings, and you, forever trying to claw your way to the top, even in the face of his overwhelming natural talent. Of course, back then, it had been a friendly conflict, your way of welcoming him back and his way of indulging you.

This was much less friendly and much more of homicidal intent.

It takes Utahime and Shoko combined to drag you off of him, though you aren’t doing any damage. Gojo, as always, is untouchable. He doesn’t let down his Infinity, but he doesn’t try to erase your existence for daring to lay a hand on him either, which is as close as you’re getting to mercy from him.

If you had been just drifting through life when you thought Getou had abandoned you, in the wake of his death, you’re burning out. For a while after his death, you think you’re just waiting for the same thing to happen to you. You throw yourself into battle after battle, accept whatever missions are given to you and collect scars on your battered body. You’re not going to kill yourself, but you’re not going to fight it either. It turns out, passive suicidal tendencies - surprise! - still count as suicidal tendencies, according to Shoko.

Waiting for death, you find, is unexpectedly hard. Your body wants to fight. It doesn’t want to give up, every survival instinct pulling you out of danger, pushing your lungs to take in more air, keep fighting even when you’re dead tired. It fights hard for itself even when you don’t care, all too willing to just accept whatever happens to you. Every day, Shoko fixes you up, scolds you, and sends you on your way, and every day, you repeat the same process that lands you in her morgue, until one day, it’ll happen for real.

Nanami intervenes before that happens, because he’s a good man. Good men are rare in sorcery. You thought Getou was one, but clearly not, demonstrated by the full blown murder spree he’s gone on. You’ve always held a soft spot for your junior. He corners you in the hallway after your last narrow brush with death, the exorcism of a special grade curse that was particularly nasty. You might have earned a promotion with that one. It was a hard fight. You don’t think you’ll survive the next, and that’s precisely why Nanami invites you to dinner.

He’s a good cook, but he’s not Getou. He doesn’t remember all of your allergies and dislikes, and you end up picking all the mushrooms out of your dinner. Everything reminds you of Getou. You choke on your bitter laughter, and Nanami is polite enough not to say a word about it.

“When Haibara died,” he begins, the pause in his speech between Haibara and died making it very, very clear that this is difficult for him to talk about, “I thought it was the end for me too.”

He shakes his head when you frantically attempt to shush him. You don’t want him opening old wounds for your sake, but he ignores you. “Someone you love is gone. The existence of the world feels disgusting to you.” He says love, not loved. You should’ve known Nanami would understand. He always does.

“At first, everything is hateful to you. The sun, for daring to rise. Birds, for their annoying song. Gojo, for being Gojo.” He pauses. “The last part is normal, but the rest of the world feels intolerable now. It’s as if they took you to the grave with them.”

Nanami’s inscrutable eyes make you uncomfortable. Technically, Gojo has the Six Eyes, but right now, Nanami feels like the all seeing one. Casually, he reaches over and pulls your plate to him, cutting up the meat for you. Your throat closes up with unshed tears, though that might also be the anaphylactic shock from the mushrooms. Getou used to do that for you, too. He never let you cut your own food.

Nanami finishes dicing your steak into perfectly bite sized pieces, and throws the knife at you, in a perfect, straight line at your shoulder. You knock it out of the way.

“What the fuck?” You’re already looking around for assassins, maybe curse users with mind or body control techniques, but Nanami doesn’t make another attempt to hurt you.

“What did you learn from that?”

“That you’re spending too much time with Gojo. Have you gone insane?”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. You think he’d make a great teacher, since he already has the aggrieved expression down pat when something is clear to him, but confusing to everyone else. He’d be better than Gojo, that’s for sure, if he didn’t fling knives at all his students.

“The lesson was supposed to be that you’re alive, and you want to stay alive, even if you don’t realize it right now.”

“No way.” You could be less rude to him, considering how he’s going out of his way to help you out, but he’s also practicing circus tricks on you, so you don’t feel inclined to politeness at the moment. “I would’ve never known if you didn’t show me. Quick, can you check my pulse?”

He looks unperturbed. “It means,” he says patiently, “no matter how much it feels like you already have one foot in the grave with them, you’re still alive. Don’t be so quick to throw yourself away. We’re all bound to die eventually, in this career. You don’t have life to waste.”

Nanami is a terrible therapist, but a good friend. He says, “Now finish your dinner and stop trying to kill yourself.”

“There we go. You could’ve just said that at the beginning.”

“It wouldn’t have made as much as an impact,” you’re tempted to tell him throwing knives at you didn’t make much of an impact either, but wisely keep your mouth shut. “Besides, you got free dinner out of it. Stop complaining.”

When eventually, Nanami leaves too, for a normal life, nothing stops you from throwing yourself into your work.

The second time you lose yourself, it’s so much worse. This marks the twelfth time Shoko has basically rescued you from the clutches of death in the morgue. Gojo’s the strongest sorcerer, but in your opinion, Shoko’s closer to being the most powerful. That might also be your favoritism talking. She grabs your arm as you get up to leave. “Stop dying.”

You’re a really terrible person for making all of your friends repeat this talk with you. “Not dead yet.”

“Stop trying to die,” she amends. “You’re making more work for me and I don’t like it.”

You roll your eyes. Of course she was worried about the extra effort it took to keep you alive. If Getou was here-

The thought registers like a blow to the chest. If Getou was here, this wouldn’t be happening at all. Shoko grips your arm hard enough to bruise. “I’m serious. I’m not going to let you die, so stop trying. It’s not going to work and it just makes my job harder.” Her face is grim.

“I’m not going to let you die,” she repeats, like she can keep you in this world through willpower alone. You feel guilty, all of a sudden, for what a terrible patient you are, and how snappish you’ve been with her. Hurting doesn’t mean you have the right to take it out on your friends, but remembering that only comes after the guilt, and the guilt only comes after the self sabotage.

Speaking of self sabotage, the last time you saw Gojo, you attempted aggravated assault on his person, but when the news came down that he’s been captured (the first time you hear it, you’re disbelieving) you’re the first to volunteer to go to Shibuya. You can’t lose anyone else.

You didn’t expect to gain someone back, but when you get there, the person on the other side of the battlefield is Getou, and suddenly, you know how Gojo, invincible, omniscient Gojo, could’ve gotten captured. Love is the worst curse of all.

Ignoring all sense, ignoring the fact that he’s captured Gojo - you hadn’t believed he was capable of hurting him, even now. You hurtle across the battlefield to him, past Itadori Yuuji and - was that a cursed womb? It didn’t matter. You only had eyes for Getou, but when you get closer, your heart sinks.

Even just listening to his voice, you know it isn’t him. It’s like the air has been knocked out of you - there’s no point in fighting, not anymore. You crumple to your knees. That’s not Getou. That thing is using your Getou’s mouth to murder your friends and bring about the end of the world. Distantly, you hear Yuki Tsukumo’s arrival, feel her try to haul you to your feet, but you can’t move on your own. The thought rings through your head. Getou is gone.

Kenjaku is reveling in his victory while Yuki tries to keep him at bay. She’s strong, she has to be, she’s a special grade, but she’s no Gojo Satoru and you’re dead weight. She can’t protect everyone. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Itadori Yuuji doing his best to dodge attacks. He’s a child. You have to fight, but there’s an emptiness inside of you that’s sapping your strength. Still, you muster up enough to reach for the dagger hidden in your coat, a gift from Maki Zenin, one of your favorite students.

The air stills. The relentless cacophony of the battlefield comes to a stop as the hairs on your arm stand up. Directly across from you, one of Kenjaku’s hands reaches up to grip his own throat. Getou Suguru says, “Give me back my body.”

Kenjaku coughs. “Ugh. Just a little voice in my head. As I was saying -“

The hand around his throat tightens. “I’m Getou Suguru. This is my body.”

Kenjaku frowns. “You have no claim to this body anymore. You’d be dead without me. Just go back to sleep.”

More insistently, Getou’s presence fights to the surface. “How are you doing this?” Kenjaku marvels. His eyes widen and he lifts his hand to stare at the object he’s clutching, the Prison Realm.

You should never count Gojo Satoru out.

Suguru Getou doesn’t exist anymore. He’s just a figment of Kenjaku’s imagination, clinging to life - if this can be called life - confined to the dark and murky corners of his own mind.

Go to sleep, Kenjaku says, almost fondly. They’ve been stuck together here for a long time now, long enough that Kenjaku has given up trying to get rid of him and instead just suppressed his presence.

He’s so tired. Kenjaku’s right. It might be a good idea to go to sleep and yet - there’s something he’s forgetting, isn’t he? What is it? He doesn’t like thinking. It splits his head apart - is it his head or Kenjaku’s, he’s never sure who it belongs to - punishes him with endless pain. It’s better, easier, to just let Kenjaku handle things.

That’s right, Kenjaku says. This is my body now. All you have to do is go to sleep. Aren’t I merciful?

But he remembers something, a flash of blue in the darkness. The voice of his best friend - he had a best friend? He keeps remembering things that don’t belong to him, scattered memories that might be hallucinations but -

He couldn’t have imagined the earnestness, the pain in that man’s voice. He doesn’t know him, but his heart aches for him.

Getou Suguru, a silky voice sighs. He flinched because he hasn’t heard a voice beside Kenjaku’s in years, no, since he was born. They had always been like this, Kenjaku and him. Hadn’t they?

Who is this? He’s panicking.

Are you really going to let him use you like that? We’re the strongest. You better start acting like it.

Then his body crumples in on itself, pain sparking through every nerve from the impact of so much cursed energy. Kenjaku curses. “Fucking Gojo Satoru.”

Kenjaku? Getou thinks.

Hm? Nothing, don’t worry about it. I thought I told you to go to sleep.

Getou flinches away from the hard edge in his voice but something in him doesn’t forget Gojo Satoru. He turns the name over in his head, wondering. The cursed energy hurts, it burns, but it’s lifting the fog in his head.

Gojo Satoru is his best friend and you -

You’re standing in front of him, eyes wide and wary, as beautiful as the last time he saw you. His girl, his sweetheart. You’re driving a knife through his ribs and he clutches your hand, helps you angle it up directly through his heart. It’s sweet, almost like you’re back in school again, him training you after hours because he couldn’t tell you he was in love with you then, but all he wanted was to be around you, all the time.

It’s nice, the way you wrap your arms around him when the deed is done, the pressure of your chest against his driving the blade deeper. It’s not such a bad way to go.

You’re crying, he realizes, the back of his clothes are wet.

He wishes he could talk to you before he has to go, but his mouth is filled with blood. With his one hand, he undoes the binding on the Prison Realm - his best friend, of course he remembers him, Gojo Satoru - and with the other, he squeezes yours.

Don’t cry, he thinks mournfully. I promised. I’ll come crawling home to you.

He dies in your arms, the only place he has ever wanted to be.

You hold him as he dies, just like you did the first time, though you had been too late then. He dies with a smile on his lips, as Getou, not Kenjaku. You don’t feel the tears as they come. You don’t feel anything at all, not even when Utahime comes forward from the crowd of stunned sorcerers to wrap her arms around you, not even when Gojo, bleeding from his side, pulls you into his embrace.

Nothing can get to you until you speak to Yaga, and he curses you with the worst gift of all: hope.

“You’re a war hero,” Yaga says.

You don’t have to say it aloud for him to know what you’re thinking. You’d rather be nothing and still have Getou.

Yaga’s never been much of a hugger, but he startles you with one now. “My poor girl. You’ve been so brave,” he says. “I didn’t try this before because we didn’t think there was any hope left. We didn’t know if his soul was still there, but if you’re willing to let me try now, I’ll do my best.”

There’s a low chance of this working. You’re so tired, and Getou is too. You’re almost tempted to just let him be at peace, but Yaga lays his hand on your shoulder.

“Do you remember what he said when I questioned your relationship? I’d love her from beyond the grave. Don’t give up on him now.”

Gojo takes your hand as you watch Yaga work, the two of you the ones that loved Getou best, even at his worst. “Don’t give up,” he echoes. You squeeze his hand back. You had hope for eleven, long, hard years. You’re willing to hold on a little longer, if he’s willing to try too.

On the table in Shoko’s morgue, his body stirs.

title from work song — hozier. also recommend home with you — fka twigs for the vibe.

#sera writes #getou suguru x reader #geto suguru x reader #getou suguru x y/n #geto suguru x y/n #getou suguru x you #geto suguru x you #geto x y/n #getou x y/n #geto x reader #getou x reader #getou angst #geto x you #geto angst #jjk spoilers #possibly i have no idea how caught up to the manga the anime is #getou suguru #♡ — jjk

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