xu-ren

[xu-ren]

❅・PARTY 4 U

SYNOPSIS —If there’s one thing Gojo Satoru knows how to do, it’s throw a party, the kind that becomes campus legend by Monday morning. With the grades, the girls, and the frat house loyalty, he seems to have it all. But maybe the real reason behind his biweekly ragers isn’t the crowd or the chaos — maybe it’s the one girl who never showed up.

WC — 5.7k

CONTENT — college/university au, gojo yearns a lot, use of y/n twice, mentions of drugs and alcohol, implied sex, implied hookups, fratboys (ew), i didnt know what to name the frat so we’re using alpha beta sigma, highkey a self insert if you squint :p, readers a year older than Satoru, 100 million time skips

a/n: in case you couldnt tell this is inspired by the great gatsby and party 4 u by charli xcx! im also about to hit exam season so i will be less active ;( huge shoutout to @taomyou for beta reading once again!

masterlist | divider 1 | divider 2 | read on ao3

fratboy!Satoru was whipped.

It all started at the middle of fall semester in his first year.

He’d always been attractive, sure, but after ditching the glasses the summer before highschool, something shifted. By the time senior year rolled around, girls were paying attention. A lot of attention. And it definitely went to his head.

By the second month of university? Satoru was a menace. Flirting with anything that breathed, flashing that stupid smile like it was currency, and always, always showing up at parties like he owned the place. 

He’d secured his spot in one of the university’s top social fraternities within the first week, like it was second nature. By then, rejection had become a foreign concept; he hadn’t heard a “no” in years, not from professors, not from party invites, and definitely not from girls. He strode through campus on confidence alone, all charm and winks, always knowing exactly what to say to get what he wanted.

Unfortunately, Satoru only realized the consequences of skipping half his data lectures when midterms rolled around and suddenly he was cramming in the library at midnight, surrounded by highlighters and half-empty cans of energy drinks.

He was completely unaware of just how unprepared he was. Sure, classes had been in full swing for weeks now, but somehow, between skipping lectures and partying three nights a week, he’d never gotten around to buying the damn textbook.

So here he was, sleep-deprived, dressed in a shirt he didn’t remember owning, trudging into the campus bookstore with the vague hope they still had a copy in stock.

"You got Data and Stats?" he asks the cashier, nodding toward the textbooks behind the counter.

The cashier points a thumb toward the back of the store. “Think there’s one left in the aisle by the back wall,” he says. “But no promises, it might’ve been snagged already.”

He rounded the corner too fast, eyes scanning the shelves, and collided straight into someone—hard enough to knock the breath out of his lungs.

“Shit—sorry,” he said, steadying you with a hand on your arm.

You blinked up at him, eyes wide, textbook already clutched to your chest.

Of course. The last copy.

You raised a brow at him, arms tightening just slightly around the book. “Watch it.”

“My bad,” he grinned, gaze flicking from the textbook to your face. “You a stats major?”

You looked unimpressed. “No. Just reviewing some concepts from first year.”

Satoru’s grin widened. “Smart and older,” he said, almost to himself. “Where’ve you been hiding?”

“I’m not hiding,” you said flatly, stepping to the side.

He followed. “I’m Gojo, by the way. Satoru.”

You didn’t offer your name. Just adjusted your grip on the textbook and said, “Nice.”

“Listen,” he tried again, leaning against the shelf casually, “I’ve been out of the loop, but I’m a fast learner. If you’re already reviewing this stuff, maybe you could tutor me a little? We could grab coffee. I’ll pay.”

You blinked. “You want to bribe me with overpriced caffeine to do your studying for you?”

“Well, when you say it like that,” he said, laughing, “yeah. Pretty much.”

“No thanks,” you said, already turning away.

But Gojo never was the type to take no for an answer, not without trying at least one more time.

“I’ll let you quiz me while I’m shirtless,” he called after you, hands cupped around his mouth. “Strictly for motivation, obviously!”

You didn’t even look back. “Keep the shirt on, Gojo.”

He smirked.

Game on.

Midterms came and went, and for once, Satoru didn’t care about his grades.

He found himself drifting through campus with one thing on his mind…you.

It had been two weeks since the bookstore. You’d turned him down with more ease than most people say hello. For some reason, that only made him more interested.

So, he started asking around.

“Yo, you ever seen a girl on campus? She’s a second year, kinda sharp, kinda scary?” he asked Suguru one night, nursing a red solo cup and leaning on the couch in their frat house.

Suguru squinted at him. “That describes half the RAs on campus. Be specific.”

Satoru sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She had the data textbook. Met her in the bookstore. She made me feel like I was failing a class I wasn’t even enrolled in.”

“Ah.” Suguru looked mildly amused. “You mean the one who told you to keep your shirt on?”

Satoru perked up. “You have seen her?”

Suguru shrugged. “No, you just can’t keep your mouth shut.”

He moved on to others, anyone who might’ve seen you at a party. But none of them had. Not even the quieter, more observant guys who tended to remember faces.

Which only made you more intriguing.

You weren’t a party regular. You weren’t in his classes. You weren’t showing up in any of the circles he ran through, which for a smaller, prestigious university, was definitely odd. It was like you’d vanished.

And Gojo Satoru, for once in his life, was losing his damn mind over someone who hadn’t given him the time of day.

Finals came about, and Satoru was no closer to finding you than he had been two months ago.

At this point, he’d practically become a fixture at the campus bookstore, enough that the cashier, a second-year named Haru, barely blinked when Satoru sauntered in with his usual energy and zero academic urgency.

“Hey,” Satoru leaned on the counter, spinning a pen from the stands between his fingers. “Did she stop by?”

Haru didn’t even look up from their phone. “Dude, I still don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“You know,” Satoru insisted, pushing a hand through his white hair. “She’s like this tall. Smart. Had a data and stats textbook and an attitude problem, ringing any bells?”

Haru finally glanced at him, deadpan. “Do you know how many people in here have an attitude and a stats textbook?”

“She told me to keep my shirt on.”

Pause.

A snort escaped before Haru could stop it. “Okay, that I remember. You were sulking for , like, three hours after that.”

“She was mysterious,” he defended. “It’s different.”

“She rejected you.”

Satoru huffed, flopping over the counter like a kicked puppy. “And now I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Please,” he said dramatically. “If you see her, just text me. I’ll pay you in eternal gratitude. And snacks.”

Haru raised a brow. “You already bring me snacks.”

“Exactly. So now it’ll just be… slightly more motivated.”

They rolled their eyes. “Fine. But you owe me if she’s real and not just some rejection-fueled hallucination.”

“She’s real,” Satoru grinned, standing upright again. “And when I see her, I’m gonna make her fall in love with me.”

“If you say so.”

There was a café about a mile off campus that Satoru had been meaning to try ever since his frat brother and roommate, Suguru landed a part-time job there. Not because he craved overpriced oat milk lattes or wanted to support local businesses, Satoru just liked free things, and free pastries via a friend behind the counter were reason enough to visit.

He had his laptop open, a half-finished spreadsheet glowing on the screen in front of him. To anyone passing by, he looked like the picture of productivity: earbuds in, brows furrowed, iced americano sweating beside his elbow.

In reality, he’d spent the last thirty minutes switching between Excel and an online quiz titled “What type of bread are you?”

(He was sourdough. Apparently because he “looks crusty but has depth.” He wasn’t sure if he should be offended.)

Suguru was behind the bar, sleeves rolled up and hair tied into a messy bun as he wiped down the counter with the kind of slow precision that said I get paid minimum wage. It was a normal, uneventful afternoon.

Until Satoru looked up… and nearly knocked over his drink.

You.

You were here. At this café. Talking to his roommate. Laughing, even, like you two knew each other. Like the universe had some sick sense of humour and decided to drop you into his life again when he least expected it.

He scrambled, nearly choking on his straw before yanking his earbuds out and hissing, “Suguru. Suguru.”

Suguru didn’t even glance up. “You’re not supposed to talk to me when I’m on shift.”

“I’ll Venmo you twenty bucks.”

“You still owe me thirty from last time.”

“Fine. Fifty. Just—who is that?”

Now Suguru looked up, eyes flicking over to where you stood at the register, wallet in hand. “Who? Her?”

“Yes, her. The girl with the nice hair and the resting bitch face… my bookstore girl.”

“Bookstore girl?”

Satoru groaned. “The one who you were just talking to.”

Recognition finally dawned on Suguru’s face. “Ohhh. You mean Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he echoed, the name rolling off his tongue like he’d been waiting to learn it his whole life. “Oh my god, Suguru, tell me everything.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s my fate, obviously, and I need a way in.”

Suguru looked unimpressed. “You mean a way to flirt with her again even though she very clearly rejected you?”

“That was foreplay.”

“That was you being annoying.”

Satoru leaned forward, whispering like it was a matter of national security. “Does she come here often? Is she seeing anyone? What’s her major? What’s her coffee order? Do you think she likes sourdough?”

Suguru blinked slowly. “You are so unwell.”

“Suguru, please,” Satoru whined, clutching his iced coffee like it might soothe the ache of desperation in his chest.

Suguru didn’t even bother to hide the exhaustion in his voice as he wiped down the espresso machine. “Send me my fifty bucks, and I’ll tell you what you want to know when I’m on break.”

Satoru blinked. “That’s blackmail.”

“It’s backpay.”

He groaned but immediately reached for his phone, opening Venmo and aggressively typing in his information before sending the payment.

“Done,” he said, shoving the screen in Suguru’s face.

Suguru glanced at it, then shrugged. “Alright. I’m off in ten. If you’re still here and not dramatically passed out from yearning by then, I’ll spill.”

Satoru leaned back in his seat with a grin that could’ve lit the café. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You never do,” Suguru muttered under his breath.

Ten minutes had never felt longer, but eventually, Surguru sat in front of him, his own coffee in hand. He didn’t even bother with a greeting.

“She’s a bio major,” Suguru said flatly, taking a long sip from his drink. “Wants to be a dentist.”

Satoru blinked. “That’s so hot.”

Suguru sighed, already regretting this. “Of course it is.”

“I mean, come on, she’s smart and she might give me free Invisalign one day?”

“She wouldn’t touch your mouth with a ten-foot pole,” Suguru deadpanned. “She’s focused. Doesn’t party much anymore. Commutes from downtown. No time for idiots.”

Satoru’s grin faltered. “Wait, what do you mean anymore?” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “She used to party?”

Suguru smirked over the rim of his cup. “You asked for info. I didn’t say I’d give it all away for free.”

“Please, Suguru,” Satoru practically begged, lowering his voice and leaning over the table. “I’ll restock the mini fridge this week.”

Suguru didn’t even look up from his drink. “I’d rather not open it and find nothing but melted sugar cubes again.”

“That was one time.”

“It was three times.”

“Suguru.”

He sighed like the weight of Satoru’s desperation was physically exhausting. “Fine,” he muttered, glancing around before lowering his voice. “She used to. But she got caught by a cop in the middle of freshman year.”

Satoru’s eyebrows shot up. “Doing what?”

“Dunno the full story. Something about a bottle and the wrong parking lot. No charges, but she got real quiet after that. Keeps her head down now. Doubt she’d come out again.”

Satoru leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, mind already racing. “Damn.”

Suguru gave him a look. “Don’t get any bright ideas.”

“Too late.”

Satoru’s gone before Suguru even finishes his 10 minute break.

Second year rolls around, and Satoru’s carrying a massive duffel bag up the cracked pavement of his fraternity’s front steps, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the overcast sky. The house is already buzzing with the chaos of returning members—someone’s blasting music on the second floor, someone else is yelling about a missing tub of protein powder, and the front door keeps swinging open with the screech of badly-oiled hinges.

He pauses at the threshold, taking in the scent of old beer and whatever candle someone’s mom insisted on leaving behind.

This year, he’s not a freshman sleeping in storage in the basement. He’s got a real room this time, second floor, corner window, just enough space for a larger mini fridge and his questionable collection of graphic tees. He drops his bag with a dramatic sigh and stretches like he’s been through war, not a 15-minute Uber ride.

He had an idea. A stupid one, maybe. But Satoru Gojo wasn’t exactly known for subtlety.

If the girl wasn’t coming to him, he’d create a reason for her to show up.

So he pitched it—loudly, obnoxiously, and with a whiteboard diagram no one asked for—at the weekly frat meeting.

“A party to start the year,” he declared, slapping the side of the board like it was a car hood. “Biggest of the year. We invite everyone. First-years, second-years, even that weird kid who sells meth outside the math building.”

From the couch, Suguru raised a brow. “Is this about that girl again?”

Satoru didn’t even blink. “No.”

“It’s definitely about the girl,” Suguru muttered, lowly to him.

“I mean, yes,” Satoru admitted, flopping into the armchair. “But it’s also about unity and brotherhood and throwing an insanely sick party.”

No one questioned it, so within three days, the plans were set. DJ booked, lighting rig rented, flyers printed (badly), and kegs on order. The party would be held Friday night, the first real weekend back, perfect timing for people still running on syllabus week energy and free drinks.

The night of the party arrived like a storm.

The house rang with music, lights bouncing off the walls, the bass heavy enough to shake the picture frames in the hallway. Students spilled into the yard, red solo cups in hand, laughter echoing over the sound of cheap EDM and even cheaper vodka.

Satoru had made his rounds. He high-fived half the finance department, danced with someone from the cheer team, and even took a tequila shot with a professor who definitely should not have been there. But , now, he was leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping water, eyes flicking to the door every time it opened.

Still no sign of you.

He wasn’t surprised, not really, but he still felt that tiny sting of disappointment settle under his skin, gnawing quietly.

“Why the long face, Gojo?” a voice purred beside him.

He glanced over. A girl in a too-tight crop top with too-red lipstick batted her lashes at him. She stepped closer, just enough that her perfume hit him in a wave.

“You’re not usually the brooding type,” she said, finger trailing along the hem of his shirt.

Satoru gave her a lopsided grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just waiting on someone.”

She tilted her head. “Well… I’m someone.”

He chuckled, soft but genuine. “Yeah, you are.”

She leaned in, clearly expecting him to meet her halfway, but he didn’t.

Instead, he stepped back, lifting his water cup in mock cheers. “But I’m kinda holding out for a different someone tonight.”

The disappointment on her face was fleeting, quickly masked by a shrug as she wandered off toward the living room.

Satoru stayed there for a moment, alone with the distant thrum of music and his own stubborn hope.

Because you hadn’t come tonight. But that didn’t mean you wouldn’t eventually, and he was willing to wait.

That was the beginning of the social event(s?) of the year.

Every second Friday of the month, Satoru Gojo threw the wildest, most chaotic, most talked-about parties on campus. There was always a theme—90s rave, ski lodge in spring, blue (he never explained that one)—and the house was always packed. Students from all majors, all years, would pile in through the doors, spill out onto the lawn, and stay until sunrise.

At some point, rumor had it a few of the older frat brothers tried to rename the kitchen The Lean Lab after an incident involving what guests thought was purple punch, three freshmen passed out on the back porch, and Suguru handing out electrolytes, still clad in a bonnet and a bathrobe. Satoru never denied the allegation. In fact, he seemed kind of proud.

But no matter how loud the music got or how many people screamed his name when he walked in, Satoru’s eyes always scanned the crowd for you.

He never said it out loud, but his friends knew. Suguru definitely knew. Shoko teased him about it constantly, usually while stealing sips from his cup.

“You know she’s not showing, right?” she’d say, halfway through the second party of the semester. “She’s probably at home doing flashcards and drinking chamomile tea.”

“Let me dream,” Satoru would grin, tossing back his drink anyway.

In January, Satoru saw you again.

He had made a rare, out-of-character decision to actually study for his upcoming tests, a choice motivated less by academic responsibility and more by sheer boredom. Wandering into the campus library, he scanned the rows of private study rooms without much hope…until he saw you.

There you were, seated alone in a glass-walled room, completely absorbed in your notes, highlighter uncapped, earbuds in. The same girl he hadn’t seen since that day at the bookstore. The one he’d lowkey, maybe even highkey, thrown multiple house parties for. 

His feet moved before his brain did.

He rapped his knuckles gently against the door, watching as you glanced up in mild confusion, one earbud popping out.

You blinked at him. “Can I help you?”

Satoru smiled, all charm and false innocence. “Hey. So… I’ve got a huge test coming up and apparently everyone and their mom decided to study today.” He tilted his head toward the other rooms, which were, admittedly, mostly full. “Yours is the only room with space. Mind if I join you? I’ll be quiet. I swear.”

You looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then your eyes flicked to the empty seats beside you.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing the door open wider. “Just don’t talk.”

Satoru grins, slipping inside like he’s just gotten away with a heist. “Scout’s honor.”

You don’t look at him as he settles into the chair across from you. You just go back to your notes, highlighter in one hand, pen in the other. The silence stretches—ten seconds, then twenty. You can feel his eyes on you.

“Are you actually studying?” you mutter without looking up.

“Yup,” he says, cracking open a textbook that still has the price tag on it. “Absolutely.”

You glance up, just in time to catch him upside down trying to read the index. “You’re holding it upside down.”

“Right,” he nods solemnly, flipping it around. “That’s why I wasn’t learning anything.”

Despite yourself, a laugh pushes its way up your throat before you can stop it. You glance at him again, more curious now than annoyed.

“Do I know you?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He leans back in his chair, tossing his pen onto the table with a smug little smile. “You might. I’m unforgettable.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your notes.

“Biochem?” he guesses, nodding toward your open binder.

“Yeah.”

“You wanna be a doctor?”

“Dentist,” you correct, automatic. Then, softer, “Hopefully.”

Satoru’s quiet for a second. “That’s really hot.”

You don’t respond. But this time, when you look up at him, your lips are twitching just slightly.

“You said you wouldn’t talk,” you mutter, shooting him a glare over your notes.

“Hey,” Satoru says, holding his hands up in mock defense. “You talked to me first.”

His eyes lock with yours, and for a second, neither of you says anything. The room is still, save for the distant hum of the lights and the muffled turning of pages from somewhere down the hall.

And even though you’re clearly annoyed, Satoru feels his heartbeat pick up, his mouth suddenly dry. There’s something about the way you look at him, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s worth the energy it takes to deal with him.

He kind of hopes you decide he is.

“I’ll be quiet,” he says again, voice softer this time, less cocky. “Promise.”

You narrow your eyes one last time before turning back to your notes.

“Thanks,” you murmur, scribbling something in the margins of your textbook.

Satoru doesn’t speak after that. But his eyes linger on you just a few seconds longer than they should. He gets up to leave an hour later, stuffing his untouched notes into his bag and already mentally rearranging his schedule. If he moved next week’s party up by a solid seven days, he’d have just enough time to plan something big. Something loud. Something that would, hopefully, catch your attention for more than an hour in a study room.

“Thanks,” he mutters, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

You glance up from your notes and nod, more out of politeness than anything.

Satoru hesitates at the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s suddenly not sure if he should say what he’s about to.

“Um… if you’re interested,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “my frat’s throwing a party on Friday. Alpha Beta Sigma house. You should come.”

You blink at him, eyebrows raised just enough to show surprise. He can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing.

He adds, “There’ll be music. Drinks. Free pizza?” Then, quickly, “No pressure.”

You don’t say anything right away, just look at him for a moment too long, like you’re trying to figure out if this is a setup.

“I’ll think about it,” you say finally, voice unreadable.

Satoru smiles anyway, that lopsided, confident grin that’s gotten him in and out of trouble more times than he can count.

“I’ll save you a slice.”

And with that, he walks out, already pulling out his phone to text Suguru.

[Satoru]: partys on friday. need lights and sound set up. theme ideas???

Your typical Friday in your best friend’s dorm had taken a sharp turn from pizza and Netflix into something straight out of a high school coming-of-age movie. One second it was just the two of you, and the next, a swarm of girls had poured in, arms full of makeup bags and curling irons, shouting over each other about outfits and last-minute costume swaps.

To your dismay, your best friend had caught wind of Alpha Beta Sigma’s Great Gatsby-themed party, and ever since, it was all she could talk about. Apparently, the only way she wanted to ring in her 21st was by flouncing into a frat house full of plastic champagne flutes, men in suspenders, and gold streamers taped to the ceiling.

She'd even lent you a dress, something slinky and glittery that you wouldn’t have picked out yourself, and insisted you had no choice but to come. “You’re my emotional support introvert,” she said, grinning as she tugged a brush through your hair. “If I’m going to get blackout drunk and scream-sing Lana Del Rey on a stranger’s balcony, I want you beside me.”

You sighed, but didn’t fight her. You owed her at least that.

Still, you weren’t expecting to be nervous. Not until you caught sight of your reflection, makeup done and outfit clinging in all the right places.

It’s louder than you expected.

Bass-heavy music pulses through the floorboards, vibrating through your heels and the hem of your borrowed dress. Gold streamers flutter like dying stars in the hallway, and someone spills half a drink as they stumble past you, laughing like the world is ending and that’s the best news they’ve heard all week.

It takes you right back to your partying habits of freshman year. You know that you don’t belong here the moment you slip into the party and feel yourself retreat into the corners of the room, the ones not drenched in strobe lights or attention.

You're tucked into an armchair in what must’ve once been a living room, watching silhouettes dance in slow-motion through the haze of a fog machine someone thought was a good idea. You sip flat soda from a red plastic cup. You told your friend you’d be fine alone for a while—and honestly, you meant it.

That is, until you hear his voice.

“You know,” Satoru says, appearing like some careless daydream beside you. “I think this party was missing something until now.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Me?”

“Exactly,” he says with a grin. “You get it.”

You roll your eyes.

He doesn’t sit too close, but he does sit beside you, shoulders angled just slightly toward yours.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says after a beat, voice quieter now, soft in a way that cuts through the music like it’s meant just for you.

You shrug. “My best friend dragged me.”

“Good friend,” he murmurs. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance at him sideways, the smoke from a fog machine catching in your lashes. “You don’t even know me.”

He smiles, slow and honest. “Not yet. But I’ve been hoping to.”

That makes your stomach flutter, annoyingly so. You look away, focusing instead on the rim of your cup. “You’ve got, what, half the school in your DMs? You sure it’s me you’re hoping to get to know?”

“I’m not interested in half the school,” he says, not missing a beat. “I’m interested in you.”

You continue to glare at him. 

“I’m interested in the girl who told me to shut up in the bookstore like I wasn’t the most charming guy on campus.”

You snort. “You were being loud.”

“You were being cute.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re finally talking to me,” he says, voice dipping low with something fond behind it. “So, impossible’s working out for me so far.”

You meet his gaze this time, steady. “You always flirt like this?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Only when I really mean it.”

You go quiet at that. Not because it’s awkward, but because you feel the tension shift, slightly deeper, slightly heavier.

Satoru notices too. He leans back in the chair, stretching his legs out in front of him, knees brushing yours. “So… what do you actually like doing? When you’re not running from frat parties and causing lost boys to fail their exams.”

You smile at that. “Stuff that doesn’t involve basslines that make my brain rattle.”

He pretends to gasp. “So you’re telling me this isn’t your scene?”

“You’re surprised?”

He shrugs. “A little. Thought maybe you were just elusive.”

“Try allergic.”

“Gotcha,” he says, his smile soft now. “So next time, I’ll skip the party and ask you somewhere quieter.”

Your heart skips once. “Next time?”

“Yeah,” he says simply. “If there’s a chance for one.”

You’re quiet again, but you don’t look away this time.

“…I’ll think about it.”

“You, know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says suddenly, before you can respond. “Since I first met you.”

You glance at him, surprised, and he laughs under his breath.

“I don’t know. There was something about it. About you. I didn’t think it’d stick with me, but it did.”

A part of you wants to ask if this is just more of his usual lines, but something about the way he’s looking at you—less like a dare, more like a confession—stops you.

“Is that why you keep throwing these parties?” you ask, half-teasingly.

He pauses, smile turning sheepish. “Kind of.”

You blink. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You both sit in silence for a second. Satoru’s afraid he’s said the wrong thing. 

“I don’t really do that. Think, I mean. About anyone. Not like that. And I kept thinking I’d just see you again eventually if I kept showing up, if I kept being loud enough or... visible enough.”

You stay quiet, watching him. The party hums on in the distance, but it’s quiet here. Just him and you and the truth beginning to unravel.

“But then I started wondering about you. Like, what kind of music do you listen to when you’re sad? Or if you have a weird food combination you eat when you’re stressed. I want to know if you read the backs of shampoo bottles in the shower or if you sing with your whole chest when you’re alone in the car. I want to know what your laugh sounds like when you really mean it. What kind of drunk you are. If you’ve ever broken a bone. What your childhood best friend’s name was.”

He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “And it stopped being about getting your number or proving anything. I just—I started caring. About you. About the kind of day you’ve had. About whether you ever felt alone even in a room full of people.”

You blink, caught off guard by the honesty. He shrugs, eyes flicking to the cup in your hand before returning to yours.

“I guess I just wanted a chance. To know you. And I get that maybe that’s weird, or a lot, but I’m not really good at pretending I don’t want things when I want them. And you? You’re the first thing I’ve wanted in a long time that isn’t temporary.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he laughs, more to himself than anything.

“God, I sound insane. Like a rom-com stalker. But I swear, I’m not. I just… really, really like you.”

You look at him fully now, really look, and you see the way his leg bounces just slightly, the way his hand flexes around his own cup. He’s nervous. Gojo Satoru is actually nervous.

His voice dips, softer now, less performative.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention,” he says quietly. “And I thought—maybe tonight, I finally would.”

The music shifts to something slower, a synth-drenched beat washing over the room like a lull in a storm. Someone’s laughing down the hall. You swear the whole world softens for a moment.

“So?” he asks, voice low. “Can I take you out sometime? Like, actually out. No frat houses. Just me and you.”

You’re quiet for a moment, watching him.

Then: “Okay,” you say.

His grin grows, eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest flutter.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah,” you confirm. “But only if you actually study next time you’re in the library.”

“Deal,” he laughs. “Swear on my GPA.”

Six months later, you roll over in your bed, expecting the cool brush of your sheets against bare skin, only to be met with warmth.

Your cheek presses lightly against Satoru’s chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat the first sound you register as sleep slips from your body. His arm is already around you, tightening slightly at your movement, like even in sleep he can sense you trying to leave.

You let out a small sigh, content, and burrow closer.

“You’re awake?” he murmurs, voice gravelly and still thick with sleep.

“Barely,” you whisper.

He hums, the sound vibrating beneath your ear. “Good. Stay.”

You smile against his skin, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along the curve of his ribcage. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Mm,” he mumbles, one eye cracked open now. “Didn’t dream about anyone else, right?”

You snort. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Whatever,” he says, half-asleep. “I love you.”

You glance up at him, his snowy lashes fluttering as he begins to open his eyes.

“I’ll allow it,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his chest. He tugs you in tighter, his arms sliding lower over the curves of your bare body until there’s no space left between you. His breath grazes the top of your head as he murmurs, half-lost in the haze of sleep and morning light,.

“I can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”

The quiet admission makes your heart skip. You lift your head just enough to meet his gaze.

You blink slowly, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m the one who should be saying that,” you whisper.

Satoru huffs a laugh but doesn’t let go, fingers tracing lazy patterns down your spine. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “But I’ve had dreams like this before.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “They’ve never felt this good.”

“Whatever you say, Satoru,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just hums, his chin resting on top of your head, arms still wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

It hits you then, how much he’s changed.

Six months ago, Friday nights meant house parties that started with cheap drinks and ended in chaos. A different girl on his arm every week. His name always floating in the air, always said with a giggle or an eye roll. But now?

Now Friday nights mean falling asleep tangled in your limbs, shared takeout containers, and quiet conversations over shows neither of you finish because you’re too busy listening to each other. His phone is always face down. His texts are fewer but more thoughtful. And when someone brings up the next frat party, he waves them off with a shrug, saying he’s already got plans.

Plans that usually involve you, a hoodie that probably used to be his, and a quiet night at home.

Still, it’s hard to resist teasing him, especially when his past is so easy to poke fun at.

“So,” you whisper, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the corners of his mouth, “what’s the theme of tonight’s party?”

He groans softly, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “Hey, you know I only threw those parties for you.”

You snort. “Sure you did.”

pls do not copy, repost, or claim my work as your own :) if you have any issues with what i wrote or noticed any mistakes, let me know privately. thank you for reading <3

[xu-ren]

his better half — dick grayson 

synopsis. how the world’s greatest detectives found out about dick grayson’s secret relationship with his sworn enemy (aka the progression of your relationship with dick grayson).

contents. fluff, whipped!dick (5k words of him pathetically pining), he’s robin then nightwing, catgirl!reader, parallels to cat/bat, 4 times the wayne family swore that there was something going on between you and dick and the 1 time they found out

notes. return of the cat/bat dynamic with dick! prequel to another fic but can be read as a standalone.

It had started back when he was Robin. No matter how many times he outmaneuvered you, no matter how many times he thought he had you cornered, you always slipped through his fingers like smoke, only to reappear with another scheme, another trail of mayhem across Gotham’s streets.

Tonight had been no different. Another failed heist, this time at the Gotham City Museum. But the encounter had turned nastier than usual. 

Now, back in the sanctuary of the Batcave, Dick sat rigid on the medical table, blood still drying on his suit. He hissed as Alfred’s hands stitched his side with a steady rhythm, each tug of the needle igniting a flicker of pain. Still, it was nothing compared to the fire simmering beneath his skin.

He clenched his fists, jaw locked tight. The pain was familiar, but the frustration was harder to swallow. It was you. The way you moved. The way you smiled through a fight. The way you never made it easy for him.

And worse than all of it, the part he hated most— He wasn’t even sure he wanted you to stop.

“She’s so—!” A groan tumbled from his lips, raw and exasperated.

Alfred barely spared him a glance, humming in mild disapproval before fixing him with a withering stare.

“Master Dick, may I ask why you’ve been picking at your stitches from your last encounter with Catgirl?” His voice was patient, but his raised brow was anything but. “These should have healed months ago.”

Dick’s face heated. He ducked his head, hurriedly muttering an, “I know!”

Alfred held his gaze a beat longer, the look in his eyes making it clear he knew more than Dick would ever admit. But, mercifully, he didn’t press.

Dick let out a breath, a fleeting sense of relief settling in, only for it to vanish the moment he felt another presence in the room.

“I see some things haven’t changed,” a deep voice observed from the shadows.

Dick didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The low timbre, the quiet authority, Bruce had perfected the art of making a simple statement feel like a verdict.

Still, he forced himself to meet the man’s gaze. Bruce stood behind Alfred, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.

“B—” Dick started, but Bruce cut him off with a single, measured look.

“You let her get away. Again.”

It wasn’t an accusation, not really. There was no anger in Bruce’s tone, just a sharp-edged assessment, as if he were dissecting the situation piece by piece, searching for a truth Dick wasn’t ready to face.

Dick bristled. “Her arsenal’s expanded since last time. I was caught off guard.”

Bruce didn’t so much as blink. His eyes, naturally cold and unreadable, locked onto Dick, searching, measuring, stripping away every defense with quiet precision.

“One could assume you’re letting her—”

“No.” The denial came too quickly, too forcefully. Dick knew it, and from the way Bruce’s gaze sharpened, so did he.

It was absurd. Robin was a beacon of justice. He didn’t let criminals go just because they happened to be…

Unnerving.

His stomach twisted.

Because they were unpredictable. Reckless. A constant thorn in his side. Because they always seemed one step ahead, because their smirk made his blood run hot, because their laughter had an edge to it that echoed long after they were gone. Because they moved with the kind of sharp, deliberate ease that set his teeth on edge—

Damn it.

Dick clenched his jaw, forcing himself to focus. This wasn’t about her. It never was.

But the irony wasn’t lost on him. Bruce, of all people, had no right to talk. His own history with Catwoman stretched back long before Dick had ever worn the mask.

They stood in silence, neither willing to be the first to break it.

Bruce’s gaze flickered downward, landing on Dick’s freshly closed wound. His posture eased, just a fraction.

“Just be careful, Dick.” The words were quieter, softer.

Dick swallowed the lump in his throat and managed a smirk, the kind that felt more like armor than anything else.

“Yeah. Thanks, B.”

Dick’s just glad no one asks about the wounds you left behind—he likes keeping those for himself.

At the time, everyone brushed off Dick’s strange fixation with Catgirl as a childish rivalry. In fact, Bruce even thought that it was endearing. Everybody knew about Bruce and Selina’s back and forth dynamic, so it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Dick to have something similar. It was normal for heroes to have nemeses. 

However, it was not normal for Dick Grayson to hold on to the strange obsession years after his time as Robin. 

“Funds in the orphanages in the East Ends seem to be mysteriously disappearing,” Bruce said. “Catgirl is requesting for backup in the investigation.”

Tim piped up, “I can–”

“I’ll do it.” Dick had declared.

Everybody looks at him quizzically but doesn’t push it. If Dick was on a case, he usually got the job done quickly and efficiently, no questions asked.

However, something about tonight felt... different. More than a few eyebrows were raised when everyone watched across the comms as you two fought together during the mission. Nightwing and Catgirl, back-to-back, moving in sync as if you'd been rehearsing for this fight your entire lives. It was a fluid, almost practiced rhythm that made the rest of the team pause and wonder—had they missed something?

Red Robin made a snide remark. Oracle went quiet. Even Bruce didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to. The comparison was already there, unspoken but heavy in the air.

The shock wasn't that both Nightwing and Catgirl were working together. Rather, it was shocking how well they worked together. 

The way you anticipated his movements before he made them.  The way he covered you like he’d done it a hundred times before. 

At first, everyone chalked it up to familiarity. The two of you had been fighting each other since your teenage years, after all. History breeds rhythm. But there was something else lurking in the way you spoke to each other—something warmer. Something that had less to do with old grudges and more to do with the kind of intimacy that didn’t fade with time.

“You’re getting rusty, Nightwing,” you called, sidestepping a swinging pipe and landing a clean kick to the thug’s chest.

Nightwing scoffed, flipping over a crate and landing beside you with infuriating ease. “Rusty? I’m the deluxe, high-performance upgrade of Robin. Go ahead, test me out.”

“Tempting,” you said, snapping your whip around another guy’s ankle and yanking hard. “But I don’t test-drive antiques.”

“Ouch,” he winced, slamming his escrima stick into a goon’s ribs. “You wound me.”

“Not as badly as I should,” you smirked, ducking behind him as he blocked a blow meant for you. “Still letting me use you as a shield, huh?”

“Only because you look good doing it.”

There was a brief pause, half a second too long, before you clicked your tongue. “Flirting during a fight? You really have gone soft.”

“I multitask.”

And as the last of the smugglers dropped, groaning on the concrete, the two of you stood back to back, catching your breath. The comms were silent, but only because the rest of the team had gone completely speechless.

“…Do they always fight like that?” Tim finally asked.

“No,” Barbara muttered. “That’s new.”

“They’ve definitely fought before,” said Damian, deadpan. “But I’m starting to think it wasn’t always on rooftops.”

The line went dead with Bruce’s exhale.

And when the mission was finally over and all of the missing funds had been recovered, the smugglers were zip-tied and unconscious— Dick doesn't leave immediately.

He soaks in the quiet thrum of distant sirens and the pulse pounding in his ears.

You were breathing heavily beside him, leaning onto him for support. Your hair was tousled, mask slightly askew, but your smirk was intact, taunting and tired and entirely too irresistible.

“You gonna thank me for saving your pretty face back there?” you asked, arms crossed as you leaned just a bit too close.

He turned to you, one eyebrow raised. “I had it handled.”

“Oh, sure. You ‘handled’ it right into a tripwire.”

“That was strategy,” he said, looking down at you with a grin. “I was drawing them out.”

“You were stalling. Badly.”

“You were watching my back.”

“I always do.”

The air between the two of you tightened. Your usual banter softened into something quieter, something awfully familiar. His hand brushed your wrist, and you didn’t pull away.

“You ever think,” he said slowly, voice low, “maybe we’re better on the same side?”

Your smile flickered. “Dangerous thought.”

“Isn’t that your specialty?”

His hand found your waist, gentle, steadying. Your fingers curled around the edge of his suit. You tilted your head up, lips inches from his, breath warm against his skin.

And then—click.

Static buzzed softly in his ear.

Your eyes widened. “Your comm’s still on.”

He blinked. “Sh—”

“—Nightwing, please tell me we did not just listen to you try to make out with Catgirl mid-mission,” Barbara’s dry voice cut through.

Tim's snort followed immediately. “Can we mute them next time? I’m scarred.”

“Disgusting,” Damian added flatly. “He’s smiling. I can feel it.”

Dick groaned and reached up to yank the comm from his ear, but you were already laughing, backing away with a teasing glint in your eyes.

“You’re cute when you’re caught.”

“And you’re evil,” he muttered, grinning despite himself.

You winked. “You love it.”

And with that, you were gone, leaping off the rooftop like the night belonged to you. Maybe it did.

Dick sighed, still smiling as he turned off the comm and ignoring his family’s bewildered accusations at the interaction.

The next time everyone’s suspicions flared that there was something more going on between Dick and you was during a stakeout.

It was supposed to be a standard nightwatch.

Gotham’s skyline was quiet— by Gotham standards, anyway. Dick was posted up with the rest of the family, patrolling in sync from different rooftops. Chatter filled the comms. Nothing urgent. Nothing personal.

Until he saw you.

Not as Catgirl. But just a regular civillian. Draped across the ledge of a mid-rise rooftop in Old Town. Laughing and relaxed.

With some guy.

Dick’s posture stiffened immediately.

He zoomed in with his scope. Tall. Sloppy smirk. Leaning way too close. And the worst part? You were laughing. Like really laughing. The kind that made your shoulders shake, the kind you used to reserve for those rare post-fight rooftop chats with him.

“Hey, what’s Nightwing staring at?” Tim asked, mild and bored over the comms.

“Target,” Dick replied too quickly. “Suspicious interaction. Female known associate, male unknown. Possible criminal connection.”

“Known associate?” Barbara echoed. “Or—oh wait. Let me guess. Catgirl?”

Silence.

Damian sighed. “He's compromised.”

“Shut up,” Dick muttered, already moving across the rooftop.

He didn’t even wait for backup. By the time he reached them, the guy had just handed something off to you—small, shiny, probably stolen. But before Dick could assess, he was moving. On instinct.

“Step away from her,” he barked, landing hard between them.

The guy barely got a word out before Dick grabbed him by the collar and slammed him into the wall.

“Hey! What the hell—”

Dick didn’t let him finish. One hit. Two. A sweep to the legs. Too fast, too brutal for standard interrogation. The guy went down hard.

“Nightwing!” You shouted, stepping between them. “He wasn’t even fighting back—what the hell is your problem?!”

“He’s a known smuggler,” Dick snapped. “And he had his hands on you.”

“Wow. Jealousy looks great in blue.”

“Don’t make it worse,” he muttered, his eyes still locked on the guy groaning at his feet.

Back on the comms, silence settled in, thick and awkward, before it cracked.

“Wait…” Tim started, his voice laced with confusion. “Why do you care so much that she’s with him?”

“Yeah,” Barbara added, her tone now unusually sharp, “since when is this personal?”

Damian’s voice was almost too quiet, but cutting. “Did I miss something, or is this a... thing?”

Nightwing didn’t respond. His jaw tightened as he turned away, fists still clenched in the aftermath of his uncharacteristic outburst.

And you? You stood a few paces behind him, watching him closely, not angry, not amused. Just curious. Like you were seeing something new. Something that he hadn’t meant to show.

The next night, the Batcave was quieter than usual. The soft hum of the computers and the click of keys filled the air, but there was an underlying tension that none of them could ignore.

Dick sat at the computer, his focus fixed on the screen in front of him, but his thoughts were far from the mission at hand. His mind kept drifting back to that moment with Catgirl, to the way you’d looked at him after he’d snapped on the smuggler. He hadn’t meant to act so... possessive, but it felt almost impossible to push the feeling down.

“Everything’s quiet tonight,” Tim said, breaking the silence. “Guess that’s good news.”

Dick barely responded, just a distracted grunt.

Barbara’s eyes flickered to him, then back to her screen. “You’ve been awfully quiet, Dick. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” he muttered. “Just focusing.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, exchanging a quick look with Damian. “You sure? You’ve been acting weird ever since that last mission.”

Dick stiffened, but he didn’t look up. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Tim said slowly. “You were... different when you were with Catgirl last night. Not just on the mission—before and after. You looked like you were protecting her, but you were also way too harsh on that smuggler. And don’t even get me started on how you acted when you saw her with that guy earlier.”

Barbara tilted her head, clearly intrigued but trying not to push too hard. “It’s not like you’ve never worked with her before. And you’ve never been this... invested. What’s up with that?”

Dick felt his pulse quicken. He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge that his jealousy had gotten the better of him. But here they were, picking at the cracks.

“I was just making sure the mission went smoothly,” Dick snapped, a little more forcefully than he intended. “Nothing else.”

Damian, who had been unusually quiet up until now, finally spoke. His voice was as sharp as ever, but there was a flicker of something behind his words. “You know, I’m not blind. You don’t usually get this... involved with any of our targets, let alone Catgirl.”

Tim leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “Yeah, and what was with the whole thing earlier? You looked like you were about to break that guy in half just because he was talking to her. And I’m pretty sure you’ve never gotten that mad about anyone else on a mission before.”

Dick’s hand clenched into a fist on the desk. “It’s not what you think.”

“Then what is it?” Barbara asked, her voice soft but firm. “Because whatever it is, it’s affecting the team. We don’t need Nightwing going rogue.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Dick could feel everyone’s eyes on him, each of them waiting for an answer he wasn’t ready to give. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words didn’t come.

Instead, he stood abruptly, pushing away from the desk. “We’re here to stop criminals, not gossip about my personal life. Let’s focus on the mission, alright?”

Tim’s eyes narrowed as Dick turned away, but he didn’t press further. The tension in the room, however, remained thick, unspoken.

Damian exchanged a glance with Tim and Barbara, his smirk still present, though his gaze was sharper than before. “This is far from over.”

Bruce, who had been silently observing the entire exchange, spoke up from across the room, his tone unreadable. “Keep it together, Dick. Whatever’s going on, it’s not going to help anyone if it affects the mission.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, refusing to acknowledge the way his heart was pounding in his chest. The family wasn’t entirely sure, but they were starting to connect the dots. And once they did... there’d be no hiding it.

But for now, the only thing he could do was deflect and move forward—hoping the questions would die down. Hoping he could keep the secret a little longer.

Despite his family's gradually growing suspicions, Dick doesn’t exactly make an effort to hide it when you two finally start dating. In fact, if anything, he becomes even more obvious. The room was dim, the only light coming from the soft glow of the city outside the window. Inside, the atmosphere was a world apart from the chaos of Gotham.

Dick was lying on his bed at Wayne Manor, his head resting on the pillow, eyes closed in a rare moment of peace. You were beside him, your fingers gently threading through his hair, the soft touch sending a calm shiver through his body.

"You know, you're making it really hard to keep my cool," Dick murmured, his voice low, almost a hum as he relaxed under your touch.

"Oh, please," you teased, voice light but laced with mischief. "You’re practically radiating smugness. The whole ‘perfect vigilante’ act is getting a little old, you know?"

Dick let out a dramatic sigh, his lips curling into a playful grin. “I can’t help it if I’m a natural at this.”

"Yeah, sure," you said, raising an eyebrow. "Just don’t get too used to it. I’m not gonna make it easy for you."

“Good,” he replied with a wink, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “I like a challenge.”

You both fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that only came when you were together, when the world seemed to fall away. But that peace was shattered with an abrupt, deafening knock on the door.

“Dick!” Jason’s voice boomed from the other side. “Open up! I know you’re in there.”

Dick groaned, pulling his arm over his eyes as if trying to block out the inevitable.

You, unable to resist, sat up slightly, your lips curling into a grin at his frustration. Nonetheless, you shuffle away in the bathroom connected to his bedroom to stay away from Jason’s prying eyes.

Dick sat up quickly, running a hand through his hair in a half-hearted attempt to look more put-together. “I swear, if he barges in here—”

Another knock, louder this time. “You’ve got company, don’t you?”

Dick froze, caught in a moment of shock and embarrassment, but he couldn’t quite hide the flush creeping up his neck. He tried to act normal, shifting on his feet when he finally opens the door. “What are you talking about, Jay?”

Jason raised an eyebrow, smirking. “The I’m getting laid glow. You’ve got it.”

Dick’s jaw dropped, his brain short-circuiting for a second. “What? No—what do you—?”

“Don’t play coy,” Jason said, a cocky grin playing on his lips. “You’re practically walking on sunshine, Dick. You’ve got that ridiculous smile, and the way you’re acting... yeah, I know what’s going on.”

You couldn’t help it; you let out a soft chuckle from your hiding spot, biting your lip to stifle the laugh.

Jason doesn't relent. “So, what’s the deal, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck, a little flustered but trying to maintain his cool. “I’m fine, Jay. Just... focused.”

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure. I don’t believe you for a second.”

Before Dick could say anything else, Jason added, “You’ve just got that look. You know, the one you get when—” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air.

Dick’s face flushed even deeper. “This is ridiculous. You’re overthinking things.”

Jason paused, eyes narrowing in a mix of amusement and suspicion. "You’ve been acting different lately, and I’m not blind, you know. Something’s going on."

Dick, who’d been doing his best to look unaffected, now turned his back to Jason, muttering under his breath, “I’m just... not in the mood for your games, Jay.”

He's glad to finally pique Jason's interest, but it was for all the wrong reasons.

Jason, however, was not ready to let this go. “Oh, I’m not playing any games. But you’re acting like a damn schoolboy who’s got a crush. And it’s pretty damn obvious."

You stayed out of sight, peeking your head slightly from the bathroom door, listening to the exchange unfold. Your heart raced slightly from the tension, but you couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

Jason was right—Dick had been acting different. But it wasn’t just his look or his smile. There was something in the way he’d been so much more... himself around you lately. More relaxed. More playful.

And Jason was definitely noticing.

“I’m not a schoolboy, Jay,” Dick finally snapped, turning around to face him again, his arms crossed in a defensive manner. "You’re seeing things.”

“Am I? Or is that just your smug ass trying to cover up whatever it is that’s going on?" Jason leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed as well, but his smirk was all knowing. “Look, it’s fine. But if you’re gonna act like this, I’m going to start questioning things.”

Dick opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, Jason raised a hand. “Save it. I’m not here for a lecture. Just know that I see what’s happening.”

There was a moment of silence as Dick stood frozen, unsure of how to keep denying it. He hadn’t realized just how obvious it had become until Jason called him out on it.

Jason’s grin only widened, clearly enjoying his older brother’s discomfort. “Anyway, I’ll let you get back to... whatever it is you’re doing.” He motioned to the room dramatically. “I don’t need to be here for the awkward afterthought phase.”

Dick let out an exasperated sigh as Jason turned to leave. “You better not say anything to anyone.”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’s our little secret,” Jason replied, turning back toward the door. “Just know that if you start dropping hints, I’m not gonna be the one to blame.”

Before Dick could retort, Jason was gone, leaving the door swinging slightly in his wake.

You stepped fully out of the bathroom then, finally walking back into the room with a mischievous grin on your face. "Well, that was fun," you said, leaning against the doorframe as you watched Dick run a hand through his hair again in frustration.

“Don’t even say it,” Dick groaned, sinking back onto the bed. “I swear, he’s got nothing better to do than mess with me.”

“I did try to stay out of sight,” you teased, walking toward him and sitting beside him on the bed. “But you’re just too cute when you’re all flustered.”

He gave you an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Not cute. Annoyed. Annoyed, embarrassed, and—" He let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm never going to live this down."

You laughed softly, leaning against him. “Nope. You’re not.”

His arms instinctively wrapped around you, pulling you closer. “Why do you make me look so obvious?”

“You’re making it easy,” you replied with a smirk, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean, you can’t walk around glowing like you just got laid and not expect anyone to notice.”

Dick let out a deep sigh but couldn’t hide the smile creeping up his face. “I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”

“Because you like me,” you said with a wink, nudging him playfully.

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the manor, Jason was already halfway to the kitchen, his grin never fading. He might not know everything, but he knew enough. And maybe, just maybe, he'd wait a little longer to see how long it took for the rest of the family to figure it out.

But one thing was for sure: he was enjoying the drama.

It was only a few short weeks after Jason's confrontation that the truth finally came out. How everyone found out was a complete accident. But, as with most things in Dick Grayson’s life, he was painfully aware of how unlucky he truly was.

It started like any ordinary morning. Quiet, uneventful, but peaceful.

Dick was lounging in the common room, sipping on his coffee, savoring the rare moment of solitude. He’d woken up earlier than usual, feeling content and unusually relaxed after the time spent with you. Everything felt... normal. Peaceful. That was, until everything suddenly took a turn for the worse.

The moment the door swung open, the calm atmosphere shattered. Dick’s gaze darted up to see Bruce walking in, his expression unusually serious, his features set in that familiar, unreadable way.

Dick had thought he was alone. Home alone. He’d been looking forward to a quiet day to himself, relishing in the rare peace that the manor offered. But now, as Bruce stepped into the room, and Dick caught sight of Tim, the panic hit him. His heart leaped in his chest, pounding violently.

His stomach twisted in that familiar, sickening way as the reality of the situation settled in. Tim was home. Bruce was home. They’d found out. And now, it was all crashing down at once.

Dick’s body stiffened, and for a split second, he thought about bolting. But instead, he just froze, internally cursing his luck. The one time he’d let his guard down, and of course, everything went horribly wrong.

"Dick," Bruce started, his voice low but carrying that edge of parental authority that Dick could never quite get used to. "We need to talk."

Dick immediately groaned, sinking further into his chair. “I’m not really in the mood for a ‘talk,’ Bruce.”

“You should be. Someone’s been snooping around your room,” Bruce said, his tone even, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “And they found... lady garments.”

Dick’s face flushed a deep shade of crimson. “I... what? Who said that?”

Tim, who’d been in the room pretending to read his tablet, looked up with a smirk. “Oh, I was the one who found them. Couldn’t miss the cat suit, man. A cat suit? Really? Come on, that’s... weird, bro.”

Dick shot a glare at his younger brother, feeling his face heat up even more. “That’s not—Tim, I swear to God, you have no boundaries.”

Bruce was still giving him that look, the one that meant he was both disappointed and extremely curious about how his son had gotten himself into this mess. “Dick, you need to be careful. This is Wayne Manor. It's not exactly private here. If you're—"

“Bruce, please,” Dick interjected, his voice sharp. “You’re making it sound like I’m hiding a body in there.”

"Are you?" Tim asked innocently, clearly enjoying every moment of Dick’s discomfort. “Because that would explain the whole ‘hiding cat suits’ thing. Is it a fetish thing, or just... a weird hobby? Can’t tell, honestly.”

Dick sat up straight, his hands clenching into fists. "I don’t have a cat fetish, Tim. And can we just not do this? Please?”

But Bruce wasn’t letting it go. “You can’t be so reckless, Dick. You have to think about how your actions affect those around you, especially in a house like this. What if someone else finds out?”

Dick panicked for a second. What if someone else finds out?

“I’m not exactly hiding it, Bruce!” he groaned, running a hand over his face in frustration. “Why are you acting like I’m doing something terrible? And why are you acting like I’m the one being reckless? I’ve been a vigilante for years! I think I know how to keep my... personal life... private.”

“Then why the cat suit?” Tim asked, deadpan.

Before Dick could answer—or yell—at his younger brother, the door to the hallway creaked open, and suddenly, your voice echoed from the other side, confused but curious. “What’s going on? Dick, why are you groaning so much?”

Dick’s heart sank. He’d wanted to be home alone, to enjoy a few hours of peace with you. But now... he realized it wasn’t just Bruce and Tim who had ruined that quiet morning. You—the woman of the hour— was standing on the other side of the door too.

The silence in the room became instant and suffocating. Bruce's gaze shifted toward the door, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Is that... her?”

Tim’s grin widened like he’d just hit the jackpot. "Well, well, well, if it isn't the mysterious Catgirl herself."

Dick’s heart sank even further. He didn’t think he could be more mortified, but somehow, it was happening. How? How could he have misjudged this moment so badly? Panic twisted in his chest, and he stumbled for words. “No, no, wait, it’s not like that, okay?” he stammered, his voice cracking under the weight of the embarrassment.

But your entrance only made things worse. You walked into the room, towel wrapped around your damp hair, still drying off from your shower. You had heard Dick groaning from the hallway and were just trying to figure out what was going on, completely unaware that things had already spiraled into uncomfortable territory.

You froze when you saw the three of them in the room, and Bruce’s laser-focused stare locked onto you.

Great, Dick thought, his entire world collapsing in slow motion. This was it. The beans were spilled.

You glanced over at Dick, your gaze flicking to his flushed face, and then back to Bruce, Tim, and the awkward tension that filled the room.

“Oh,” you said, voice light but tinged with humor, crossing your arms over your towel. “So... this is what’s going on? This is... the talk?”

Bruce’s stare was unwavering. “What exactly is going on here?”

Dick immediately jumped to his feet, hands held out in an almost defensive manner. “It’s not—! Bruce, please, it’s not what you think! We didn’t—”

You cut him off with a sly grin, leaning against the doorframe. “I guess I’m the lady who’s been leaving garments around,” you teased, clearly enjoying the shock on Dick’s face. “Maybe next time I’ll just leave a note?”

Dick groaned again, but this time, it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was more like he wanted to just disappear into the floorboards. He couldn’t even look at Bruce or Tim, he was so caught in the uncomfortable web that everyone had just helped weave.

Bruce’s lips thinned, his face unreadable as he slowly processed the situation. “I think we need to have a very different kind of conversation...”

Tim, however, was practically vibrating with excitement. “This is the best thing that’s happened all week. I knew there was something fishy going on with you two.”

You just rolled your eyes, not letting Dick get away with it. “Yeah, well, now that the cat’s out of the bag...” you teased, walking further into the room and giving Dick a playful shove, “... maybe we can all stop pretending we’re completely clueless.”

Bruce took a deep breath, his gaze softening slightly. “I expect both of you to be careful and respect the boundaries of this house.”

You chuckled lightly, but Dick just nodded, feeling utterly humiliated. “Right. Got it.”

As you looked at Dick, you could tell he was both relieved and mortified at the same time. Bruce was still processing the whole thing, but at least it was out in the open. Well, almost. Jason had yet to say anything, but you could already imagine the next round of teasing.

"Alright, well, I’m going back to not doing anything weird," Dick mumbled, his face still flushed as he walked toward the door, clearly ready to leave this conversation behind.

Bruce didn’t follow him immediately. He simply gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to you. “Just remember, I expect discretion.”

“Oh, we know,” you said, already turning to Dick with a smirk.

And with one awkward silence after another, Dick's relationship with you was no longer a secret. It was now part of Wayne Manor’s unofficial family gossip.

thanks for reading!

[xu-ren]

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. Curiosity. Science.”

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. Ten 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 DJ 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—determined, dangerous, hopeful. Maybe it was Shoko promising she wouldn’t let you walk out of her apartment looking like a clown. 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 the edge of your coat. 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, loyal 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. Like every unanswered question finally getting its answer.

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!

[xu-ren]

happy wife, happy life  — gojo satoru

synopsis. not fawning over his wife may prove to be harder than gojo thought.

contents. fluff, gojo is so whipped for his wife and everyone is tired (whats new), ooc gojo?

notes. this was pure self indulgence. i wanted to slander and coddle gojo all at once and this was it teehee :3

the first thing you hear when you stand up to leave the staff meeting is a wolf whistle.

“looking good,” satoru looks you up and down. you roll your eyes playfully, your husband’s behavior is not foreign to you. he taps your upper thigh, dangerously close to your butt as you take your leave. however, the others in the room don't take kindly to the action.

“highly inappropriate behavior gojo,” utahime mutters under her breath from across the table. beside her, nanami is giving your husband a hard stare. 

satoru pays no mind to them though, smiling up at you as you walk out of the room. you shake your head when he continuously blows a series of kisses. he ignores your rejection, opting to mouth crude comments instead.

the moment the door shuts, the strongest sorcerer immediately deflates, disinterested in whatever matters the rest had to discuss about. 

“i don’t know how she puts up with you,” utahime takes a long sip out of her cup of tea. beside her, shoko snorts.

“probably for his body.” shoko is not unfamiliar with satoru’s antics, having witnessed it since his rowdy school days. she applauds him for coming far with you, but it was still fun to tease him.

gojo crosses his arms, emitting a disgruntled sound. “and my golden personality?”

nanami sighs, “ieiri’s conclusion is most likely right.”

the limitless user wiggles his finger playfully. “nanamin, how scandalous of you to fantasize about my body! i’m a married man y’know~” 

nanami looks like he has eaten something sour. unlike you, nanami’s attitude towards gojo has not softened as the years passed.

“i’m surprised she’s still with you.” utahime snickers. “she’s a sensible woman and you’re–” 

satoru frowns at her statement.  he’d never thought about how you felt about his behavior. perhaps that was his fatal flaw. gojo satoru had a nasty streak of negligence. and the last time he failed to notice someone dear to him —   

“well i’m glad she ended up choosing me, yeah?” his frown is quickly covered up by the wide smirk on his face. he leans back on his chair that’s starting to feel less comfortable by the second. the chair creaks under the weight of his body. honestly, how old are these old wooden things? “as much as i’d like to keep chatting about my lovely wife, i’d like to get this meeting over with so i can see her again.”

the rest of the meeting ensues as usual.

“sensei has been weird… right?” itadori offers his hand after knocking megumi down during a sparring match. the black haired boy grunts as he is pulled up.

“if by weird, you mean normal.” megumi glances back at you and gojo who are watching intently at the first and second years practicing close combat on the training field. it was a bit peculiar to see satoru not throw himself all over you. gojo without pda is like a jigsaw puzzle missing its most essential piece, leaving the overall picture incomplete and lacking the electrifying energy that defines his existence. 

“i feel like i should be happy, but it’s unsettling to see him not initiating some misconduct. do you think they’re fighting?” nobara is panting on the grassy floor. she raises her hand in surrender when maki leaps in to take her head off with a spear.

maki retracts her blade, turning back to observe you and gojo, “nah, gojo would fold at her command.” 

“salmon.”

from across the training field, you turn to your husband nervously, “why are they staring at us?”

satoru hums, his blindfolded gaze focuses on the field in front of you, “hm, maybe they’re admiring their very beautiful [name] sensei.” the blindfolded man pauses. compliments should still be okay– right? satoru can’t imagine a life without lavishing you with love, yet he will content himself with gently sprinkling you with affection. 

you smack his shoulder playfully. to your surprise, your husband doesn’t reciprocate with some form of physical affection. you tilt your head, perplexed. 

quickly dismissing it, you yell at your students to continue their training.

you don’t notice the way satoru clenches his fists, keeping his eyes trained anywhere but you.

the next time satoru is tempted by your presence is when he comes back home after a mission. it was a walk in the park, but the heavy stack of paperwork that followed it had depleted his energy. all he wanted was to snuggle in bed with his wife, selfishly keeping you all to himself.

and you’re not making it easier to resist with the way you warmly greet him with a smile in nothing but a small cotton tee and those tiny pajama shorts. eyes up, eyes up, eyes up, satoru mentally chants.

he thinks he might actually die.

“toru!” you abandon the book you had been reading to pay your husband taxes (kisses that satoru demands he must have). “you’re home awfully late.”

“mission… paperwork,” his clipped response is mumbled as he hurries past you and to your shared bathroom, avoiding your touch. satoru silently prays to the heavens that you don’t notice his suspicious efforts as he makes his way to take a much needed ice cold shower.

you stand in your spot in confusion, letting your husband go. slowly, you start to connect the pieces of satoru’s strange behavior from his refusal to touch you to his sudden responsible disposition. gojo satoru never does paperwork– not unless you bribe him with a dozen kisses. speaking of kisses, you don’t even remember the last time he had demanded one. something was definitely wrong. 

without missing a beat, you quickly follow your lover’s trail into the bathroom.

to your delight, your husband had failed to lock the door. in the hush of your silence, you can hear the subtle rustle of satoru's garments.

his sky blue eyes go wide when he sees you walk through the door.

“toru… is there something wrong?” your voice is careful. 

the white haired man in front of you nervously laughs as he covers his bare chest, “geez, ask me out to dinner first.” 

“gojo satoru.”

your husband winces at his full name being used, but he puts on another mask. a faux smile plays on his lips as he shrugs. “i don’t know what you mean, gojo.” 

your heart drops at his insistence to shut you out, but you stand your ground. with sheer determination, you walk up to your husband, closing the gap between the two of you. you cup his cheek with a hand while you start to lean closer, your lips nearly brushing.

satoru shuts his eyes, inhaling a deep breath to regain composure. he even sucks in his lips, making him look utterly ridiculous. despite the dangerous allure of your proximity, he resolves to stand firm.

"you won’t even kiss me anymore! satoru, this is absurd. what's happening?" you distance yourself, seeking answers.

despite his towering stature, a snort escapes you as satoru resembles a mere child when mumbling something under his breath.

"come on, use your big boy words."

"i don't want to drive you away," he avoids making eye contact now that his blindfold is off. "i know i can be a bit overwhelming at times."

upon hearing his excuse, you snort loudly, “seriously?”

“seriously.”

“i can’t believe i married such an idiot.” you huff, wrapping your arms around his neck.

satoru pouts, “you’re breaking my heart wifey.”

your lips softly kiss the corner of his mouth. like it was muscle memory, satoru’s lips chase yours even after you pull away. you smile.

“for such a genius, you really are stupid ‘toru.” you flick his forehead. he whines and you know it didn’t hurt, yet you entertain him by leaning up to kiss his injury. “believe it or not, i married you for reasons beyond your pretty face and body.”

“you think i’m pretty?” his eyes shine bright as they lovingly gaze into yours. you take one hand to cup his cheek. he nuzzles his face into it.

“of course you’d say that.” you laugh softly. “but honestly, i’m offended that you thought i would ever be annoyed by your affections. might i remind you that we have been madly in love since our youth? i found myself captivated by your ability to love effortlessly, and the way you hopelessly pined for me for years? i knew i was a goner. that… and your bank accoun–”

satoru kisses you with an intensity that leaves you feeling blissfully lightheaded. lost in the haze of the moment, he showers the rest of your face with tender, wet kisses, and you stand there, surrendering to the sweet assault.

upon withdrawing, satoru wears a broad grin. "i was an idiot today, wasn't i?" you nod, breathless. "how about i make it up to you tonight?" he proposes, drawing you close. you are all too familiar with that feral grin adorning his face.

[xu-ren]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. two weeks have slipped by since you disappeared from the emperor’s life. the palace whispers of his unraveling, but no one dares to name the madness consuming him.

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. not proofread once again, but at least all 8k words are finally done. until the epilogue!

series masterlist | chapter 2/2

It has been two weeks since your disappearance. 

Nobody knows where you’ve gone to. Or why. 

Synchronously, the palace had fallen into a hush. The kind that stretched beyond walls and courtyards, embedding itself in the bones of the imperial court. Servants whispered behind their sleeves. Nobles watched the throne with cautious eyes. The emperor, Japan’s strongest man, was unraveling. And nobody knew why.

The stench of alcohol clung to Gojo Satoru. Expensive sake pooled in ceramic cups, the scent sharp and sickly, mixing with the musk of sweat and silk. The chamber was a mess, toppled dishes, shattered glass, the remnants of a feast he hadn’t touched. A single candle flickered on the lacquered table, its wax melting into a slow, steady pool. The shadows cast by the flame twisted along the walls, stretching long and jagged, like ghosts reaching for him.

Gojo slumped against his seat, his white hair, usually snowy white, now fell in wild, overgrown tufts, obscuring his vision in uneven strands. His ceremonial robes, woven in silk and embroidered with the insignia of the Gojo Clan, hung loose around his frame. His fingers twitched over the rim of an empty goblet, a silent tremor betraying the rage simmering beneath his skin.

His breath was slow, methodical. 

Himiko entered without announcement, the sound of her embroidered slippers tapping against the floor. Her robes shimmered under the candlelight, crimson and gold, a deliberate echo of the imperial crest. She was the picture of regality: poised, calculating, her scent perfumed with jasmine.

“You’ve been drinking again,” she observed, her voice smooth yet edged with unspoken frustration.

Gojo didn’t bother lifting his head. Instead, he chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. He tipped his goblet back, only to find it empty. A scowl twisted his lips as he tossed it aside. The metal clattered against the floor, rolling to a stop against shattered glass.

“Would you like a prize for your deduction?” His voice was hoarse, his throat burned raw from drink.

She ignored his bitterness and stepped closer, fingers trailing along the lacquered table, grazing over his discarded robes. The action was slow, deliberate.

“Tell me, Satoru…” she murmured, her voice as soft as silk, as sharp as a blade. “Why do you waste yourself like this?”

His fingers curled into a fist.

Himiko’s eyes flickered, catching the movement. She stepped closer, her presence heavy in the candlelit chamber. “You were born to rule,” she continued, her words laced with honey and venom alike. “And yet, you let yourself fall into ruin over a woman who no longer wants you. A personal servant, much less.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“She has severed all ties with you,” Himiko pressed, her tone almost pitying. “After your stunt in the ceremonial hall she will never bat an eyelash at you again. And now, her clan whispers of rebellion in the capital. The elders demand retribution.”

Gojo’s breath was slow, methodical.

“The Gojo and Zenin clans must unite,” Himiko continued, watching him carefully. “For the first time in history, we will restore order. We will fulfill your destiny.”

She leaned in, her touch featherlight as her fingers trailed down his chest, the brush of her nails just barely felt through his robes.

“And,” she whispered, voice dipping lower, “you will have me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The candle’s flame flickered, the shadows shifting along the walls.

Gojo let out a slow, shaky breath. His head tilted back against the chair, his gaze hooded, unreadable. The weight of something unseen pressed against him, pushing him deeper into his own destruction.

Finally, he spoke.

“Fine.”

A victorious smile curled on Himiko’s lips.

But then, the doors burst open.

The impact sent a gust of air through the chamber, causing the candle to flicker wildly.

A new presence entered, stepping through the threshold like ink spilling across the pristine floors. Dark robes trailed behind him, blending into the shadows. His expression was unreadable, but his golden eyes gleamed with something knowing.

“Your Majesty,” Geto drawled, his voice smooth, stepping forward. “You called.”

Gojo frowned, his gaze shifting. “Suguru.”

Geto gave a short, practiced bow, the movement fluid. 

The Emperor stares at him, “You are my most trusted ally.”

“A honor that I hold dear, yes.” Suguru’s head is still ducked, waiting for permission to be lifted.

A strange tension filled the air. The kind that was razor-thin, ready to snap.

Gojo’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his chair, the sound slow, calculated. Then, his foot lifted, pressing beneath Suguru’s chin, forcing his head up until their gazes met.

A pair of icy cerulean orbs bore into plum ones.

“You would never do anything to betray my trust, no?”

The room turned frigid.

Suguru’s entire body tensed, though his face remained still. The weight of those words pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The deadly tone, Gojo’s battle tone, was one Suguru had only ever heard on the battlefield, when his friend was overtaken with bloodlust.

He felt his blood go cold.

“No, of course not.” His head remained low, eyes staring at the spilled wine pooling along the floor, the blood-red liquid almost taunting him. A warning.

“Then tell me that the rumors are false, dear friend.”

Suguru’s eyes flickered.

Gojo pressed harder with his foot. “Tell me that you did not let my [Name] leave.” His voice trembled, cold and sharp. “Tell me that you did not send her a carriage.”

Silence.

“Tell me that you did not leave her in the hands of another man after I had worked so hard to bring her back.”

Suguru said nothing.

And that was the confirmation Gojo needed.

His hands clenched. His chest heaved.

And then,

“I TRUSTED YOU!”

The chamber shook as Gojo kicked Suguru back, sending him crashing into a wooden table. Artifacts shattered, glass shards scattering across the floor.

Himiko shrieked at the violent display.

Suguru groaned, coughing as the pain tore through his ribs. He barely flinched at the glass buried in his side. Instead, he tilted his head, wiping the blood from his lip.

“She made her choice.” His voice was eerily calm.

Gojo froze.

His breath hitched, stomach twisting

“You don’t know that.” His voice was hoarse, cracking beneath the weight of his own grief. The emperor grabbed a dagger, well hidden in his garments and held it in Suguru’s direction.

Himiko scoffed.

“Why does it matter?” she demanded, stepping between them, fury flashing in her gaze. “She is nothing now! She abandoned you. She left you for another man–”

“Shut your mouth,” Gojo snapped.

Himiko stiffened, stunned by the venom in his voice.

“You chose me!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “You made your decision.”

“Because I had no choice!” His roar was thunderous, shaking the very foundation of the palace. His breath was ragged, vision tunneled. “But if I did,” He swallowed hard, the taste of regret thick in his throat.

His voice wavered, quieter now.

“If I did… it would have never been you.”

Silence.

Suguru exhaled, tilting his head. “I told you,” he murmured, watching the scene unfold with mild amusement. “You should have let her go when she asked.”

But Gojo Satoru, Emperor of Japan, the strongest man alive, had never known how to let go.

“If you want to live, you will follow my next command carefully.”

The village was quiet in the way only forgotten places could be, tucked away between rolling green fields and a quiet forest.

Unlike the grand palaces and bustling cities, this place moved at its own pace, undisturbed by the heavy weight of politics and war. Here, the air smelled of damn earth and fresh rice paddies, of firewood burning in stone hearths, of crisp morning dew that clung to thatched roofs, mingling with the distant sound of laughter from children playing. The dirt paths were lined with modest homes, their roofs sagging under years of wear. 

It had been two weeks since your disappearance. Two weeks of living as someone else.

Gone were the weight of expectations heavy upon your shoulders. Your hands, once unblemished and soft, now bored faint callouses from work you were never meant to do. And you didn’t mind.

“[Name].”

A familiar voice, steady and unmistakable cut through the quiet morning. You turned, catching sight of Nanami standing near the well, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A basket of vegetables hung from his grasp, the crisp greens contrasting against his neutral-toned kimono. His expression, as always, was measured.

A quiet sigh left your lips, “You’re back early.”

Nanami stepped forward, his glaze flickering down to your hands, observing the red marks on your palms from the rough mortar and pestle. He frowned.

“You shouldn’t be doing this kind of work,” he said, voice low but firm. “You’ll only injure yourself.”

“I’m fine.”

He didn’t seem convinced. But instead of arguing, Nanami placed the basket down and gestured for you to follow him back towards the small house you shared. The villagers were already accustomed to seeing the two of you together, and while they didn’t openly question your presence, there was an unspoken distance between you and them.

As you walked beside him, you caught glimpses of their gazes, wary, guarded.

You  adjusted the strap of your bag, “They won’t even look at me in the eye,” you muttered as the other villagers brushed past you without a second thought. “Why?”

Nanami didn’t look at you immediately, instead adjusting his grip on the basket. “They don’t know who you are.”

“That’s exactly why they don’t trust me.” You exhaled sharply. “I don’t blame them.”

A pause.

Then, Nanami glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “It’s not just that.”

You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

His steps slowed as the two of you reached the wooden house, a modest structure, small but well-kept. He set the basket down on the porch, and after a beat of silence, he gestured to you.

“Look at yourself.”

You frowned but obeyed, glancing down at your clothes. “And what of it?” You eyes trail down to the garments. The robes you worn, though simple, were still of a higher quality than the villagers. The stitching, the cut, the deep indigo dye that refused to fade even after days of wear. The silk made you stick out like a sore thumb, but surely it was not envy that caused the entire village avoid you like the plague. These fabrics were a gift from your former mentor Yaga, after all. You couldn’t simply dispose of them.

“The embroidery on your robes, the color… no one other than those of the Imperial Royal Family may be adorned in it.” He exhaled, voice lowering. “It all says one thing: you belong to the emperor.”

A chill ran down your spine.

You swallowed.

Nanami studied your reaction before exhaling, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It was always him,” he murmured.

You looked up. “What?”

“He never let you out of his grasp.” His voice was quiet but weighted. “Even now, when you’re here… Gojo still lingers.”

The name alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Your fingers clenched at the fabric of your robes, suddenly feeling suffocated by it. You had spent so long trying to distance yourself from him, from the golden cage he had kept you in. And yet, here you were.

Still marked by him.

“Well then I need to get myself new clothes,” your hands fidgeting with the rich fibers of your clothing.

“No need,” Nanami pauses his ministrations to look at you. “I’ve already talked to the local seamstress and requested a much more appropriate wardrobe for you.”

For the first time in weeks, you feel a smile form on your face, “Just what would I do without you, Nanami?”

“I wonder the same thing,” he mutters, but you can hear the jest in his voice. He turns away to hide the small smile on his lips.

“Oh, you!” You point straight at the curve of his lips, disregarding the dirt on your hands. He tries to wave them away. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you are an eunuch you would make a damn good husband.”

“That’s… highly inappropriate for you to say,” a flush of pink makes its way to his face.

“Loosen up,” you shrug. “We’re not in the palace anymore.”

“There could be listening ears.”

“Here?” You scoff. “No way. They’ll never find us.”

A gust of wind passed through, rustling the trees. The scent of rain hung in the air, thick and heavy.

You followed him onto the porch, sinking down onto the wooden steps. A comfortable silence stretched between you both.

Nanami turned his head slightly. “Did you ever love him?”

The question wasn’t unexpected. But the answer…

Your hands tightened in your lap. Your chest ached.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I did.”

Nanami hummed, as if he already knew.

You bit your lip, gaze distant. “And that’s what makes it so hard.”

Nanami nodded, his usual sharp demeanor softening. “Love is never simple.”

You turned your head, looking at him with something close to curiosity. “Have you ever been in love, Nanami?”

For the first time that morning, you saw the corner of his lips twitch upward in something resembling amusement.

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

You raised a brow. “What would you call it, then?”

Nanami exhaled, resting his elbows on his knees. “An unfortunate attachment.”

That made you laugh, genuinely. The sound was warm, familiar, a reminder of a life before everything unraveled.

The tension in your chest eased, just slightly.

The wind blew again, carrying with it the distant laughter of children, the sound of a woman calling her husband home, the rustling of bamboo trees swaying in the breeze.

For a moment, just a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this could last.

That this small, quiet life could be yours.

The village was peaceful that evening.

The last remnants of sunlight bled into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep amber and violet. The rice paddies stretched far into the distance, their golden stalks swaying gently with the breeze. Smoke curled from the thatched roofs of houses, the scent of simmering miso and fresh grain filling the air. Children ran through the dirt paths, their laughter ringing out like wind chimes, their innocence untouched by the quiet storm that lurked on the horizon.

You stood at the entrance of your small home, eyes trained on the fading sun. A cool wind brushed against your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. Something about the stillness of the evening set you on edge, like the world itself was holding its breath.

Behind you, Nanami finished setting the table, his movements practiced and efficient. “Come inside,” he called, his voice steady as ever. “It’s getting cold.”

You hesitated, something in your gut twisting.

You had felt this before. A warning. A shift.

Slowly, you stepped inside, closing the wooden door behind you. The candlelight flickered, casting soft shadows against the walls. Nanami had prepared a modest meal, steamed rice, pickled vegetables, miso soup with tofu. You sat across from him, but the unease in your chest remained.

Nanami noticed. He always did.

His gaze flickered up, studying your expression. “You’re unsettled.”

You exhaled, pressing your palms against the warm ceramic of your bowl, seeking comfort in its heat. “It’s… too quiet.”

“The village is always quiet at this hour,” he pointed out.

You shook your head. “Not like this.”

A pause. Then, Nanami set down his chopsticks. “You sense something.”

You swallowed. “Don’t you?”

Nanami didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping against the wooden table in thought. Finally, he spoke.

“There have been whispers.”

Your breath hitched. “What kind of whispers?”

He looked at you then, and something in his gaze was heavier than before.

“The kind that don’t reach villages like this unless they are meant to be heard.”

The food in your mouth suddenly tasted like dust.

Nanami continued, voice even but firm. “Travelers passing through have spoken of movement in the capital. The Zenin and Gojo clans are consolidating their forces after rumors of resistance in this region.”

Your stomach twisted.

The Gojo and Zenin clans consolidating must only mean one thing. 

Your fists clenched beneath the table. “It’s him, isn’t it? He married Himiko—and now they’re coming for us, calling it treason.” No matter how powerful Suguru was, you knew his silver tongue and lofty rank could only shield you for so long.

Nanami studied you for a moment. “There’s no confirmation.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “It doesn’t need confirmation.”

Because of course it would be him.

Who else could unite the two most powerful clans in Japan? Who else had the power to move an entire army without resistance? Who else had enough obsession to still chase you after all this time?

Nanami sighed, his expression unreadable. “If it is him… then this village may not be safe much longer.”

The air around you grew suffocating.

He was coming.

The weight of that realization settled deep into your bones, into the very marrow of your being. The small, fleeting life you had begun to carve out here, the quiet mornings, the warmth of the village, the laughter of children, the routine of simple tasks. It was all temporary.

Because Gojo Satoru was coming.

And he would burn the world to the ground to take you back. Out of cruelty. 

You pushed your bowl aside, suddenly losing your appetite. “We should leave.”

Nanami’s gaze darkened. “Not yet.”

Your brows furrowed. “Nanami–”

“If we leave now, we confirm the suspicions of anyone watching,” he said, voice low, calculated. “We need to be smart. We need time.”

You hated that he was right.

Silence stretched between you both, filled only by the distant sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

Then, Nanami did something unexpected.

He reached across the table, placing a hand over yours.

The touch was brief, steady, grounding. “We will figure this out.”

You stared at him, at the sharp angles of his face, at the unwavering certainty in his gaze. And for the first time since the unease settled into your chest, you believed him.

But still, deep in the back of your mind, you knew this was only the calm before the storm.

The night, you dreamt of him. 

Not the kind of fleeting, disjointed dream that dissolves like mist upon waking, but the kind that wraps around your very soul, warm and golden, refusing to let go. It was the kind of dream that felt real, so heartbreakingly vivid that, for a moment, you were no longer lying in a modest village home with the scent of burning wood creeping in from the outside world, no longer burdened by the weight of the choices you had made. You were home.

Not the home you had made for yourself in exile, but the home of your past, a home gilded with silken screens and quiet whispers, with polished floors that gleamed beneath lantern light, and with delicate tapestries woven with the history of an empire you had once believed could be yours. The place where you had once walked with the quiet assurance of someone who belonged, where your voice had been heard, where your name had been spoken with reverence rather than secrecy.

It was spring. The season of renewal, of beginnings, of hope.

You found yourself beneath the vast expanse of the sky, the air thick with the heady perfume of blooming wisteria and the faint, refreshing scent of the nearby stream that wound through the imperial gardens. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, their pale petals drifting lazily through the air like whispered promises, catching in your hair and dusting the ground in a carpet of soft pink. The wind carried the sound of distant laughter, the gentle rustling of leaves.

And above you–

Satoru.

His silhouette was bathed in the afternoon light, the golden hues catching in his white hair, making him look almost otherworldly. He leaned over you, one arm braced against the soft grass, shielding his eyes against the sun’s glare, the other resting lightly beside your shoulder. His robes, though still of the finest silk, were simple today, stripped of the heavy embroidery and rigid embellishments that marked him as the heir to the most powerful clan in the land. The imperial crest was absent from his attire, and for once, he was just Satoru.

And his eyes.

Brilliant, piercing cerulean, sharp and knowing yet warm in a way that only he could be. You had spent so much of your life searching for the ocean’s reflection in them, for the endless sky in the depths of that unrelenting blue, and now, after all this time, they looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

He studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. 

“You’re staring,” he mused, his voice smooth as silk, his amusement evident in the lazy drawl of his words.

You huffed softly, turning onto your side, the grass cool beneath your palms. “I’m admiring,” you corrected, your tone just as light.

Satoru chuckled, his laughter as rich and effortless as it had always been, a sound that made the world feel lighter, that made you feel lighter. “Is there a difference?” he asked, feigning innocence, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him.

You sighed, exasperated but fond. “One makes you sound less arrogant.”

He grinned at that, finally shifting to lie beside you, stretching out as if the entire world belonged to him. And in a way, it did.

But in this moment, he belonged to you.

“Pft,” he blows a raspberry into the air. “Let me bask in it, will you? You never give me this kind of attention.”

The wind stirred the branches above, sending another cascade of petals drifting down around you, a few landing in the silver strands of his hair. Without thinking, you reached out, brushing them away, your fingertips barely skimming the silk of his robes as you did. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, only watched you with that same unwavering gaze, as if he were committing you to memory, as if he were terrified you might disappear before his eyes.

“You know,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter now, as though he, too, did not want to shatter the fragile peace between you, “I wish we could stay like this.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Because so did you.

More than anything, you wished for a world in which this moment, this feeling, this love could exist without consequence.

But you were not foolish. You had always known the truth.

This was never a love that could be without suffering. You were only a concubine, after all. A spoil of war. Not fit to be made an empress. 

You swallowed, willing yourself to keep your voice steady. “We can’t,” you said, though you hated the way the words tasted on your tongue.

Satoru turned his head to face you more fully, his expression unreadable at first, before something flickered across his features, something softer, something pleading.

“Who says?” he asked, and his tone was so quiet, so unlike the brash, overconfident man you had known, that it made your heart ache. “Tell me who says we can’t, and I’ll destroy them.”

You laughed then, a small, sad sound, because you knew he meant it.

“Satoru.”

“I’m serious.” He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand coming to rest just beside your wrist, close enough that you could feel his warmth but far enough that he wasn’t touching you. “What’s stopping us? The court? The elders? The weight of the empire? Let them have it all. I don’t need any of it.”

You turned to look at him fully now, your chest tightening at the raw honesty in his face, the way he looked at you as if you were his entire world.

And maybe, once upon a time, you had been.

But the world did not belong to you and Satoru alone.

You reached out, letting your fingers trail lightly over his knuckles before pulling away. “You don’t mean that,” you whispered, though a part of you desperately wanted to believe that he did.

Satoru’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to grab your hand and never let go. “I do.”

And maybe, for that moment, he truly believed it.

But deep down, you both knew better.

The empire would never let him go.

Just as it would never let you be his.

The breeze picked up again, scattering more petals through the air, the scent of cherry blossoms thick and sweet, overwhelming. You wanted to stay here, in this moment, forever. You wanted to pretend that this could last, that you could stay in his arms and never worry about what came next.

But the moment began to waver, the edges of the dream blurring, the sunlight dimming.

And then, suddenly, the gardens were gone.

The warmth, the laughter, the scent of cherry blossoms… all of it melted away into smoke.

Your dream had shifted to another scene.

It was of the familiar scene of the bustling city just outside of the Outer Palace. The capital city had always been lively, but today it seemed to hum with an extra spark. The streets bustled with merchants peddling fragrant spices and embroidered silks, laughter echoed from the open-air teahouses, and the golden rooftops of the imperial palace gleamed under the afternoon sun like something out of a story.

You had just returned from your weekly errand, fetching a fresh batch of pastries from the emperor’s favorite bakery. The baker’s son had been in high spirits as usual, teasing you for being the only person in the city who could make the imperial kitchens jealous with how often you snuck in outside food.

But it wasn’t just the pastries you carried today.

A tiny, delicate flower rested in the palm of your hand, given to you by a child, a sweet little girl who had tugged on your sleeve just as you were leaving the marketplace.

"For you, miss!" she had chirped, eyes bright with admiration.

You had accepted it with a beaming smile, ruffling her hair before she scurried back to her group of friends, giggling and chattering about how pretty the imperial concubine was.

The city loved you.

Perhaps it was because you were one of them, despite the palace silks and the golden embroidery of the Gojo clan stitched into your robes, you had never let your status turn you into something untouchable.

So there you were, practically glowing, a flower twirling between your fingers as you strolled through the palace gardens, utterly unaware that your mere existence was about to ruin the emperor’s evening.

Because at that very moment, Satoru Gojo was staring at you with the expression of a man moments away from declaring war. He had been waiting at the gates of his own palace unceremoniously, counting down the seconds until you made it back, only for his bright spirits to be crushed.

By a flower.

A single, wretched flower.

In your hand.

And you were smiling.

Satoru didn’t even realize he had stopped in his tracks. His mind, sharp and dangerously quick, was already cycling through the list of punishments he could bestow upon the unfortunate soul who had given it to you.

Banishment? Too lenient. Public humiliation? Getting warmer. Immediate execution? …No, too messy. Forced labor in the outer provinces? Perfect.

His hands flexed at his sides. His jaw ticked. His vision tunneled.

He was going to make an example out of whoever had dared…

And then, you turned, your eyes meeting his.

And you smiled even brighter.

"Your Majesty!" you called, voice light with amusement, as if he weren’t currently five seconds away from storming the dungeons and demanding names.

You all but skipped toward him, the flower still twirling between your fingers, completely unaware of the absolute existential crisis you had just caused.

Gojo’s icy blue gaze flickered between your face and the flower, as if trying to determine which offended him more.

"What," he began, his tone deceptively casual, "is that?"

You blinked. "A flower?"

His eye twitched.

"I can see that," he muttered, before stepping closer—close enough that the sheer heat of his presence sent a shiver down your spine. "I meant, who gave it to you?"

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. "Why do you assume someone gave it to me? Maybe I plucked it from the fields myself."

Satoru let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Ha." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Try again, sweetheart."

Your lips twitched, but before you could answer, a voice piped up–

"It was me!"

Both of you turned to find a child, the same little girl from earlier, standing at the edge of the gates of the Outer Palace, her face alight with pride.

"I gave her the flower!" she repeated, puffing out her chest. "Because she’s the prettiest lady in the whole city!"

Silence. A long, long silence.

Gojo stared. You suppressed laughter.

His entire body visibly relaxed.

The tension in his jaw disappeared, the storm in his eyes cleared, and for a single, fleeting moment, the Emperor of Japan looked genuinely speechless.

And then, he scoffed.

"Well, I suppose I can’t punish a child," he muttered, crossing his arms with a dramatic sigh. "What a shame."

You finally let out a laugh, shaking your head as you knelt beside the girl. "Thank you, little one," you whispered, tucking the flower into your sleeve.

The girl giggled before scurrying away, leaving just the two of you standing in the palace once more.

Satoru watched you carefully, his arms still crossed, his signature smirk just barely returning to his lips.

"You looked like you were five seconds away from passing a death sentence," you teased, eyeing him with amusement.

His expression didn’t waver.

"Oh, I was."

You rolled your eyes. "And what would you have done if it wasn’t a child?"

Gojo hummed, tilting his head as if considering. "Well…" His smirk sharpened. "Let’s just say the baker’s son would have found himself mysteriously exiled to the coldest province in the empire."

You froze.

Your stomach dropped.

Because oh– oh no.

He knew.

Satoru watched, relishing in the way your posture stiffened, the way your gaze flickered just slightly, as if calculating whether it was worth denying it.

"Your Majesty, I–"

"You what?" He raised a brow, leaning in once more, his voice dipping into something dangerously sweet.

"You think I wouldn’t hear about the little romance rumors floating around the palace?" He chuckled, voice laced with something possessive, something undeniably jealous. "You think I wouldn’t know about the way the baker’s son looks at you?"

You swallowed. "It’s just gossip."

"Is it?"

Gojo’s voice was far too amused, far too smug, because he already knew the answer.

And then, just because he could, he lowered his voice even further, leaning in until his lips were barely a breath away from your ear.

"Promise me you won’t leave me."

Your heart stopped.

You turned to him, but the moment you did, he pulled back, flashing you a grin that was far too pleased with itself.

"Don’t look so surprised," he mused, turning on his heel and walking away, hands tucked into his sleeves.

Then, over his shoulder.

"After all, I won’t let anyone take you away."

And then you’re awaken.

Your chest heaved, your skin damp with sweat, your heart pounding so violently against your ribs that for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

The room was dark. Cold.

How cruel your mind was to remind you of such warm times.

The early morning light filtered through the wooden shutters, casting long golden streaks across the small room. Outside, the village was already stirring with women gathering water from the well, the rhythmic pounding of rice in wooden mortars, the occasional laugh of a child running past. The scent of damp earth and fresh grass filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dried herbs that hung from the ceiling.

Inside, you sat on the floor, weaving together dried reeds into a basket, fingers moving deftly despite the lingering morning chill. Across from you, Nanami was sharpening a knife, the slow, deliberate drag of steel against stone filling the quiet space between you.

It was a comfortable silence, one that had settled between you both over the past two weeks, a rhythm that neither of you spoke of, yet understood nonetheless.

“You’re getting better at that,” Nanami remarked, not looking up from his work.

You snorted softly, twisting another reed into place. “You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

You tossed a loose strand of reed at him. He caught it midair without even glancing, setting it aside with a faint huff of amusement.

Nanami tilted his head slightly, observing you from the corner of his eye. “What?”

You blinked, realizing you had been staring. “Nothing.”

His brow arched slightly, but he let it go, returning to his blade. The light glinted off the edge, sharp and lethal. You watched the way his hands moved steady.

Something in your chest tightened.

“You don’t think this is going to last, do you?” you asked suddenly.

Nanami paused.

The scrape of the whetstone against steel stopped, leaving only the distant sounds of the village outside. Slowly, he set the blade down, his gaze meeting yours, level and unreadable.

“…No.”

A lump formed in your throat. You nodded, looking away. “Neither do I.”

Silence.

Then, a sound.

Distant, almost imperceptible. A strange sort of rumbling.

Your fingers stopped weaving.

Nanami was already rising to his feet, his entire body going rigid. His hand went to the knife on the table. His sharp gaze flickered toward the window, toward the thin slit between the shutters. His breath was slow, measured, but you could feel the shift in his presence, the quiet kind of alertness that came before a storm.

And then a scream erupted.

Distant. But close enough.

Your blood ran cold.

Nanami moved.

He crossed the room in two strides, yanking the shutters open. And what you saw fire.

Distant but spreading.

Smoke rising in thick columns from the edge of the village, black against the early morning sky. The distinct sound of hooves against dirt, of metal clashing, of doors being kicked in. Then, through the haze of rising flames, you saw banners. Not just any banners.

Gojo’s crest.

Your breath hitched.

Nanami didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the back entrance. “We need to move.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, feet stumbling as you let him drag you forward. This was happening.

He had found you.

Gojo had found you.

Days before the raid, the palace pulsed with restless energy. Servants flitted through the corridors, their hurried steps echoing against the lacquered floors as they fastened armor, sharpened blades, and prepared provisions. The campaign was supposed to be routine, a small raid to quell rumors of insurrection in a remote village. Yet, the Emperor himself was leading the charge.

No one questioned it aloud. But the whispers wove through the palace like smoke.

In his private chambers, Gojo stood at the window, watching the courtyard below as soldiers mounted their horses, their banners snapping in the cold wind. His reflection stared back at him in the glass. His grip tightened behind his back.

"You’re awfully tense for such a minor skirmish," Himiko mused, lounging on the divan behind him. The golden silk of her robes pooled around her like a shimmering snare. She lifted a cup to her lips, watching him over the rim, her gaze sharp. "One might think there’s more at stake here than a simple village purge."

Gojo didn’t turn.

"One might."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Himiko hummed, setting her cup down with a delicate clink. "You’ve always been so stubborn. So unwilling to accept the order of things." She rose, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. "It’s a shame, really. You could’ve been content. You could’ve let go."

Her fingers brushed his sleeve. A touch meant to soothe. To remind.

His hand snapped up, catching her wrist before she could go any further.

Himiko stilled, lips parting in the slightest gasp. Not from pain, he wasn’t squeezing hard enough for that. But his grip was firm, unyielding. The weight of it said more than any words could.

A muscle flickered in Gojo’s jaw. "Do you think this is forever?" His voice was quiet, but there was something in it that made the candlelight tremble.

Himiko’s smile didn’t falter, but something in her gaze shifted. "I think," she murmured, tilting her head, "that you’re still bound by the same chains as always. No matter how strong you are, some things can’t be undone."

Gojo released her. The moment stretched, brittle as ice. Then he turned, striding toward the door, his long robes whispering against the floor.

Outside, his men were waiting. His horse was waiting.

And somewhere beyond the mountains, the one thing he had ever truly wanted was waiting.

He had wasted enough time.

The streets were already chaos. Villagers running, shrieking, clutching their children as armed soldiers stormed through the narrow paths. Houses were being torn apart, doors broken down. Soldiers clad in imperial armor barked orders, swords flashing as they cut down those who resisted.

Your breath came short, panic clawing at your throat.

Nanami’s grip on your wrist was firm. “Stay close.”

You barely nodded, your body moving on instinct as he guided you through the chaos. You ducked behind a stack of crates, pressing yourself against the wood as two soldiers passed by. Nanami’s body shielded yours, his presence grounding you even as your hands trembled.

A sharp whistle.

Nanami cursed, shoving you aside just as an arrow embedded itself into the wood where your head had been a moment ago.

You gasped.

Another whistle.

Nanami moved. He spun, his knife flashing, a throw, a sickening thud, a body crumpling.

Blood.

It hit the dirt in a slow, steady stream.

You stared.

Nanami grabbed your face, forcing your gaze back to him. “Focus.”

Your lips parted, breath shuddering. But you nodded.

He pulled you forward, weaving through the panicked masses. The exit. You needed to get to the forest to escape before it was too late.

A tall figure clad in white and blue, standing at the center of the destruction, untouched by the chaos.

Gojo Satoru.

Your feet froze.

His eyes locked onto yours instantly. Even from across the village square, even through the haze of smoke and bodies, you could feel the weight of his gaze. The way his body shifted the moment he saw you.

For a moment, nothing else existed.

Nanami saw him at the same time. His entire body went rigid.

Gojo took a slow step forward. His imperial robes billowed slightly with the movement, the embroidery glinting under the firelight, his armor forged from precious metals glistened in the sunlight. His sword hung at his hip, untouched, as if he hadn’t even needed to lift it.

Nanami’s grip on your arm tightened.

Gojo’s expression darkened. His gaze flickered between the two of you visibly irked by the domestic dynamic that had recently developed.

His lips parted, his voice cutting through the carnage like a blade. “Found you.”

Your stomach twisted.

Nanami moved.

But Gojo was faster.

Before either of you could react, a blur of motion, a gust of force, unstoppable. Nanami was on the ground. The blond man coughed out blood.

Your scream barely had time to leave your throat before Gojo was in front of you, too close, too fast. His fingers wrapped around your wrist. Unyielding.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, the distant wails of the ravaged village melding into the wind. Your hands trembled as you clenched them at your sides, willing yourself to remain still. The weight of the past, of every wound he had inflicted upon you, settled deep in your bones.

“Running from me again?” His voice was a whisper of thunder, low and dangerous. “I thought we were past that.”

You had been running for so long, but had you ever truly escaped him? Every step you took away from him, every sleepless night, every whispered prayer for his absence, and yet here he was, a specter that refused to fade.

Your heart leapt to your throat as his fingers clamped around your wrist, tightening as you attempted to yank yourself free. His other hand rose, tracing the curve of your cheek with deceptive gentleness, the callouses rough against your skin.

“Did you truly believe I wouldn’t come for you?”

Your breath came shallow. “Gojo–”

His fingers curled against your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. His expression was unreadable, but his unrelenting grip told a different story. He had always been relentless, hadn’t he? No matter how much you tried to pull away, he found his way back, like a tide that refused to recede.

“Nanami,” he said coldly. “Do your job. Lead the men back.”

A moment of hesitation, a flicker of something like pity in Nanami’s eyes before he turned away. You were glad he did. Gojo had spared him enough not to strike him down on the spot. 

Soon, only the two of you remained, locked in a battle more ferocious than the ones fought with swords.

His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with your own. Your attempts to struggle were fruitless; his body caged you, muscles honed by years of war making it impossible to flee. The warmth of him, the sheer familiarity of his presence, made something inside you ache against your will.

“Why do you run?” His voice was softer now, coaxing.

Your lips curled in a bitter smile. “Are you nothing more than a brute?”

His grip faltered, a shadow of hurt flashing in his eyes. But you didn’t care. His pain was nothing compared to the agony he had inflicted upon you.

“You claim to care for me,” you spat, voice shaking with fury, “yet you cast me aside like a discarded pawn. You chose another, again and again, and then have the audacity to crawl back to me.”

Your voice cracked, but your anger did not waver.

“You humiliated me. You shattered my world and toyed with my heart like it was nothing more than a trinket. I hate you, Gojo Satoru. I hate you so much it consumes me.”

The tears spilled unchecked, your body trembling as the dam within you finally broke. You were certain you looked wretched, but dignity was a luxury you had long since abandoned.

His silence was unbearable. The weight of his guilt pressed between you, thick and suffocating, but you refused to let it soften you.

“You have hurt me beyond repair,” you whispered. “I always knew our love would bring pain, but I never thought it would be at your hands.”

Satoru swallowed hard, his large hands wiping away each tear as they fell.

“You lied to me,” you murmured, fists weakly beating against his chest. He lets you.

“I did.”

“You banished me.”

“I did.”

“You told me you loved me.”

His grip tightened. “I do.”

Your breath hitched. “I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” you insisted, though the conviction was waning. Did you? Did you truly?

His lips brushed against your temple, his hands cradling your face with unbearable tenderness, “Don’t you know that you’re killing me? That your words pierce me like no other blade?”

You exhaled shakily. “Then why aren’t you dead yet?”

A broken sound left his throat as he pulled you impossibly closer, until your bodies were melded together, until his warmth became a prison of its own.

“Take it back,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

But you said nothing, staring past him to the charred ruins beyond. Nanami had rallied the men, but the damage had already been done. And so had the damage to your heart. 

“Your army is leaving,” you said numbly. “Why don’t you go join them, General?”

His face was flushed, his eyes bloodshot. And yet, as much as you wanted it to, the sight did not disgust you. Instead, a sick sense of satisfaction curled within you at his suffering.

“Not until you come back,” he declared. "Until you let me explain myself."

You laughed, sharp and humorless. It did not deter him.

He continues his plea, “You can humiliate me in the palace. You can strip me of every last shred of dignity. Do whatever you wish."

He pauses.

"Just come back.”

You tried to put distance between you, but his hold remained firm.

“You still don’t understand, do you?” Your voice wavered. “I am not yours anymore. I haven’t been yours since you chose her. Since you cast me aside for the sake of your kingdom.”

By now, Satoru’s trembling lips had given way to the relentless shaking of his entire body, “I never touched her. My hand was forced. Nothing happened.” Somewhere amid your onslaught, Satoru had forgotten how to breathe. His chest rose in shallow, uneven gasps, his shoulders trembling beneath the weight of words he couldn’t take back. His fingers curled into fists so tight they trembled, knuckles drained of color. He was unraveling right in front of you.

“Everyone around me speaks of my destiny, as if it were carved into the heavens themselves. They whisper that I was born to rule Japan, to claim a throne, to take a noble wife like Himiko and secure a legacy of power.” Satoru’s voice trembles, raw and desperate, as he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply like he’s trying to commit you to memory. His hands clutch you tighter, as if you might slip through his fingers at any moment.

“But none of that means a damn thing to me. My destiny isn’t a kingdom—it’s you. It always has been. My place is by your side, not on a throne. I would spend a thousand lifetimes serving you, worshiping you, loving you. We were made for each other, meant to grow old together, to laugh and fight and dream until the very end. To pass down our love, our story—not to this damn empire, but to our grandchildren.”

His breath is shaky against your skin, his grip unrelenting. “Please,” he whispers, voice breaking, “don’t take that from me.”

You wanted to. Wanted to reach for him, to piece him back together, but the raw ache in your chest held you still.

How many times have you stood here, waiting for him to say something, anything, that would make the hurt go away? How many times have you let yourself believe that his silence wasn’t a choice?

You swallowed hard, throat burning. “You don’t get to do this,” you whispered.

His head jerked up, eyes wide, pleading.

“You don’t get to shake and break down and expect me to forget everything,” you continued, voice cracking. “You left me. You let me believe I didn’t matter.”

Satoru exhaled sharply, like the words had physically struck him. “I never–”

“Don’t.” You shook your head, stepping back when he tried to move closer. “Just don’t.”

The silence between them was thick, heavy with unsaid things. Satoru’s breaths came fast and shallow, his entire body vibrating with something between anguish and regret.

Still, you held on to the hurt. Let it press against your ribs, let it remind you that you weren’t just here to be broken all over again. You weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet. But damn it, you wanted to.

“If it will ease your doubts, I’ll have her head in glass by morning.”

You shuddered. “I don’t want her dead.”

“Then she lives to see another day.”

“And the Zenins?” Your teeth clenched, voice shaking with restrained fury. “I tried to warn you about them, tried to protect you, but you chose to humiliate me instead.”

His fingers traced the curve of your jaw, deliberate and lingering, as if etching you into his memory. “I am truly sorry,” he murmured, his voice softer now, edged with regret. “It was a foolish attempt to keep you safe from those damn elders. I may be the ceremonial head of this country, but their power is undeniable. Your banishment was my own foolish doing to protect you after my mistress was forced upon me. I knew I was lost when I couldn’t breathe without your presence in the palace. The days blurred together, and my duties felt like nothing but a slow death. So, I tried to bring you back as my servant. It was safer that way. You were close, within reach, but still out of grasp. At least you were there. But then... I ruined it all. ”

You hadn’t tried to bite his finger off yet. He took it as an unspoken truce, leaning in, his presence overwhelming, his warmth sinking into your skin. “Not that it matters though. I'm going to kill those geezers and have their heads strung in front of the palace.” A flicker of a smirk ghosted his lips, but his eyes held something far more dangerous.

“I may be a fool,” he admitted, his breath brushing against you, “but I am not weak. So don’t waste a single thought on them.” His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward his. “No one, not them, not fate itself, will take you from me.”

A cruel part of you savored the power you held over him. But you wanted him to suffer longer before you gave the satisfaction of knowing that your heart had softened. “I haven’t forgiven you.”

His hands trembled. “We have a lifetime for that.”

"How arrogant of you to assume I’d ever choose to spend a lifetime with you." Your voice was quiet, but the weight of your words struck like a blade.

You shouldn't feel as satisfied as you did when you watched Gojo Satoru, the strongest man alive crumpled. His breath hitched, his knees buckling beneath him as if the sheer force of your rejection had stolen the ground from under him.

Still, he reached for you. Desperation bled into his touch, fingers digging into your sleeves as though letting go would mean losing you forever. His voice, usually laced with arrogance and ease, was stripped raw.

“Then I don’t see a point in living.”

The weight of his confession clung to the air, thick and suffocating, and yet he only looked at you, as if the universe itself had been reduced to the space between his hands and your skin.

“And what of your crown?” you finally whispered.

His laugh was hollow, almost broken. “I’d throw it away if it meant keeping you. If it meant you will let me be yours.”

Then, as if surrendering himself entirely, both knees met the dirt. His hands, once accustomed to wielding absolute power, clung to your waist, not as an emperor, not as the strongest, but as a man begging to be allowed to stay.

His eyes burned into yours, pleading, unraveling.

And for the first time, you let him hold you. This time, you didn’t pull away.

A shuddering breath left his lips against your skin, as if he couldn’t believe you were real, as if he feared you might slip away the moment he let go. His grip tightened, not in possession, but in reverence.

The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the scent of rain, of earth, of something on the verge of breaking.

"I expect you to kneel at my feet and beg for years to come." You murmured, fingers brushing against the strands of his silver hair. A handful of hair is gripped tightly, fingers digging in with purpose. "Perhaps then, I might even consider you once more."

His throat bobbed. "If that is what it takes."

This was not just an apology, nor was it a confession. It was surrender in the purest sense. The weight of his kingdom, his sins, his power. All of it, cast aside for you. It was the justice you deserved after all the pain you endured.

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[xu-ren]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 (𝐢) – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

contents. period piece, forbidden love, ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior, lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips, 7.2k words of gojo unable to process his feelings

notes. sorry for leaving everyone hanging after the prologue (make sure to read or reread since it's been a hot minute!) TT but here it finally is!!!...not proofread soz :x

series masterlist | chapter 1/2

You haunt his dreams, he’s sure. Gojo never believed in superstitions or the supernatural despite what all those old geezers preached. That was until your figure started to appear every time he closed his eyes.

The familiar scene of you gets cloudier every time it appears in his dreams, but he knows it is still you. It’s nearly comical how even his subconscious knew of your everlasting beauty. Everytime, the same sequence replays: a grand celebration he had hosted in the palace in honor of a prosperous year of his reign. The two of you were overlooking the guests, seated at the head of the room.

You’re wearing court attire that was altered to fit solely you (it hugged your body in such ways that made Gojo’s head spin), fabrics and dyes all originating from foreign lands. In your hair sits beautiful hair ornaments, swinging with every movement you make.

However, Gojo knows it is not the materialistic items that make you beautiful, no, he knows that it was simply you.

“Has anyone told you how unnerving your eyes are?” You quietly comment, eyes still trained on the party in front of you. Satoru cracks a slight smile, not ashamed in the slightest that he was caught ogling you.

“I thought you said you loved them?” He blinks at you, attempting to lean closer to show off his blue orbs. “You’re starting to hurt my feelings, beloved.”

You purse your lips, subtly leaning away before he can initiate improper conduct. He does not take your action well, snaking an arm around you to firmly cage you in his hold. Normally, you would welcome his advances but you’d rather not be publically humiliated in front of the entire Imperial Court and all of the influential clanheads of Japan.

“Please have mercy on me, Your Grace,” You whisper, eyes flitting across the room, making sure there were no eyes on you. Luckily, everyone was too absorbed with the luxurious goods Gojo had imported for the occasion. It was the anniversary of his coronation, after all.

He makes a noise of disapproval, “Can’t. Must let these people know that you’re mine.” Gojo closes the gap between you and sniffs your neck, softly moaning at your scent. He knows that if the geezers looked up from their silver spoons they would have a heart attack at his public display of affection. Not that he cares. His unorthodox ways may make them livid, but Gojo knows they won’t do anything. He was going to pave the way for the Golden Age of Japan— with you by his side.

“Your Grace!” You giggle at the ticklish sensation left by his warm breath. Any attempts of shying away from him are fruitless.

“Don’t run away,” His other hand firmly places itself on your clothed thigh, restricting your movements. All of this is hidden by the table that sits in front of the two of you.

You’re looking at him with those shiny eyes of yours, silently pleading with him. “Can’t this wait until tonight?”

He huffs, “I have suffered enough today without your presence. Ijichi kept begging me to finalize the preparations, but who am I to care? My flower was too busy having fun without me.” 

“You and your dramatics. I was only away to tend the gardens in the Consort’s Pavilion. Which, might I remind you, is fading by the moment because someone refuses for me to stay there.” You tut, picking up your chopsticks to eat the delectable fish placed in front of you. 

Gojo’s stare never falters as he watches you pick up a small piece, eyes shining as if he were watching a spectacle. “You know I can’t sleep without you.”

“And I, you.” You pop the piece inside of your mouth, chewing happily at the flavor that fills your tongue. “You know, I–” You began, but were cut off by the sudden seizing of your throat. 

The chopsticks in your hands clatter loudly with the porcelain they are dropped on. 

Gojo's breath hitched, his eyes wide and trembling with horror as he watched you struggle for air. "My love?” he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of rising panic.

Your hands immediately travel to your neck to alleviate the sudden burning feeling that blossomed in it.

“[Name]!” He shouts, large hands quickly rising to cup your cheeks. In a desperate attempt, he squeezes your cheeks to get you to spit it out. 

"Poi–poison," Your voice was hoarse, your face losing its color by the second. Satoru was frozen with fear. “Don’t eat it…Satoru.” With those parting words, you lose consciousness.

“[Name]?” Satoru’s hoarse voice can’t stop repeating your name like a prayer, hands lightly tapping your cheek as if it was going to bring you back to life.

Gojo wanted to laugh. Even when you were dying, you worried about him. Not that it mattered. You weren’t going to die. He refused.

Sometime during your struggle the chatter had stopped, and all eyes were on you. Satoru looks up from you to bark orders to the guards he had placed around the room. They leave to summon the Imperial Physician while Gojo is left clinging onto your limp body, praying to the Heavens above that they will grant him one more miracle.

—

Back in his chambers, Gojo’s head pounds, but he’s not sure whether it was the speed he shot up from his bed or the dream itself. He feels hot, sweat running from his bare chest that heaves to bring oxygen to his quickly pumping heart. He’s nearly certain his chest is going to cave any second with the way it constricts with pain. It was like he was a geezer, he humors silently.

“Your Grace?” A delicate hand cups his cheek. 

He follows the direction of the hand, eyes slowly trailing up the feminine body it belonged to, barely covered as a result of the thin silk nightgown that highlighted her natural curves. “Are you alright? It was only a nightmare.” She cradles his face, moving slowly in his vulnerable state.

Satoru breathes heavily, eyes widening as they travel from her breasts to her face, beautifully illuminated by the sparse moonlight leaking from the window. Her dark hair falls past her shoulders, obscuring some of his access to her skin. His beautiful mistress. He’s sure that she is whispering sweet nothings into his ear, but the images of his memory keep replaying in his mind, occupying it from functioning properly. ”Himiko, how did you–”

“I heard you and I couldn’t bear it.” Her finger softly caressed his flushed cheek, trying her best to ignore the bewildered look on her lover’s face. 

THE PRESENT —

The journey to the Inner Palace was a blur. After a long goodbye, a horse drawn carriage was sent to the front of Yaga’s estate the very next morning. Your mind was elsewhere the entire time, too busy mulling over your past and now damned future. 

That is why when the carriage comes to a complete stop in front of the servants’ quarters, you are startled to meet two awfully familiar faces.

The two are silent, eyes carefully watching you exit the carriage. The purple set of eyes steps forward first to take your bags from you. 

“Ah thank you Mister—“ Your voice trails off, eyes looking up from the dark robes in front of you only to be surprised with a familiar face. “L-Lord Geto?” 

His lips quirk up slightly upon recognition. “Welcome back, [Name].” Your heart throbs at his indifference from the last interaction you had. It is quickly concealed by the excitement in your voice when your eyes spot a comforting pair of eyes.

“And Kento?” You light up.

Suguru raises an eyebrow at your familiarity with the Imperial Chancellor. He knows he should be relieved that you held no malice towards himself and Nanami, knowing the struggle you were subjected to when banished. However, there was a foreboding feeling gnawing deep within his soul. Guilt? Fear? It was hard for Geto to put a finger on it.

Nanami simply nods in acknowledgment, but stays silent under Geto’s watchful gaze.

“[Name],” The black haired man starts. Your eyes return to his face. “I wanted to be the first to greet you here, but I suppose Lord Nanami must have had the same idea.” He chuckles lightly, but the mirth never makes it to his eyes. You don’t notice Lord Nanami stiffening up.

“To say I am flattered would be an understatement, Lord Geto.” You return the same sugarcoated pleasantries. 

Geto must have noticed your unease, reminding you, “Please, there is no need to keep your guard up around me. I don’t bite.” His voice has a teasing lilt. It does little to soothe you. 

“Can you blame me, Lord Geto?” Your eyes meet his purple ones that narrow at your allusion.

“I suppose not.” He hums. “Though I must tell you that the incident was out of my power. I must carry that burden everyday, so I implore you to forgive me, [Name].” He throws out your given name once again like you were familiar. 

When you don’t respond, he continues, “I know, it is easier said than done.”

“You don’t say.” You bite your tongue as soon as the words leave your mouth. He fails to acknowledge how your last interaction was your banishment, served just by the man in front of you.

A sigh escapes Geto’s lips. "As a gesture of my accountability, I place myself entirely at your disposal. Simply name a favor, and it shall be fulfilled." You can’t detect anything but sincerity in his words, leaving you speechless. “Of course, it had to be within my power, but I shall grant you one request in return for your forgiveness.”

“I—” You were too shocked to form a thought. “I don’t know what to say.”

Suguru’s eyes crinkle, "Our last encounter may not have been pleasant, but I still consider you a dear friend, after all.”

“I am flattered to say the least that you had decided to grant me such honor,” you gape.

Geto shakes his head softly, “You shouldn’t hold me to such high regard. I could hardly bear the weight of your disfavor.”

“You know I don’t harbor any ill feelings towards what happened,” you say softly. It wasn’t Suguru’s decision what happened that night.

“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself otherwise,” the black haired man in front of you pushes. You relent. Perhaps you should just bite your tongue and accept the opportunity presented. “Please. Just think about it.”

You watch in silence as Geto turns around to walk away. His sudden offer leaves your mind racing. A man of his caliber, second to none but the emperor himself, would be able to grant any of your desires. Perhaps you should ask to import Western literature, tales of great fantasy— or, you could think bigger and ask to move back with your clan. Though you highly doubt he will entertain the latter, considering your indentured servitude to the Inner Palace. 

Your racing thoughts are diverted when you hear someone clear their throat to capture your attention. You perk up when you realize that Lord Nanami was still here, and you have completely ignored his presence.

“I am just as surprised to see your immediate return to the palace.” Nanami adjusts the glasses on his face, sympathetic eyes never leaving you. You flush under his gaze. It was quite embarrassing knowing the entire palace probably had caught wind of your incident with the emperor.

A nervous chuckle escaped your lips. 

“It wasn’t my intention,” you mumble. “But I suppose if fate has decided, there is not much I can do.”

“You truly believe that it was fate that brought you here?” Nanami asks, the hold he had on your arm tightening enough to catch your attention but not enough to hurt. 

“I-” You begin, words failing to conjure. “I’m not sure.”  You had thought that your banishment was fate, but now that you had been brought back, it felt like you were simply at the mercy of something cruel.

Nanami watches your eyes staring wistfully at the blue sky above, his own flickering to each of your features. He wonders if you know that your expressions gave you away. It’s more endearing than anything, from the flutter of your eyelashes, the wrinkle of your nose, to the furrow of your eyebrows. Only a blind man would deny the fact that you were easy to fall in love with. However, it would make a foolish man to dare to pursue you.

 He’ll appreciate you and your charm from afar where his head may stay attached to his body.

The comfortable silence shared between the two of you is disrupted by a flock of handmaidens passing by. Nanami tenses his jaw when the voices become audible. 

“Is it really her?”

“It’s said that she tried to sneak into the Emperor’s chambers.”

“Is that Lord Nanami? My, we must warn him about that whore that tried to seduce the emperor!”

“Poor Lady Himiko.”

Anger swells in your chest. Though you’re not sure what tale had managed to escape the servants’ quarters, but you pray that they may never reach the emperor’s ears. It was simply profane to the beloved consort, an offense that you know Gojo would never forgive you for. You can deal with nasty gossip, having previous experience, but you doubt you can handle being beheaded for conspiring against the emperor and his consort.

“I’m afraid no matter how much time has passed, the palace rumors seem to never die.” Nanami sighs, exhaustion evident in his gravelly voice. “I advise you to brace yourself. Within these coming days, the fire will only get hotter.” He doesn’t bother elaborating on his words, choosing to lead you to your new chambers.

“Thank you for the advice Nanami,” you exhale. “However, I am sure I’ll be able to manage on my own. After all, I’ve been doing it for quite some time.” The moment the solemn words leave your mouth his eyes soften. You quickly look away, flustered.

“I know you can, [Name]. I suppose my anxieties are misplaced, forgive me.” You can feel his stare bore into the side of your face. He sighs, “it is a habit that comes natural to me.” He worries for you. The words go unsaid, but you are able to decipher his double meaning.

Your heart flutters at his kind implications, eyes too shy to meet him once more. Instead, you choose to fix your gaze on the doors to the servants’ quarters. The blonde man beside you takes the liberty to open the doors to your new room. 

At the sight in front of you, your heart lurches.

Before you stands a familiar head of white hair, standing tall with his back turned towards you. His head was tilted slightly, as if scrutinizing something unseen, before he slowly shook it. Then, with an unsettling calm, he turned to face you, his gaze heavy with unspoken intent.

“I’ll take her from here,” Gojo’s icy voice breaks the silence that had overtaken you and Nanami.

“Of course,” Nanami bows deeply. You turn to bid the man goodbye, but he leaves hurriedly without sparing you so much as a glance. You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows in confusion, eyes longingly watching your old friend walk away.

The moment the shoji doors close behind him, Gojo clears his throat.

“[Name],” he tests the waters, his movements deliberate as he takes a slow, tentative step toward you, the air between you thick with an unspoken tension.

“Your Majesty,” You respond shakily, retreating a step as your breath catches.

“Please,” Gojo mutters breathlessly, his voice trembling with unspoken desperation, his eyes pleading with an intensity that only deepens the pit in your stomach. He takes two deliberate strides forward, the gap between you vanishing as though drawn by an invisible force.

“No,” You shake your head, pain flashing across your face. You won’t let him waltz right into your life after carelessly tossing you away, not without consequence. It is to no surprise that words seem to go unheard to the man in front of you. His eyes glistened in the dim lighting, fixed intently on your face, tracing each feature with a quiet focus, as if he were trying to burn them into his memory.

The world seemed to stay still just for the two of you. But it only lasted for just a moment.

“I’m so sorry,” Gojo mutters, a strong hand flying to the back of your neck tugging you towards him for a searing kiss. The instant his lips crash against yours, he lets out a soft whimper, as though the very act consumes him. Despite the passage of time, your body responds instinctively, like it was always meant to be this way.

It felt like the only thing that mattered was the fact that he was right in front of you, your fast beating hearts making contact with the way he had your chest pressed to his. All while pushing you against his body, Gojo allows his hand to trail down your back, revisiting every valley that he had once memorized.

“Mph,” your traitorous hands find their way into his head of white hair. He smiles into the kiss upon hearing his name leave your mouth.

“Yes?” He leaves a wet kiss at the base of your throat, bending down to continue his frenzy.

“This isn’t right,” the words came out of your mouth in a whisper, as if you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

“You’re wrong.” He inhales deeply, attaching his mouth onto your collarbone, ”I was made solely for this.” A small whine leaves his mouth when you hesitantly try to push him off. He uses his innate strength to fight your attempts.

“May I ask something of you?”

A kiss was placed on your jawline. Another on the base of your throat.

“Anything,” he breathes.

“Do you..” Your voice falters. “Do you love her?” Like you loved me? 

The trail of kisses come to a complete stop. For a second you fear you may have overstepped. The emperor’s silence was palpable. The only sound that filled your ears was the harsh thuds of your own heart. 

“[Name]...” he slowly stands up to tower over you with his height. The distant look in his eyes forms a pit in your stomach.

“Answer me,” you whisper, the pit deepening.

“I am just a man,” he reasons. Your heart drops at his answer.

“You could not even take an oath of monogamy,” you spit. “You are nothing but a weak man.” 

His eyes shoot up from their trance frantically. You fear that the lust he had been tempted with had worn off, and now you were left with nothing but wrath.

“I understand that I was nothing but a spoil of war, but you could have done me one last favor by allowing me to leave on my own accord. You did not have to cast me away,” your vision starts to waver with the tears that puddle in your eyes. “If I knew your heart had yearned for another I would have left.”

The set of blue eyes that stare at you are no longer the lively shade that you had grown to love. They have been replaced by an uncertain stormy grey. It was almost laughable. A man, so big, who had the world in the palm of his hand looked so small.

A cruel part in you enjoyed seeing the turmoil in his eyes after the events that had transpired.

“Had I known the tribulations I put you through, perhaps I would have put a second thought before choosing you.” Gojo exhales, pinching in between his eyebrows. “But I must assure you that you weren’t the only one suffering.” And for a moment you think you see lightning strike in those stormy irises of his. 

Your eyes widen at his confession.

He lets out a deep sigh, ��The head maid will be here any minute. I bid you farewell. I pray that with our next interaction, your heart learns to soften.”

Ever for dramatics, Gojo leaves before you can get the last word.

—

True to his word, the head maid soon comes to assign your duties. You’re not surprised at your new set of responsibilities: tending to the emperor’s garden, sweeping the floors to his chambers, and overseeing his meal preparations. 

It is nothing out of your skill set, and you’re more than willing to accept your predicament rather than being burned alive for offending the emperor on numerous accounts. You suppose even Gojo was kind enough to spare you from that cruel fate. It almost softens your heart enough to decide to forgive him of his transgressions. Almost.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a loud clang of a pot. When you turn your head towards the direction of the sound, you’re met with the head maid’s stern gaze. Her eyes narrowed on the wooden spoon you had been mixing in the broth. 

Ah. She wanted you to perform the mandatory poison test before serving the food to the emperor.

However, just as you bring the spoon to your lips, it is violently swatted from your hand, clattering to the floor. Your eyes sadly linger on the spilled broth before snapping to the culprit, your gaze filled with disbelief.

"There were strict orders to ensure that the task did not fall to you," the head maid, Ogami, declared sharply. The elderly woman, with silver hair neatly tied in a tight bun and skin etched with the marks of years spent in service, raised a wrinkled finger in your direction.

You blink, taken aback by her sudden reprimand, the sharpness in her gaze leaving you momentarily frozen. It didn’t make sense—there had been no mention of any such orders, no one had informed you of any changes. You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat, swallowed by the weight of her unyielding stare. 

How strange.

Days pass by like a blur, your routine falling into place. When dawn arrives, you’re up to prepare the emperor’s garments for the day. Your mid-mornings grow even busier as the palace comes alive with activity. Whether mending torn hems or ensuring the ceremonial robes are free of imperfection, you move like a ghost through the corridors with hopes of going unnoticed. The emperor’s unusual antics, however, make it nearly impossible to slip by unnoticed. He seems to have a knack for drawing your attention. His antics often begin at ungodly hours, long before the sun graces the horizon, as he attempts to coax you into sharing the first meal of the day with him. You decline each time, yet his persistence never wavers, a boyish grin always accompanying his invitations. By the time the sun reaches its zenith, Gojo finally departs to attend to his imperial duties. It’s only then, in the quiet lull of his absence, that you find the chance to make real progress with your work.

“To say I am relieved because of your presence would be an understatement, [Name].” Nanami and you overlook the palace’s main courtyard. 

You smile, hands filled with silks that needed washing, “I could say the same.” The emperor’s outrageous requests were driving you mad. Your mind flashes to earlier that week when he had insisted on hand feeding you honey! You wonder how he survived without a personal servant before you took the position.

“His Majesty is as eccentric as ever, I assume.” Nanami’s eyes crinkle. 

You laugh, “You know him too well!”

“I didn’t have much choice,” he shakes his head, smile ghosting his lips. “We’ve known eachother since our youth.”

You perk up at the news, your curiosity piqued. The confusion must have been written all over your face, prompting Nanami to offer a quick clarification.

“It was brief, our time at the academy. But we were both under the instruction of Yaga,” he elaborates. Huh. What a small world, you think as Nanami paints an unexpected connection. 

“I am struggling to imagine you and him studying under the ever serious Yaga,” you giggle.

“I was in the year below him. It was Lord Geto and Shoko who were first hand witnesses to his nature.” Nanami tells you. 

You nearly dropped all of the emperor’s clothes, “Shoko?” The revelation that your own friend was acquainted with the emperor stopped you dead in your tracks. Had she known him personally all along? If so, she made no effort to reveal it. Instead, she appeared almost disgusted by him, though you had chalked it up to her disdain for the new ruling dynasty rather than a personal vendetta against the man himself.

“I am aware you were well acquainted with her in your time in the Outer Palace, no?” “Yes, but–” you pause, before eyes snapping back to Nanami. “How did you know?”

Nanami blinks, momentarily caught off guard. His eyes widen a fraction, and he opens his mouth as if to explain, but then falters, his words stumbling.

Before he can say anything, a soft, familiar voice drifts from behind you.

“[Name]!” A servant of Lady Himiko calls urgently, her voice laced with a sense of urgency. You turn to face her.

“Yes?”

“The emperor requests your presence in the ceremonial hall. He says it is of great importance and that you must make haste!” The girl exclaims, grabbing your only free arm and tugging you toward the hall.

You glance back at Nanami, your eyes silently promising him that this conversation is far from over. He gives a small nod, acknowledging your unspoken words as he bids you farewell.

“Ah, may I ask what the emperor requires of me?” you ask, trying to maintain some control over the situation.

“You’ll see,” she replies, her tone clipped. Without sparing you a glance, she pulls you forward with determination, clearly focused on her task.

Like a lamb heading toward slaughter, you find yourself helplessly being dragged through the grand doors of the ceremonial hall, your thoughts swirling with questions you can’t yet answer.

The expansive room was eerily empty, a stark contrast to its usual grandeur. The sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting long beams of light that danced across the polished floors, illuminating the intricate tapestries and the grand pillars that lined the hall. But your gaze soon shifted, focusing on the emperor’s seat at the very end of the room.

You had expected the usual scene: Gojo slouched in his throne-like chair, whiny and complaining about the mountain of paperwork he despised. But what greeted you instead was something far more unexpected.

A figure stood poised at the head of the room, commanding the space with an elegance that was undeniable. Anyone familiar with the court could recognize her signature choice of kimono—the rich plum silk embroidered with intricate gold patterns, delicate yet striking. Her hair, black as midnight and flowing like a river of silk, cascaded down her back in perfect waves, a stark contrast to her porcelain-like complexion.

It was Lady Himiko. Her beauty was legendary, whispered about among women across the nation, often compared to a living work of art. The rumors of her grace and poise weren’t exaggerated. Standing there, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, who remained perfectly still and attentive at her side.

Her eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, your breath was stolen. The stillness of the room was palpable, and you couldn’t help but wonder why she was here, in the emperor’s seat, with not a whisper of Gojo in sight.

“Ah, just the one I was looking for!” her eyes light up when she sees her servant return with you in her hand. The gleam in her eyes fill you with unease.

“Lady Himiko, it is an honor,” you bow.

“There’s no need for that! Please, stand.” She waves her slender fingers at you, or so it seems, but at her silent command, her ladies-in-waiting begin to move toward you.

You take a step back, instinctively using the emperor’s garments, still damp from your earlier washing, as a shield against their sudden movements. The soft rustling of fabric is almost deafening in the silence that follows.

Lady Himiko’s eyes narrow at the motion, her sharp gaze flicking to the garments you hold between you and her. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays at the corners of her lips, but it does nothing to ease the tension thickening in the air.

“I understand the unspoken animosity between us,” she says, her voice smooth, but there's an edge to it that sets your nerves on edge. “I pray you will accept my humble apology.” She clasps her hands together, but her eyes remain calculating, never leaving yours.

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. “I had not expected the emperor to kindle such… passion for me so suddenly. It was neither of our intentions that fateful night we reunited after the days of our youth.” She shakes her head softly, laughing nervously. "How rude of me, I doubt you of all would want to hear about Satoru and I."

Your breath hitches, caught between surprise and a tightening knot of discomfort in your chest. The weight of her words presses down on you, and you struggle to maintain composure.

“I do apologize for bringing you here on such deceptive terms, but I had to get your attention somehow,” she continues. “As one who has been a former concubine, I wanted your counsel on how I should navigate this delicate matter.” If you didn’t know any better, you would say she was mocking you. But you knew Himiko wasn’t one you wanted to offend, so you bite your tongue.

Instead, you nod, steeling yourself against the discomfort crawling up your spine. “What is it that you need from me?” you ask, your voice betraying none of the wariness you feel.

Himiko’s ladies-in-waiting close in around you swiftly, subtly guiding your every step toward the emperor’s stand. The grand hall feels even larger as you’re led deeper into its heart, each step reverberating through the space.

At the end of the room stands Himiko, watching you approach with a distant gaze. The soft glow from the nearby windows catches on the polished surface of the wooden desk before her, where inkstones, brushes, and stacks of paper lie in disarray.

You pause, your gaze falling upon the desk, and that’s when you notice the manuscript she’s pointing to. Her perfectly filed nails trace the edges of the paper with deliberate slowness. Though you cannot read the characters from this distance, the emblems that adorn the papers are unmistakable. They belong to some of the most powerful clans in the empire, each one a mark of authority and influence.

As your eyes skim across the paper Himiko’s hand rests on, the characters seem to leap off the page in a rush of realization. It’s a proposal– one written by the notorious Zenin clan. You can almost feel the air grow heavy as you piece it together. The words speak of demands for more autonomy—an increase in their power, more control over the lands they already possess. And you know, instinctively, that if this were to pass, everything Gojo has fought for, everything he’s struggled to protect, would crumble into dust. His fight against the rigid clan-based hierarchy would be for naught.

For a moment, your mind reels. This is no mere conversation or request for guidance. This is a game of power, one where you’re being used as a pawn. Her eyes lock with yours, and the air between you thickens with unspoken understanding. She must’ve taken you for a mere tool to execute her own plans.

But you’re no fool, and that realization comes like a slap to the face. You straighten your posture, eyes hardening as the weight of the situation settles in.

“These seals...” Your voice falters as you stare at the emblems, your hand hovering over the manuscript as though touching it might implicate you further. The weight of the realization crashes down on you like a cold wave. You look up at Himiko, bewildered, your heart pounding in your chest. Meddling with state affairs, let alone tampering with the emperor’s documents was a crime punishable by death.

“Does the emperor know about this?” you demand, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and indignation. “This—this could be considered treason!”

“Careful with your words,” she says softly, her tone calm. “It is not treason when it is for the betterment of the empire.”

Your mouth opens as if to respond, but no sound escapes.

“The emperor has always held you in high regard,” Himiko says with a wistful sigh, her eyes narrowing on your figure. “I’ve no doubt he would find it impossible to refuse any command spoken by you.”

Her cryptic words linger in the air, their implications sinking into you. You’re left reeling, unsure of whether her remark is meant as flattery or a thinly veiled mockery of your banishment. 

She scoffs, her delicate façade cracking as her tone turns venomous. “The emperor may not know, but I see right through you. Seducing him to claim yourself as some spoil of war and twisting his mind to lead our nation to ruin—it’s sickening. Truly, a shame the assassination attempt failed.” Her words lash out like a whip, her civil mask shattering entirely.

You gasp, her implications cutting deep even as your heart hardens against the venom. Had she known–?

“Perhaps that is what the entire Court believes of me,” you manage, your voice trembling yet steady enough to carry your conviction. Months of whispered rumors and vicious gossip had thickened your skin, and you refused to crumble under her scrutiny. “But I will not allow you to sully the emperor’s reputation.”

As much as you detested Gojo, your disdain for the corrupt elders burned hotter. They had plotted your downfall, attempted to take your life, and now sought to undermine everything Gojo was fighting to build. You could not allow them to gain any more power in the Court  than they already held.

Himiko’s lips curl into a cold, triumphant smile as she picks up an inkstone and brush from the emperor’s desk. “As his Honored Consort and future Empress I command you to hold this for me while I pave the way for a greater future.” Her words are laced with mockery as she extends the inkstone toward you.

You recoil instinctively, shaking your head. “No. I refuse—” Your rejection is firm, your voice sharper than you expected, as you pull away, clutching the emperor’s garments protectively against your chest. 

The next few moments unravel in slow motion, as though fate itself had decided to humiliate you. Himiko’s gasp pierces the air as your sudden movement causes the inkstone to slip, spilling its dark, viscous contents over her elaborate kimono. The silk, undoubtedly crafted from the finest threads in Japan, drinks in the stain, the deep black spreading like a wound across the fabric.

“My lady!” Her servants rush to her side, their collective cries of alarm startle you. They push you aside as they fuss over her, their movements frantic as they attempt to salvage her now-ruined garment.

You stumble back, staring in disbelief at the disaster you’d unwittingly caused. “I—I am truly sorry—” you begin, but your words falter under the weight of the situation.

“What is going on here?”

The booming voice echoes through the hall like thunder, freezing everyone in place. You whip your head toward the source, your pulse quickening as your eyes land on the figure now standing in the doorway. The emperor himself, Gojo, commands the room with his presence, his expression a mixture of confusion and rising fury as he takes in the scene before him. By his side stands the owner of the voice, an elder, with an expression carved with barely restrained anger piercing through you.

Himiko lets out a sharp cry, her voice trembling with a convincing mix of distress and indignation. Gojo reacts instantly, rushing by her side, his features hardening with concern.

“I found her forging His Majesty’s signature,” Himiko exclaims, her voice wavering just enough to sound genuine. “When I tried to intervene, she lashed out and attacked me.” She trembles as she buries her head against the emperor’s chest.

It hits you—the full realization of her calculated scheme. This was her plan all along.

“I-I didn’t!” you stammer, your voice raw with desperation. “That wasn’t what happened at all– she was the one tampering with imperial documents. I tried to stop her!”

Gojo’s piercing blue eyes snap to yours, cutting off your explanation. His gaze, once warm and teasing, now burns with unrestrained fury. The bile rises in your throat as you see it. Anger, disdain, and worst of all, disbelief.

“Himiko,” he murmurs, his arms tightening protectively around her trembling form. Her soft sniffling only adds to the spectacle.

“To be caught tampering with imperial records is one thing,” Gojo finally says, his voice icy and cutting, “but to stoop so low as to accuse Lady Himiko? Was this an act out of jealousy? Spite? How pathetic. This is beneath even you, [Name].”

You feel your knees weaken, the tears you’ve fought to hold back beginning to pool in your eyes. “Please, you have to believe me,” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of his words.

His expression darkens further, the light in his sky-blue eyes replaced by thunderclouds. “Why would I believe you?” he sneers, his tone laced with contempt.

A single tear escapes down your cheek, followed by another, and then another, until you can no longer stop them. The dam of your resolve breaks, shattered by his cruel dismissal.

“Why?” Your voice trembles, breaking as the tears come freely now. “Why don’t you believe me?”

Gojo’s lips curl into a bitter smile. “Don’t make me laugh,” he says coldly. “How could I ever believe in one as base as you?”

His words cut deeper than any blade, piercing through the walls you’d built to protect yourself. You’d convinced yourself you were immune to his indifference, but the searing pain in your chest proves otherwise.

“Leave,” he commands, his voice sharp and final. “Do not look back. Your very presence stirs nothing but disdain within me.”

You stagger back, his words striking harder than any physical blow. He might as well have drawn his sword and ended it here. The infamous tales you had heard about Gojo were once glorious images that were painted of your beloved. You had never thought you would be on the other end of his blade. 

Without a word, you turn and run, your vision blurred with tears. The emperor’s garments slip from your hands, forgotten in your haste to escape the suffocating anguish. You don’t look back, even as the echoes of his disgust chase you out of the hall.

If there was one undeniable truth that Geto Suguru knew, it was that his best friend, Gojo Satoru could be an utter fool. Perhaps it was the inevitable result of a youth stolen too soon, replaced by the crushing weight of an empire resting on his shoulders. The brilliance that made Gojo a formidable emperor rendered him hopelessly inept when it came to navigating the labyrinth of his own emotions.

And as his closest confidant, bound by loyalty and friendship, Geto Suguru couldn’t help but feel the urge to shake some sense into him—to force him to confront what he stubbornly refused to see.

That is why, when your trembling form hurries across the courtyard, tears streaming down your face, Geto Suguru can’t help but halt you in your steps. 

“I’m leaving.” you declare, your voice raw, your eyes red and swollen. The words, so resolute despite your trembling tone, catch him off guard.

“What?” he asks, his brows knitting together in confusion.

“My favor,” you say firmly, though your voice wavers. “I want to leave this place.”

For a moment, Geto says nothing, his sharp mind scrambling to process the abruptness of your request. Then he shakes his head, his expression softening. “You know I can’t do that.”

Your incredulous gaze snaps up to meet him. “So you lied to me?”

“No, not at all,” he says quickly, holding up his hands. “I meant—I can grant you time off. But as someone under the emperor’s direct supervision, I can’t allow you to leave permanently. What I can do is give you one lunar cycle away from court.”

You hesitate, weighing his offer before giving a sharp nod. “I’ll take it. Just let me leave,” you reply, sniffling.

Geto watches you for a moment longer, his chest tightening at the sight of your despair. “I’ll make the arrangements right away,” he says gently. “I’m sorry we seem to meet only under such terrible circumstances.”

“I’m sorry too,” you murmur, your tone hollow.

He hesitates, searching for the right words to offer some semblance of comfort. “Whatever he did, I’m sure—”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, your voice colder now. “He made his disgust for me perfectly clear.” You march past him, your steps resolute despite the trembling in your shoulders. “Thank you for understanding, though I must beg you to keep this between us. Who knows what might happen to either of us if he finds out.”

Geto exhales slowly, his composure steady but his mind racing. Just what, exactly, had his best friend done this time? Gojo’s antics always seemed to leave Geto cleaning up the aftermath, but this—this was something else entirely.

Just as he promised, there is a carriage waiting for you outside of the servants’ quarters. With heavy bags in hand and an even heavier heart, you make your way toward it, each step weighted with reluctant resolve. The irony of the moment doesn’t escape you, a sense of déjà vu washing over you, as though life had played this scene out countless times before.

You turn sharply, your bleary eyes meeting the calm, hazel gaze of someone you hadn’t expected to see.

“Nanami?” you breathe, disbelief coloring your tone.

He inclines his head in a polite nod. “Forgive the intrusion, but I insist on accompanying you,” he says, his voice as composed as ever. “The roads beyond the palace can be dangerous, especially for someone traveling alone.”

For a moment, you simply stare, caught between gratitude and confusion. The warmth in your chest battles against the ache that lingers from your earlier ordeal. “And what of the emperor?” you ask, forcing a faint smile. “Would he not throw a fit in your absence?”

Nanami lets out a quiet, mirthless laugh, the sound more bitter than amused. “Perhaps,” he admits, adjusting the luggage in his hands with ease. “But he was never one to share, was he?”

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[xu-ren]

𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 – 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

synopsis. period piece, forbidden love

contents. ooc, angst (eventual comfort), yandere emperor!gojo, lovesick!gojo, servant!reader, obsessive behavior (5k words of gojo pining), lowkey unreliable narrator, time skips

notes. inspired by the apothecary diaries and this post. loosely based off of ancient japan (this is basically its own world). this is the prologue to the series where everything can generally be read as a standalone ! (fic under the cut)

series masterlist | next

emperor!gojo who broke a hundred year tradition to take you as his only lover. despite your role as a concubine, everyone in the imperial palace knew he was going to make you his empress.

emperor!gojo who had not meant to fall in love with you, but you have managed to somehow charm him. a man that single handedly brought his own clan to power– weak in your hands. hushed whispers around the imperial palace call you a witch, but they never reach your ears. not as long as he is alive.

emperor!gojo shamelessly showering you with love. he pays no mind that it is highly frowned upon, he will have his hands on you every time you are in the same room.

emperor!gojo who is livid when there is an attempt on your life. his usual ocean eyes turned to blue flames like a wild animal. servants and clan elders alike scurry under his gaze. the assailant is taken care of by his own hands. 

emperor!gojo who is forced to satiate the clan elders into submission by taking in another concubine from an influential clan. he insists to you that it is no more than a political formality. who are you to meddle into imperial affairs?

emperor!gojo who can’t help himself and ends up falling for another girl who his clan elders demand he must wed. she is much younger than you, beautiful and is well bred; a perfect match for the emperor. 

emperor!gojo whose frequent visits to you come to an end, forcing you to move from his chambers and back to the consorts’ pavilion.

There was a time when you had everything. A place to call home in the Inner Court, a beautiful palace with anything you could have ever dreamed of. Servants, admirers, riches; you had it all. But what was most dear to you was your lover– a man so divine, many thought he was directly blessed by the hand of God. It was too good to be true. A woman of lowly birth like you, paid as homage for the sins of her clan against the new reigning family of Japan, becoming a concubine of the Heavenly Emperor. 

You remembered it all too well.

His brilliant mind that once strategized the downfall of the previous imperial family, calculating its next move in a game of Go against you. You can still remember the shock on his face upon his first defeat. The way he would keep you from leaving to fulfill your other duties until he was satisfied, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to keep up with you. No matter how hard he tried, you remained victorious. It drove him mad.

You remembered the stolen kisses while you made your rounds in the Inner Palace with your ladies in waiting. It took you quite a while to learn to tune out their giggles every time the Emperor dips you down to taste your lips in broad daylight. The grin that he wore after was enough to leave your legs weak.

Above all, you'll always remember how safe you felt in his strong, reassuring embrace. You’ve seen him train, and it was no wonder the Gojo clan rose to power so quickly as a result of one man. The way he wields the katana is unlike any man on the face of the earth. Those arms were your sanctuary. You can still vividly recall the attempt on your life, orchestrated by a traditionalist incensed by the Gojo clan's swift ascent to power. The emperor, outraged by the assassination plot, personally saw to the man's execution. 

However, the damage was done and it caused great strain in the Imperial Palace.

To appease the old geezers that were forced out of power, Emperor Gojo had taken in another concubine from one of the Big Three families of Japan— a beautiful Zenin girl. Her flowing, silky hair and saccharine voice enchanted everyone in the Inner Palace, captivating the Emperor, most of all. She was younger than you, with perkier breasts and soft skin that was enough to capture the attention of any man. 

You don’t blame her for taking the Emperor’s attention away. Though you would be a liar if you said it did not hurt you. Deep down, you cannot deny the agony that sears your soul, realizing that the only semblance of love you've ever tasted remains unrequited. With a heavy heart, you resign yourself to the bitter truth of your existence, knowing all too well the cruel confines of your place in this world.

You were merely a pawn, and the Emperor did not want you anymore.

That was made clear months later when you received a scroll from the Emperor’s advisor, a man you were once well acquainted with, Geto Suguru. 

“What is this?” You asked him quietly, your heart silently begging the Heavens it was not what you had suspected it to be. The black haired man in front of you does not respond, and you feel something pierce into your heart. Despite being a part of the Emperor’s court, it was rare that you received letters directly.

Your suspicions were confirmed when your shaky hands finally opened the scroll to read the familiar kanji written by your beloved.

“The Emperor decrees the termination of your role as concubine." Geto spares you the trouble of deciphering the characters neatly written in ink. “In his mercy, you are to be moved as a servant in the Outer Court. You are to serve the Imperial Physician.”

What you remember most was the silence. The Emperor’s silence after the stressful months you had to endure alone. The silence shared between you and Geto when you were forced out of the Imperial Court. All that was left was the sound of your heart breaking and the wood creaking underneath Geto’s feet as he walked away. Satoru never bothered to see you off.

Seasons change and by the next spring, you’re busying your hands with collecting herbs for the Imperial Physician, a man by the name of Yaga Masamichi. He is a kind man, pitying you enough to fill your days with laborious tasks to prevent your mind from wandering to thoughts of the unfortunate turn your life has taken. He is even generous enough to supply you with a new wardrobe of clothing full of light fabrics, a luxury you thought you would lose in the Outer Palace. Though the initial humiliation has worn off with the passing of time, you are still constantly reminded of your fall from grace.

Looks by the mix of condolences and disgust are shared when you roam the walls of the Outer Palace. You hear whispers of how the Emperor is infatuated with his newer, shinier toy. It is enough for you to swallow the bile that makes its way up your throat. 

“It is no wonder the Emperor tossed away a wildflower like her in exchange for a cherry blossom. He needed someone to rival his own greatness.” A particular comment stopped you in your tracks. Your grip tightens on the woven basket in your hand filled with medicinal herbs you had collected earlier that morning. 

“Have some pity on her.” Another eunuch whispers. Your breath falters, but you continue your walk with your head held up. You’ve heard the rumors. The beautiful Zenin Himiko has charmed the Emperor enough that there are rumors of a royal marriage to come. It doesn’t help that the Emperor has remained monogamous to her since he had banished you from his court.

A comforting hand links itself with your arm, “Ignore them. I saw Yaga shooing away a crowd of suitors that were lined up for your hand.” Ieiri Shoko scoffs, secretly sending you a wink. She has been studying medicine under Yaga for nearly a decade, eagerly accepting you as a companion upon your arrival. You feel your cheeks heat up at her flattery. You know she’s just trying to make you feel better.

Although your beauty never faded, it seems as though you are no longer sought after in the marriage market. Not that it matters, considering the new life that you’re living. You’re now a personal servant to the Imperial Physician, leaving no time to worry about suitors and such. Your days are filled with good work— tending to Yaga’s cherished garden that he has sowed for decades rather than frivolous games and attending the Emperor. It may not be glorious compared to your former life, but it was the best a woman of your status could receive. 

When you and Shoko return to Yaga’s estate, you’re surprised to see the somber look that has settled on his aging features. Shoko makes an offhand comment that he will age faster if he keeps scowling. She receives a scolding.

“Is something the matter?” You gently place down your basket full of herbs. 

Yaga sighs, calloused hands rolling up a scroll with the Imperial Seal. “It appears the Emperor’s consort has fallen ill and His Majesty commands my presence in the Imperial Palace.” 

The Royal Consort. The woman that dethroned you: Zenin Himiko.

“I understand.” You nod, maintaining your composure while two sets of eyes scrutinize you with keen observation. It was only natural the emperor wanted the best doctor in the country for his object of affection. “Shall I close up the shop while you journey into the Inner Palace?” 

Yaga shakes his head, “That won’t be necessary. I will have Shoko act as my stand-in.” He remarks with a quick glance in her direction “You, on the other hand, will accompany me.” 

Your eyes widen. 

“You cannot be serious.”

“Typically, one of my apprentices would accompany me on such journeys. However, now that I have acquired a personal attendant,” He gestures towards you with a flick of his hand, “It shall no longer be necessary.” As he speaks, he runs his hand absentmindedly through his well trimmed beard, gaging your reaction.

"I—" Your words falter and fade away. "Yes, sir," you respond, inclining your head in deference, a stark reminder of your place. While you may have concealed it, you were seething with humiliation. Returning to the Imperial Palace after a year of exile to serve the woman who took your spot was mortifying beyond measure.

“Very well. Pack enough for one week’s time. I doubt the Emperor would have called me if this was a light ailment.” He says gruffly. “We leave at dawn.” His gaze shifted to the horizon outside.

1 YEAR AGO

“Your Grace,” You purr at the feeling of his large hands scratching your head. 

The smile that rests on his face is almost ravenous. “Yes, my love?”

“I think—“ A soft sigh escapes your lips when he presses on your weak points. “I should g-go.”

His ministrations stop almost immediately. 

“Go?” His eyes peer down at you in his lap. It is now that you realize the weight of his piercing gaze. “Have I commanded you to leave yet?”

“No, but—”

“Then you have nowhere else to be.” He huffs, unintentionally puffing his cheeks out. You stifle the giggle that nearly escapes from your lips. He vaguely resembles a pufferfish– or so you think. Though you’ve never seen the round creature with your very own eyes, you’ve heard that the delicacy was something only members of the aristocratic class would feast on. 

Your mouth waters at the thought.

“What are you thinking about that could possibly be so important? Keep your eyes on me,” A strong hand squishes your cheeks together and firmly guides your face back upon him. 

You should be embarrassed; ashamed at the intimate position His Majesty has trapped you in. The way your head is tucked away in his lap as he peers down at you, nothing to shield you away from him. It was incredibly scandalous, considering that you were an unmarried woman! But it seemed like the Emperor had taken no mind towards it. You would even dare to say that he was enjoying it, with the way his lips quirk upward at the sight of you squirming. 

“Your Grace,” You repeat, determined to free yourself from his hold. His eyebrows furrow.

“Satoru,” He reminds you. You purse your lips. The position you hold in his court is simply not high enough to grant you the privilege of calling him by his given name.

“Your Grace,” You try again, the title rolling off of your tongue naturally. A man like him did not deserve any title less than.

“You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart. Indulge a man, won’t you?” He pouts down at you. As stubborn as ever, you don’t relent.

“I would be overstepping my boundaries as your consort to call you as such. That privilege is reserved for your future bride.” You take advantage of his guard let down to sit up and escape his hold. If he could have caught you, he made no effort.

“I am a simple man.” He follows you to your vanity. A giggle escapes your mouth. He is anything but. “I want my love to call me by my name.” 

You turn around to cup his cheek. He eagerly leans into your touch, sighing happily at the contact.

“I wonder how Lord Kento and Geto would react to you like this.” You tease, a smile unknowingly painting itself on your lips. 

Satoru’s face falls, features morphing into an appalled expression. You watch him close the distance between you through the mirror.

“Kento?” His voice had a dangerous lilt in it. You blink, unsure what spurred on the sudden tension in the room. “Since when were you so comfortable around him? He cannot satisfy you like I can.” He reminds you of the man’s castrated state as an eunuch. You wince.

“I have not gotten comfortable,” You’re careful to pick your words. Gojo’s possessiveness was something that was not easily tamed. “He simply provides good conversation while you are away.The palace is far too big and lonely while you’re away dealing with clan matters.” 

The only response you get is a quiet grumble. “You’re lucky that you’re pretty.” His large hand creeps its way into your hair again, undoing the hairstyle your ladies in waiting had spent a copious amount of time on earlier that morning. Gojo carefully plucks the extravagant silver hairpin from your hair, the dangling pearls clicking softly at the sudden movement.  His hands slowly make their way down to the kimono that you are wearing, hands ready to undo the obi.

Your hands softly hover his, “I fear that our roles have been reversed. Should it not be me who gets you unready, Your Grace?”

He chuckles and through the mirror you can see a smirk make his way to his lips, “I’d let you undress me any day. Just say the word, beloved.” 

You roll your eyes, but allow him to continue. It was moments like these with the Emperor that led you on to believe that there was a semblance of love between the two of you. 

How wrong you were.

PRESENT DAY

The sun has yet to meet the horizon when you arrive at the Inner Palace. The horse-drawn carriage that you and Yaga had taken is the only sound at the scene, clopping down the stone road and back to the Inner Court. You miss the serenity of the beautiful palace you once resided in, knowing that it will be bustling with life in just a few short hours.

In front of the large doors of the primary ceremonial hall where the Emperor spends most of his time, stands Lord Nanami, a counsellor to the Emperor himself. Time has only made his face sterner, but his neatly styled hair and blue and yellow dyed court attire remained the same. He waits patiently while you and Yaga make your way up the flight up stairs that lead up to the hall.

“I am glad to see you in good health, Yaga.” Nanami bows. 

The man next to you promptly waves his politeness off, thanking him for his hospitality. You stand silently while the two men engage in conversation regally.

Lord Nanami sighs, “His Majesty has been plagued by stress lately. To say I am relieved by your presence would be an understatement.” His statement is a subtle reminder that you must harden your heart upon entering the palace walls. The meticulously built walls were no longer a sanctuary for you, rather, a painful testament that you were no longer wanted. 

Yaga lets out a hearty laugh and it reveals a rare sight, Lord Nanami’s lips curving upwards by a slight. “I highly doubt the boy would be glad to see me. The appearance of the Imperial Physician is portentous.” He scratches his beard. You tilt your head in confusion at how he referred to the Emperor.

“I suppose, yet I am intrigued to find out how he will react upon seeing his object of affection flourishing anew despite the sting of frost.” Nanami audibly wonders. Even a fool could understand his eloquent comparison. The Emperor would be thrilled to see his consort in full bloom once again. You pray that the Heavens would grant you some mercy from witnessing such a scene.

“Youth,” Yaga shakes his head, chuckling to himself before regaining composure. “I mustn't keep the Emperor waiting. [Name], please gather the herbal ingredients to treat the young Consort as you seem fit. I shall confer with His Majesty and meet you in her chambers to declare a proper diagnosis.”

You bow, “Yes sir.”

While Yaga prepares to enter the doors where The Heavenly Emperor resides, your eyes couldn’t help but gaze longingly at the large bronze doors. 

“You seem well,” Nanami addresses you for the first time in over a year. Your eyes trail from the Emperor’s door to the blonde man in front of you. “Allow me to guide you to our herbal stock.” Nanami offers you his arm as you start to make your way down the stairs. 

You take it, lightly holding his arm.  “Thank you, Lord Nanami. Time away from the Inner Palace has been like a breath of fresh air,” You respond, ensuring your voice carries no malice. You hear the large palace doors from behind you open, the metal creaking loudly in the quiet dawn. 

“I must ask you to call me Kento,” He leads you down the stone steps. “We are old friends, it is strange to hear anything but.” 

You focus on your steps down the stairs, only responding once your feet meet the solid ground, “I fear that our social statuses have changed since then. It would be the cause of a scandal should anyone hear I am calling the Imperial Counselor by his given name. Your admirers would have my head on a stick.”

“Your imagination is amusing as always, [Name].” He gives you a closed eyes smile. You huff.

“I am only speaking the truth!” You insist. He chuckles.

“It is quite refreshing to see both you and Yaga again. I’m not sure how long it has been since I have been at the imperial physician.” 

You gape at his confession. “You mustn't skip your annual visits to the physician, Kento. It is in the best interest of your health!” You lightly scold him, lifting your hand to flick his forehead. It was a force of habit. “Perhaps if I have time after treating the Consort, I shall do a check up on you.”

Nanami clears his throat at your comment, the twinkle in his eyes dissipating as if your direct touch had burned him. 

“I would rather not lose my head.” He mumbles, eyes scanning the courtyard around the two of you. You knit your eyebrows, confused.

Nanami leaves you to fulfill his duties once you arrive at the Royal Kitchens to retrieve all the necessary items to treat Consort Himiko. You are glad that he did not accompany you into the kitchens to prepare Consort Himiko’s herbal soup. 

The memory of it still irks you.

“You’re late,” One of Consort Himiko’s ladies in waiting snaps just as you enter the kitchen. You look up to see a young girl, dressed in a light purple kimono. It must be Himiko’s signature, you note. It was strange to see someone outside of the Imperial family donning the color, but you suppose it was only a grand display of Himiko’s influence.

“You’re a lot more plain than I anticipated,” The other lady in waiting quirks an eyebrow, eyeing your appearance. You furrow your eyebrows, shocked by their rudeness.Their undying loyalty to their Lady was enough to fuel an unspoken hatred for you. Though you’re not sure that the two coincide, you don’t blame them.

The two are mixing a concoction that you don’t recognize to be used to treat the sick. The taller one adds some aromatics and herbs in and you see the other one unwrap a cloth to reveal a rare delicacy from the West. Cocoa, you believed they called it. 

Then it hits you– the two are not making a medicinal soup for their Lady, rather they are making an aphrodisiac! The image that conjures in your head makes you blanch. Back in the Outer Palace, Shoko had shown you the effects of the stimulant (you shiver at the memory of her shoving a treat laced with it into your mouth). It was certainly a night to remember.

“How pathetic,” You mutter underneath your breath, quickly rushing to obtain the ingredients you needed without making conversation with the two girls.

Fortunately, they pay you no further attention for the time you’re in the kitchen.

“Please excuse me,” You bow upon entering the Emperor’s chambers. Despite the Consort’s Pavilion being similar in size to a small town, you remember spending most of your time in the Emperor’s chambers rather than your own. It was probably the same case with Consort Himiko. You slowly place the tray carrying broth and medicinal herbs to treat the Consort down on the circular wooden table in the middle of the room.

Out of curiosity, your eyes can’t help but soak in the Emperor’s room. Not much has changed since you’ve left. His Majesty’s preference for minimalist decorations have stayed the same, along with his natural musk that fills your nose. You feel your face heat up at your own thoughts. How could you think of such a thing when you are about to meet his new lover?

Your gaze moves to his bed, where Consort Himiko resides– only to find nothing.

“Huh?” 

You observe his bed, silk sheets neatly made, seemingly untouched. The sounds of your sock clad feet patter on the wooden floor as you make your way to feel the bedsheets for any signs of warmth, but you are met with nothing.

“Don’t you know that entering the Emperor’s chambers can be punishable by death?” A deep voice from behind you causes you to jump in your spot. 

Your guard is immediately raised, head whipping to the sound. In hindsight, you should have never agreed to accompany Yaga on his trip. It was a foolish idea all along, you think as all of the air in your lungs dissipates upon seeing your former lover. 

Standing at the entrance of his own sleeping quarters is Gojo Satoru, his frame big enough to tower over the doorway. His arms are crossed over each other, electric blue eyes focused on nothing else but you. You press your thighs together tightly to avoid squirming anymore than you are.  He has loosened his dark blue kimono to expose some of his hardened chest, a sight any woman in the nation would die to catch a glimpse.  Even underneath all of the fabric, anyone can see his divinely sculpted physique.

“Your Grace,” You waste no time to dip your body deeply, praying that he will allow you to keep your head by sunset. “I apologize for the intrusion, I was under the pretense that Consort Himiko resided in your quarters–” Your voice loses itself in your throat when you see his shadow quickly encroaching.

“Himiko stays in her Pavilion,” He towers over you, eyes gazing down on you. “But one might suspect that you already knew that.”

Your eyes frantically meet his feet, desperate to salvage what was left of your dignity, “I assure you that I speak of the truth, Your Majesty.”

When he doesn’t respond, you slowly lift your head.

The flustered look on your face must have been amusing to him, as he makes his way closer to you, bending down to interrogate you further.

“Is that so?” He hums, enjoying every second of cornering you into his chambers. The back of your legs have met his bed, trapping you. You inhale sharply, trying to keep your breaths even, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on you.

He continues, “You’re awfully skittish for someone who was happily skipping around my territory in the arms of another man just earlier.” His predatory gaze seems to darken. 

“Kento?” When his name leaves your lips, the man in front of you grits his teeth. You turn your head to the side, deliberately avoiding him. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, but I don’t see how Kento and I’s relationship is any of your concern,” He does not take your actions well, his gaze searing into you.

“It certainly is when the woman in question is you,” Gojo’s voice loses its feral lilt, distress flashing across his face. There’s a newfound desperation in it that chips away at your resolve. His hand raises to your face so slowly, as if he did not want to startle you.

“This is wrong. I– I saw a couple of servants earlier making aphrodisiacs, perhaps you could have unknowingly consumed them.” You tell him, frantic eyes meeting him. It is not unusual for couples to use aphrodisiacs, you know that after under Yaga. The Emperor must have mistaken the laced dessert for his usual. 

He shakes his head, running a hand through his white hair.

“You are mistaken. This is solely your effect on me.” He promises. You could barely believe his words, stuck between feeling offended or shocked.

“How could you stand to be so cruel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. There are no tears in your eyes this time.  “I am not a courtesan you can buy for the night,” You snap, pointing a harsh finger to his chest. 

“What do you mean?” He sounds breathless.

“Whatever do I mean?” You scoff, a dry laugh escaping your mouth. “For a year, all I have gotten is pity from the world, because you decided I was no longer entertaining. You could have at least banished me away yourself. Instead, you sent Suguru who couldn’t even look me in the eye! Don’t you know how humiliating that is?” With every word that left your lips, more venom seemed to drip. Anger was prickling you all over, taking control of the rational part of you.

Gojo seemed to be taken aback by your outburst. It was far too late to take anything back now. If you lose your head by nightfall, so be it.

You dig a deeper grave for yourself when you take advantage of his moment of weakness to flee. He’s quick to react, attempting to grip your wrist.

“Wait, [Name], beloved–” He uses that all too familiar term of endearment, but it doesn't deter you.

You accidentally bump into the circular wooden table placed in the middle of the room. What an awful place to keep it, watching in horror as the Consort’s medicine shatters on the floor. To add salt to the wound, a vase you recognize to be specially gifted to the Emperor from a foreign nation tips off too before you can catch it. The sound of porcelain shattering fills the room.

“[Name]! Are you alright?” You hear Gojo ask from behind you, but you run over the broken shards before he can catch you.

Had you bothered to pay closer attention, you would have noticed articles of your clothing and a couple of your missing belongings littered all over the room– creating a faux impression that you never really left the palace.

Days passed by after the incident, and luckily, your head was still attached to your body despite offending and nearly endangering the Emperor. Yaga’s disappointment when you had told him what happened was made evident when he sent you home early after hearing the events that transpired, insisting that he can handle the Consort on his own. Normally you would have argued, but you knew better than to inflict Yaga’s wrath.

“Now you’ve really done it,” Shoko whistles lowly, walking in from the front of Yaga’s shop. 

You hide your face in your hands, “I made an absolute fool of myself, didn’t I?”

“A fool? No. A conspirator against the Emperor? Perhaps.” She dangles a scroll with a familiar seal on it. The Gojo Clan’s familiar emblem reflects off of the sunlight spilling into the room. Your heart drops.

“Oh, they’ll have my head.” You moan, hands instinctively lifting to shield your neck.

“Though I’m quite impressed that Yaga only sent you back here. He used to have worse punishments.” She shudders before impatiently unraveling the scroll. You watch her eyes gradually widen as they read the contents of the letter. The scroll falls from her hand.

You rush to it, desperate to read your fate.

To [Last Name] [First Name],

Greetings and prosperity unto you.

By the mandate of the heavens and the authority vested in Us, We hereby extend Our solemn words to you, [Last Name] [First Name], servant of the realm, in acknowledgement of your debt to the Empire.

In response to your unmeritorious deeds, The Emperor bestows upon you His imperial pardon from capital punishment. In consideration of your obligations and the harmony of the realm, it is hereby decreed that you shall serve as an indentured servant to the Imperial Household for a period commensurate with your debt. During this time, you shall labor faithfully and diligently under the supervision of Our Heavenly Emperor, performing duties essential to the welfare of the Empire.

By fulfilling your obligations with diligence and humility, you may yet earn favor and esteem in Our sight.

The Imperial Court

A loud gasp escapes your mouth.

You feel your legs weaken, your emotions running wild. Shoko’s eyes meet yours, mirroring your frantic gaze. In that moment, you are met with the same suffocating sense of hopelessness.

extra!

gojo was kicking his feet happily as he watched suguru draft out his letter to you. suguru thought it rather cruel, while the white haired male was too busy purring happily as he fantasized about having you back into his grasp.

[xu-ren]

the end times — gojo satoru

synopsis. gojo satoru thinks he’s going to die because you’re giving him the silent treatment. (aka your first big fight with gojo).

contents. hurt/comfort, ooc, lovesick!gojo, you give him the silent treatment and he goes crazy, he is so pathetic in this one, tw obsessive behavior (he makes it EVERYONE’S problem), gojo’s pov

notes. loosely inspired by that one scene from yakuza fiance. not proofread whats new

Gojo knows he’s screwed up the second he steps into the common area of Jujutsu Tech’s dormitory. The air feels thick, wrong. And then there’s you, curled up on the couch, a book open in your lap, but your eyes aren’t moving.

His grin falters for half a second before he masks it with his usual bravado. “I always knew you had a little freak in you, but reading your erotic books out in the open? Who knew my girl was such a perv.”

The joke usually earns him a laugh, a shove, maybe even a teasing retort. But tonight, the silence that follows is deafening.

The pit in his stomach grows.

“Sweetheart?” He tries again, waving a hand obnoxiously close to your face.

You finally react, swatting his hand away, but there’s no playfulness in the motion. Your eyes don't even meet his.

“You’re late,” you say flatly, still staring at your book. “Again.”

Gojo scoffs, irritation bubbling. Not at you, never at you, but at the damn book that’s getting more attention than him.

“Ah, you know how it is. Got held up in Kyoto,” he says with a shrug.

The words leave his mouth too easily. He doesn’t realize his mistake until you finally, finally look at him.

And it’s nothing like usual.

There’s no warmth in your gaze, no sparkle of amusement or exasperation. Instead, you pin him with a look so sharp it strips him bare, leaving nothing but the hollow weight in his chest.

“You missed our date.”

His breath catches. His throat goes dry. “I–”

“I’m not mad about that.”

Relief floods him too fast, too soon. His shoulders sag as he leans down, tilting his head for a well-earned kiss. “You’re the best. I swear, I’ll make it up to you.”

You pull away before he can touch you.

Gojo freezes.

“[Name]?”

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You know, it’s funny.”

There’s nothing funny about this moment.

His pulse thrums as you continue, voice eerily steady. “That your mission was in Kyoto. I mean, we have a whole sister school there, full of sorcerers ready to handle a first-grade threat. So why would they need you, specifically?”

His stomach drops.

He’s never been good at guilt, not when he’s spent his whole life believing he’s untouchable. But now, standing before you, unable to meet your eyes, it sits heavy in his gut.

And you don’t let up.

“Of course, I asked around. Thought maybe I was overthinking it.” A humorless scoff escapes you. “Imagine my surprise when I found out my boyfriend was too busy meeting with his future bride.”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but for the first time in his life, he doesn’t know what to say.

“That’s–” he starts, then stops because, shit, you’re staring at him like he’s a stranger. Like he’s someone you can’t trust. The realization makes his stomach churn.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” you say bitterly, arms crossing as you lean back into the couch. “I mean, I’d love to hear how you were going to explain this one, Gojo Satoru.”

Full name. That’s how he knows he’s really fucked up.

“It’s not–It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, voice unusually hoarse. His usual bravado, his charm, none of it is coming to him. He doesn’t even know where to start. “I wasn’t–I wasn’t hiding it. I just–”

“You just forgot to tell me that your clan is arranging a marriage for you?” you cut in sharply. “That slipped your mind?”

“No! Yes—Fuck, that’s not what I mean,” he groans, pushing a hand through his hair. He’s never felt like this before. Like he’s scrambling for footing on uneven ground. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter, sweetheart. I wasn’t ever going to go through with it. You know that, right?”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Do I? I mean, Suguru seemed shocked when I didn’t know that these were recurring dates set by your clan.”

Gojo falters.

“You didn’t even think to tell me, Satoru,” you say, voice quieter now, but somehow even more devastating. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”

His heart clenches. That’s not–God, that’s not what this is.

“Of course you deserve to know! But I—” he exhales sharply, trying to gather his words. “I just—Fuck, I thought it was stupid. I thought it wasn’t worth mentioning.”

You shake your head, looking almost tired now. “Right. Because I’m just supposed to assume you’d never go through with it. After your multiple dates with her. Because I’m supposed to read your mind, just like always.”

The weight of your words crashes into him, and Gojo suddenly realizes that this isn’t just about Kyoto. This isn’t just about one lie, one mistake. This is about every time he’s brushed things off, every time he’s let silence speak for him, every time he’s sat through those excruciating meetings, knowing he would never go through with it, but never once thinking about how it would feel for you to find out this way. This is about every time he’s expected you to just get him without him ever having to say a word.

This is about how, even after everything, you still don’t know how much he loves you.

And now, looking at you, Gojo is terrified that he’s already lost his chance to prove it.

“I’m going to sleep,” you stand up from your place on the couch. 

Gojo tries to follow you, “Listen, baby–”

“I don’t want to talk to you right now. I need some space.” you turn around to send him a teary glare and that stops him in his tracks. He had never seen you cry. And it tore him apart knowing that he was the cause. 

The sound of your door slamming echoes in Gojo’s mind. 

Gojo Satoru is the first one in class the next day.

He drums his fingers against the desk, restless in a way he can't explain, but he knows it has everything to do with the fact that he spent the entire night not sleeping. His mind was too busy replaying the way you had looked at him, no, the way you hadn’t looked at him.

He had left you alone and upset. He had made you feel like you were second to someone else. And worst of all, he hadn’t even realized it until it was too late.

“This must be a first.”

Gojo glances up as Suguru enters, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Gojo Satoru, on time? It must be the end times.”

He knows it’s a joke, but it might as well be the end times. Gojo doesn’t respond, just presses his lips into a thin line as he goes back to mentally reciting the apology speech he’s been revising in his head all night.

Then the shoji door slides open again.

You walk in with Shoko, your head tilted slightly as you whisper something to her, something he’ll never get to hear because you don’t so much as glance in his direction. Instead, you take a seat at the farthest desk, as if he isn’t even there.

A part of him withers away.

But Gojo Satoru isn’t one to give up.

If words won’t get your attention, he’ll just have to be Gojo Satoru about it. He leans back in his chair and stretches obnoxiously, before loudly exclaiming, “Yaga-sensei! Are those grey hairs from your recent divorce?”

He grins, waiting for the familiar sound of your laugh, for that little shake of your head, for you to scold him like always.

But you don’t even look at him.

Instead, he’s met with Geto and Shoko’s twin expressions of abject horror, and before he has a chance to register what’s happening–

BAM!

Yaga’s palm collides with his head, sending him face-first into his desk.

Even through the throbbing pain, he can only think about one thing.

You didn’t even react.

“And how exactly is she ignoring you?”

Shoko’s grumpy voice echoes through the morgue, where she’s been attempting to practice her technique. She’s clearly unimpressed that Gojo Satoru has decided to spam-call her instead of dealing with his own problems.

“She’s ignoring me, Shoko,” Gojo groans dramatically from the other side of the Jujutsu Tech campus, rubbing the fresh bump on his head as he stands in front of your door. “I’ve been knocking for an hour. She’s in there. I know she’s in there, but she won’t answer.”

“Maybe she finally got tired of your bullshit,” Shoko says dryly. “Honestly, I don’t know why it took her this long to hold you accountable. She’s let your bad behavior slide for way too long.”

“Why are we talking about me like I’m some kind of dog?!”

Shoko ignores him.

“From the sound of it, you really messed up. I mean, who keeps a marriage a secret from their girlfriend?” She pauses, then adds with a smirk in her voice, “Oh, right. You.”

Gojo groans, pressing his forehead against your door. “You and I both know that’s not what happened. But she doesn’t. And she won’t even give me the time of day to explain.”

Shoko sighs. “Give her time to cool down.”

“And what, let her decide she wants to run off and marry some other guy? Move to a cute little beach town in Enoshima, start a family, have three kids, and leave all Jujutsu sorcery behind?”

There’s a long pause before Shoko makes a disgusted sound. “O-oi. Keep your weirdly detailed fantasies to yourself.”

“I’m just being realistic,” he insists, clutching his flip phone dramatically.

Shoko promptly hangs up on him.

Gojo stares at the device for a moment before slowly lowering it, exhaling hard.

Then he rests his head against your door again, defeated.

But Gojo Satoru was never one to admit defeat, so he tries again. He returns to your door the very next morning, bright eyed and bushy tailed.

“[Name]!” he chirps. “I bought us some parfait! Let’s talk things over, yeah?”

Silence.

Not even the sound of movement.

But Gojo Satoru is not easily discouraged.

So Gojo Satoru comes again the next morning.

“[Name]!” he knocks again, this time balancing a slice of strawberry cake in one hand. “This is all my fault, so come out and let me apologize properly!”

Nothing.

Gojo sighs, leaning against the doorframe, about to knock again when—

Your phone rings.

His breath catches as he presses his ear to the wood.

“Hi, Suguru?”

His heart stops.

“Yeah, we’re still on for the movie. I’m just about to leave right now.”

For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru understands what people mean when they say they feel like they’ve been punched in the gut.

Because you’re going to Suguru.

You’re not just ignoring him, you’re choosing someone else.

His fingers twitch at his sides as a feeling he doesn’t like at all creeps into his chest. It’s something ugly, something unfamiliar. Something that feels a lot like jealousy. Was that how you felt?

He wants to knock again, wants to demand that you open the door, look at him, let him fix this before you walk away from him any further.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he presses his lips into a thin line, shoves his hands into his pockets, and forces himself to step away from your door.

Forces himself to give you the space you deserved.

You don’t know why you relent so easily.

You shouldn’t. Not after the way he lied, the way he kept something so important from you.

And yet, when you hear him pacing outside your door, his nervous energy practically seeping through the walls, you feel something crack.

He’s been outside your room for the nth time this week. Every day, like clockwork, he’s knocked. Brought your favorite snacks. Talked to you through the door, filling the silence with his ridiculous banter, even when you refused to answer.

You squeeze your eyes shut, gripping your blanket a little tighter. You should stay angry. But you can't.

You sigh, pressing your forehead to your knee.

Maybe it’s time to stop punishing the both of you.

With a deep breath, you stand, crossing the room to the door. When you open it, Gojo nearly stumbles forward, mid-step in his pacing.

His eyes snap to yours, wide and filled with so much desperate hope it makes your chest ache.

And the way his face lights up like you’ve just handed him the entire world tells you that, maybe, you were never going to be able to stay mad at him forever.

But you’re here, leaning on your door frame with your arms crossed, your nails digging into your skin as you glare at the man who has spent the last ten minutes tripping over his words, looking wrecked in a way you’ve never seen before. His hair is messier than usual, lips are parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he doesn’t know where to start.

Finally, you scoff, breaking the silence. “If you don’t have anything to say, I’m going back into my room.”

“No!,” Gojo steps forward instinctively, like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers. And after everything, he is. “I screwed up.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Oh, really?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, yeah, I really fucked up.”

Silence.

You should say something. You should demand an explanation, yell, maybe even cry, but you’re so tired. You’ve spent days twisting yourself into knots over this, convincing yourself you never meant as much to him as he did to you.

And then Gojo says it.

“I should’ve told you.” His voice is hoarse. “I should have told you after the first meeting. After the first second they brought it up.” He swallows hard. “But I was stupid. I thought if I ignored it, if I went through the motions, if I waited for the right moment… then it wouldn’t matter. That it would be over before you ever had to know.”

You shake your head, letting out a hollow laugh. “Satoru, do you even hear yourself? Do you get what it was like for me to find out from someone else? To hear that the person I–” you cut yourself off, but the damage is done. You see it in the way his breath hitches, in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he wants to reach for you.

“The person you what?” he asks softly, pleading.

You clench your jaw. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

Your shake your head. “You lied to me.”

“I know,” he says, and the sheer brokenness in his voice makes your throat tighten. “I know, sweetheart. And I swear to you that I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt you.” he exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “I swear on everything, I was never going to go through with it. I never even showed up to any of the dates, so they kept ambushing me under the guise of missions! I sat through every single one of those goddamn meetings thinking about how ridiculous it was, how there was only ever one person I wanted.”

He stops himself, inhaling sharply.

And then, quieter, almost afraid:

“How there’s only ever you.”

The words hit you like a fist to the chest.

Gojo watches you carefully, breathless, waiting. Hoping. He’s given you the truth, raw and unfiltered, and now it’s up to you.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way he looks at you like you’re the most important thing in his world that makes you believe him.

For the first time in a week, your lips find his, and Gojo swears he can finally breathe again. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers curl slightly as if grounding yourself in him. It’s enough to make him melt.

"You’re so insufferably cheesy, Satoru," you murmur against his lips, your breath warm, teasing. "It makes me so angry that I love it." A pause, a soft exhale. "But I forgive you."

His grin is instant, smug and shameless. "That was good, huh?" He tilts his head, cerulean eyes twinkling. "I’m willing to bet your heart skipped a beat."

You roll your eyes, but you kiss him again, slower this time, because, damn it, he’s right.

extra!

“I demand some extra loving!” Satoru sprawls dramatically across your bed, limbs hanging off the edge like a defeated king.

You barely spare him a glance, flipping a page in your book as you lie comfortably on your stomach. “And why, exactly, do you deserve that?”

He lifts his head, pouting. “I deserve it after a week’s worth of psychological trauma. Don’t think I forgot that you ditched me for Suguru.”

“Oh… that.”

“Yeah. That.” His voice is thick with exaggerated betrayal.

You finally look at him, a smirk tugging at your lips. “It was a fake phone call, Satoru. You were just so insufferable camping outside my door that I had to make up an excuse.”

His jaw drops. “Huh?!”

[xu-ren]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSTRAWBERRY BABYㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Jason Todd x Fem Reader

☆⁠ SYNOPSIS : You just gave birth to your child, Jason's child, the love of your life. But everything went wrong when you saw the child...

☆⁠ NOTE : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Your life was supposed to be perfect right now. You just gave birth to your beautiful baby—a moment that should have been magical, joyous, and filled with happy tears.

Instead, you were losing your mind.

Because the baby in your arms… did not have black hair. Not even a single dark strand.

No.

Because the baby—the tiny, fresh-out-the-womb infant that you had just spent hours screaming into existence—was blonde.

Blonde.

BLONDE.

And he looked exactly like Jason.

Now, for most normal people, this wouldn’t be an issue. In fact, it would be a cute, happy moment—"Oh wow, he looks just like his dad!"—but you? No. You were spiraling. Because Jason had black hair. Jet black. Dark as the night. Dark as his soul (romantically speaking).

And your baby?

Your baby had a tuft of blonde hair that made him look like a tiny cherub sent straight from heaven.

Which made no damn sense.

You hadn’t cheated. Hell, you barely even looked at other men since getting together with Jason because—let’s be honest—your man was already borderline psychotic when it came to his jealousy.

So, if you had cheated (which, again, you HADN’T), you would already be dead. There would be no hospital room. No baby. Just a Jason-shaped shadow standing over your shallow grave.

But that didn’t change the fact that you were staring at your son, this tiny, beautiful baby with blonde hair.

Which would be fine. If Jason had fucking blonde hair.

But he didn’t. He had black hair.

You were a hundred percent sure of that. You had run your fingers through that thick, inky hair so many times. You had tugged it when he pissed you off. You had yanked it when—

That didn’t matter right now.

Because either you had just given birth to the wrong child, or—OR—

“Oh my God,” you choked, your voice cracking as you looked at the baby in your arms with sheer, bone-deep horror. “Jason’s going to think I cheated on him.”

The room went silent.

A nurse looked at you with wide eyes, hesitating mid-step. Alfred, ever the picture of composure, cleared his throat, carefully folding a tiny onesie. And Dick—because of course Dick was here—froze mid-bite of his celebratory snack, a hospital pudding cup, before slowly turning to you.

“Uh… what?”

“I didn’t cheat on him,” you gasped, convulsing in hormonal sobs as you clutched the tiny baby closer to your chest. “I didn’t! I swear I didn’t!”

“I mean, obviously,” Tim mumbled, looking more alarmed at your emotional breakdown than at the situation itself.

But you weren’t listening. You were spiraling, your voice getting more frantic.

“Oh my God. What if they gave me the wrong baby?” you whispered, eyes darting wildly around the hospital room. “What if some poor woman out there has my real baby? And I have hers?”

“Miss, please,” Alfred sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Damian, perched in the corner of the room with his arms crossed, made a disgusted sound. “That’s your child, idiot. It looks just like Todd.”

“NO, HE DOESN’T!” you wailed. “JASON HAS BLACK HAIR!”

Damian just scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I—WHAT?!” you shrieked.

Dick sighed dramatically, putting his hands on his hips. “I can’t believe we have to do this right now. Jason’s gonna lose his mind.”

That set you off even worse. Jason’s gonna lose his mind?! Oh God, oh God, he was going to think you cheated. He was going to leave. He was going to storm in here, take one look at the baby, and—

You sobbed harder. Ugly cried harder.

Bruce actually looked like he was reconsidering every decision that led him to this moment.

“Uh, wow,” Tim muttered.

“I didn’t cheat,” you repeated, voice breaking. “I mean—how would I even have the time?! Jason’s always around! He’d kill anyone who looked at me for too long! It doesn’t make sense!”

“Why are you trying to convince us?” Damian scoffed. “Shouldn’t you be telling Todd?”

Your stomach dropped.

Jason.

Jason wasn’t here.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck.

“I—I love him so much,” you sobbed, clutching your little (wrong?!) baby. “I—oh my God—what if he leaves me?! What if he thinks I—Oh God, he’s gonna think I cheated, and I didn’t, I swear—”

“Jason’s going to break the door down when he gets here,” Tim muttered, rubbing his temples.

“No, he won’t,” Bruce grumbled.

CRASH.

Jason absolutely broke the door down.

It slammed against the wall so hard that even your baby, who had been peacefully asleep through your meltdown, flinched.

"Fucking Gotham traffic, I swear to—"

He froze.

You were crying.

Sobbing.

Hysterical.

His brain ran a million miles per hour. Did something happen? Did you change your mind about the name? Did one of the nurses insult you? Did he leave the oven on? Did someone die?

His eyes darted to the baby in your arms.

Tiny. Swaddled. Breathing.

Okay. Not dead.

So why the fuck were you crying like this was a damn crime scene?

"Uh," Jason started. "Baby? What’s wrong?"

You let out another broken sob, clutching the baby to your chest.

Jason panicked.

You started crying so hard you couldn’t even get words out. Just absolute, gut-wrenching sobs while Jason rushed to your bedside, grabbing your face.

“Baby, baby, what’s wrong?!” he panicked, his voice an octave higher. “Did they hurt you?! Are you in pain?! Do I have to kill someone?! Is it Bruce?! I bet it’s Bruce.”

Bruce exhaled through his nose, deeply unimpressed.

It's just made you cry harder.

"Oh, God—what happened?! Are you okay?! Is the baby okay—"

"Jason, I SWEAR I didn’t cheat on you!" you blurted out.

Jason blinked.

Everyone collectively flinched.

"…What?" Jason said, voice flat.

"I didn’t cheat! I would never cheat! I love you, and you were my first, and I would never, I would never, I—"

"Baby," Jason said slowly, trying to wrap his head around this absolute fever dream. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You let out another shaky breath, eyes darting around the room in pure panic. "T-the baby, Jason. Look at him."

Jason frowned, stepping closer. He looked at the baby. Looked at you. Looked at the baby again.

"…Yeah?" he said, confused.

"He has blonde hair!"

Jason blinked.

Then blinked again.

Then turned to the rest of the family like they had the answers.

Dick rubbed his temples. "Jay."

Jason turned back to you, lips parting like he was about to say something, then stopping. Then opening again. Then stopping.

“I swear I didn’t!” Your sobs renewed, your shoulders shaking as you held up the tiny, peacefully sleeping baby. “But look at him! He has blonde hair! He looks exactly like you! But you have black hair! I think I got the wrong baby, or I cheated on you in my sleep, or maybe you’re going to leave me—”

Jason stared.

Then he turned, slowly, toward the rest of the room. “…Did you guys let her spiral like this on purpose?”

“Yes,” Damian said, unbothered.

“Absolutely,” Dick grinned.

Jason inhaled deeply.

Then, to your absolute shock, he let out a long, tired sigh—before shoving a hand through his hair and grumbling, “I fucking forgot you didn’t know.”

You hiccupped again. “Wh—what?”

Jason gave you a flat look. “Babe. My hair. I’ve been dyeing it black since I was a kid.”

Your breath caught. “Huh?”

“Because of him,” Jason added, jerking his thumb toward Dick, who just wiggled his fingers in a smug little wave.

Silence.

More silence.

The world stopped.

The Earth stopped spinning.

Your breath hitched. "You…"

Jason nodded.

"You… had blonde hair?"

Jason nodded again.

You sniffled. Sniffled again. Processed this information.

Then immediately let out a loud, gut-wrenching, ugly sob and buried your face in your hands.

Jason Todd. Your husband. Your big, scary, six-foot-four, muscle-bound, leather-wearing husband. The man who used to be the meanest street kid in Crime Alley. The man who could disassemble a gun with his eyes closed and had murdered actual people.

Had spent his entire life dyeing his hair because he wanted to look like Dick Grayson.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, eyes wide.

Jason groaned, rubbing his face. “Babe—”

“Oh my God.”

“Listen, it’s not—”

“You mean to tell me I’ve been married to you this whole time thinking you had black hair, but you’re actually some kind of undercover blonde?!”

“Strawberry blonde,” Tim corrected.

Jason shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

You gasped, gripping his jacket like you might collapse. “You mean to tell me this baby is actually yours?”

Jason exhaled. Then he stepped forward, resting a warm, solid hand against your cheek before pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Yes, babe,” he muttered, lips brushing your skin. “He’s mine.”

"Oh my God," you wailed. "I’m so stupid."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—" Jason sat on the bed, grabbing you. "You’re not stupid. You just had a baby. And hormones. And clearly, no one ever showed you my baby pictures."

"This whole time," you hiccupped, voice muffled, "I thought they swapped our baby, and I stole some random kid. I thought you were gonna leave me!"

Jason sighed, rubbing your back. "Sweetheart, I would never leave you. Especially not over our perfectly fine, baby."

Damian scoffed. "Tt. As if anyone else would willingly have a child with Todd."

Jason shot him a glare. "Not the time, demon."

Dick sighed, stepping forward and ruffling Jason’s hair. "Guess we should’ve mentioned that whole blonde thing earlier, huh?"

Jason glared. "You think?"

Stephanie shook her head. "I thought everyone knew. It's, like, a family fun fact at this point."

"I DIDN’T KNOW!" you shouted.

Jason pulled you into his arms, still rubbing soothing circles into your back. "It’s okay, babe. It’s okay. I promise."

You sniffled, eyes red and puffy. "So… he’s really yours?"

Jason pressed a kiss to your forehead. "He’s really mine."

You let out a weak whimper. "I wanna see your baby pictures."

Jason chuckled. "Alright, sweetheart. When we get home, I’ll show you all of them."

Tim crossed his arms. "I have them saved on my phone."

Jason turned his head. "Why the fuck do you have baby pictures of me on your phone?"

Tim shrugged. "For emergencies."

Jason squinted. "…What kind of emergencies?"

Tim smirked. "Like this one."

Jason pulled back, finally looking down at the baby in your arms.

And—oh.

The storm in his eyes vanished.

Replaced by something warm. Something deep. Something soft.

The big, scary Red Hood, suddenly looked—small.

Awe-struck.

Because there, curled in your arms, was a tiny, sleeping baby with blonde hair and soft little features that looked just like his.

Jason swallowed.

Then, hesitantly, he reached out, brushing his fingers over the baby’s little fist.

“…Holy shit,” he murmured.

Dick grinned. “You made a clone.”

Jason turned to you, eyes softening.

Then he kissed you—long, deep, and full of love.

“I love you,” he muttered, lips still against yours.

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, repost or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[xu-ren]

will they wont they – dick grayson

synopsis. he had one job. but when it comes to you, dick grayson has never been good at following the rules.

contents. fluff, (implied) exes to lovers, catwoman!reader, batcat dynamic, theyre in love your honor

notes. i wanted a bruce and selina parallel except these two finally give in. this concept has been plaguing my for far too long. everyone thank blair for the idea

“And under no condition should you flirt with her,” Barbara’s voice crackles through his comms, sharp with warning. “This is a quick intel mission. You’re in and out, Nightwing.”

Dick chuckles. “Got it. Best behavior.”

Word had gotten back to the Batcave that, after Catwoman’s arrest, Catgirl was making moves to finish what her predecessor started. Even worse, there were rumors of Catwoman’s involvement in the riots of Blackgate Penitentiary. Usually, Gotham’s affairs stayed strictly in Bruce’s hands, but Dick had fought hard for this case. Maybe too hard.

“Nightwing,” Oracle’s voice falters as the group watches the hidden camera feed from his suit. “Did you… style your hair?”

Dick freezes mid-motion, his fingers still carding through his dark locks in the reflection of a nearby window.

“Dunno what you’re talking about.” He clears his throat, schooling his expression. Jason’s laughter bursts through the comms like a gunshot.

“Oh, this is priceless,” Jason wheezes. “Loverboy's got it bad.”

Dick exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he continues forward. “Can’t believe you guys planted a camera on me. Have you no trust?”

“It’s not about trust, Dick,” Bruce finally speaks, his voice cool and measured. “It’s about intelligence gathering.”

Of course. Ever the pragmatist.

Dick rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the unease creeping in. “Nah. My girl would never do anything to hurt me.” His voice dips. “Nothing I wouldn’t enjoy, anyway.”

Jason groans. “Barf.”

Oracle sighs. “Loverboy, focus.”

Dick lifts his hands in mock surrender, but his smirk lingers, betraying him. “Alright, alright.”

By the time Dick reaches the coordinates he was sent, the abandoned building seemed to be empty. Devoid of any criminal activity that was suspected.

Or at least, that’s how it looks.

Nightwing lands silently on the rooftop, scanning the darkened windows. No movement. No heat signatures. Just the city humming below, a steady pulse against the quiet.

Any amateur would enter the building to start his investigation, but Dick knew you better than that.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips.

You’re here. Somewhere. Watching.

His lips twitch. “Y’know, most people say hello first.”

Silence. 

A shift in the shadows, a whisper of movement, too fast for anyone else to catch.

He’s airborne for half a second before his back slams against the rooftop. His breath escapes in a sharp huff, and before he can fully register what was happening, a warmth presses close, your weight against him, a knee braced against his ribs, gloved fingers skimming the hollow of his throat. Light. Barely there. A tease, not a threat.

“Thought I’d mix it up,” you murmur.

The moonlight frames you in silver, your mask casting half your face in shadow. He watches the way your lips quirk, the way your breath fans against his jaw, closer than necessary. Closer than you should be.

He should move. Counter. Flip you.

Instead, his fingers curl around your wrist, his thumb ghosting over your pulse point.

Dick blinks up at you, the city lights outlining the curve of your smirk.

“Well,” he breathes, grin unfazed. “You sure know how to make a guy feel wanted.”

You hum, tilting your head. “I’d say sorry, but you walked right into it.”

Your knee eases up just enough for him to shift. It’s all he needs.

With a twist, he sweeps your leg from under you, flipping them. Now you’re the one pinned, but your expression doesn’t change—if anything, your smirk deepens.

“Better,” you muse. “Almost had me there.”

“Almost?” He tuts. “You wound me.”

Then, without hesitation, you hook your leg around his waist and throw your weight into a roll. The two of you tumble, shifting control back and forth, dodging and countering, neither ever fully committing to an actual strike.

It’s a dance. One you both know by heart.

You feint left and he dodges too slow. Your fist brushes his jaw, not a real hit, just enough to make him feel it.

“You’re distracted,” you observe, eyes glinting.

He exhales, grip tightening around your wrist just enough to keep you close. “Maybe I just like having you this close.”

“Always the flatterer.”

For a moment, neither moves. Your breaths mix, city lights reflecting in your masked gaze.

Then, you blow him a kiss, fingers ghost over his lips before twisting free.

A quick, effortless slip, like smoke through his fingers. By the time he blinks, you’re already a few feet away, perched on the edge of the rooftop, ready to make your exit. 

His comm buzzes. Jason’s voice, laced with amusement: “Tell me you’re at least trying to win.”

Dick ignores him.

Instead, his eyes flick toward the shadows. "C’mon, sweetheart, you really want it to end so soon?" He calls, the playful edge to his voice betraying the pulse of something more intense. “I’m starting to have fun.”

“Yeah?” You step into the moonlight, half a step in front of him. “You’re losing, horribly.”

You paused.

“But I’ve always liked how optimistic you were, Grayson. It’s cute.”

He can’t help but smile at the sound of his last name leaving your lips with a casualness that does something to him. He’s heard it from everyone, whether it be taunts or flirty whispers, but from you, it lands differently.

“I’m losing?” He raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his voice, but his heart pounds just a little faster. “I don’t think I feel like a loser.” In fact, he feels more alive than ever, adrenaline coursing through him, sparks erupting with every quip you exchanged. 

You let out a laugh, the sound light and effortless. “I’ve transported all of the artifacts from the Gotham Museum hours before you even got here.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he stays relaxed. He’ll deal with that later. “You know that’s not why I’m here.”

You tilt your head, smirking. “No?”

He steps closer. Slowly. “No,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a softer tone, low enough that it’s just for you.

You watch him, waiting.

He stops when you’re chest to chest, both of you breathing a little heavier now. The proximity is too close. Too much. And yet, neither of you move away.

“Then, what are you here for?”

For a heartbeat, the world slows, and he sees it, something soft in your eyes, hidden behind the mask. Something more than the game you’ve been playing.

“You know,” his voice softens.

But it’s fleeting. Gone before he can fully grasp it, and it hits him harder than he expects.

For a moment, he sees your own eyes underneath the black eye mask softening as they flicker between his own. But it’s gone as soon as it comes and Dick mourns it.

You break the moment first, pulling back just slightly, the warmth of your body still lingering as you glance away. “I’m not… involved with that and you know it,” you say, tone sharp but steady.

You’re not naive. He knows you’ve heard of the rumors circulating about Blackgate and Selina’s growing influence in the prison.

He catches your hand when you try to push him away, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. It’s the same dance they’ve done for years—one step forward, then the pull.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs.

“Obviously not.” Your eyes flash as you look away, trying to hide the strain in your voice. “You don’t trust me.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You know I do, sweetheart.” His voice softens, and he steps even closer, bringing his other hand to your jaw, his fingers gently guiding your gaze back to his.

“I just needed to confirm.” His breath catches in his chest as he leans in, his lips almost brushing yours. “You know. B and his procedures.”

He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches. You’re not backing away, but you’re holding yourself together with that quiet strength of yours.

“Dick,” Oracle warns him through the comm. He can feel Bruce’s silent warning echoing through his mind. He’s overstepped.

But Dick doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care about the mission anymore. Not when you’re standing there, eyes locked on his, body close enough that all he can think about is what it would be like to not fight this anymore.

With a quiet resolve, he reaches for his comm, deactivating it, then rips the camera from his suit, crushing it under his foot. The sound of the camera breaking echoes through the silent night, and he watches as surprise flickers in your eyes.

“You’re insane,” you murmur, the disbelief in your voice mixing with relief.

Dick steps even closer, no words now, just the steady thrum of his pulse and the way his body wants to close the distance. “Mission completed anyway,” he mutters, his lips curving into a grin, but it’s softer now.

“As always,” you whisper, your eyes flicking to the shattered camera. There’s a quiet moment where everything feels like it’s teetering on the edge.

Then, without another word, he pulls you in, his lips crashing into yours, soft but insistent. It’s everything he’s wanted, everything you’ve been dancing around for far too long.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his suit as he deepens the kiss, his body pressing into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The kiss is slow, almost agonizing in its sweetness. No more games, no more hesitating. Just the two of you, finally letting go. His hand rests on the back of your neck, fingers tracing down every curve.

“That,” he says, voice husky, “was a mission well done.”

Your eyes twinkle, and you don’t pull away. “You know you’re never going to hear the end of this, right?”

“Worth it,” he grins. “Every second.”

thank you for reading! reblogs n comments are appreciated :3

[xu-ren]

—𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞 | 𝐚𝐥-𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

summary: he hasn’t dreamed in a long time, but when al-haitham dreamed for the first time after the akademiya coup, he dreamed of you.

WARNINGS: archon quest akasha pulses, the kalpa flame rises spoilers! soulmate au if you squint, swearing, mentions of violence, death, injury, minor self-loathing, plot AND lore heavy, angst, fluff, not poly, happy ending!  pairing: al-haitham x fem!reader, minor kaveh x fem!reader word count: 18.1k grind

a/n: written for the lovely @zhongrin​ and her elemental supercharge collab! it was super fun to work on and really inspired me to love writing again because it was just a breath of fresh air. my entry: dendro + dendro + cryo = permafrost 

here are some important notes for this fic to help with understanding it:

tsaritsa is the former goddess of love. the goddess of flowers was a seelie. king deshret reborn was al-haitham. possibly ooc al-haitham (he’s also deaf!) i made shit up about teleport waypoints and about pretty much all the lore surrounding the three god-kings besides what i glimpsed through some books/theories/etc. i was just like fuck it we ball. 

inspo songs: who is she? - i monster, about you - the 1975, awake from a nightmare - hoyo-mix (i recommend you listen to this one especially during kaveh - chat: craftsmanship)

now on ao3 x

Keep reading

[xu-ren]

—𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒚𝒆, 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 | 𝒎.𝒂.

summary: “I stopped being good enough for the great Miya Atsumu. Is that it?”

WARNINGS: manga spoilers!! angst, emotional turmoil, relationship struggles, swearing, reasonably enraged reader bc i thrive off of them, thoughts of inadequacy pairing: post time-skip!miya atsumu x actress!reader word count: 4.4k

a/n: lol vent writing!! anyway yeah its messy bc emotions are messy and also, i think relationships are complicated and deserve to be shown as such. also yes, inspired by happier than ever by billie eilish.

unedited and crossposted on ao3 im very tired and would like to just get this out!!!

Meandering near the beginnings of the red carpet, you try not to look like you’re waiting for someone as the rest of the cast go first. Your co-star squeezes you arm for good luck while you hold onto your clutch, scanning the parade of cars slowing down and blocking the entire street for one head of blond hair through the midst.

Twenty-five minutes later, and no show, and you’re digging out your phone. Any other time, you don’t think you’ve ever felt this shitty, but with how overworked you’ve been for the past few months, you’d been looking forward to a fun night with good food, and a whole three weeks of no work, and you wanted to spend it with him.

And he just won’t show.

Keep reading

[xu-ren]

Babe you did not have to go and absolute demolish my heart like that with that rick flag writing. Absolutely amazing

But angst is funnnnnnnn. Thank you sooo much for messaging me, I really really appreciate it!

[xu-ren]

So, so, so good. I love it so much that my heart can't take it.

Hey so how do you think Dick Grayson, Jason Todd and Tim would deal with their s/o thinking Damien’s adorable. Like he’s aggressive stray cat that doesn’t scare her kind of adorable? He might have this s/o wrapped around his fingers kind off, but they Don’t let him get away with things. Like Damien having beef with Jason and Tim and s/o does speak up for their boyfriend. Meanwhile, Jason and Tim starts something with Damien and s/o scolds their boyfriend?

Dick:

At first he was thrilled. Elated. The two of his favorite people are getting along with each other. But now?

“These cookies are quite good. Are there more?”

“Of course! Good ahead and help yourself to the whole tray.”

Blankly, he watches the teen grab another one from the third batch you baked this week. The very batch that was meant for him after he had complained how you’d go on a baking spree only when Damian comes over to hang out and not for him. The very batch you just easily handed over because you simply found him adorable. 

With a huff, he walks over and plops himself onto a chair. Grabbing a cookie, he takes a bite and pointedly looks away from you with arms crossed and lips puffed out in a pout. 

“Oh, don’t mind me enjoying MY cookie from MY cookie tray that was supposed to be for ME.” He takes another bite, placing an arm over his chest while further slumping into the chair. 

“You can’t be real.” You mutter under your breath, a hand partially covering your face. 

Damian slowly takes a sip from the glass you gave him, eyes trained on the one Bat he too was close with.  “Is he usually like this?” 

“Yes, when he’s being very much neglected by the person who isn’t giving him enough time and attention.” Down goes another bite of his cookie, knowing full well what expression you’d be wearing. 

“I do though!”

“Well, not enough if I’m getting seconded to my own sibling!” Especially considering when today was supposed to be date night too! He snatches another cookie and chews on it. To think you’d be giving these cookies to Damian and not to him when they’re this good. Unbelievable. 

“Dick.” He doesn’t care if he’s acting like a petulant child, he refuses to look at you. Only to stiffen once you sigh and he starts hearing shuffling noises behind him. 

He was expecting you to come over and stand in front of him, hence his eyes closed when all of a sudden, he’s being hugged from the back while being kissed on the crown of his head. 

“I wouldn’t do this to someone who’s only ‘second’ in my heart, would I?” 

He ignores Damian gags as he presses his face to the crook of your neck, tickling you with his lips. 

“Lucky me that I’m your number one then.”

Later on, after Damian left and he successfully persuades you to bake him a whole batch for him to keep to himself this time, he gets a text telling him to decrease his PDA with you when in front of those younger than him by Bruce. He texts back to his fatherly figure only if the older male finally settles down. 

Jason:

He’s had enough. While you were busy in the kitchen, he quickly grabs Damian by the scruff and proceeds to walk towards the door.

“Unhand me at once, Todd!” 

“Not a chance this time, kiddo.” He smirks, being unfazed by all his pressure points being pressed as the teen, noticing this, resorts to tugging and twisting his wrist. 

This whole week he’s been wanting to have some alone time with you, recharge himself after being gone and away from you for over a month from being on stupid mission Bruce had requested him to do. Problem was, during his absence, you had taken a liking to the evil brat. How, he doesn’t know. From what, he also doesn’t know. What he does know is that it was reciprocated where the brat said over the table during family dinner last week, and Jason quotes, “the one best thing Todd has ever done”.  Unfortunately for him, fortunately to Damian, you weren’t there when he said that or else he could’ve watched how you would’ve defended his “honor”. Either way, it was the worst thing for him to find out when he came back and saw you and him chatting over tea, TEA, of all things.  

“Jason, what are you doing?” Dammit. He was so close! 

He stops in his tracks and slowly turns around. 

“He said that he wanted to go home, so I was helping him walk to the door?” 

“Lies!” He clicks his tongue while the younger points and shoots at him a glare. “He was trying to kick me out!”

Hands on then hips, lips in a straight line - Oh no, he’s familiar with that stance. One second passes, his eyes pleading into yours. Then another. Finally, with a groan, he begrudgingly and slowly lets him down. 

“See? The wasn’t so hard?”

It was hard. Very hard. 

“Agreed. You should learn to be mature like your s/o, Todd.” He scowls, wishing looks could bury a person as Damian flashes a smug grin back at him. 

“Not so fast, Damian.” He turns towards you, confused as to why you’re directing your disappointed frown at him now. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you cheating while playing Smash against Jason.”

Instantly, their expressions swapped, Damian scowling while he snickers and mouths “loser” at him. 

That’s how they ended up getting stuck with washing the dishes after you put them in a ten-minute time out. They nearly get in trouble again with Damian trying to stab him at any given moment while Jason dodges and eggs him over how he can’t properly wash a dish. At least he gets his well deserved time with you once the former leaves, albeit sulking with you not taking his side completely. 

Tim: 

Every single time your back is turned, it’s a battle. From mouthing insults to physical attacks (he’ll argue and die on this hill all of those were one-sidedly from Damian), they’ve long passed the point of no-return and are currently at where there could only be one left standing. Is it ridiculous? Yes. However, he’s willing to put up with the fight if it means to prove his point that you like him more! 

Hell, he doesn’t even know what Damian did to make you dote on him so much. Stray cat? Cute aggressiveness? There’s nothing like that, not even a resemblance of it. Yet, apparently, you can see it with how you tend to get that little demon pet treats for all the animals he’s raising in the manor. 

The fact that it’s mutual makes the whole situation worse. Damian genuinely enjoys your company to where he had asked about your well-being once he somehow found out before him, your boyfriend, that you were sick. Tim has told you multiple times the teen didn’t approach you out of pure intentions, that it was all a trap so he could spite him. You ended up brushing it off, telling him he has such a good relationship with his younger sibling leading him to mourn he was too late and you were brain-washed. 

“Well, I was here first!”

“No, you weren’t Drake! I was here before you!”

“I’m pretty sure I was.”

“Says who? You?”

The two of them continue to squabble over who gets to sit next to you on the two-person sofa while you’re making popcorn for the movie. A decision which was made when the two of them had argued over watching documentaries on endangered animals and playing video games. Also another argument that started from who gets to hang out with you today. Which, he still thinks, he should’ve been chosen since he’s YOUR boyfriend. But, again, that’s just what he thinks. 

“Alright! Popcorn’s ready!” Neither of them hear you, their argument escalating.

“I’m obviously the favorite since I get invited all the time!”

“As if! You do realize I’m the boyfriend here!”

It’s then they pause realizing it’s been quiet the last minute. Too quiet. Eyes like deer in headlights, their eyes went from each other to seeing you standing behind the sofa and munching on popcorn. 

That’s their cue. There were nudges and jabs being made as they got up from the floor but eventually they straightened their clothes and stood with their heads hanging low. And as expected, both of them got scolded like children, you telling Damian the need to use words rather than action while to Tim, he shouldn’t be trying to kick his younger sibling out from the start.

[xu-ren]

━ 𝐉𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐮 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 !

— pairing; jing yuan x reader (ft. jingliu)

— summary; in which jing yuan has a crush and jingliu tries to help

— notes; this is my very first honkai fic so please don't be mean or i will cry. please donate to my kofi if you like my work. and know that i am mentally smooching everyone who reblogs my stuff.

❋ Jingliu is not blind.

❋ As sharp as her sword, Jingliu immediately notices the way Jing Yuan looks at you — sickeningly sweet, like a love-struck puppy. How he straightens up when you walk into a room, his subtle efforts to impress you during training ... It’s painfully obvious that her young disciple is nursing a crush.

❋ And to her surprise, she doesn’t disapprove. You're a noble, which means you come from good stock. You may not be a warrior, but you have elegance, poise, and kindness — things that Jing Yuan, with his quick wit and charisma, would pair with beautifully.

❋ And unlike some of the other aristocrats Jingliu has dealt with, you're neither arrogant nor insufferable. You're quite pleasant to be around. She decides — fine. You meet her standards. She approves.

❋ The problem, therein, lies with her boy.

❋ Jing Yuan is utterly useless. For someone with boundless talent in swordsmanship and strategy, he’s completely inadequate regarding matters of the heart. He’s reduced to nothing but a dreamy, lovesick fool the moment you walk into a room. His relationship with you (if it can even be called that) consists of stolen glances, lingering stares, and tongue-tied silence.

❋ Pathetic. 

❋ So, Jingliu — not a woman of romance but very much a woman of action — decides to take matters into her own hands.

❋ Whenever you visit, she makes sure to sing praises about Jing Yuan, with all the grace of a bull in a China shop.

“Jing Yuan, my beloved disciple! He is truly remarkable. Such skill, such intelligence — ah, and he’s only going to get stronger! The most promising of his generation!” “Truly, he is the beauty of the Xianzhou. Have you ever seen such radiant hair? Such impeccable form? Such effortless grace?” “He’s also intelligent, responsible, and — Aiya, Jing Yuan, don’t just stand there! Smile at them, you fool!”

❋ Jing Yuan wants to die.

❋ Every time Jingliu speaks, he wants the ground to swallow him whole. His face is redder than the finest Xianzhou wine, and he looks as though he’s in physical pain whenever she opens her mouth. He tries, desperately, to get her to stop. His dignity is at stake.

“Shifu, please.”   “Aiya, please what? I’m doing you a favour! You think they'll talk to you if you stand there like a decorative vase?” “Shifu, I can handle this myself —” “Handle it how? By doing nothing? By gazing at them like a lovesick fool for the next five centuries?!” “This is embarrassing. For me. I trained you to be decisive, not to act like a bashful maiden in a romance play!”

❋ Jingliu is exasperated. If she had a slipper, she’d be brandishing it at him like a disappointed mother. She considers finding one just for this occasion.

❋ As for you . . .

❋ You know what’s happening. Jingliu is trying to “sell” her disciple off; if her lavish praises are anything to go by. You don’t tease Jing Yuan (he’s already suffering enough), but you start smiling at him more, trying to coax him into a conversation.

❋ Maybe . . . Just maybe . . . You’ll save him from any further humiliation and take the first step.

[xu-ren]

Memory Loss

Genre: Angst

Pairing: Rick Flag x pregnant!reader

Warning: Pregnancy stuff, memory loss, a bit of body description

A/N: Found this in my drafts and decided, why not. But I'm also gonna make an effort to write a little more from now on! Mildly inspired by the 8 Year Engagement.

*~*~*~

When you are heavily pregnant with his child, Rick loses his memory. "You have been lucky that he had lasted so long without any complications, given his occupation," said the doctor. You don't feel lucky, heavily pregnant as your husband forgot all about you, just you. He could remember everything else, his job at Argus, the members of the Suicide Squad, June, just not you.

You let him stay with you, hoping that the familiar place would jolt his memory. And it's easier than moving all of his things, you tell yourself, unable to confess even to yourself that you would take this shadow of your husband over not having him at all.

He catches you struggling to put on your shoes, so he helps you. It's similar to when he used to, but not as well. He is still so gentle as he slipped your feet into your shoes, but his hand does not linger, and neither does his thumb rub mindless circles on your ankles.

He still calls you darlin' sometimes, but the affection behind it is gone, and it hurts more than it heals, to hear your favourite pet-name fall from his lips without his ocean of love behind it.

The smell of dinner triggered your gag reflex, making you waddle as fast as you can to the washroom. He still rubs your back, but kisses are no longer interspersed between the trail of heat his hands leave behind. He still helps you to sit up on the toilet seat, and hands you your toothbrush and a cup, but he doesn't kiss you as he used to, trying to assure you that he loves you even when you are puking your guts out on a near daily basis. You miss the kiss more than you can say, as well as the wrinkle of his nose at the taste of vomit lingering prominently on your mouth.

"Can I.... lift your belly up?" Rick asked hesitantly, watching as you lift your belly with both arms only to grimace as your lower back twinge, as if angry that you had forgotten about it. Rick used to do that, helping to lift your belly up whenever he could, in the shower, when you stood up, when you were cooking in the kitchen and even when you were just walking around.

"I read that it helps," Rick continues when you don't answer, too lost in your memories of a different time and a different Rick.

"I'm alright, thank you," you answered, smiling at him. A smile that quickly turned into a grimance when your back twinges again. You desperately wanted to accept his help but it feels like a betrayal, to do something so sacred between you and your Rick with this Rick.

You lower your belly gently even as your back and your hips protested before bracing both hands on your lower back. You push your burdened womb out, groaning in relief as you do so, innocently unaware of the way Rick's pants tightened.

He hated this part of him so badly, this part of him that lusted after a married woman, even if your husband was nowhere in sight. You still wore your wedding ring, for goddess sake. You were clearly not over your husband and all he could think about was being your husband, being by your side and helping you.

"Rick?" You call out. You had been struggling to get out of the bath for a while, but after a slip, luckily it was more of a jolt than a fall, you knew that you had no choice but to swallow your pride and ask Rick for help.

It had been your first bath since the whirlwind that your life has become recently and you had forgotten that it was impossible for you to get out of the bathtub alone. Before, Rick had always been there to help, if he wasn't already in the bath with you, running a hand across your back as he held you securely with his other. You would lie on top of him, resting your head on his chest as the warm water and Rick's heartbeat lulled you to sleep.

He appears at the doorway before you can call a second time, drying his hands with a towel from washing the dishes. "Can you.....help me out?" you ask hesitantly, holding out a hand towards him.

"Of course, darlin'," he answers easily as he threw the towel into the sink, approaching you with but a few large strides. He bypassed your outstretched hands to instead grip your forearms, his large hands covering most of your forearms easily with room to spare.

He heaves you up in a single swift move, causing you to huff and pant, trying to catch your breath as your baby kick and pummel your insides. You had no choice but to hold on to Rick's shirt as you swayed your hips back and forth, trying to get used to having the weight of your belly back on your hips as well as your loosen hips. You had been waddling stiffly these days, your hips aching and creaking with every move but it couldn't be helped, with trying to help Rick get settled.

Even through all of that, you could feel the weight of Rick's eyes on you, staring and assessing every part of you. Part of you wanted to hide away, or at least, to get some clothes on so you could hide some of your flaws. You should have just continued to try to get out of the bath, instead of this, letting Rick see every stretch mark, your stretched taut skin rippling with movement from your womb, hair in places you can no longer reach, your darken aerolas and so much more.

"You are so fucking beautiful," Rick breathed out. "How could your husband bear to leave you? If I was your husband, I would never leave you."

Your heart jolted at that, and you desperately wanted to cry. But you have, you have, you wanted to say. Instead, you settled for ignoring the later sentences.

"You flatterer, I would still let you stay even if you told me I look like a beached whale, you know?"

"You don't believe me," Rick breathed out, shaking his head in disbelief. "You are fucking. Breathtakingly. Beautiful. Every single inch of you."

*~*~*~

Will Rick regain his memory? Will he not? Will you fall in love all over again? Who knows? Certainly not me.

[xu-ren]

Ohh my gosh, ohh my gosh, ohh my gosh! It's outtttttttt! And it's soooooo perfect.

Chapter 5: Critical Darling

Ship: Homelander/Dreamweaver(OC)

Special Thanks to @xu-ren for letting me bounce ideas off of her; as well as everyone who’s shown interest in Critical Darling.

~*~*~

Darcy rolls over in her bed, letting out a defeated groan as her eyes flutter open. Still groggy, she pats around for her phone, accidentally tugging it off the charger.

Now Trending: SuperSoldiers...DreamLander...NewCrimeWave

She rubs her eye, bringing the phone closer to her face to see better.

“What the fuck?”

She’s aware of the fans shipping them, but to suddenly be #2 Trending? No. Something had to have happened. She taps the link, and she’s bombarded with gifs and clips of a video of her storming out of that janitorial closet...Homelander following not too far behind her.

“Oh fuck.”

A live video pops up on her feed, Featuring Homelander on some morning talk show. She hesitantly taps it, hoping the Host will by some miracle avoid the topic.

No such luck.

~*~*~

“So,” the host’s too peppy voice rings out. “Why don’t you tell us a little bit more about that DreamLander video?”

Homelander laughs, a carefully curated TV Ready sound. “Seems like that’s on everybody’s mind today.”

“Of course it is!” The host leans across her desk, over-acting her casual persona. “The Most Powerful Man in the World and his new partner are seen exiting a closet together, and people take notice!”

He drums his fingers against the polished leather armchair, a clear sign of irritation in spite of his poster boy smile. In truth, he was furious that some insignificant little Vought employee had the audacity to breach what little privacy he had and leak that video. If he had been clear-headed enough to remember their names, they’d be so fucking fired...if they were lucky.

“Some fans are wondering, Homelander; Why did the two of you look so angry?”

“It was a very tense day all around, you have to remember. In the aftermath of the plane crash, we couldn’t help but blame each other,” he frowns, looking thoroughly ashamed with himself. “The important thing is, those children are alive now because we were there.”

The host puts a hand to her heart, an exaggerated expression of solemnity looking like a caricature on her face. “So true Homelander, America is lucky to have you.”

He pretends a bashful smile, false modesty to cover his growing desire to demand that the damn interviewer pick up the fucking pace and close out the show already.

“It sounds like the two of you have made up since then,” she drones on, like nails on the Supe’s sensitive eardrums. “I’m sure we’re all wondering…” A cameraman hovers in dangerously close to Homelander, and it takes nearly all of his restraint to keep his eyes from glowing red as the Host continues. “…is there more to the DreamLander Saga going on behind closed doors?”

His tongue goes into his cheek when he laughs, trying to force the tension from his body language. “Well Arlene, I believe in being a Gentleman, and a Gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.” Mind your own fucking business.

~*~*~

Darcy spikes her phone into the bed as the crowd Oohs and Ahhs at Homelander’s round-a-bout confirmation of their relationship. She feels betrayed after last night’s encounter; like she’d given him an inch and he’d taken a mile. Knees tucked into her chest, she heaves with anxiety bordering outright fear. She wants to be there for him; she knows better than anyone how desperately he needs a friend, but she’s not about to allow him to drag her into some fake camera relationship just to stay Trending. She can’t. If she lets this slide now, he’ll walk all over her until she can’t stand it anymore. She’d been through bad enough in her past relationships, and those had been normal men. Failing to set boundaries with The Homelander couldn’t be anything less than catastrophic.

Dressed and out the door, she hunts down the big man, her resolve laced with steel. It isn’t hard to find him, the swarm of Vought interns and camera men around the landing deck is a sure enough sign that he’s making his return. Darcy hangs back a bit, not wanting to draw attention to herself, but knowing his super senses will alert him to her presence.

Once he pushes his way through the standard throng of Voughties, Stillwell demands his attention, much to his annoyance.

“Well that was a spectacle.” Her annoyance is evident in the shrillness of her voice. “You may have kept the cameras happy, but you weren’t fooling anyone here with that thinly veiled mood. I don’t know what happened with Dreamweaver yesterday, but-”

The laugh that leaves Homelander is cruel and sharp and it makes Darcy shudder from where she hides around the corner. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like to fucking know. You and your people don’t know how to stay the fuck out of my business.”

“Your business is my business, I’m looking out for you,” she huffs, standing professionally straight.

He tuts at her, wagging his finger. “Oh no no, you see, Madelyn; I’ve recently learned what it feels like when someone cares about me, and it sure as hell isn’t this.” She opens her mouth to speak, and he leans in threateningly. “No, shut up,” he snarls. “Don’t you say another word to me unless it’s strictly professional.”

Stillwell’s heels clack as she takes an uncertain step back, and Homelander stalks away, shoulders easing a bit as he rounds the corner to see Darcy.

“Hey you,” he smiles genuinely, pleased to find her waiting for him.

Darcy’s heart feels like it’s caught in her chest, stuck into by treacherous ribs. She could feel the relief radiating off of him, and her chest aches at the thought of hurting him.

It’s better this way, she thinks. Hurt him a little now to spare them both a lot of pain in the long run. Her resolve however, wavers a bit as his soft blue eyes crinkle with worry.

“Your heart’s racing,” his worry threatens to become rage. “Did they threaten you? Hurt you? I swear, I’ll-”

She swallows her nervousness, cutting his protective rant off with a deep sigh. Truthfully, his immediate instinct to protect her made it all the more difficult; she had spent her entire life protecting people, it felt strange to have someone look out for her for once. Say it now or you never will. “Why did you let that talk show host believe that we’re a couple?” Her voice shakes, the anger from that morning bubbling up.

He looks at her like he’s been slapped, and she awaits his response, intense gaze fixed on his. “What are you talking about?” He chokes out, at a rare loss for words.

“A Gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” she throws his words back at him, lip quivering with frustration.

“Darcy…I thought,” the words die in his throat, and the broken look he gives her threatens to break her heart. “I thought you wanted to be with me; what you said last night…”

She had thought he’d jumped the gun, just decided that they were together now without her permission…but this is a genuine misunderstanding. She hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings, but what choice did she have?

“Homelander, I care about you, as a friend,” she pleads, eyes softening.

His eyes dart around nervously, hands on his hips. He takes a deep breath before trusting himself to speak. “Why not more? I mean, I’m the fucking Homelander, and you, God Darcy, I’ve never felt this much chemistry.” Love Me. He’s desperate to keep her with him, and even more desperate not to show it.

She winces as her hand cups his cheek, his pain flooding into her as he relaxes into her touch, his eyes shut tight to keep in tears he worries will make him look weak. “Just touching you is like sticking my hand in a frying pan,” she struggles with the words, voice laden with the pain they’re now sharing. “I can’t be more than your friend, Homelander.” Please let that be enough.

He rests a hand posessively over hers, and she knows she can’t pull away if she’d wanted to. He lets out a long sigh before boring into her soul with pools of bright blue. “I’ll learn to control it.”

“Homelander…”

“Darcy,” he urges. “I’ll stop hurting you one day, I swear it.” He shudders, studying the pain in her eyes with determination. “Then we can be together.” Forever.

Tears begin to roll down Darcy’s cheeks as she gazes back at him, his intensity bleeding into the pain that’s already growing overwhelming. She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth and nods; only then does he release her.

She makes her way back to her apartment before she allows her own hurt to surface. As if the day hadn’t been hard enough, on the elegant glass coffee table sits the most gorgeous and expensive looking bouquet of flowers she had ever seen. She doesn’t need to look at the red wrapped note nestled in the plush roses to know who’d had these sent to her, but she owed it to him to read it anyway.

“From H. With Love.”

In truth, she wanted to give him a chance. But how could she? When there are so many reasons not to...She knew the dangers of moving too fast; and with him? She can’t even touch him without drowning in his agony.

She was not inclined toward kind men with kind pasts, or perhaps, they were not inclined toward her. She still isn’t sure which it is. No, her lovers have all been damaged in some significant way...but Homelander...she’s never felt pain like his. Pain so all encompassing it leaves her breathless with a single touch. It’s cruel, she thinks, to find yourself falling for a man who’s gentlest touch can bring you tearfully to your knees; crueler still to be that man. To finally have someone look at you with genuine compassion, only to have her crumble in your grasp. But then...when has life ever been fair?

~*~*~

If she wants to make him wait, he’ll play the game. Friends, after all, is better than losing her all together. Losing her is not an option. He can’t go back to pretending now that he knows what a caring touch truly feels like; and he does savor every touch. She still keeps contact to a minimum in public, after all, they have appearances to keep up, and having her crumble under the weight of his pain for all to see would damage the brand. In private though, when Darcy lays her hands on him, he savors every moment; loving that she’s willing to suffer just to show him that someone cares, that she cares.

It’s all he can think about on their patrol tonight, her and him, and the future he’s determined to make for them. It’s an easy night; routine house fire in a big apartment building. His mind has plenty of room to wander; he thinks of Darcy with the swell of new life in her abdomen, a child looking on with excitement as she pulls a fresh batch of cookies from the oven. He thinks of himself, kissing her on his way into their home before flying outside with the kid to toss around the ol’ baseball.

His mind is so thoroughly elsewhere that he’s running on autopilot until the shrill cry of a terrified child snaps him back to reality. Effortlessly, he flies into the room, only to have his heart drop into his stomach. Curled up on the bed is a little blonde boy, wrapped tightly in the comfort of his blue blankie. Homelander sweeps up the child into his arms and bursts through what’s left of the wall, quick to reunite the little one with his mother, who Dreamweaver had just pulled from the building.

Hyperventilating, he grabs Darcy by the arm and pulls her into the alleyway for some semblance of privacy.

“I’m here, I’m here, what happened?” Her voice is laden with concern.

“The kid,” he hisses, gesturing as discreetly as he can toward the reunited family. “Look at him.”

It’s not hard for her to make the connection between the kid and his blankie, and the nightmare she had pulled him out of the day she knocked him unconscious. Homelander’s sensitive ears pick up the tires and boots of the paparazzi on the ground before they get close enough to see, but he knows if he flies away now it will look suspicious; especially after he was so quick to drag Dreamweaver away. It wasn’t like him not to stick around and soak up praise after a victory; the media would know something was wrong, and that terrifies him.

“Please,” he rasps, desperately clinging to Darcy. “Don’t let them see me this way, I can’t…I-I-”

The lights blaring off of the cameras threaten to overtake the poorly lit alley, and Homelander’s damn near ready to take off when to his utter shock, Darcy pulls him into a kiss, pressing her lips against his like her life depends on it. God help him. He leans into the kiss, pulling her body into his. He can feel her body trembling from the agony, and he knows why she’s doing this; give the vermin something else to feed on. She’d saved him from humiliation, and he loves her for it. He tries to shove down the pang of guilt in his heart when he sees the tears in her eyes as he pulls away. This is Right, he assures himself. She was made for me.

Confidence returning to him, he turns to the cameras, hiding Darcy’s tearing eyes by pulling her face into his shoulder. “Alright, show’s over,” he gleams with that Poster Boy Smile. “There’s kids watching.”

With that, Homelander takes off with Dreamweaver in his arms; giving the appearance of a happy couple celebrating their victory, instead of a terrified supe making a hasty retreat. Once he finds a suitably isolated rooftop, he lays her down gently, allowing her to come down from the steady surge of pain she’d been exposed to. She’s Beautiful. He watches her collect herself, pale skin all but glowing in the moonlight; and he can’t help but run his tongue along his bottom lip, savoring the memory of her kiss.

“That was quick thinking,” he praises her, earning a tired smile that makes his heart flutter. “Thank you…I know that was hard on you.”

Looking much more comfortable, she sits up, running a hand through her raven hair. “Well, the media already thinks we’re a couple.” She shoots a pointed glance his way and he chuckles fondly at the memory of their earlier argument. “I think that kiss will keep them occupied for at least a little while.”

“It certainly got my undivided attention.”

She laughs, a genuine smile, all for him. “What are friends for?”

Friends.

He knew the kiss was a distraction, but he had hoped she was putting her silly little reservations behind her. He’d be lying if he said it doesn’t hurt that it was all for show. Oh well, he thought. At least if the whole world thinks they’re a couple, no one will dare try to take her from him. He can behave for now; there will be plenty of opportunity to make up for lost time once he finds out how to purge himself of the sorrow inside of him.

~*~*~

“Dreamweaver,” Stillwell’s cold voice calls out with no small amount of annoyance as Darcy and Homelander land softly in the Vought building. “A word.”

Homelander opens his mouth to antagonize her, but Darcy braces a hand against his chest, smiling softly at him through the pain. “It’s alright, I’ll catch up with you.”

His chest tightens at the contact, and he nods. “Sure, alright.” The corners of his mouth twitch as he does his best to maintain that professional smile. “You ladies play nice.”

He takes his leave, hands clasped behind his back. In truth, the only reason Homelander had agreed to leave so passively is because he plans fully to eavesdrop on the conversation. They’ll no doubt be aware of it, he knows neither woman is stupid, after all, but maintaining the illusion of privacy makes him look like a better person than he is. That, and it prevents him from interrupting. He worries that Stillwell will dig her claws into Darcy, try to turn her against him…No, that could never happen. Darcy has seen him at his worst, loves him even so; he has to believe that nothing Stillwell could ever tell her will scare her away from him.

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Stillwell digs in right off the bat.

Peering through the walls, Homelander watches Darcy’s reactions, searching for any sign of weakness or deference to the older woman, though she stands solid as stone. That’s my girl. “I know him better than you ever cared to.” Darcy’s voice is flat, matter of fact, and Homelander relishes it. Few people dare speak to Madelyn Stillwell that way, and his chest swells with pride that his girl is one of them.

“You can’t control him, you know.” Stillwell paces, circling The Dreamweaver, who remains unimpressed. Homelander bristles at the word ‘control’; that’s all their relationship had been to Stillwell. He had thought, hoped, that she loved him; instead anger flares in his chest as he hears straight from the horse’s mouth that he’d been nothing more than a troublesome pet to her. “He’ll walk all over you; chew you up and spit you out. Give that man an inch, and he’ll take your life,” she spat. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

The stone cracks, and a mean grin splits across The Dreamweaver’s face, unnerving Homelander. They’d had their banter in the early days, of course, but never once did she look at him like that; like prey.

“Before I answer, I need you to tell me one thing,” Darcy waits, but Stillwell only glares in response. “Can you fire me?”

“I’m head of-”

Darcy’s laugh is harsh and short. “No, no I’m not asking for your job description.” It’s her turn to pace now, circling Stillwell like a lioness that’s cornered a gazelle with nowhere left to run. There’s a malicious hunger in her eyes, and it sends a delicious chill through Homelander’s spine. He finds himself pressed right to the wall, eager to hear where this is going. “Are you prepared for his reaction if you make me go?” Stillwell opens her mouth, but Darcy raises a hand to silence her. “No, you’re not. You people haven’t let him think for himself a day in his life, have you?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Well, that ends now.”

Homelander shivers as Darcy slinks past Stillwell, an air of confidence he hadn’t yet associated with her. His own heart hammers in his chest as she rounds the corner, fiery look still blazing in her eyes. Ferocity didn’t seem to come naturally to her, but she had stepped up to the plate in his defense. He feels strange. For the first time in his life, someone else is protecting him. The words won’t come to him, rendered speechless yet again by her soft smile.

His.

“So, you uh…you heard all that?” Her voice is shy, unsteady, unused to her own strength.

He hates the unspoken apology in her tone, hates whatever and whoever had taught her to make herself lesser. He sees her for what she is, a goddess, and he’ll do whatever it takes to make her see it too.

He wants to reach out for her, kiss her like she’d kissed him, hold her in his arms until all that’s left is her and him…but he knows better. This woman is different; push too hard and he’ll lose her forever.

Never.

“Saw it too.” You were magnificent, he thinks. “X-ray Vision, remember?”

There’s a blush to her face now, and he swallows hard when she looks away from him, heart beating just a little faster. That’s all the confirmation he needs to know that she wants him too. She’s already mine, he assures himself. I just need to prove it.

He gestures charmingly down the hall, genuine smile on his face. “Shall we?”

She looks up at him, smile as bright as ever, and nods, falling into step by his side. “Don’t want to miss our movie.”

His chest puffs proudly, eager to be alone with her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”