୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅ alexia's little safe space ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍵 ⋅ | welcome ! ₊˚ʚ 🌱 ₊˚✧ ﾟ.
.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·. .... what is it your heart desires ... ? .·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.
「 ✦ alex(ia) ✦ 」 ... 21 years old (18 +) ... extra chalant -> -> -> "let the people yearn!" 𓇢𓆸 | jjk men -> afab... angst - comfort ... poetic downhorrendousness ❤ | blog rules | requests open
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「 ✦ recents ✦ 」
-> "homecoming" - gojo [smutty] ❤
-> jjk men falling in love with you: 1 | 2
-> "don't play with me" - toji [smutty] ❤
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「 ✦ coming up... ✦ 」
Dates TBD
fics:
-> "sanctuary" - geto
-> "i didn't mean it" - higuruma
-> "always, yes" [Five More Minutes pt. 5] - choso
-> "nightmares" - geto
-> gojo, geto, choso reactions to your attempt [cw]
-> “no?!” - gojo
-> “do i wanna know?” - nanami
-> insomnia with gojo & higuruma
later headcanons:
-> jjk men reactions to when someone is racist to you [cw]
-> jjk men with a people pleaser partner
-> jjk men talking you through it [smut] ❤
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「 ✦ series ✦ 」
-> "five more minutes" - choso [college au]
-> jjk christmas wishlist
-> "across the earth" - gojo [college au]
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「 ✦ headcanons ✦ 」
-> you're not feeling well...
-> safeword & aftercare... [smut] ❤
-> when you sh... [cw]
... more ... '
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▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 0:10 'i long for you...' - satoru gojo ✦
-> "drunk wishes" -> "phobia" -> "a bird's song"
... more ... '
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▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|• 0:10 - 'i miss you...' suguru geto ✦
I just wanted to let you guys know that I adore you sm. Writing here is just as much as I safe space I turn to as it is for you guys, and your constant kindness, support, excitement, and patience means the absolute world to me. You make doing what I love 100 times more enjoyable than it already is and I can’t thank you enough. Rough days and thoughts always become better on this page. I love yall dearly. Thank you thank you thank you.
Ps if you’d like for me to make a tag list for the upcoming fics and to be on it, comment down below!
hey babies! here's just some changes & updates to the upcoming posts :)
fics & hcs schedule:
-> gojo, geto, choso reactions to your attempt [cw] [date TBD]
severe angst, mentions of depression, suicide, hurt / comfort | various scenarios in which the reader makes an attempt on her life and the jjk men find out
[3k-5k each, appr. 9k-15k total]
-> "sanctuary" - geto [date TBD]
slight angst, pining, enemies(?) to lovers, possible suggestive themes | pirate captain geto rec in which you are the fiance of a wealthy prince. seeking diplomatic advantage and riches, as well as revenge for the government's corrupt acts against all pirates alike, captain geto steals you away and holds you for ransom - little does he know that he has saved you from a miserable fate with your wretched future husband.
[appr. +15k]
-> "i didn't mean it" - higuruma [date TBD]
heavy angst | your husband has always been a very gentle, empathetic man. when a strange technique suddenly manifests, and it is revealed to you that higuruma wiped out an entire courtroom full of people, your love darkens into fear.
[appr. 6k-10k]
-> "always, yes" [Five More Minutes pt. 5] - choso [date TBD]
flufffff, college au | in which choso finally, finally musters up the strength to ask you to be his girl.
[appr. 5k-7k]
-> “no?!” - gojo [date TBD]
fluff fluff, dad!jo | when you and gojo's daughter gives him attitude for the first time, the man has to find it in himself to discipline her and tell her no... but how can he when she looks at him with those puppy dog eyes?
[appr. 3k-4k]
-> “do i wanna know?” - nanami
angst angst angst, insp. by hozier's song | nanami kento spent the entire first half of his life loving you, but when life separates you and he moves on with someone else, you're left to pick up the pieces of heartbreak.
[appr. 6k-7k]
-> "nightmares" - geto [date TBD]
hurt / comfort, angst, fluff | plagued with chronic nightmares all your life, suguru is the only one who makes the night terrors more manageable.
[appr. 4k-6k]
-> insomnia with gojo & higuruma
comfort, fluff | various scenarios of gojo and higuruma helping their insomniac gf in the wee hours of the morning.
[4k each, appr. 8k total]
-> jjk men talking you through it [smut] ❤
MDNI, smut, fluff, praise, sap | various scenarios of the jjk men... you know what it says.
[4k each, appr. 28k total]
other upcoming hcs:
-> jjk men reactions to when someone is racist to you [cw]
Howdy, no rush I was just asking if the JJK attempts headcannons part two could be pushed up! I know you did part one a while ago I was just checking in, please do not feel rushed if I offended you at all I apologize.
Would you guys prefer if I knocked the other jjk reactions to attempts next??? Pirate Sugu gonna take a while to upload anyway!
various instances of jjk men realizing that they're in love with you, pursuing you, confessing to you, and everything in between ... ₊˚⊹♡ | fluffy, mutual pining except for sukuna's - you hate him, yearning, sapppppyyyyy
nanami, toji, sukuna (appr. 3.4 - 3.8k each)
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kento nanami: it's quiet!
at the end of long, trying days, kento finds that the safest place to retreat to is the warmth of your plush thighs, the space in your lap that is reserved solely for him.
the world is noisy, wild, chaotic, and unforgiving. in the field that kento's responsibility dragged him to, relief is not something that he can easily come by. he finds himself working overtime most days, narrowly escaping the clutches of grief or death at the hands of some insidious curse that he is burdened with erradicating.
his job is to save lives, and he does. he is good at what he does, too. precise, timely, always keeping an eye out for the next threat, whether it is gojo imposing on his reading time during lunch or the threat of the memory of haibara ressurecting in another poor, innocent student's soul, unfit for the brutish nature of their education.
nanami is practical and prepared, therefore when the noise comes during the day, he is ready for it. he has practiced his life around it long enough to let it become a dull murmur in the back of his head, one that does not overpower him the way it used to in his youth, when jujutsu took his best friend away.
and while he is accostumed to it, noise is still noise. the tension it always used to bring in the back of his neck still remains each time he steps across that threshhold and into his place of work. the memory of a curse's hiss still haunts the confines of his mind, and the nagging knowledge that one day his very breath could be stripped away by the insanity of what he devoted his life to claws at the back of his head like a sickness he can't quite shake.
noise is still noise, and it leaves kento eerily silent most days as his coworkers (gojo) invade the space with their voices, their numbness to the cruelty, their pinches of insanity that they shield behind hazes of smoke, stupid incessant jokes, and the bright youth of their students. students who could be lost to them at any second, at any moment's time.
kento often feels as though his perfectly organized world is slightly tilted on an axis, his practiced stability the only thing keeping it from completely flipping upside down. the task of a sorcerer is to live with the burden of fear, the crushing reminders of temporary life, and that noise that just never seems to go away, and nanami keeps a straight face. remains poised. focuses on time and neatness and maturity to keep him upright rather than the blaring red that bangs against his brain.
the blonde is tired most days. every day. every day of his life, actually, since as long as he could remember. tireless missions across sea, the shadows of miserable curses rising high above the vision of his fifteen year old self, the call he received when the school thought that satoru was dead, the call he received when haibara died a year later instead. when his mortality, as well as everyone else's, was thrown in his face brutally by the realization that the only being who could ever overcome such confines of life was satoru gojo. the world's savior, the honored one. spoiled. bratty. practically immortal.
the exhaustion of such knowledge, of such tireless pain weighs heavy, and kento finds himself pretending most days that he doesn't wish he had stayed away, that he could have lived a normal, boring life had it not been for the tug of his conscience, the sorcerer's responsibility that never quite leaves you after you get a taste of what the world is truly like behind an ordinary human's eyes.
and his brain is always running, chugging behind the shield of his opaqe goggles, the noise of yuji urging to assist him and make a big name of himself by saving people, swearing his future to the curse of this livelihood. and nanami tries his damndest not to see that boy with brown hair and brown eyes reflective in yuji's youthful air, the optimism that will slowly be poisoned either by death or the inability to escape it. time and time again, kento will attempt to scream out over the noise and challenge it by reiterating how young his students are, how young yuji is, how young he was, how young haibara was when he was killed, and how young satoru was when the world decided to completely lean on him.
but the world doesn't care. jujutsu turns a blind eye to mercy, to suffering, to the hope of youth. it takes and takes and takes, and nanami finds himself going quiet to the noise once more when he listens to people like mei mei ramble on about stipend increases during meetings where all his mind can go back to is the fact that everyone in this room will likely die one day. and there is nothing that any of them can do about it but fight until their time is up.
save for satoru gojo of course, who will stand by as everyone continues to fall away. and what can the white haired sorcerer do but poke at nanami's shoulder while he hides his grimace behind the wall of a newspaper, death's reminder of his weakness teasing him at his very side.
heavy sighs filter from nanami's chest when the days finally come to their end. he piles onto public transport, gripping the rails tight overhead inside the stuffy train, watching wearily as little curses trample about the cabin, squirming around shoulders, creeping into briefcases. nanami looks at his watch. he's off.
the public's murmur overlaps the noise already roaring inside nanami's mind, children crying, men and women arguing over the phone with their places of work, the restless squeak of the train's wheels when it screeches to a stop, and the bodies that bump into his broad one as herds rush to spill from the train doors.
voices blabber inside his head as he walks calmly along the route home. he keeps his eyes straight, heavy and puffy behind his glasses, the sun's late glare practically blinding his sight. but he keeps going, knowing the path by heart, letting the automatic pull of his familiarity drag his aching feet.
with each step his loafers click across the concrete, he hears the echoes of his life, the past that his restlessness has brought him in the blare of the sun. another weighted sigh spills past his lips as he tells himself he only has one more block to go.
and then he arrives at the door, his key turning into the lock, the heavy door giving way as he pushes himself inside.
and suddenly, like an off switch, the scent of you intermingled with whatever has been cooking on the stove overcomes nanami's senses, numbing him. the second he closes the door behind him, he hears your voice from the kitchen and the cut of the running faucet turning off.
"ken?"
the blonde lets his briefcase slip from his fingers and land onto the floor as he goes to remove his shoes silently, your voice, the house's warmth, his sanctuary finally rendering him unable to speak quite yet as he adjusts to the stark contrast between in here and out there.
and there you are, emerging from around the corner, having just dried your hands with a towel. you take in your husband's figure at the door as he removes his goggles and finds your eyes, and you light up, moving to greet him.
"hi baby," you coo. the second your body meets his, your arms wrapping smoothly around his neck, the noise that kento could never quite escape completely goes mute, and all that he can think of is the way you smell of miso and a hint of something sweet as your warmth melts against him.
the mask of composure kento wears every day to keep himself from breaking, to keep his occupation from breaking him, withers away, his body sinks into you like molasses slipping slowly from a bottle, and a final heavy sigh leaves his body, pulling all the burrowed fear, stress, and exhaustion from his being.
helpless to you, his heavy arms curl around your midsection slowly, as if every movement he makes is an act of testing whether his mind will truly allow him this peace. and when no further noise comes, he slumps into you, melting, falling apart.
you feel the stiffness sink away as you hold him, and you smile, closing your eyes as his presses himself into you, his forehead falling to the crook of your neck, rubbing softly against your skin. brows knit with relief, and quiet comes sweet and soft like a wordless lullaby.
your boyfriend speaks a thousand words without opening his mouth, his body answering the silent questions that do not leave yours. your fingers slip into his hair, gliding over his cropped undercut, soothing the space where you know the most tension balls up in a little knot. kento hums something weak and broken and free, holding you closer, savoring this moment for all its worth, and the infinite silence that you magically bring.
you don't ask him about his day. you already know.
instead, as dinner finishes cooking in the oven, you retreat to your sofa, where kento always slips quietly onto his side, long legs oustretched horizontally over the furniture, his head sinking down to your lap just before your hands settle over his head.
he closes his eyes, veiny hand reaching to loosen his tie, tugging it resentfully from around his neck. a temporary pinch in his brow results, but you smooth it away with the soothing glide of your fingers through once neatly slicked blonde strands. you study his face as the anguish melts away from his handsome expression, a rhythmic stroke settling as you caress through his hair, your other hand cradling around his jaw.
blonde lashes flutter, and what noises and thoughts seemed to come so easily during the day are nowhere to be found. his mind finds blankness, calm in the way your fingertips stop every now and then to scratch at his scalp, the way the side of your palm presses to his skin as he recovers from the day's burdens. silence filters through the house comfortably, the occasional tick from the oven echoing out.
a safety nanami has only felt in your arms tackles him soundly. his head angles slightly toward your stomach, nose brushing against the sweater you stole from him. your body always responds to his movements, hugging closer, stroking softer.
kento remembers the first time it happened, the first time you touched him and the noise suddenly wiped clean from his mind like he was born that day all over again with a blank slate. he stiffened slightly at first, your hand in his, and he looked at you like you'd solved the riddle for all life's misery. like you'd singlehandedly resurrected him from the dead with nothing but your hand squeezing in his.
you've always had this serene quality about you, one that makes kento want to rot in your company for as long as he possibly can. it takes one look at your face, one sniff of your perfume, one chirp of your voice for every horror that plagues nanami's head to dissipate like it never existed, and nanami was not foolish enough to question it any further. his body told him that you were his sanctuary, therefore, he siezed you, courted you, held onto you, cherished you so that you'd never go away.
and every day, when he wonders why he forced this livelihood on himself, he remembers your soft touch and easy smiles, and the urgency to protect, to protect this life, reinstills itself in him. and he remembers that if the responsibility should fall onto anyone to preserve the sanctity of your kiss, it should fall to him.
something peachy and bright swipes through the darkness of nanami's closed lids as he lay in your lap like a child, raw, vulnerable, tired. warm colors filter into his subconscious, the sweetness he imagines the sun would taste like on your lips swirling around his head. he often swears it's some kind of trick, for it awes him how you take what is dark and gloomy and drab and strict and bend it into something easy and light and whimsical and tender.
his heart trembles like a bird who has not yet learned to fly, and everything he once thought he knew is laid bare at his feet for him to attempt to piece back together, to reconfigure as though it is his first day on this planet. something heavy aches inside his being, and he knows what it is. he thinks deep down he's always known, but in the warmth of your embrace this day, with your fingers in his hair and your silent attentiveness and care keeping him breathing, he thinks he knows for sure.
kento's eyes peel back open to reveal honeyed pools of (e/c) gazing down at him softly. your gentle lips are smiling, the gold of your first initial dangling from the expensive chain around your neck as you watch him with eyes so sweet that kento's surprised he hasn't rotted away right there.
and instead of thoughts of his and his students' mortality, his mind gets fuzzy and blurry. he can't conjure up a thought on anything but you. his eyes are lidded, blinking slow as he stares up at you, letting your beauty overpower him, letting it render him a speechless, weakened vessel at your will.
something emotional overcomes him, something that claws at his chest warmly, sacredly. he knows what it is when your gazes speak for the words you do not say, when your touch grows somehow softer, and the corners of kento's lips finally pull upward now that he knows this isn't a dream and some curse isn't pulling him in for a brutal, gruesome, vile death, using you as a pawn.
chocolate eyes catch the light pouring in from the window behind you past hooked, wrinkled curtains. you see all the world's passion soaking up into those circles of brown, like a sponge absorbing water, or the muffled hum of a pressed piano key floating off into dragged, eventual silence. your finger shifts to trace along his jaw, along the sculpt of his cheekbone, then to the corners of his mouth that you pull slightly to lift higher. kento's eyes shimmer, the day’s first hints of humor catching him as his eyes wrinkle and a laugh, soft and breathless, flutters from his chest as he obeys your silent plea for further relief, for a little more of a smile.
he can't help it. he can't help but smile when he looks at you. when he thinks about everything you are and continue to be, when he thinks of the great impact you have on what he always thought would be a dull, inevitable future of broken hope.
kento's hand reaches up slowly, catching your cheek. you smile warm, letting him guide you down to his lips. they meet in a gentle peck, sweet and lingering like the aftertaste of a sugary treat. the warmth spreads at the moment of contact, and when your eyes close, kento sees an entire life spent in your arms, in your steady silence.
his heart aches again, and he pulls away to hover just centimeters from your breath. slivers of eyes hold one another's, and kento smoothes a hand over your hair, smile dwindling with something serious.
it isn't just this moment, this day. it's all the others that have lead up to this one. how easily you slip into his life, how you always seem to read his mind and know exactly what he needs, how silence seems to speak louder than your words, and in between those spaces of muteness, you see him and he sees you. every day he leaves the house, he counts down the seconds to get back to you as war wages in his thoughts, like there's some blanket over his senses when he's with you that is ripped away the second he steps outside.
it's the times you have spent patching up the deep wounds that no one but you can see, the wounds he hardly knew he had before meeting you, as he'd been so accostamed to their rooted, soulful ache.
he wonders sometimes where you came from. he wonders how he managed to stumble across this glittering pool after years of wandering through drought. how you make everything feel ten tons lighter just by existing, just by standing by his side, just by waiting for him to get home and wrapping him up in an embrace that solves all the world's problems in a second.
kento thinks back to when he didn't have you. to when he was young, and tormented, and distraught, and angry at a world he could never change but could help. he thinks back to what it felt like for the noise to circle through his mind twenty four hours, seven days a week, and he wonders how he survived. he wonders how he pushed through without you, for now that you are here, now that he's found safety in your arms, he at least has something to protect, to look forward to, to keep him alive.
he doesn't know what he'd do without you. without moments like these, where nothing exists but the melt of your lips against his and the weight your glittering eyes carry.
his lips press together with a bit more pressure, eyes taking in every detail of your face. the little strands of your brow curving out into an angle of your eyes. the little scar on your chin left behind from an accident when you were a child. the round of your nose, the gloss of your waterline that always intensifies when he's looking at you like this. he feels the trace of your fingers and swears to preserve their softness. he feels the warmth of your thighs against his head and promises to kiss over them beneath the privacy of your comforter. he feels you, your soul, your essence, molding into his, holding him close, and thinks that no feeling he has ever experienced in his life has ever come quite close to this one.
he knows it now, when you come down to kiss him again, and his hand finds the back of your head, his watch glittering under the lowering sun. that there is no better feeling than this, than your lips to his as your hum vibrates against his mouth, and travels all the way down to the tips of his toes. no better feeling than you.
"i love you."
it comes in a solid murmer in the space of your breaths when you part, and you freeze where you hover. kento watches almost sadly, as though he knows this can't last forever, but he will claw his way out of hell in order to make it last as long as it possibly can. he gives you another sweet smile as his thumb caresses over the back of his head, watching as your brows curl slowly with the processing of his soft declaration.
your breath hitches, then releases with a shudder. you search his eyes, and he lets you, enjoying your closeness, preserving it, vowing to shield it with his life.
when it finally settles in your brain, a thin film slides over your eyes, your lips parting, brows curving with a happiness you can't express in words. you've known. the both of you have had an inkling for some time, but to hear it voiced for the first time, to see it clear in his soft expression before you makes you want to weep.
slowly, kento rises, turning to sit upright beside you, holding your hands over his lap. his knees touch yours, his eyes staring into you, and he says it again, confident. "i love you."
you could die happily, full of joy and content you've never known, that nanami has singlehandedly shown you. his confession is simple, but the weight of it simmers beneath, and all that comes with it. you smile, bright and big and toothy.
"i love you too, kento. i always have."
and it's silent as he tugs you back in by your chin and melts into your kiss, intoxicated off of you and your mute peace.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
toji fushiguro: megs' teacher!
megumi knows his father. indusputably.
he knows that he hates the sound of morning alarms, and would sleep through all ten he sets for himself if he wanted to, for the man sleeps like a log and could likely sleep through a hurricane if it swept through his neighborhood.
he knows that when his dad disappears late enough, long after he and his sister have been fed and done their homework, that he's off to feed his stupid gambling addiction again, and will likely come home early in the morning to call up shiu and ask for an extra job because he lost all the money from the last one to his lack of self control.
megumi knows that his father can't cook for shit, and always elects to either recruit satoru to make something for them or order takeout for the tenth night in a row, ordering him and his sister not to complain about having chinese again.
and he knows that if you, his ninth grade geometry teacher, were not attending this field trip to the museum, then his father certainly would have been no where to be found. but instead, the spiky haired teen watches with disdain as his father signs the pink chaperone slip on the kitchen counter with an urgency, eager for the opportunity to harrass you about giving him the time of day.
toji fushiguro is not an easy man, against popular belief. he'll flirt, rather incessantly, with a woman at a bar, or with the lady who bags his groceries, or even with the waitress at a family restaurant, but he hardly has any desire to pursue anything outside of keeping his life a little entertaining. sometimes, he really just likes to talk and get on his kids' nerves, or pester someone for a discount that he insists he'll get any time he goes anywhere, but outside of convenience, flirting has no real appeal to him.
that is, until megumi starts high school, and toji is forced to attend parent teacher night in order to meet all of his son's teachers and acclimate himself with the kid's schedule. megumi had to practically drag his father to the door to attend it, for tsumiki had an equally hard time trying to make her father leave the house to go to hers when she started high school. toji hates large gatherings of snobby parents and annoying teachers, for he always insists that his kids are practically adults, and they don't need him breathing down the school's neck just to see what block he has lunch in and who's teaching him the language he already knows.
besides, he's seen all the teachers' faces before. he knows who will teach megumi what subject because his daughter went through the same thing the year prior, so why the hell is it so important for him to go again? he thought at least going for one kid would have been enough.
but megumi insisted as he pushed at the immovable brick wall that toji calls his back. "we have a new teacher there, remember? she doesn't know how fucking shitty you are yet. you need to introduce yourself to her so she knows what she's getting into."
toji yawns at the front door, quirking a brow down at his teenager. "shitty?"
"yes. you never answer emails or sign anything when teachers send stuff home. i got in trouble once for forging your signature, and you still didn't bother to show up to the meeting."
"because, it ain't forgin' a signature if i told ya to do it."
"it doesn't matter if you told me to - forgery is still forgery."
"i squeezed you outta my balls, you know. i don't gotta stand for this shit."
"just go, dad!" megumi barks.
grumbling curses under his breath, toji obliges, because internally he admits that he does need to show up as the brat's only parent. and he expects two hours of a snooze fest until he steps into your classroom.
his bored expression falls slightly when his ivy eyes land on you as you turn and greet the parents with a warm smile and reading glasses propped over your head. you wear a simple white blouse and dark jeans that hug your curves, stacked necklaces hanging around your neck, and nails painted ruby red. your eyes are like stars, and you speak with a gentle, smooth confidence, a well-rounded maturity toji can't help but to notice.
he stands against the whiteboard with his hands tucked in his pockets, looking all around at the arrangement of your classroom. surrounding your projector are warm paper lanterns that hang from ceiling, giving the room a soft, non-nauseating glow. formulas, numbers, and symbols line the walls above the boards in laminated strips, and a blue hue takes your room from the soft navy rug on the floor to the gentle light of the projected screen at the very front. a few plants line the window sills on the far left, nurtured by the space where sunlight would pour in during the day. encouraging posters, as well as band tees and show references are plastered over the walls. little trinkets and stuffed animals line your organized desk clutter, and the hominess and your structured room screams that you are the new teacher that megumi was talking about.
after all, your classroom feels less like a stuffy place kids go to learn and more like a soothing nook, with beanbags in the corner by your desk and calculaters lined up in a cute little tray labeled take one :)!
he's never seen you before, after all. he'd remember a face and a voice like yours.
so when you turn to toji with a knowing smile, and something calm and lazy in your eyes, he does not quite know what he will say or how he will speak to you. his instinct to flirt is a bit blurred, for there's nothing he necessarily wants from you... maybe for you to give megumi straight a's, or, more accurately, straight b's all year, but even so, trying to sweeten you up does not seem right upon first glance.
upon first glance, as he said. he at least wants to feel out what he'll be dealing with for the rest of tsumiki and megumi's high school years first.
"you must be mr. fushiguro," you greet with an air of amusement about you, cool, airy. you stretch your hand out, and toji listens to the clink of your bracelets as you do so. a waft of cinnamon sugar stretches from your arm and into toji's face, and the navy haired man has to find some strength deep within him in order to keep an unfazed composure. how are these kids gonna be able to learn a damn thing if you look, sound, and smell like that? toji certainly wouldn't be able to if he were in your class.
the corner of toji's scarred lips twitch upward mischievously as he claps his hand into yours firmly, shaking boldly. you chuckle lightly, brows lifting as toji squints subtly at you. "how'd ya know that?"
you release his hand to prop your own on your hip. "you and megumi share a face," you joke. "it'd be impossible to mistake you for anyone else."
toji snorts, crossing his arms. his muscles bulge with the action, tensing against the tight shirt he always frequents. "megumi's that memorable, huh? don't you got a shit ton of students comin' in and out of your classes?"
"i remember all of my students, mr. fushiguro. it's my job," you say. "i also brushed over the roster before you all got here."
toji's shoulders jerk with a little chuckle, and he eyes you closely as you smile. "so my kid ain't been givin' ya trouble, then?"
"trouble?" you tilt your head. "no, why do you say so?"
"just thought you'd remember his face for some other reason."
"megumi's been doing great in my class so far. it's only the beginning of the school year, but i can tell he'll be just fine. he seems like a really sweet kid."
"so he ain't get in a fight yet?"
"a fight?” you repeat wildly. "no, i'd hope not. not that i've heard of, anyway."
"good. 'cause it's comin'. don't say i ain't warn you."
your brow wrinkles slightly. "he got in fights a lot in middle school?"
"damn near every day."
"i see... and what influences are making megumi so prone to fighting, if this is a real issue?"
toji falls silent for a minute, caught by your inquisition. "you callin' me a bad influence?"
"no, mr. fushiguro. i'm just asking a question. after all, i'm only just meeting you."
toji hums, a smirk curling his lips as your raise a brow.
"he can't fight at school, much less in my classroom. i don't tolerate that kind of thing," you add.
"aren't you a great teacher, then," toji grins playfully. “i’ll be sure to pass on the message.”
you sense his playful tone and sigh, shaking your head. "i'm gonna have my hands full this year, won't i?"
"like i said. don't say i ain't warn ya."
"not with megumi," you lift your chin, smiling gently. "with you."
toji pauses, taken aback for a split second, then he laughs. "if you'll have me."
the said man leaves that night a bit thrown off, for he hadn't expected megumi's new math teacher to be so... down to earth? funny? sexy?
but it's something more than your looks. it's your ability to joke around, the gentle way you carry yourself, like you're gliding through the air, like math could never be a difficult subject as long as you're the one teaching it.
you’re pretty for a math teacher, and after a while, toji just can’t seem to leave you alone whenever you’re around.
so he shows up at things his kids know he would never bother to otherwise. he slips in to speak with you whenever he catches you heading to your car long after pick up has ended and the buses have left. he answers your emails unprofessionally and plainly, trying to weasel his way closer. trying to understand what this allure you possess is all about. trying to feel more of it, letting you pull him closer, letting your sweetness dizzy him just a little bit.
I hope this email finds you well. I am reaching out pertaining to the midterm reports that were issued out last Friday. The students were informed that they should return them to school with a signatue from a parent or guardian by this morning, after the weekend, and I have yet to receive Megumi's form. When I asked him about it in class, he said that he did try to get you to sign it, but you refused, hoping to "wait for an email from me instead." Let it be known that I am emailing you now, as you prefer, and would greatly appreciate it if you could return Megumi's signed report no later than tomorrow. I will accept an electronic copy if that is easier for you.
Please keep this line of communication appropriate and strictly about Megumi's report, which you still have not told me how you will send. I need to transfer signed forms to the principal no later than tomorrow morning.
relax, i'll make him bring it in tomorrow don't worry. for the record, i told him not to tell you that last part about the email thing. little prick. you sure he aint givin you a hard time over there? cause he's always givn me one.
is that a teacher thing by the way? someone gonna monitor the way you talk in emails? should i say something more interesting then? 😏
Thank you. Please do not forget! I will send you a reminder tomorrow morning before Megumi comes to school, as well.
And yes, remaining appropriate on a school mandated email is a "teacher thing." It would be nice if you would respect that by also refraining from using such language to refer to your son. He is a good student. No trouble at all.
Seeing as I just reminded you about the expectations of a school monitored email and you chose to ignore them within no less than five minutes, I will wish you a good night once again. Look out for my reminder tomorrow morning. I will be sending an extra one to Megumi as well so that he can force your hand if you pretend not to see my email.
i'd be stupid to pretend not to see an email from you
i'll get that number sometime
-toji
for toji, it isn't a matter of discovering whether he has a thing for you or not. he knows he does. every time he speaks to you, watches your eyes twinkle with an ominous lumiscence that reflects an orange moon's gloomy kiss, his heart patters to a weird rhythm. he knows he's got a thing for you and that it's not just because of your looks when he begins to associate the thought of you with the sweetness of a starry night, an inky, soothing, midnight's blue encapturing your energy every time you approach, every time you sweep an area.
megumi's grades in your class are stellar, for toji knows that he's always been a smart kid overshadowed by his short temper and quickness to violence - which the boy could have only inherited from toji himself. nevertheless, you speak highly of the fifteen year old nearing sixteen, claiming that he always pays attention, and always maintains a collected air about him when performing in your classroom.
and ever the easily agitated boy, toji finds that it makes sense that megumi finds solace within your space. math is something that always made sense to the blue eyed boy, something that always slips into certain conversations when megumi is detailing something he is working on, or trying to verbally piece together how certain things work. how much tsumiki should budget after she makes another online order, and how meals should be split and prepared throughout the week to leave some money leftover for anything else. with a gambling addict for a father, he thinks such precautions are necessary.
having seen your room, toji gets it. it's a safe space with low lighting and all that megumi's ever really known. and geometry, of course, proves way to easy for him, easy enough for you to bump him up to a higher math level.
toji thinks that what tugs at him the most about you is the way you always praise his son amidst your playful tones and your forced rejection of toji's advanaces for the sake of your job. you have a true passion for what you do, for how you teach, and who you are teaching. you talk of megumi's intelligence like it is something toji should be proud of, something right he has done throughout his life that he overshadows with jokes about his kid being mean to him and talk of his past.
toji's only ever heard teachers complain about his son. how violent he is. how standoffish he is. how quick he is to snap at a moment's inconvenience, or at someone pestering him or bothering someone who doesn't deserve it. middle school was hell, which is why toji backs away from interacting with most teachers now. sure, his kid gets into fights, but he wins every one of them. teaches those little shits a lesson. while fighting isn't "good", if the only thing anyone will ever see is megumi's anger, then toji won't bother trying to prove otherwise. trying to serve as the perfect parent to fit into their close minded ideas of his family. they don't deserve that effort if it's not already seen.
toji isn't going to change his son. he and his daughter are fine just the way they are. if the former gets in trouble, toji will deal with it, but who is he to care if megumi roughs up some necks and proves his place in the world as he grows older? he knows how to stand up for what's right. and he's smart all on his own without school, anyway.
but even after toji almost testingly told you about megumi's past in middle school to see how you'd react, brushing over the gory details, you don't hyperfixate on it. toji knows that notes on megs' previous behavior are tucked somewhere on a record in the principal's office, but you doesn't bother to further investigate, not unless it actively becomes a problem on your hands, and it doesn't. it never does.
instead, you see megumi for who he is. a good kid with a bright future. peaceful when treated as a human being, and silent in his genius. and if your beauty or your impressive teaching skills or your passion hadn't been enough for your toji to get hooked, your inherent recognition of his son's talent certainly does the trick.
but you won't cross that line. you won't let him come any further than jokes here and there and those dangerous looks he flashes you when you should be talking about megumi's behavior throughout the first quarter of the year instead. you always shake your head with a soft laugh, always roll your eyes with a pretty smile before redirecting the conversation, turning to your computer, clicking and sneaking a glance up from your monitor to see that he's still looking at you from where he lounges shamelessly in his seat.
toji continues to try his luck, however, hoping one day to get your personal number. hoping one day to know you beyond his kid's academics. hoping one day that you'll allow yourself to look at him as a man and not as one of your student's parents. hoping one day that you'll damn the rules and give in to the attraction that he knows you have for him. that he knows you hide away for the sake of your job. for the sake of your student.
you're not surprised when toji chaperones for the field trip. a father who once didn't give a damn whether he sent megumi's midterm report in signed or not suddenly hopping up at the chance to help monitor three buses full of high school kids could only have one goal in mind, and you know it when he sits next to you at the front of the bus.
you're in the window seat, almost pressed to the glass by the sheer mass of his frame, his legs spread out as wide as possible, leaving just enough room for his knee to knock against yours with every bump in the road and rock in the bus.
he smells of some woodsy cologne, rugged and warm, and you try to busy yourself with writing something down on a clipboard, but toji cuts through your concentration.
he leans over slightly, voice low. the chaos of the bus is loud enough for your conversation to be unheard. "y'look real pretty today."
you shoot your head up to look at him with a glare, countenance strict though toji sees the way you tense. "toji," you warn softly, eying him.
the ebony haired man's eyes light, smirk dragging over his sharp features. "good to hear ya got used to usin' my name."
"how could i not, when you're always pulling stuff like this?" you hiss. he smiles. "please, please don't flirt with me during this entire trip," you beg, exasperated.
"who says i'm flirtin'?" he teases, well aware that he is. "i'm just sayin. you look nice. i can't compliment a woman who looks good anymore?"
"don't try me. you know what you're doing," you murmur. toji chuckles.
"is it working?"
"no," you lie with a hint of a smile.
toji grins. "gotta try harder then."
"look, you signed up to be responsible for group a, okay? remember why you're here. for the kids."
"you and i both know i ain't here for these damn kids."
"well, you're gonna have to act like it. i don't need one of our parent chaperones being less responsible than a hundred high school freshmen. and i sure as hell don't need him breathing down my back all day."
"i'm always responsible."
"okay," you say, unconvinced.
"i won't breathe down your back," he adds. "i just wanna see you work."
"all you do is see me work. i'm your son's teacher."
"i wanna see you in action."
you roll your eyes, though your little grin counters your words. "do the job you signed up for."
"yes ma'am, i will," he swears. you look up to meet his eyes for a moment. he winks. and you groan.
throughout the day, toji keeps his promise, letting the kids do what they want as he keeps an eye out, monitoring. the whole thing is a chore, so much so that he starts making bets with some of the kids on the basketball team that they can't hump high enough to touch the ceiling of one of the exhibits, promising two bucks for the photo machine to whoever can do it first.
in the middle of the day's haze, toji catches sight of you from afar with one of your students at your side. his gaze softens as you walk through the exhibit with her, pointing out interesting facts, engaging in her nerdy talk of physics in relation to the screen before you.
and you're smiling wide, like this science museum could be the most exciting place you've ever stepped your foot into. like every word your student speaks to you holds weight that you will cling to forever. like your world surrounds you in your students' enjoyment and the intriguing little nerdy sanctuary that this place has to offer you.
toji loses a kid or two for a second while staring at you from afar, and he doesn't notice when megumi walks by him, his nose wrinkled in disgust when he follows his father's gaze. poor you. you should run while you still can.
toji sighs, figuring he is in to deep with no way to make you his, stuck with this weird, nostalgic feeling that tears away at his chest and makes him weak.
and when he isn't looking, when he realizes he's gotta track down the couple that disappeared, your attention goes to him, and your mind races with the images of his attentiveness, the way he casually handles the kids like it's nothing but a tiring exercise. you shouldn't be surprised, after all. he's a single father to two teenagers. he's good at this.
you chew on the inside of your lip, heart fluttering, and you exhale with a frown, knowing your dilemma. knowing that you like him just as much as he seems to like you. that despite his nuisance, you enjoy his company. you enjoy him being around.
at lunch, he sits with you. megumi pretends not to know him, and sits with his friend yuji. in the tense silence of your proximity, you look at him gently.
"you're actually really good at this," you say.
toji perks up, mouth full, burger clenched tight in large hands. he blinks at you, confused, for this is the first time he's ever heard you compliment him so freely. he could have choked on his food.
shoving down the lightness that takes him, toji swallows, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, eyes still glued to you. "y'think?"
you smile, un-teasing for a moment. "yeah. thank you for your help."
toji's jaw clenches, and he nods eventually after staring at you in stillness for a moment longer. "sure," he grumbles. "y're good at this too."
you giggle. "well, i'd hope so."
"nah, but... you really are. you're a good teacher," he reiterates. you soften, cheeks warming slightly against your best wishes.
"thank you," you say sincerely.
the two of you turn away, looking elsewhere, and toji keeps eating, unable to stand the heat.
the ride back is silent, something having shifted between the two of you. toji watches the road ahead as the bus jerks and the kids yammer on behind him, when he suddenly feels a light weight plop to his shoulder.
he freezes, and turns to find that you've dozed off, your head knocked against his arm as gentle breaths leave your parted lips.
toji's eyes go momentarily wide as he registers the feeling of you against him, of your warm head resting on him like your subconscious told you that you could trust the figure next to you, that you could take a second to breathe and rest after a hectic day.
toji watches you tenderly without a word, heart clenching. he doesn't move a muscle for the rest of the ride.
and at the end of the day, when you all part, a crumpled receipt is slipped into toji's hand with a quickness as you murmur something about nonexistent compensation. you disappear into the school before he can ask any questions, and when toji unfolds the silky piece of paper in his hand, he sees your number scribbled on the back of it.
he grins.
a step closer to making you his.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
ryomen sukuna: your hatred!
sukuna is... confused.
perhaps confusion is not the proper word to decribe the complexity that is racing through his ancient mind, but it is certainly a part of it, though he attempts to shield so with his ordinary, demanding air.
he snatched you up, stole you away as prisoner. his initial plans for you were to force you to work, however, when he saw how much of a fuss the neighboring palace was making about having stolen you away, he decided to use you as a pawn to his advantage.
uraume later informed him that you are, in fact, closely related to the emporer across the mountains, who has had complications with sukuna's temple for quite sometime, but has kept to himself in order to preserve his respect and his... well, his life. the foolish emporer had believed that he and the beast far north had come to some kind of agreement, and sukuna laughs at the sentiment, for why would he dare to make peace with such false royalty, with such puny, idiotic reign? he's lucky sukuna got bored of rampaging and devouring his people about a decade ago. he had turned his sights elsewhere... until you, of course.
you shouldn't have been wandering off on your own, shouldn't have gone on such a fool's errand for the sake of an environment which hardly cared whether you lived or died.
you'd traveled far, across the mountains, wrapped in furs up to your neck, your eyes dull with lethargy, your teeth chattering from the cold. how you survived such a trip alone, sukuna hardly knows, but he decides that you were did not leave alone by the haunted look in your eyes when he stands over you while you kneel before him in chains.
you were hauled in from outside, having been seen standing idly by the gates to his grand temple, torch fire blistering in your gaze as arms seized you and dragged you through the double doors. sukuna was prepared to kill you when you were dropped to his feet at the foot of his throne, the expanse of his polished throne room floors singling you out in the center of the room as you crumpled against them in cold and fear.
but when you lifted your head to him on command, his earth shattering boom of a voice ordering you to do so, the four armed curse did not see fear in your eyes. he saw anger.
you shiver out something about your home having been deprived of essential resources for weeks, waste having befallen your livelihoods as a result of sukuna's neighboring brutality on the wildlife, the roaring fires he sets across valleys for fun, the livestock he's either killed or sent running south, the merchants and travelers and traders who no longer pass through, keen to avoid sukuna's cruel forms of hellish entertainment. you mention that you live past the mountains, under that damned emporer's rule, and the conviction holds you together as you tremble and cough, very clearly ill and battered from your journey.
you're desperate. you risked your life to visit his temple with no plan but to beg, to merely ask for mercy, for food, for anything. no aces up your sleeve. no weapons meant to idiotically charge into his direction out of spite. nothing but the pitiful arch in your brow and the grind of your chattering teeth as you glare up at him with a distant resentment only someone who has heard of sukuna and experienced his impact from afar would know.
there's hatred in your steely eyes.
when uraume asks what they should do with you, he takes a moment to ponder. his instinct at first is to merely kill you, his sharp fingers lifting calmly as crimson eyes peer down at you over the bridge of his nose. it would be easy. like squashing a bug. he's done so enough times for it to be over and done with in miliseconds, but strangely, he pauses. for someone like you, who crossed the mountains those who live beyond them swear never to trek past - for if the cold doesn't get to them first, the monster that lies beyond them is sure to serve as a stubborn traveler's end - who lost your supplies, your men, and your means of travel somewhere along the way, can't be unimportant. can't simply be... useless.
so he sends you to the dungeon below, wrists chained to the wall behind spidery metal bars. and he learns from his right hand as you rot under his feet that you aren't just closely related to the emporer... you're a well favored concubine. in fact, the most desired.
the beast shakes the walls with the burly laugh that rips through his chest when he hears the news that you are, in fact, not important at all. not truly. beyond the pampered palace life of a tool used for the emporer's pleasure, you do not exist beyond such usefulness. and looking at you now, a starved, thirsty shell on the brink of death, hardly able to keep her eyes open behind those bars, sukuna can't say that he sees such a reality in your eyes.
you're far too gritty, and perhaps it is at the fault of the journey you've taken, but you're covered in filth and furs as though they are a part of you. as though you've only clung to them to survive.
a concubine, huh? how is that possible, when you've come so far and survived, with nothing to carry you on but that fierce hatred bubbling in your eyes, a hatred that a woman who has lived a cushy life of sex and comfort could never quite muster?
is the state of your palace so bad? was life as a concubine horrible enough for you to tear away and run off to death itself, stare it in the eye, and overcome it?
the beast is... intrigued.
the letter that arrives to him days later is enough for him to know that you at least served your duties as a concubine well, that you indeed are a favorite, a prized possession for a reason, as the emporer makes quite the fuss about your whereabouts, clearly knowing that you had run off to his temple for help.
sukuna decides that he will test how far the emporer's loyalty to you runs, and demands control over the other side of the mountains in exchange for your return. both the emporer, himself, and you know that he is bluffing. that if he returns you safely, sukuna will still rampage your home. that you will likely die either way, as well as everyone you've ever known or dared to love, and soon they will become prisoner or fodder to him and his hungry appetite, just as you have.
after all, what fool in his right mind would risk his future for someone so meaningless?
word of war spreads, and within the coming month, having survived off of the meals that uraume brings down to you to keep you alive, you hear word of your home's final collapse under sukuna's hellish, pointless seige. he brings back to you the head of the empire who tossed his life away for you.
foolish.
you refuse to eat anything after that as you wither away in his dungeon, wondering why sukuna hasn't just killed you. why he elects to make you suffer so heavily. you stew for days on end in your regret over your stubbornness, your desperate urge to find help, to do something about the sorry state that the pile of ashes that was once your home was in.
they told you not to slip away. told you not to do anything rash. to play your part and be happy, but you looked around at the scraps for dinner each night and you couldn't sit still. you couldn't be the perfect doll that the empire made you. you couldn't toss aside the weight of responsibility that sank over you, for if no one else was going to face the reality, someone had to.
and at the rate your home was moving, everyone was bound to die sooner or later anyway.
ryomen asks himself the same question of why he just hasn't brought himself to kill you. he's had his fun torturing you, bringing your world to dust, stealing that fire from your soul, but each time he treks down to see you, to mock you, and your steely eyes glare at him past those bars, he can't find the incessant desire in him to wipe you clean from this earth and move on, despite how easily he does so with everything and everyone else that crosses his path.
and then you say it, sharp words, hoarse and dry from misuse that you spit into his direction each time he stands tall before you, watching as you crouch limp in the corner.
"i abhor you," you growl.
sukuna can only grin proudly each time you express your intense, raw hatred for him.
he continues to make uraume bring you meals, only as time goes by and you continue to refuse the food, they become more elaborate. scraps of bread turn into generous loaves. limbs of elk, pheasant, and boar swarm the plate, and chipped glass full of water become challises of wine over gold and glittering plates, with prestine silverware.
yet each night, your food goes untouched, no matter how lavish, no matter how grand, no matter the temptation of the savory aroma that wafts from the plate and into your skeleton decorated cellar. you refuse to become his pet. you refuse to feed into the scraps of humanity he leaves like a dog's bowl at your door. you refuse to give him what he wants, and it makes sukuna angry with time.
for it's not that you want to die. sukuna sees it in your face. you haven't given up hope for life yet, but still you do not eat. you do not give in, and sukuna's gears grind, his frustration growing with every second you do not bend to his will.
"perhaps it's time to get rid of her," uraume suggests as he paces down the hall with thudding steps. "she is only taking up space. and if she refuses to eat much longer, she will not last the rest of the month anyway."
he should just kill you. he should, but he can't - he doesn't want to. your eyes, glossy and heavy with hatred, haunt him when you are not around, and he would prefer to look into them to see if such animosity has shifted rather than toss you away completely.
"i will not kill her," he grumbles heavily. "she could still be of use to me."
"...my lord, may i ask how? her home has been destroyed. there is nothing left for her. she is alone. and weak. do you wish her to become a servant?"
he doesn't answer. they are right. you are weak and isolated. keeping you here is pointless.
the ancient sorcerer's mind troubles himself as he attempts to conjure up what he could use you for, how he could keep you around, before he suddenly ponders why he wants to keep you around. why your hatred is so enticing.
the salmon haired king of curses approaches your cellar with a frown, a desolate glint in his crimson eyes. they scatter about the dark space, locking onto you in your miserable corner. your knees are to your chest, your mouth shielded by them, but your eyes pierce the veil to sukuna's innermost workings, like an arrow splintering through skin.
the silence stretches between you, long and heavy, as water drips from the ceiling, splattering in rhythmic taps against the stone of your holding cell. you fight the trembles, the pangs of hunger, and stare hard into the beast's eyes. just as you always do. unafraid. angry with nothing to show for it.
and while sukuna should truly be considering what on earth to do with you next, his mind can't help but wander to how you are the first prisoner he has captured in all of his existence, trampling this earth, who has dared to glare back into his four eyes. who has dared to keep his hard gaze. who has dared not to look away.
first prisoner. first human being.
and your eyes always tell a strange, twisted story. one that fails to align with that of a well loved concubine time and time again, each second he stares back at you. perhaps you were a prisoner in another life. perhaps the life you lived before finding temporary sanctuary as the former emporer's most favored concubine tells a better story than the life sukuna stole you from ever could.
even so, beneath all the grime and dirt that's caked over your skin, he can see the physical appeal. he sees the distant whispers of a beautiful woman, one cherished and yearned for and wanted so desperately that an entire kingdom collapsed for it. though, it is truly your fault that things had to end this way. that your home had to be destroyed. you left your home. you went searching for trouble at the hands of the most horrific being to ever roam the earth, and you got it.
perhaps that is why such anger rages in your eyes, for a bulk of it is misdirected, once harbored toward yourself and now pointed back into sukuna's direction.
he merely watches you like you are some odd piece of art he can't quite understand, hoping to find the answer in your eyes that you never give. you are far too interesting for him to discard of, your eyes and all their caked hatred too enticing for him to tear away from.
and your words, always venemous, soaked in poison when he asks you a question.
"why do you refuse food?"
"because i will not be your slave," you'd hiss.
"you will die."
"then i will finally be free from you."
"you do not wish to die. i see it in your eyes."
"death is a better fate than wasting away under your oppression. i hate you."
your conversations always end the same, with little answers, and the emphasis of your detestation. it's alluring, how fiercely you continue to hate with such little energy, with nothing to return to.
still, despite the circles he continues to run in with you, he proceeds with a new question after your prolonged silence. "how long were you a concubine?" he questions. "you will answer, or i will force your consumption."
your nose curls in disgust, but knowing that you have no choice, no true reason to hold back your truth without some form of gruelish punishment, you answer stiffly. "two years."
"only two?"
"are you hard of hearing?"
sukuna smirks. "then what of you before then?"
"nothing."
"there must have been something."
"i was no one."
"an orphan? a slave?"
you fall quiet, your face hardening, and sukuna decides he has got some kind of idea of you now. you happened upon that status of a concubine completely by luck, after years of wasting away, and now you return to your once sorry fate.
sukuna's eyes slim, and something preposterous leaves his lips. "i will release you."
you pause. "what?"
"on the condition that you become my favored concubine. so long as you prove yourself worthy."
your face morphs with something wicked, and your hatred glowers like a roaring flame in your hues. you lift your head from your knees with trembling lips, nose flaring.
you stumble, chains swinging and clanking as you rise to your feet slowly. you trip slightly over your bare feet, metal dragging as you step toward the bars. you press your forehead to them, your pupils small and tormented, a crazed pinch in your brow as sukuna hovers just before you, the closest you've ever allowed him to be with this barrier standing between you.
"i would rather die," you whisper, seething with rage.
and for some strange reason, sukuna's chest tightens. he brings his head down to you as you breathe heavily, wrath overtaking you as your eyes meet his at your height. his inhumanely large hands grip the bars and he leans in, grinning. "you may very well soon reach that fate" he sneers.
and up close, despite your filth, wrapped up in such inescapable anguish, you are quite... beautiful.
in a swift motion, he snatches your cheeks up in one hand, gripping tight, pulling you taut against the bars. you hiss, eyes wide as you struggle, attempting to pull away, but you can do nothing with your hands bound.
sukuna's grin goes dark. "you will change your mind," he threatens.
and for that brief moment he holds you close, and his sharp canines bear with the wave of his breath over your cheek, something snaps in the back of sukuna's mind as he looks into your eyes.
his smile drops, he grunts, and he snatches his hand away from you, forcing you to fall back with the force onto the floor. you gulp in a breath of air, chest heaving wildly as you glare up at him, stunned, elbows scraped against the stone.
ruby pools promise hell as they stare down at you, before he turns away and leaves without another word.
sukuna is confused, for the light feeling ripping in his ordinarily hardened chest ails him for the rest of the day. your eyes plague him like some damned curse that has befallen him, your hatred sweeping him up in the strange desire to keep pushing, to make you bend at his will whether you like it or not.
though, he wants you to like it. he wants you to turn against yourself, against every instinct in your body, against everything you've ever known to succumb to him willingly. to win your stubbornness. to reign over you, body, mind, and soul indefinitely.
sukuna groans that night as he tends to his garden in the back, finding your eyes in the piercing red of the spider lilies that litter the grass. why is it that you roam about his every waking thought? why is it that his foul, stubborn, disrespectful human prisoner is twisting his ambitions, stealing away his desire to kill, and greedily gathering all of his attention?
you hate him. you despise him. he's come across many humans under his capture, those who beg for their life like sniveling swine, those who offer to service him in exchange for his mercy, those who merely tremble in fear, unable to speak, unable to move.
and each and every one of those pitiful, disgusting creatures has met death at his hand one way or another, joy deriving from the sound their screams make when he hears their bones crack, watching the blood splatter, the red all consuming.
but it is not blood that comes to sukuna's mind when he thinks if you. it is your eyes, and the way they regard him unapologetically. it is the manner in which you hold your ground and remain firm in your beliefs, unlike many others who become a stranger to themselves when such ferocity stands before them. you merely wait, watch, brew, hate, and he does not quite understand yet where your grit comes from.
for this is how you survived that trip through the mountains, and how you continue to survive sukuna's captivity. you are strong. you are... odd. and you make sukuna's head ache and split like no other, for you should have no place within his mind in the first place.
sukuna tramples around his temple angrier and angrier each day, that you haven't given in, that you have not left his mind. is it witchcraft? sorcerery? some trick you have mastered under his nose?
he does not like it, how off kilter he feels, though he’d never let it show. how strangely you have made him feel ever since you first looked at him as he peered down at you in his throne room.
he finds himself venting to uraume one night about the nuisance you pose, how you have yet to change your mind about his offer, when the right hand's eyes slowly go wide, and they stop mid action entirely.
sukuna catches the look and glares. "what is that deplorable look for?"
"my lord, you offered to make her a concubine?" they repeat slowly.
"yes, what of it? she was a concubine before. this way, she would be useful should she not choose to starve first."
uraume's eyes slim, and their lips tug downward. "you prefer this over killing her?"
"i already told you, killing her is not an option. do not make me repeat myself."
uraume regards him silently, praying that what they think is ailing their lord is not reality. sukuna glares back, pretrubed. "what have you to say? spit it out."
uraume sighs. "you would like my honesty, yes?"
"always."
"...i fear you have taken a liking to our prisoner, my lord."
"a liking?! how preposterous! what on earth would make you fix your mouth to say such a thing."
uraume looks up at him boredly. "is it not you who often says no mortal who has crossed you can escape a death at your hands by any means?"
"…yes," he growls.
"well, hasn't she? escaped death?" sukuna pauses. "what means are there that serve as an exception outside of... any?"
the room falls silent as the two stare at one another. sukuna's brow twitches as he thinks back to the disrespect he's allowed you to throw at him. the disrespect he's come to enjoy. the picture of your eyes so sharply engrained in his mind that he can no longer close any four of his own without seeing yours.
you should be dead. but you are not. and that lightness, that strange pull toward you, suddenly becomes grotesque, as it starts to make an inkling of tormented sense.
the king of curses lurches up and flips his futon over, roaring loudly with anger as he trashes the room. uraume watches him with a sigh, proceeding to polish the vase that is left standing before their lord picks it up and smashes it against the wall beside their face.
uraume's lips fall into a flat line as they stand calmly. "i will retrieve the staff to rearrange your chambers when you are done."
they leave sukuna to his tantrum as he fights the reality that uraume may be right, as they often are.
he has forsaken his unintentionally ideals for the sake of you.
MDNI, suggestive themes, christopher nolan's odyssey spoilers, basically follows the plot of the ending of the film with my creative liberties (i don't own rights to this film nor do i take credit for its plot and how it is incorporated it into this fic) - super brief intermission for this surprise fic no one asked for bc it popped into my head the second i watched the film AGH | gojo fics
odysseus! satoru gojo x queen! reader
Synopsis: Satoru Gojo, hero of the Trojan War, finally returns home to his wife in Ithaca... only he must first disguise himself and rid his infested palace of all the suitors who have come to claim you in his absence before revealing his return to you.
to sum it up: after twenty years away, Satoru Gojo finally returns to you, his loving queen, who refused to remarry despite how long he was away.
WC: 11,552 (this was deadass supposed to be a quick thing whoops)
Warning(s): smut in the last section, fingering, descriptions of reunion sex & love making, a little angsty, mentions of violence, graphic depictions, spoilers from the odyssey but tale as old as time fr
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“The Queen would like to speak with you.”
Satoru Gojo feels his heart crack against his chest with the force of Poseidon’s rage splitting his crew's ship in two all those years ago, the very weight of your title, with the knowledge of your presence just slightly out of reach, sending the contents of his stomach churning.
Shrowded in tattered cloth, Satoru ducks his head, allowing the hood to further conceal his features from the handmaiden that beckons him to the cratered walls leading to you, blocking him out, separating himself just a mere few inches from the woman who he only just allowed himself to remember, the pain having crept back into his chest in with the slow, agonizing ache of lotus-starved consciousness.
Satoru rises slowly, moves across the stone as if each step pulls him further into the ground. He keeps his forearms hovering before him, his shoulders hunched to minimize his height, eyes bright enough to pierce the veil of frayed sanity holding his kingdom together shielded away from the light.
His son watches tense from where he sits afar, the soft crackle of fire filling the space occupied by Satoru's calculated, pensive steps.
The sun soaked palace is not how he remembered it all those years ago. The orientation of these stone walls are the same, it takes the same amount of steps to lead from the main hall to your guarded chambers. The lingering scent of the sea still drafts in through the cracks in the walls. The same chill that shocks his body when his knuckles brush the cool bronze plates lining his... crowded dining tables.
A spark of rage strikes his brow, forcing it to twitch at the very thought of those suitors clanging his challises loudly at dusk, feasting over his food, lusting over his wife in his absence. To think of how loyalty has soured with him gone, to think that men from across the Mediterranean have damned his glory, his respect, his very name for the chance to steal you away as their wife, to become king of his castle.
He will see to it that they will pay. They will all pay.
Satoru allows himself to peak upward when he hears the familiar rustle of your gowns as you rise, your sweet smell drifting through the intricate grating of your sliding walls soon following. His nose twitches, his heart lurches at the scent, the distant memory that springs to life in mere miliseconds.
The ivory haired warrior has conquered Troy, escaped the clutches of a wailing Cyclops, wrecked his ears and very soul with the screech of a siren's delicious song, watched his man love him, hate him, turn on him, and die just as Tyresius promised him before the gates of hell, where all of Satoru's mistakes stood before him in a crowd of soiled men hungry for vengeance, hungry for answers that death did not provide. Satoru has lived a thousand years within his mind, allowing the fruits of the earth to tear the memory of you, sweet you, from his head, along with the sting of a million miles separating you from him.
Satoru has looked into the very eyes of the gods' wrath, of death itself, and yet, his heart has never beat with such brutality the way it does now, when he allows himself a sliver of light to catch a glimpse of you as you stand before your barrier with your hands clasped polited before you. Satoru lets out a strained sigh, ducking his head once more, tearing his eyes away from your beauty, for he knows you too well. If he allows you even just a peak of his face, you'll know. You'd know your husband anywhere.
But even the slightest glance at you without being able to throw himself against your gates, ripping them open, and pulling you into his arms, smashing his lips against yours to make up for the two decades he spent away, he spent making you wait, chips away at Satoru's heart. He never thought himself to be much of a patient man before the gods forced him to know it up close, forced him to trust in fate rather than his own control.
You're encased in emerald that flutters around your ankles, gold necklaces stacked up the expanse of your lovely neck, flittering earrings shining in the firelight crackling behind you. You're a vision of grace, one that keeps these crumbling walls hardly intact. Raw beauty that spites the likes of Aphrodite, that lures men of ill intent to your doors like vermin.
But Satoru did not see your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look into them, for he'd see the years of heartache he inspired, the grief that you have yet to accept, the life lost in your gaze.
He settles down to sit slowly, back pressing to the gate. He listens intently to every step you make. The way your sandled feet grace the floor, the way the flutter of your gown cuts through the air as you sit just inches away.
Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and his throat runs dry when you speak. “Hello, traveler,” you greet kindly despite the thick blanket of sorrow that lingers in your once airy tone.
Satoru gulps. His heart flips. Whispers of his name on your breath, that very same voice, flutter through his mind from a past long cherished, long abandoned, and he aches with anticipation. Fighting against his own will to remain disguised.
“Please, make yourself welcome. My maid will return to wash your feet so that you may rest in comfort.”
Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he presses his lips together to maintain strength. After twenty years, he’s finally made it home to you, but you still feel so far away. He attempts to evade the sting of your amiability, so distant and unfamiliar, driven by duty and generosity rather than love. Rather than knowledge.
He clears his throat. “You’re too kind, but that’s unnecessary. Please don’t waste your water on someone like me.” When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, worn, and hoarse with age and nerves and exhaustion and anger and desperation. All of which he keeps burrowed just at the surface, blanketed by the croak of exaggerated starvation.
He tenses slightly when you take a moment to respond, registering the sound of his weathered voice, toying with it in your mind. He prays you do not recognize him. He prays you’ve at least forgotten the sound of his weariness. “Someone like you?” you repeat slowly. “In Ithaca, we welcome all. We treat the needy and hungry as family. You would not impose. I insist.”
Still, so kind. So thoughtlessly, beautifully generous. It's that very generosity which pulled those men to your door, which allow them to trample over your grace.
At that moment, your elderly servant returns with a basin of water and cloth. Satoru recognizes her, sees the definition of wrinkles worn over her skin. He remembers her careful, maternal touch. How she always mended his split flesh after foolish accidents. If the ocean eyed warrior were less distracted by your warmth radiating just behind his back, he would have remembered the chunk of flesh that was torn away from his shin long ago during a hunting accident with a boar which she patched up herself. He would have been more cognizant of the way her cautious, trembling hands gently unwind the tassles of his sandles, removing the footwear from his person slowly.
"You are... too kind," he mumbles in response to you, as well as to the servant before him.
She moves to bring a soaked cloth to his scarred shin, but when her hand drags his leg forward by the back of his ankle, the strangely familiar callous of his heel brushing her palms, she jumps when her eyes land on the brutish, healed wound, the battered flesh she sewed all those years ago.
She jumps. The water topples over and splatters down the stairs. Satoru's son jolts at the sight, and Satoru's eyes jerk up in slow panic at the commotion.
His eyes go wide when they meet hers accidentally, and he watches as stun gradually morphs her expression, the light catching emotionally in her glistening gaze. Satoru acts quickly, his scarred hand shooting forward to knowingly graze her chin, an urgent fire in his crystal hues.
She shudders a breath of disbelief, awed smile catching her lips. Satoru shakes his head, the corners of his lips curving with nostalgia, and she blinks in her stupor before nodding slowly in understanding, scrambling to get more water.
"It is not kindness. Just humanity. Acknowledgement," you argue softly, and Satoru ducks his head once more as an amused, warm smile tugs at his lips, for you always deny your goodness even when it is presented before you. Satoru hums, allowing his cloak to shield his face once more, tugging the fabric forward. "What is your name?"
"...Senon," he lies.
"Senon," you try the name on your tongue warmly, scooching slightly forward. "Where are you from, Senon?"
"...I am a veteran of the Trojan war. I've... traveled very far."
He hears you pause, feels you tense behind him.
You bring yourself closer to the gate, eyes glittering with mourning as your brows pull together in a hopeful tug. You have been wearing your grief on your sleeve for twenty years now, the very mention of the war that stole your love away bringing a lump to your throat and making something hard and hot and unforgiving settle in your chest. Your breath hitches as you inhale, and he hears you swallow, feels the ghost of your breath.
Gods, he's missed you. He misses the breath warm against his lips. He misses your sighs against his heated, balmy skin.
He's so close, but still not quite home.
"A veteran...?" you whisper. "Then... you knew my - my husband?"
Your voice falters under the mere word, shattering into something momenterily fragile and week. Satoru clenches his jaw. He wants to assure you of his safety so badly. He wants to tell you that he is here. That you have to wait no longer, but he would be lying. The fight is not yet won, and his home - you, his son - are not yet saved.
He must wait. Play his cards correctly.
Satoru angles his head slightly to the left, into your direction. "I did," he says. "Very well."
You lick your lips, failing to hide your hope. Not even trying to. "And? What of him...? Do you... is there any word of..."
"He's alive."
You gasp out.
"And he will return. He swears it." He swears it.
"Then where is he?" you urge, abandoning your poise, voice dipping into something heated and desperate and drastic, yet achingly quiet, as though you are afraid to let your hope ring out too loudly for the fear that it will be crushed. "How is it that you were able to return before him? Do you know where he is?"
"He's close," he says.
"Close?" you almost laugh, eyes wide. "How close? It's been years. I've waited - how close?"
Oh, you are so sweet. You are still the same, after all those years. So fiercely loyal. So unapologetically in love. Satoru was truly blessed in this life to have been able to take you as his wife, to know that you have waited so long knowing, praying that he would one day fight his way back to you against all odds, against all unfavorable winds.
"I don't know," he elects to say. He feels you sink. "But I know that he will return."
"How," you shake. "How do you know? When was the last time you saw him, last spoke to him? How could you know that he is coming, that he is close, if he is still not here?" you ask.
He is here, he wants to say. He's here for you. He's come home to you. He will fight for you.
"The Satoru Gojo I know would have fought with all his life to make it back to me," you shudder out, and Satoru aches, for if only you knew. If only he could show you.
"He still is," Satoru says. "Fighting his way back."
"Then where. Is he," you ask once more.
Satoru sighs softly, looking down at his crooked, scarred hands, a reminder of the years away, of the war that waged within the walls of Troy and against his mind for years to come. “He’ll be here when you need him most,” he answers.
You scoff a sound that Satoru knows so well, your irritation bleeding through the devastation over word of your husband always being just out of reach. You attempt to fight the tears that have come so easily in his absence. You look away for a moment as your eyes sting, your nose scrunching and brows curling.
You catch sight of your son sitting afar in the corner, the eyes of his father shining brightly throughout the room, eying your interaction with this stranger. You assume that he was startled by the commotion of your maid fumbling the bowl of water, your mind too clouded by this stranger’s apparent closeness to your husband to see the knowing tension in your boy’s eyes.
Twenty years. Twenty years have dragged by with no word of your husband but a cloaked stranger’s distance promise. Twenty years since you’ve gazed into the sapphire ocean in Satoru’s eyes. Twenty years since you’ve felt those warm hands caress over your own, traveling teasingly up your arms and over your skin, bringing you close, his voice whispering declarations of passion in your ear. Twenty years since you’ve heard his laugh, since you’ve seen his pretty smile wrinkle his eyes and cheeks, since his humor has poured through the halls in thunderous echoes.
Twenty years without his prideful performances, without the familiar bend of a bow that only he can mold to his will, with his muscles tensing with focus and concentration as he strings his weapon, finishing with the triumphant pluck of a taut string for show.
Twenty years without his sound reign. His wisdom. His control. His heart.
Twenty years not knowing whether your husband is alive or dead. If he’ll ever come back to you.
“Promise me,” you recall him pleading with you in the intimacy of your bedroom all those years ago, before he left for the war.
His large hands had clutched your face, his eyes holding your gaze assertively as your chin wrinkles and your lip trembles. Ocean pools attempt to ease you as he looks into your (e/c) eyes, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek.
“Promise me that if I don’t come back, you’ll remarry.”
The sentiment offended you then just as it offends you now. You frown, nose flaring as your hand instinctively raises to slap him. It’s a swift clap against his jaw that startles him, wide eyes blinking before something soft and tender melts over his gaze despite the subtle sting buzzing over his cheek. So stubborn.
“How dare you ask me to do that, Satoru?” you growl, eyes glistening over. Satoru smiles sadly, with all the world’s knowledge brewing behind his eyes. You shake your head, raising your own hands to hold his face in turn. Snowy lashes flutter, his pupils expanding as you bring yourself closer. “You promise me you will come back.”
Ever the ordinarily sure man, Satoru hesitates. He brings his forehead to yours, and you whimper out something broken, your nose brushing, your hands keeping one another connected. You’ve seen your husband overcome the impossible. You’ve seen his wonderful strength. You’ve seen his power.
But here, before you, with uncertainty lying ahead, he is just a man. Unsure.
“What if I can’t, baby?” he murmurs as though it pains him to say, but it is the reality. Many men die overseas at war. Even more die trying to get back home. “I’ll fight with everything I can to come back to you, but what if I can’t?”
“I won’t remarry,” you hiss. “I’ll never remarry.”
“This home will need a king of I’m gone too long.”
“It will already have one. You.”
“(Y/n)…”
“I won’t.”
He smiled again, full of love and despair. “You’re stubborn.”
“You’re worse,” you bite, and Satoru huffs a weak laugh, closing his eyes, feeling you close against him. “Toru, what if we just run away?”
His eyes peel open, meeting yours as he lifts his forehead from you slightly. A desperate craze holds your gaze as you speak.
“You wouldn’t have to fight in this silly war. We could take Telemachus and go. Get a ship. Take the loyal. Chase the escaping sun on the horizon.”
Satoru clenches his jaw, allowing himself to imagine your fantasy. He feels the imaginary salten wind toss through his white strands as he holds you to his chest, your head tucked under his chin as you watch the sun set behind the line of the sea.
“You know it’s not possible,” he tells you longingly. “I’d rather be killed in war, or trying to return to you than for mutiny. I won't soil my legacy or yours, or my son’s for a dream. I have to go, my love. It’s my responsibility.”
You, of course, know this is true. That does not prevent you from trembling with sadness as you stare into your husband’s eyes, knowing from just a glance that he will be gone for a very, very long time.
“I’d rather you not be killed at all,” you say in a hushed voice. He frowns.
"(Y/n), I'll do everything I can," he promises urgently. "We'll win the war, and I will rage against the gods to return to you."
"Gods do not want your rage, Satoru. Rage is what will anger them in turn. Trust them as you trust me," you say. You catch the hesitant look in Satoru's eye. You release him to fumble with your nightgown, unpinning the golden brooch that frequents your sleeve. He keeps his hands on you, touching, tracing, watching tenderly.
You bring the brooch to his eye level, holding it tight in your grip. He glances down at it: a brooch of the goddess Athena shimmering in the firelight.
“Take this with you. Keep it on your person. Wear it always. Athena will look after you as I long to. I’ll be with you throughout your journey, and so will she.”
Your words are whispered against the bow of his pink lips as his hands pull you back in closer, eyes lidded as your skin brushes. He nods slowly against you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.
Your mind plays that night on repeat as you listen to this stranger's broken words. You replay the way Satory climbed over you in a haze of dizzy kisses, a long night of passion following that still could not account for how long he would be away.
You miss him terribly.
"I've needed him for twenty years," you tell the beggar who you do not know is your husband. "What is keeping him from me now, if you are here and not him?"
...What could Satoru tell you?
That on the night of Agamemnon's infiltration of Troy, he watched a city light ablaze at the hand of him and his men? That he watched women's knees drop to the dirt as his comrades held swords to their throats? Their pitched screams haunting him to this day, before the merciless slice of a blade cut their cries short?
What could he tell his grievihg wife, desperate for answers, that Satoru Gojo's conscience could not bear the weight of what he'd done to those people - so much so that he allowed the tides to pull himself and his men further away from you while he thought that he was bringing them back home by his own accord? Untethered to Agamemnon's curse of glory?
He feels the blister of fear hot against his skin. Sees the shadows of the dead marching in the back of his mind when he is ripped from his sleep. Remembers the face of that young girl as his men dragged her to the top of a temple's stairs, hands firmly outstretching her arms as she begged for her life at Satoru's feet. And he could do nothing but watch as her head was sliced from her body, and could do nothing but fear as the very same face came to him in the guise of Athena, haunting him, forcing him to remember the blood that stains his hands.
How could he have brought himself back to you, knowing that he had done to the Trojans what he would slaughter millions for if the very same had been done to Ithaca, to you?
Your breaths grow shaky as you listen to the stranger's weathered, intimate tale of your husband's perspective of the war, of all that he and his men did in the sake of Helen's name. Anger bubbles beneath you as you envision the tolls this violence has taken on your husband, who never shied away from battle, but always wore his heart on his sleeve like armor.
The tears come as easily as they have for the past twenty years. You pinch your lips together, fighting sobs as you listen, such familiarity in the beggar's voice that reminds you so much of him, so much of the fact that he is still not here with you.
And if he isn't now, he never will be.
You tear yourself away from the stranger with finality, bidding him a bitter good night as you retreat to wail. As you retreat to succumb to the reality that you know your husband wanted you to live, to the reality that Satoru has manipulated you into fulfilling.
You will seek a new husband.
And your husband will come. He will make sure of it.
"Just a little longer, baby," he murmurs to himself, to the space you just left. "I promise. I'm here."
ׂ╰┈➤
Suitors crowd the very room that Satoru occupied the previous night. He sits on a stump of stone stairs in the very back, cloak shading his figure as he eyes the monsters who seek to take you for their own. His brows angle, a potent rage simmering in the silent stun of your presentation.
There you are, at the front of the room, looking like a vision the very gods sculpted themselves. Your pain is raw on your expression as you stare resentfully out at the sea of suitors before you with your husband's bow gripped tight in your hands.
Before the suitors, in the middle of the room, lies a row of bound pairs of axes, one before the other, lined up in front of a wooden board. Those who were around to witness Satoru Gojo's old performances of strength and accuracy recognize this set up, for it is the very same party trick that the old king used to showcase during warm nights after filling dinners, when the wine has numbed his cares and the bashful look in his wife's eye encouraged him to parade his strength about.
Telemachus, his son, lingers in the corner beside an old, blind friend, his jaw set as he ruminates over the last twenty years. Satoru, having mistakenly unveiled his identity to his son when he approached his old, weak hunting dog, and the very animal relinquished life the moment his master returned to him with the touch of his warm hand against his fur, keeps his eyes elsewhere to preserve himself from others. Telemachus knew instantly then, recalling that his father's pet was waiting for his master to return home before giving into death.
Satoru had ordered for all the weapons to be stored away by entrusted servants, and for the room to be boarded shut when all the suitors gathered. He knew what was coming. He knew by the determination of his wife's depart from his conversation with her.
And he is ready. Finally ready to reclaim what is his, to return home rightfully.
"I will marry any one of you in this room," your voice booms out, ringing against the stone. "If you are able to complete my challenge."
You hold out your husband's bow, attempting not to break away at the feel of its weathered wood in your hands, the memory of the man you love before those who wish to wipe him away.
The room is still, hanging onto your every word, and Satoru’s eyes gleam at the sight of his prized possession in your dainty palms.
“Whoever can string this bow,” you begin. “And shoot an arrow through these six pairs of axes, hitting the wood behind them, is the man I will take as my husband… and the new king of Ithaca.”
Murmurs rise. Chuckles of the unknowing ring out confidently. The silence of those who are knowing is steady.
Satoru grins.
“Who’s first?” you ask.
The low rumble of voices eventually evens out into hesitant silence before the first suitor steps up arrogantly.
“I’ll go,” he grits. You nod, pressing your lips together, before handing the bow off to your son, who passes it to the eager man.
Tension fills the room as he props the bow upright, pinching the string between his fingers, and stretching it up, up, up.
He grunts, hand trembling, string hovering inches away from the tip of the bow. He remains struggling that way for a moment, bent on one knee, before giving in with a huff, the string snapping back to the floor.
A rumble of laughter erupts and you roll your eyes. “Not enough protein in the diet, huh?” some man shouts out, further encouraging guffaws and chuckles.
The suitor scoffs and turns away with the flick of a dismissive hand, pride wounded. Then comes the next suitor, believing he can show the previous up.
He takes the bow. Kneels down. Brings the string up, up, up. It stretches, he grits his teeth and trembles, cheeks flushing, before stumbling with the snap of the string back to the ground.
More laughter.
“It’s impossible!” he hisses. “No one could do it!”
“My husband could,” you cut in, and the room goes silent once more with resentment and a sudden urge to prove you wrong, to prove that any one of them could take Satoru Gojo’s place. "Who's next?" you raise your brows challengingly.
Satoru swoons. Oh, how he loves you. How he will make up for all the time spent away once he proves himself worthy again, once he rids his home of the plague that is these stupid men.
One by one, suitor after suitor lines up to try and fail miserably at stringing the bow that only Satoru is known to be capable of stringing. The laughter soon dips into gradual panic, and the realization that the task truly is impossible settles in, the challenge unbeatable for all those who are not the very owner of the weapon himself.
"My queen, we get it," one suitor speaks up bravely, wearing a mask of vulnerability and sympathy that Satoru assumes is meant to gain your good graces. The ivory haired warrior scowls and your eyes turn to the man talking.
Dark hair and eyes. A handsome smile. Something snaky behind his eyes that he attempts to soften for you. He steps forward.
"We know what this means. Nearly all of us have attempted to beat this challenge that none of us could ever overcome. We understand what you are trying to say, that we will never fill Satoru Gojo's shoes. But if I may offer myself up as a man who will try, knowing the great shadow that looms over me. Knowing that I will fail. I will do all that I can to please you, to mend this kingdom. I may not be able to win your challenge, but I am eager to win your heart."
No one says a word. Telemachus' eyes fly around the hardened faces of the suitors, discouraged by their own failure, and the mischief of the man who just spoke up. He swallows, and you merely look the man in the eye, doing all you can to remain polite. To stand tall. To give him a chance, when what you truly wish to do is lock the doors behind you and set the entire room ablaze.
Satoru has had enough.
Slowly, he rises, his cloak fluttering around his figure. He is cautious to keep his posture slightly slumped, his head bowd, and his voice low. As if unsure.
"I haven't tried yet."
All heads turn to the back of the room where the former king stands as a beggar. The silence is piercing before it is interrupted by an outburst of laughter, laughter that makes the suitors' inadequacy feel much lighter.
The suitor who had just spoken freely to you chortles particularly loud. "You? A beggar?!" he sputters. "What could possibly make you think that you would succeed if none of us could? You're nothing," he spits.
You watch the beggar slowly step past the man taunting him, his footsteps echoing throughout the space. Your brows knit with curiousity, and something you don't quite allow yourself to acknowledge gnaws at the back of your mind.
The dark haired suitor scoffs as the beggar stands before him, throwing his arm out in disdain. "Your majesty, you can't possibly-"
You raise your hand, and the man immediately cuts himself off. You keep your eyes on the cloaked face before you, the way this stranger approaches so humbly, so surprisingly willing to try after watching everyone fall short of what your husband was - is.
Something is... off here. You can't quite name it, but your heart knows.
The beggar stands still, presenting only himself before you. No titles. No land. No pride. Merely his own hands, a veteran's status, and a face you have yet to see.
You inhale slowly, something scratching at the back of your throat as you lower your hand. You nod toward Telemachus, who holds the bow toward his father.
"Please. By all means," you encourage him. "Good luck."
Satoru reaches his hand out and wraps his worn fingers around the wood soundly. He expels a long, gentle breath as he reunites with the weapon, taking it carefully out of his son's hands, who slowly backs away to stand at the far end of the room, knowing what is to come.
You notice. You notice every movement that occurs from this moment forward.
Sunkissed hands trace over the intricate detailing, following the curve of the bow as he sinks slowly down to his knee. Memories of hunts, of teaching children archery, of battle come to his mind as he methodically fiddles with the bow, then soon comes the memory of his performances in the banquet hall. The roar of triumph. The raise of his bow in the air. Your proud grin and flushed cheeks.
Satoru breathes in. Taking his time. You hang onto each second, brows coming together as you watch this stranger touch your husband's bow just as he would, pinching that string between all thick digits.
Suddenly, arms curve inward and biceps puff. Veins bulge in the strangers muscular forearms and hands as he clutches the top of the bow with one and the string with the other, arching his body inward as the weapon curves and stretches under his force.
Your heart drops.
The beggar gives way for a moment, releasing the string due to misuse, and takes a breath. A rumble of further laughter comes once more as the suitors prepare to throw more doubt at the man, but the room goes silent again when the beggar repeats the action. Only this time, he twists the bow backwards.
He stretches the string. He curves the bow inward. His muscles flex, and his shoulders round. The bow folds, the room freezes, the string catches, and connects.
The bow is strung.
The breath leaves you as your knees suddenly go weak. Your mind spins, dizziness overcoming you, and before you can allow your emotions to get the best of your senses, he does it.
He grips the wooden arch in one hand and plucks the string with the other, a resounding single, daunting note ringing out into the space.
A predator warning its prey for what is to come.
And with the force of his pluck, you almost faint. For you know this motion. You know this presentation. You know those hands, those veins and the way that body curves to match his weapon's mold.
Your husband has returned.
You gasp out a shuddering sigh before retreating back to your chambers. You have no time to think, to process, for you know what is coming the second that bow is strung.
The room is heavy with shock as Satoru rises to his feet, taking the arrow, hooking it, and shooting it through the axes. The arrow flies with a sharp whistle and hits the target in one shot.
Telemachus, who has only heard stories of such demonstrations, lets a grin slip onto his face. The room remains eerily still in the man's victory, and his shoulders gradually ease back, his posture straightening to reveal his true height.
You make it to your doors, hand on either one as you watch from the top of the steps. Your world goes quiet. The beggar you spoke to the previous night stands suddenly tall, and his cloak slips away from his face with such stature.
Sapphire pools. The same ones that have haunted you every night for two decades meet your gaze.
Tears stray past your lashes, dribbling down your cheeks like shooting stars as you take in his face, your heartbeat and his steady breath the only things your ears can catch.
Skin tanned and aged by the merciless beat of the sun. Snowy hair bright and graceful, slipping down to his ears, swiping across his forehead in ivory tendrils. Sharp cheekbones, facial stucture matured, hardened, a beard that garaces his once clean shaven face, and his heart on his sleeve.
Your love incarnate. Disguised as a beggar. Nothing but a man before you, once more seeking your hand the only way he knows how.
He's come back to you.
"You're..." a suitor begins. "You're him. You're Satoru Gojo-"
An arrow pierces his neck before he can finish his sentence, and when everyone focuses, they see the stance for battle that Satoru has taken. Ocean eyes ablaze, arrows hidden under his cloak, teeth grinding.
One down. The rest to go.
A breathless grin breaks across your face, your teary eyes blurring your vision as you close the doors shut before you, granting your husband complete free reign. To kill every last one of them.
Satoru's focus is the sharpest it has every been as his arrows fly and strike through the flesh of one man after another. Chaos breaks out as suitors attempt to search for weapons that were hidden from them. Servants fly to the boarded doors, banging helplessly, pleading for escape as Satoru lays waste to every man he sees.
His hair flies about his face as he whips his head around, locating each incoming attack and stopping it before it could reach him. His pupils are shrunken, face straight and seemingly calm, eyes edged with a hint of insanity and anger.
These men think they can walk into his home? Make themselves cozy within his walls? Drink his wine? Kick his son and dog around? Pursue his wife, the very love of his life, the greatest thing to ever happen to him, and walk away without punishment? Without paying?
Satoru's teeth bear as he reaches forward to grab one pair of the bound axes from the challenge, swinging it around to thrust into an attacking suitors face, the blades chopping away at his flesh, knocking him dead and backward onto the ground. He uses the hilt of the axes to thrust backward, plowing into another suitor's gut blindly, sending him rocketing back into the stone walls.
Satoru huffs. Not a fucking chance.
Droplets of blood splatter as the suitor who spoke freely to you orders for someone to find and retrieve the weapons. One disloyal servant manages to thrust himself out of the wooden barred doors and run for the storage room, a tip having been provided by another servant. Telemachus pursues, engaging in a brawl with the bald headed man as punches are thrown. The servant manages to send Telemachus flying across the room and to the floor with a bloody nose as he thrusts a hole into the wooden floor below, leading into the room where Satoru's murder spree transpires.
He throws spears through the hole, equipping some suitors with weapons to corner the King of Itchaca. Satoru persists, rocketing arrows left and right, when he feels sharp blades pierce his shoulder blades from behind, the long weapons trapping him inside a small circle at a distance.
Telemachus, eager to assist his war hero father, scrambles to his feet and tackles the servant once more. He plunges his fist into his face, pinning him against the wall of weapons. The blue eyed boy stretches his arm to reach for another spear, which he hastily grabs and tosses through the hole for his father to catch. The servant finds an opening, reaching behind him for a dagger, and thrusting it into Telemachus' side. The boy hisses and stumbles back, and the war between the loyal and disloyal persists.
Satoru catches the spear tossed overhead to him and slices it through the air, knocking the other spears into a strayed direction, allowing him the freedom to use his bow once more before thrusting the spear into the hearts of other men.
Above, Telemachus scrambles beneath the weight of the servant pinning him down. His eyes shoot up to the table next to him, spotting a sword dangling off the edge of the wood. Just as the servant raises the dagger high above the boy's face, he narrowly dodges, mustering up all the strength he can find to flip himself over, rolling over to the side as the dagger comes down to split the wood. Telemachus jumps for the sword on the table as the servant rises to his feet, and in a flash, he pulls a swift move, sweeping the blade under the servant's neck stealthily, watching as blood sprays and the body falls limp at his feet.
Beneath him, broken spears impale Satoru's back, but he moves on, three weapons wielded in his hands, alternating between each like a monster as men continue to follow around him. A spear thrusts for your honor. An arrow flies for his son's safety. Two axes slice for his home.
And as blood trickles through the crevices and cracks of stone, heaps of bodies scatter the ground. Those who no longer wish to fight, who no longer desire to risk their lives for an unbeatable battle against and unbeatable foe, drop to their knees and the weapons they happened upon, ducking their heads in homage.
It is not over until Satoru finally corners the dark haired suitor who was mouthy enough to present himself to you in isolation, using the hilt of the axes to thrust against his chest and pin him down to the floor. He stares up in horror as blazing sapphire eyes glare down at him wide, disconnected, furious.
The king's chest rises and falls slowly, his cloth now half ripped from his exposed body. His skin is bare, pectorals swelling and falling with his heavy breaths, lines of blood trickling down his well defined abdominals from the wounds that pierce his flesh. His foot raises to press down into the suitor's shoulder, all of Ithaca's might and Troy's victory hovering over the man who thought he could stand a chance, who spoke far more than he could ever take action. A pitiful coward who Satoru recognizes from youth, who once wanted to follow his footsteps into battle at such a young age.
He grew into a pathetic excuse for a man.
Satoru bends over, leaning in close as the suitor watches with frightened, blown eyes. "My wife," he grits out huskily. "would sooner see you in Hades than by her side. And I'll be sure to fulfill her wishes."
With that, Satoru raises his spear gripped in his right hand and thrusts it down into the man's chest with a strained rumble in his throat.
With the leading suitor dead, all other contendors go mute and drop their weapons in defeat. The ivory haired man slowly lifts his foot from the corpse before him, lowering his arms at his sides to turn around. Before him, the sight of all those who attempted to kill him moments ago now kneeling in a crescent around the room greets him.
The hilts of spears thud into the ground, the rhythm of victory, the beat of recognition for the king's homecoming. Satoru stumbles slightly, muscles stinging under to pierce of spears. He looks around, and finally drops his weapons to the ground with a resounding clang.
He won. The King has finally come home.
But Satoru cares not for the men who kneel at his feet. He cares not for the walls he has reclaimed, for the title he has settled back into, for the fame that his name brings.
What he cares for now lies behind those deep, wooden doors just at the other side of the room.
He shuffles, slightly dazed from bloodlust and domination. The remainders of his cloak drop softly to the ground, revealing him in all of his six foot three mass, all of his rippling, sweat drenched, blood smeared muscles. The very sight of him speaks volumes, exudes power, and strength unbridled.
But he does not care for such things as he trudges toward your doors, limping in a trance. He can hardly feel the little blades sheathed into his skin as he walks, for his mind is fuzzy with adrenaline and the image of you that he can now savor, hold, treasure.
Telemachus rushes back through the busted doors in search of his father, finding that he has already won, and that he is already making his way toward his mother.
Satoru stops before the few steps leading up to your doors. They slide open cautiously, revealing you standing there, awe scribbled over your gorgeous features.
You're as beautiful as the day he left you behind.
You shiver, tears staining your (s/c) cheeks as you stare into your husband's eyes. You ask yourself if this is a trick of the gods, of the light, or of your mind, but as your eyes momentarily sweep over the damage he has done, taking into the kneeled stances of the surviving suitors, you finally breathe.
Your husband came back to you after all those years.
You tremble with soft cries as Satoru stares at you with all the love and relief the world has to afar. His eyes have softened, his pupils growing in your presence, and he carefully reaches back into his pants, lifting his hand to reveal the golden brooch that he promised he'd bring back to you after keeping it on his person at all times.
You blubber out a laugh, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and you rush to your husband. The moment your arms reach out to him longingly, he submits to the exhastion and collapses to his knees with a warm grin and creased eyes. You follow him instantly, dropping to your knees in turn and gathering his body, bringing him close to you. You lay him over your knee as you cry gently, droplets of your tears dotting onto his skin as he looks up at you like you've hung the moon and the stars. His hands grip your waist and upper arm as you prop him up to meet your gaze.
"Satoru," you whisper tenderly, his name no longer a hush that torments your dreams at night. Your shaky fingers trace over his skin as his always did yours, experimentally stroking over his white beard, tracing the lines beside his eyes, his sharp nose, his pink bowed lips. Your heart races, your skin flushed, your mind at ease.
"Hi, baby," he beams despite himself and his wounds, all sap and softness in your embrace, a stark contrast to the raging monster he was moments before. "I'm home."
You laugh, or sob - you aren't sure, disbelievingly. "My love. My Toru," you coo, stroking his lengthened hair. "You came back to me."
"Of course I did," he mumbles, reaching a bloody hand to your cheek. "I'm sorry I took so long."
You shake your head, uncaring of the time anymore. Your husband is here, after so very long, and that's all that matters. "I thought you were never coming back,” you croak.
"I know, pretty. I know," he soothes, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. "But I'm here now. It's been a long journey, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere ever again."
"You better not," you sniff. "I won't let you. Twenty years, Satoru. I spent twenty years without you."
"I know," his eyes crinkle with happiness, a weight surging from his chest now that he has made it back into your embrace. "I know. It was torture. I know I left you waiting so long. I'm so sorry," he apologizes again. "I carried you with me the whole time. I couldn't rest until I made it back to you. I'm yours. Here. Always."
You don't wait any longer. You've waited long enough.
Your heads both move in unison, your hands hold his face as your lips meet in a hungry, desperate lock. Your body slumps, and Satoru lifts himself higher to chase the taste of your salty lips, years of anguish slipping away at the very contact.
Satoru almost forgot your sweetness. The sugary taste that always lingers in your mouth as though you were made of pomegranate and sugar, as if his tongue was made to taste you. His fingers curl into your hair, eyes lashes fluttering blissfully against his cheek, brow arching as your lips glide together like the sway of a perfect wave.
You cry into the kiss, and Satoru presses in deeper.
Telemachus smiles warmly from afar, clutching his side, forgetting his wounds. The suitors turn their gazes away shamefully, and Satoru shamelessly marks his territory, kisses you as though it is the last time to make up for all the damage he's caused you. Your kiss so addicting, more addicting than the Lotus Calypso fed him and the insatiable song of the sirens, that he has no plans to part from you any time soon.
The two of you are nothing but heated breaths and smacks of lips, sniffles and gentle chuckles.
A string of saliva connects you when Satoru mistakenly parts, the curve of his shoulder shooting lightning up his back from the arrows still embedded there. He hisses with a wince, and you watch him with concerned eyes, looking over his state.
He catches the worry in your expression, and smiles warm again, only ecstatic to see your face before him and not in his tormented nightmares of failing to reach you. You frown as his thumb slides down your cheek and over your chin, light shimmering in his gaze.
"Do you like the rugged look or should I shave?"
You laugh loud, unrestrained, free, for you have longed to here such stupid jokes told at the most inappropriate times for as long as you can remember. You duck back down to kiss Satoru's lips as his head falls back against your knee.
"You're perfect," you whisper against him.
ׂ╰┈➤
You can't put words to the way Satoru looks at you as you finish cleaning the cut on his neck, the wounds on his back having been patched by the servant who washed his feet the previous night.
A thick film of heat occupies your once vacant bedroom, firelight crackling against the distant walls. Celebrations have long concluded, the night's recognition of the king's return and all his accomplishments cut short by your urgency to disinfect Satoru's wounds.
He lay with his back against the wall of your bed, eyes watching every movement you make as you dab cloth over his soothed gash, his face clean shaven and fresh thanks to your steady hand. You sit upon his lap, warm thighs straddling him, your night gown spilling over the exposed spaces of your skin, barefeet tickling the silk comforters.
Satoru feels as though stuck in a dream, watching your calmed face as you bring the cloth away from his skin, placing it back into the water on the side table beside you. You feel your husband's eyes following you, his warm palm soothing over the skin of your bare thigh, his gaze hazy, his body warm under yours.
He is still adjusting to his return, not fulling trusting that he is finally safe and sound within well earned royalty, and renewed by his lovely wife's touch. His son, once a baby, is now over twenty years old, and when he looked in his eyes earlier that day, he saw himself. Brave. Responsible. Noble.
His family has grown up without him.
The king can't quite name what he feels right now, but he knows that a good chunk of it is love as his eyes graze over the signals of beautiful age on your face. How you've managed to keep everything together in his absence continues to baffle him, but he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he's never met a woman quite like you.
Gods, he loves you. He loves the way your lashes curl and the way your teeth sink into your soft lips. He loves the way your hair falls and the way your skin melts in the orange hue of fire. He loves the way your thighs squeeze over him as if he never left, as he if he will never leave again, and he's sure that he won't. After twenty years away, Satoru plans to stay buried beneath your body for his long as he possibly can, unmoving. Sound.
"I'm sorry."
You look up at the sound of his gentle voice, his soft tone ringing out like a whisper in the dark. You tilt your head slightly, abandoning the cloth to turn your attention to your long awaited husband and king.
"Honey, you've apologized so many times," you sigh, smoothing a hand over his chest. You feel Satoru jolt beneath you, feel the way he still reacclimates to your touch, afraid that it isn't real. "It's not your fault that you were away so long. The gods were angry. So were you."
"It is my fault," he denies. "I made them angry. I let my pride get in the way. I let it ruin me. I let it kill my men, and steal away my life with you... with our son..."
"Satoru," you say his name tenderly, yet assertively. He looks you in the eye, brow curving pensively. "You can't take back all those years. What happened is in the past. I don't care about any of that anymore now that you're here."
"You should," he argues. "Look at what I left you to deal with."
"I never gave up hope," you counter. "I always knew you were coming back. Everyone told me you were dead. I didn't believe them."
You reach for his hand, pulling it from your thigh to press to your chest. His palm flattens over your heart, the precious thump pounding against his touch. You see the way he sinks into the feeling, jaw tight.
"I felt you in my heart. All these years."
His eyes flicker back up to you, darker now. "Baby, I'm so sorry I left you alone."
"Satoru, you have to stop apologizing. I'm not angry anymore. I'm happy. I'm relieved," you urge, holding his hand to you soundly. "My husband is back. That's all I care about now."
"You should care about more," he says solemnly.
You furrow your brows. "Did you find someone else out there while you were gone?"
Your husband's eyes go wide at the sentiment, disgust crossing his features momentarily. "What?"
"Well, did you?" you raise a brow.
"Baby," Satoru starts. "There's no one else across the oceans for me but you. I only ever thought of you when I allowed myself to remember. When I didn't block out the pain of being away. How could you even as me that?"
You know there's weight to the things Satoru says, but you don't press it any further. You'd rather not discuss all that happened to him when he wasn't with you. "Then why do you keep talking like I shouldn't forgive you?"
"...Because..."
"Because you haven't forgiven yourself for everything that happened."
He presses his lips together and shakes his head. You know him well.
"My love," you shift, bringing his hand from your chest to clutch between your palms as you look at him. "You've crossed the sea. You've watched your comrades fall. You've burdened the weight of thousands on your shoulders. You almost lost yourself and you found your way back. To your mind. To your home. To your son. To me," you speak passionately. Satoru watches you with great emotion, his nose flaring as you keep his gaze. "You must extend yourself grace. If you can't forgive yourself for everything, or believe that I could forgive you, then what of all that you've been through? What of me?"
Satoru's lips curve downward. "What of you?" he repeats.
You gulp. "I don't want to think about what we lost any more than we have, Toru. I don't want you to look at me and be sad... I want to start building our life again from where we've just picked up. What of me if you can't look past your own guilt to see that all I care about is having you with me again?"
Somehow, even as Satoru torments himself for his sins, you still look at him and see the man you love instead of all his mistakes. You don't blame him for what he took from you. You don't resent him for all his time spent so far away.
He does not understand how, except for the fact that he loves you so very dearly, and you love him in turn. He refuses to argue with you on his first night back, especially if you insist on leaving it all behind when the two of you are in each other's company the way you used to be.
Satoru's other hand slide up to your chin, caresses just beneath your bottom lip. Dark pupils observe you sweetly, his heart aching with want as he watches the way your plush lip drags beneath the pad of his thumb when he touches you. "What of you?" he says again. "You're everything, (Y/n). You're all that's been keeping me together. Just because I'm burrowed in self deprocation doesn't mean you're any less of the woman you have always been to me," he tells you earnestly.
You feel his hand shift in yours to clutch tightly in return, your other hand still holding over his.
"I love you," he says for the first time in twenty years. You fall apart. "You have been and always will be my perfect girl. My queen. Don't ever question where you stand in my mind. Our separation has tormented me for decades. I haven't been able to sleep. My soul ached to be away from you, baby. I love you. You're everything right about this world, about me. Don't forget that."
You breathe in sharp, thighs squeezing, heart lurching for more closeness, for your husband's praise, for his love. You are nothing but sap at his hands as his fingers graze your lips, trailing down to your neck slowly, past your clavicle, over your exposed collarbone. Satoru watches, mesmorized, as goosebumps sprout over your skin. And you feel that familiar tension, the way he hardens beneath you, the way his body presses firm and sound to yours, needing more. For just one touch isn't enough.
He's spent too long away from you. It's been too long since he has been able to savor you in the intimacy of your bed, in the privacy of your chambers, where no one exists but your intertwined souls as he makes love to you in a way that has you seeing stars and planets in orbit, that ruins you for any other man.
And how could you ever want any other man, when you have Satoru?
His hair is messy in that well loved way, from your hands gripping into them during messy kisses, and the freshness of a bath. He looks so much older, much more mature, but still as breathtakingly handsome as ever with lines of stubble tracing his face, white lashes blinking slowly, and dark pupils shrinking the outter ring of blue orbs. His chest is exposed to you, shirtless, and your hands trickle down his heated skin, exploring every scar that you do not recognize, every bump and ridge that you've missed in time.
His exterior has somehow physically hardened, his shape having been beaten into perfection by the gods' brutality. You wince as the pads of your fingers follow every unsaid story of his faded wounds, and you hear his heavy breath grow more weighted under your feather light touch.
Satoru brings you in closer by your chin, lids low, eyes hungry and desperate to make you happy again. To feel you again. "Do you still love me, pretty?"
He knows the answer, and you know he knows as well, but you do not hesitate to give him what he wants. "Of course I do," you murmur, "I've wanted you to come back and kill every last one of those suitors the second they arrived. I have and only will ever love you."
"Yeah?" he hums. You nod, entranced. He smiles. "That's my girl. I'd do it all over for you again in a heartbeat. No one touches my wife."
"I missed you so much, Satoru," you exhale as your noses brush, your eyes falling closed as his scent invades you.
"I missed you too. So much. You don't even know," he says, wrecked.
"I missed your hands. Missed the way they touch me."
"Mhm?" his hand slips from yours to slide back up your thigh. Your lips part as his touch creeps higher and higher, sending vibrations shooting through your body. His fingers reach past the silk that adorns you, creeping between your legs lovingly as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "What else did you miss, my love? Tell me. Tell your king."
"Missed the way you talk to me," you moan softly. "Missed your voice."
"And I missed those pretty sounds you make," he groans, slipping his hand lower. His thick fingers brush your thinly clothed core, dragging lightly against the ball of nerves that swells knowingly, needily at his slightest presence. You gasp softly against him, leaning further into him, and he hums lovingly. "Just like that," he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "You always sound so beautiful when I touch you. Gods, it's a crime to have been pulled away from this."
"Toru," you whine, your hips grinding desperately down against him. Satoru's breath hitches, something low and unsteady rumbling out against you as you grip his shoulders. "Please don't make me wait any longer."
He wastes no time, hastily tugging your undergarments aside, but doing so with care. "Oh, baby, I won't. I won't torture you anymore. You've been so strong. So good. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll make up for everything. I'm here."
You let his hands grab your waist and carefully flip you over. Your head sinks into the silk sheets and your undergarments are completely discarded, a string of your arousal stretching along with their removal. Satoru hovers over you, soft, primal, and curves down to unite your lips.
You whimper softly, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you. His warm chest presses to yours, your gown hiking up over your hips, your bottom half bare to the man you love as his fingers slip down your stomach and curve over your swollen clit.
Your soft moans spill into Satoru's lips as his tongue slants past, plunging eagerly into your mouth. The muscle swirls around your own, your tongues tangling in a desperate, greedy dance, the smack of lips rising into the air as Satoru begins to work little circles over your clit.
"Yeah, sweetheart, I'd never forget," he breaks away to grumble against your mouth as you whine, your thighs curving outward to grant him more access. He swoons, taking the opportunity to drag out his touch, slowing his circular motion with two, fat fingers, collecting your sweet juices over his fingertips. He ducks to kiss your jaw. "I'd never forget what makes you whine like that."
"Satoru."
You call his name out like a prayer, and the said man can not help but answer. He's longed for this. Starved for this.
"I'm here," he assures you again, his pace dizzying, his lips gliding down to the sensitive space of your neck. "I'm here. I promise. I'll take care of you."
The squelch of your fruit eases the tension of years when he inserts two of his fingers. Their sheer width stretch you out from years of lack of use, and you groan out something throaty, clinging tight to Satoru as he lavs warm kisses over your skin. His teeth graze your neck as he sucks hot kisses over it, feeling you squirm with delight and hold him tighter, mindful of his wounds.
"Fuck, still so wet for me," he marvels, burying his face in your neck as he sheathes his fingers slowly in and out of your slippery folds, his lashes fluttering with ecstacy. "Oh baby, you have no idea much I've thought of this."
Your thighs tremble around his hand, your body too weak for his dominance and touch. You know you won't last long, for the strength of his fingers ache so deliciously that you can't even think straight. All you can think of is your husband, and how such things were a far off fantasy merely two nights ago.
But now, he hugs you close, marking your skin, fingering your warm pussy like it was made for him, splitting you apart with just the power of his index and middle digits, undoing you in order to mend you both again. "Talk to me, (Y/n)," he huffs into you. "Tell me what else you missed. Please baby, I need to know."
"Mmmm, missed - missed your fingers so fucking much," you mewl, head tossing back as he peppers kissed across your chest.
"I know, honey, you have them now, don't you?" he teases slightly. "What else? What else can your husband do for you?"
You moan at his title, at what he is to you, at the way his fingers curl against that spongey spot inside and hit just a little bit deeper as they plunge into your walls, gliding in and out eagerly. You leak over his palm freely, soaked. The sound lands raw on your ears, and Satoru releases a muffled groand, addicted to the sensation he feared he would never experience again.
"Oh gods, Toru, missed your - hah - missed your mouth," you whine as his lips trail lower, his other hand curving around the hem of your gown to expose your breasts. They spill free, and Satoru lifts his head to gaze down at you. Your head slightly tossed back, your mouth agape, your eyes barely open, brows pinched with pleasure, and your chest bare before him.
"You're ethereal," he breathes, ducking back down to lick a long strip from your nipple to the bottom of your chin. You whine, hips bucking, walls squeezing. "Oh, honey, do that again. Please. Need to feel you. Squeeze me like you love it."
His pace goes faster, his fingers transitioning from a slow and steady rock to a fastened rocket into your core. You squelch loudly around him, moaning out, and Satoru moans in turn.
He ducks back down to you, taking your nipple between his lips and sucking softly. His tongue rolls around the bud as his cheeks hollow, slurping greedily at the plush fat, toying you gently between his teeth. Your back arches, and his free hand follows to hold the position, fingering you swiftly as he sucks at your pretty tits.
You're a piece of art. A masterpiece. Satoru thinks so when he looks up to watch the way your face pinches in that familiar pleasure, the way the breath floats from your chest, and your pussy clamps hard down on his fingers before you gush around them, spilling syrupy release over your bed and onto his palm. He moans freely, marking your breasts as you writhe and squirm beneath him, his hand keeping your back arched against him.
Is this the afterlife? Is the Elysium? Has he achieved immortal bliss?
He believes so as his wife's perfect pussy cums all over his hand for the first time in decades, and his length aches to cum after, unable to stand the pressure of your intimate reunion.
He breaks away from your tit to smash his lips against yours again, fumbling blindly with his pants, grinding his lower half against you as you prolong your high.
"What else did you miss?" he breathes raggedly against you as you see stars and cling to his neck.
There is not much for you to say when the night drags on, and his pants are discarded to free his massive length. You'd almost forgotten the sheer size of it, how it curves at just the right angle, how his tip shines an angry pink, glistening with pre cum as it twitches against your thigh, his lips leaving marks over every patch of skin they can find.
Satoru, ordinarily the talkative type in bed with you, can hardly find the words when his dick presses into you, past your slimy folds, and eases into your tight, hot cavern. You cry out with the sting of his long awaited intrusion, and he kisses away the pain, your lips slick with spit and your own cum from when your husband licked your cunt clean after fingering you over and over.
You're stuffed full when he finally, eventually bottoms out. Tears brim your eyes from both the penetration and the reality of your connection, for it's been so long since you've had sex with your husband. Since he's been home to ease your needs. Since he's filled you up, made you take him all with his starry eyes holding yours.
"I'm here," he says continuously, as though he needs the words to engrain themselves in your mind, so you don't have to worry about him disappearing anymore.
Tears trickle down your cheeks as he pushes in deeper, brushing your cervix, your walls snug around him. He kisses you again, repeatedly, gripping your hips tight, knocking his forehead against yours. You feel the expansion of his girth inside you. You feel every beloved ridge and curve. You feel him throbbing as you tighten, refusing to release him, holding on to the unimagineable pleasure of his intrusion.
You're already spilling around his length, wetting him down to his balls and upper thighs, and Satoru loves every second. Savors it. Treasures it.
"Satoru!" you bellow, throat raw as he pistons in and out of you, thrusting deep and heavy, keeping a slow, agonizing pace. He wants to feel every second, every drop of your release, every snug squeeze of your beautiful walls, every drag of his cock against your pillowy pussy, which went so long without his attention.
Well, no more. He's here to make it better. To love you. To hold you. To make you feel good. To rip that sadness away indefinitely.
"That's it, baby," he praises hot against your ear, voice thick with tension and pleasure. He groans, jaw slack, brows scrunched, eyes heavy as his nose tucks against your pulse. "That's it. Let me make you feel good. Missed this pussy so much, honey. Missed you so much. Let your husband take that pain away."
And he does.
The night drags on in a haze of sweat and fluid and pleasure. Your fingers graze his scars as he makes powerful love to you, acknowledging all that he's done to make it back, all that he's done to be the man that hovers over you, pieced together by your touch.
And as you lay wrapped up in his limbs as the sun peaks over the horizon, the thick scent of sex and Satoru lingering in the air, you thank Athena for bringing your husband back to you.
MDNI, suggestive themes, christopher nolan's odyssey spoilers, basically follows the plot of the ending of the film with my creative liberties (i don't own rights to this film nor do i take credit for its plot and how it is incorporated it into this fic) - super brief intermission for this surprise fic no one asked for bc it popped into my head the second i watched the film AGH | gojo fics
odysseus! satoru gojo x queen! reader
Synopsis: Satoru Gojo, hero of the Trojan War, finally returns home to his wife in Ithaca... only he must first disguise himself and rid his infested palace of all the suitors who have come to claim you in his absence before revealing his return to you.
to sum it up: after twenty years away, Satoru Gojo finally returns to you, his loving queen, who refused to remarry despite how long he was away.
WC: 11,552 (this was deadass supposed to be a quick thing whoops)
Warning(s): smut in the last section, fingering, descriptions of reunion sex & love making, a little angsty, mentions of violence, graphic depictions, spoilers from the odyssey but tale as old as time fr
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“The Queen would like to speak with you.”
Satoru Gojo feels his heart crack against his chest with the force of Poseidon’s rage splitting his crew's ship in two all those years ago, the very weight of your title, with the knowledge of your presence just slightly out of reach, sending the contents of his stomach churning.
Shrowded in tattered cloth, Satoru ducks his head, allowing the hood to further conceal his features from the handmaiden that beckons him to the cratered walls leading to you, blocking him out, separating himself just a mere few inches from the woman who he only just allowed himself to remember, the pain having crept back into his chest in with the slow, agonizing ache of lotus-starved consciousness.
Satoru rises slowly, moves across the stone as if each step pulls him further into the ground. He keeps his forearms hovering before him, his shoulders hunched to minimize his height, eyes bright enough to pierce the veil of frayed sanity holding his kingdom together shielded away from the light.
His son watches tense from where he sits afar, the soft crackle of fire filling the space occupied by Satoru's calculated, pensive steps.
The sun soaked palace is not how he remembered it all those years ago. The orientation of these stone walls are the same, it takes the same amount of steps to lead from the main hall to your guarded chambers. The lingering scent of the sea still drafts in through the cracks in the walls. The same chill that shocks his body when his knuckles brush the cool bronze plates lining his... crowded dining tables.
A spark of rage strikes his brow, forcing it to twitch at the very thought of those suitors clanging his challises loudly at dusk, feasting over his food, lusting over his wife in his absence. To think of how loyalty has soured with him gone, to think that men from across the Mediterranean have damned his glory, his respect, his very name for the chance to steal you away as their wife, to become king of his castle.
He will see to it that they will pay. They will all pay.
Satoru allows himself to peak upward when he hears the familiar rustle of your gowns as you rise, your sweet smell drifting through the intricate grating of your sliding walls soon following. His nose twitches, his heart lurches at the scent, the distant memory that springs to life in mere miliseconds.
The ivory haired warrior has conquered Troy, escaped the clutches of a wailing Cyclops, wrecked his ears and very soul with the screech of a siren's delicious song, watched his man love him, hate him, turn on him, and die just as Tyresius promised him before the gates of hell, where all of Satoru's mistakes stood before him in a crowd of soiled men hungry for vengeance, hungry for answers that death did not provide. Satoru has lived a thousand years within his mind, allowing the fruits of the earth to tear the memory of you, sweet you, from his head, along with the sting of a million miles separating you from him.
Satoru has looked into the very eyes of the gods' wrath, of death itself, and yet, his heart has never beat with such brutality the way it does now, when he allows himself a sliver of light to catch a glimpse of you as you stand before your barrier with your hands clasped polited before you. Satoru lets out a strained sigh, ducking his head once more, tearing his eyes away from your beauty, for he knows you too well. If he allows you even just a peak of his face, you'll know. You'd know your husband anywhere.
But even the slightest glance at you without being able to throw himself against your gates, ripping them open, and pulling you into his arms, smashing his lips against yours to make up for the two decades he spent away, he spent making you wait, chips away at Satoru's heart. He never thought himself to be much of a patient man before the gods forced him to know it up close, forced him to trust in fate rather than his own control.
You're encased in emerald that flutters around your ankles, gold necklaces stacked up the expanse of your lovely neck, flittering earrings shining in the firelight crackling behind you. You're a vision of grace, one that keeps these crumbling walls hardly intact. Raw beauty that spites the likes of Aphrodite, that lures men of ill intent to your doors like vermin.
But Satoru did not see your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look into them, for he'd see the years of heartache he inspired, the grief that you have yet to accept, the life lost in your gaze.
He settles down to sit slowly, back pressing to the gate. He listens intently to every step you make. The way your sandled feet grace the floor, the way the flutter of your gown cuts through the air as you sit just inches away.
Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and his throat runs dry when you speak. “Hello, traveler,” you greet kindly despite the thick blanket of sorrow that lingers in your once airy tone.
Satoru gulps. His heart flips. Whispers of his name on your breath, that very same voice, flutter through his mind from a past long cherished, long abandoned, and he aches with anticipation. Fighting against his own will to remain disguised.
“Please, make yourself welcome. My maid will return to wash your feet so that you may rest in comfort.”
Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he presses his lips together to maintain strength. After twenty years, he’s finally made it home to you, but you still feel so far away. He attempts to evade the sting of your amiability, so distant and unfamiliar, driven by duty and generosity rather than love. Rather than knowledge.
He clears his throat. “You’re too kind, but that’s unnecessary. Please don’t waste your water on someone like me.” When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, worn, and hoarse with age and nerves and exhaustion and anger and desperation. All of which he keeps burrowed just at the surface, blanketed by the croak of exaggerated starvation.
He tenses slightly when you take a moment to respond, registering the sound of his weathered voice, toying with it in your mind. He prays you do not recognize him. He prays you’ve at least forgotten the sound of his weariness. “Someone like you?” you repeat slowly. “In Ithaca, we welcome all. We treat the needy and hungry as family. You would not impose. I insist.”
Still, so kind. So thoughtlessly, beautifully generous. It's that very generosity which pulled those men to your door, which allow them to trample over your grace.
At that moment, your elderly servant returns with a basin of water and cloth. Satoru recognizes her, sees the definition of wrinkles worn over her skin. He remembers her careful, maternal touch. How she always mended his split flesh after foolish accidents. If the ocean eyed warrior were less distracted by your warmth radiating just behind his back, he would have remembered the chunk of flesh that was torn away from his shin long ago during a hunting accident with a boar which she patched up herself. He would have been more cognizant of the way her cautious, trembling hands gently unwind the tassles of his sandles, removing the footwear from his person slowly.
"You are... too kind," he mumbles in response to you, as well as to the servant before him.
She moves to bring a soaked cloth to his scarred shin, but when her hand drags his leg forward by the back of his ankle, the strangely familiar callous of his heel brushing her palms, she jumps when her eyes land on the brutish, healed wound, the battered flesh she sewed all those years ago.
She jumps. The water topples over and splatters down the stairs. Satoru's son jolts at the sight, and Satoru's eyes jerk up in slow panic at the commotion.
His eyes go wide when they meet hers accidentally, and he watches as stun gradually morphs her expression, the light catching emotionally in her glistening gaze. Satoru acts quickly, his scarred hand shooting forward to knowingly graze her chin, an urgent fire in his crystal hues.
She shudders a breath of disbelief, awed smile catching her lips. Satoru shakes his head, the corners of his lips curving with nostalgia, and she blinks in her stupor before nodding slowly in understanding, scrambling to get more water.
"It is not kindness. Just humanity. Acknowledgement," you argue softly, and Satoru ducks his head once more as an amused, warm smile tugs at his lips, for you always deny your goodness even when it is presented before you. Satoru hums, allowing his cloak to shield his face once more, tugging the fabric forward. "What is your name?"
"...Senon," he lies.
"Senon," you try the name on your tongue warmly, scooching slightly forward. "Where are you from, Senon?"
"...I am a veteran of the Trojan war. I've... traveled very far."
He hears you pause, feels you tense behind him.
You bring yourself closer to the gate, eyes glittering with mourning as your brows pull together in a hopeful tug. You have been wearing your grief on your sleeve for twenty years now, the very mention of the war that stole your love away bringing a lump to your throat and making something hard and hot and unforgiving settle in your chest. Your breath hitches as you inhale, and he hears you swallow, feels the ghost of your breath.
Gods, he's missed you. He misses the breath warm against his lips. He misses your sighs against his heated, balmy skin.
He's so close, but still not quite home.
"A veteran...?" you whisper. "Then... you knew my - my husband?"
Your voice falters under the mere word, shattering into something momenterily fragile and week. Satoru clenches his jaw. He wants to assure you of his safety so badly. He wants to tell you that he is here. That you have to wait no longer, but he would be lying. The fight is not yet won, and his home - you, his son - are not yet saved.
He must wait. Play his cards correctly.
Satoru angles his head slightly to the left, into your direction. "I did," he says. "Very well."
You lick your lips, failing to hide your hope. Not even trying to. "And? What of him...? Do you... is there any word of..."
"He's alive."
You gasp out.
"And he will return. He swears it." He swears it.
"Then where is he?" you urge, abandoning your poise, voice dipping into something heated and desperate and drastic, yet achingly quiet, as though you are afraid to let your hope ring out too loudly for the fear that it will be crushed. "How is it that you were able to return before him? Do you know where he is?"
"He's close," he says.
"Close?" you almost laugh, eyes wide. "How close? It's been years. I've waited - how close?"
Oh, you are so sweet. You are still the same, after all those years. So fiercely loyal. So unapologetically in love. Satoru was truly blessed in this life to have been able to take you as his wife, to know that you have waited so long knowing, praying that he would one day fight his way back to you against all odds, against all unfavorable winds.
"I don't know," he elects to say. He feels you sink. "But I know that he will return."
"How," you shake. "How do you know? When was the last time you saw him, last spoke to him? How could you know that he is coming, that he is close, if he is still not here?" you ask.
He is here, he wants to say. He's here for you. He's come home to you. He will fight for you.
"The Satoru Gojo I know would have fought with all his life to make it back to me," you shudder out, and Satoru aches, for if only you knew. If only he could show you.
"He still is," Satoru says. "Fighting his way back."
"Then where. Is he," you ask once more.
Satoru sighs softly, looking down at his crooked, scarred hands, a reminder of the years away, of the war that waged within the walls of Troy and against his mind for years to come. “He’ll be here when you need him most,” he answers.
You scoff a sound that Satoru knows so well, your irritation bleeding through the devastation over word of your husband always being just out of reach. You attempt to fight the tears that have come so easily in his absence. You look away for a moment as your eyes sting, your nose scrunching and brows curling.
You catch sight of your son sitting afar in the corner, the eyes of his father shining brightly throughout the room, eying your interaction with this stranger. You assume that he was startled by the commotion of your maid fumbling the bowl of water, your mind too clouded by this stranger’s apparent closeness to your husband to see the knowing tension in your boy’s eyes.
Twenty years. Twenty years have dragged by with no word of your husband but a cloaked stranger’s distance promise. Twenty years since you’ve gazed into the sapphire ocean in Satoru’s eyes. Twenty years since you’ve felt those warm hands caress over your own, traveling teasingly up your arms and over your skin, bringing you close, his voice whispering declarations of passion in your ear. Twenty years since you’ve heard his laugh, since you’ve seen his pretty smile wrinkle his eyes and cheeks, since his humor has poured through the halls in thunderous echoes.
Twenty years without his prideful performances, without the familiar bend of a bow that only he can mold to his will, with his muscles tensing with focus and concentration as he strings his weapon, finishing with the triumphant pluck of a taut string for show.
Twenty years without his sound reign. His wisdom. His control. His heart.
Twenty years not knowing whether your husband is alive or dead. If he’ll ever come back to you.
“Promise me,” you recall him pleading with you in the intimacy of your bedroom all those years ago, before he left for the war.
His large hands had clutched your face, his eyes holding your gaze assertively as your chin wrinkles and your lip trembles. Ocean pools attempt to ease you as he looks into your (e/c) eyes, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek.
“Promise me that if I don’t come back, you’ll remarry.”
The sentiment offended you then just as it offends you now. You frown, nose flaring as your hand instinctively raises to slap him. It’s a swift clap against his jaw that startles him, wide eyes blinking before something soft and tender melts over his gaze despite the subtle sting buzzing over his cheek. So stubborn.
“How dare you ask me to do that, Satoru?” you growl, eyes glistening over. Satoru smiles sadly, with all the world’s knowledge brewing behind his eyes. You shake your head, raising your own hands to hold his face in turn. Snowy lashes flutter, his pupils expanding as you bring yourself closer. “You promise me you will come back.”
Ever the ordinarily sure man, Satoru hesitates. He brings his forehead to yours, and you whimper out something broken, your nose brushing, your hands keeping one another connected. You’ve seen your husband overcome the impossible. You’ve seen his wonderful strength. You’ve seen his power.
But here, before you, with uncertainty lying ahead, he is just a man. Unsure.
“What if I can’t, baby?” he murmurs as though it pains him to say, but it is the reality. Many men die overseas at war. Even more die trying to get back home. “I’ll fight with everything I can to come back to you, but what if I can’t?”
“I won’t remarry,” you hiss. “I’ll never remarry.”
“This home will need a king of I’m gone too long.”
“It will already have one. You.”
“(Y/n)…”
“I won’t.”
He smiled again, full of love and despair. “You’re stubborn.”
“You’re worse,” you bite, and Satoru huffs a weak laugh, closing his eyes, feeling you close against him. “Toru, what if we just run away?”
His eyes peel open, meeting yours as he lifts his forehead from you slightly. A desperate craze holds your gaze as you speak.
“You wouldn’t have to fight in this silly war. We could take Telemachus and go. Get a ship. Take the loyal. Chase the escaping sun on the horizon.”
Satoru clenches his jaw, allowing himself to imagine your fantasy. He feels the imaginary salten wind toss through his white strands as he holds you to his chest, your head tucked under his chin as you watch the sun set behind the line of the sea.
“You know it’s not possible,” he tells you longingly. “I’d rather be killed in war, or trying to return to you than for mutiny. I won't soil my legacy or yours, or my son’s for a dream. I have to go, my love. It’s my responsibility.”
You, of course, know this is true. That does not prevent you from trembling with sadness as you stare into your husband’s eyes, knowing from just a glance that he will be gone for a very, very long time.
“I’d rather you not be killed at all,” you say in a hushed voice. He frowns.
"(Y/n), I'll do everything I can," he promises urgently. "We'll win the war, and I will rage against the gods to return to you."
"Gods do not want your rage, Satoru. Rage is what will anger them in turn. Trust them as you trust me," you say. You catch the hesitant look in Satoru's eye. You release him to fumble with your nightgown, unpinning the golden brooch that frequents your sleeve. He keeps his hands on you, touching, tracing, watching tenderly.
You bring the brooch to his eye level, holding it tight in your grip. He glances down at it: a brooch of the goddess Athena shimmering in the firelight.
“Take this with you. Keep it on your person. Wear it always. Athena will look after you as I long to. I’ll be with you throughout your journey, and so will she.”
Your words are whispered against the bow of his pink lips as his hands pull you back in closer, eyes lidded as your skin brushes. He nods slowly against you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.
Your mind plays that night on repeat as you listen to this stranger's broken words. You replay the way Satory climbed over you in a haze of dizzy kisses, a long night of passion following that still could not account for how long he would be away.
You miss him terribly.
"I've needed him for twenty years," you tell the beggar who you do not know is your husband. "What is keeping him from me now, if you are here and not him?"
...What could Satoru tell you?
That on the night of Agamemnon's infiltration of Troy, he watched a city light ablaze at the hand of him and his men? That he watched women's knees drop to the dirt as his comrades held swords to their throats? Their pitched screams haunting him to this day, before the merciless slice of a blade cut their cries short?
What could he tell his grievihg wife, desperate for answers, that Satoru Gojo's conscience could not bear the weight of what he'd done to those people - so much so that he allowed the tides to pull himself and his men further away from you while he thought that he was bringing them back home by his own accord? Untethered to Agamemnon's curse of glory?
He feels the blister of fear hot against his skin. Sees the shadows of the dead marching in the back of his mind when he is ripped from his sleep. Remembers the face of that young girl as his men dragged her to the top of a temple's stairs, hands firmly outstretching her arms as she begged for her life at Satoru's feet. And he could do nothing but watch as her head was sliced from her body, and could do nothing but fear as the very same face came to him in the guise of Athena, haunting him, forcing him to remember the blood that stains his hands.
How could he have brought himself back to you, knowing that he had done to the Trojans what he would slaughter millions for if the very same had been done to Ithaca, to you?
Your breaths grow shaky as you listen to the stranger's weathered, intimate tale of your husband's perspective of the war, of all that he and his men did in the sake of Helen's name. Anger bubbles beneath you as you envision the tolls this violence has taken on your husband, who never shied away from battle, but always wore his heart on his sleeve like armor.
The tears come as easily as they have for the past twenty years. You pinch your lips together, fighting sobs as you listen, such familiarity in the beggar's voice that reminds you so much of him, so much of the fact that he is still not here with you.
And if he isn't now, he never will be.
You tear yourself away from the stranger with finality, bidding him a bitter good night as you retreat to wail. As you retreat to succumb to the reality that you know your husband wanted you to live, to the reality that Satoru has manipulated you into fulfilling.
You will seek a new husband.
And your husband will come. He will make sure of it.
"Just a little longer, baby," he murmurs to himself, to the space you just left. "I promise. I'm here."
ׂ╰┈➤
Suitors crowd the very room that Satoru occupied the previous night. He sits on a stump of stone stairs in the very back, cloak shading his figure as he eyes the monsters who seek to take you for their own. His brows angle, a potent rage simmering in the silent stun of your presentation.
There you are, at the front of the room, looking like a vision the very gods sculpted themselves. Your pain is raw on your expression as you stare resentfully out at the sea of suitors before you with your husband's bow gripped tight in your hands.
Before the suitors, in the middle of the room, lies a row of bound pairs of axes, one before the other, lined up in front of a wooden board. Those who were around to witness Satoru Gojo's old performances of strength and accuracy recognize this set up, for it is the very same party trick that the old king used to showcase during warm nights after filling dinners, when the wine has numbed his cares and the bashful look in his wife's eye encouraged him to parade his strength about.
Telemachus, his son, lingers in the corner beside an old, blind friend, his jaw set as he ruminates over the last twenty years. Satoru, having mistakenly unveiled his identity to his son when he approached his old, weak hunting dog, and the very animal relinquished life the moment his master returned to him with the touch of his warm hand against his fur, keeps his eyes elsewhere to preserve himself from others. Telemachus knew instantly then, recalling that his father's pet was waiting for his master to return home before giving into death.
Satoru had ordered for all the weapons to be stored away by entrusted servants, and for the room to be boarded shut when all the suitors gathered. He knew what was coming. He knew by the determination of his wife's depart from his conversation with her.
And he is ready. Finally ready to reclaim what is his, to return home rightfully.
"I will marry any one of you in this room," your voice booms out, ringing against the stone. "If you are able to complete my challenge."
You hold out your husband's bow, attempting not to break away at the feel of its weathered wood in your hands, the memory of the man you love before those who wish to wipe him away.
The room is still, hanging onto your every word, and Satoru’s eyes gleam at the sight of his prized possession in your dainty palms.
“Whoever can string this bow,” you begin. “And shoot an arrow through these six pairs of axes, hitting the wood behind them, is the man I will take as my husband… and the new king of Ithaca.”
Murmurs rise. Chuckles of the unknowing ring out confidently. The silence of those who are knowing is steady.
Satoru grins.
“Who’s first?” you ask.
The low rumble of voices eventually evens out into hesitant silence before the first suitor steps up arrogantly.
“I’ll go,” he grits. You nod, pressing your lips together, before handing the bow off to your son, who passes it to the eager man.
Tension fills the room as he props the bow upright, pinching the string between his fingers, and stretching it up, up, up.
He grunts, hand trembling, string hovering inches away from the tip of the bow. He remains struggling that way for a moment, bent on one knee, before giving in with a huff, the string snapping back to the floor.
A rumble of laughter erupts and you roll your eyes. “Not enough protein in the diet, huh?” some man shouts out, further encouraging guffaws and chuckles.
The suitor scoffs and turns away with the flick of a dismissive hand, pride wounded. Then comes the next suitor, believing he can show the previous up.
He takes the bow. Kneels down. Brings the string up, up, up. It stretches, he grits his teeth and trembles, cheeks flushing, before stumbling with the snap of the string back to the ground.
More laughter.
“It’s impossible!” he hisses. “No one could do it!”
“My husband could,” you cut in, and the room goes silent once more with resentment and a sudden urge to prove you wrong, to prove that any one of them could take Satoru Gojo’s place. "Who's next?" you raise your brows challengingly.
Satoru swoons. Oh, how he loves you. How he will make up for all the time spent away once he proves himself worthy again, once he rids his home of the plague that is these stupid men.
One by one, suitor after suitor lines up to try and fail miserably at stringing the bow that only Satoru is known to be capable of stringing. The laughter soon dips into gradual panic, and the realization that the task truly is impossible settles in, the challenge unbeatable for all those who are not the very owner of the weapon himself.
"My queen, we get it," one suitor speaks up bravely, wearing a mask of vulnerability and sympathy that Satoru assumes is meant to gain your good graces. The ivory haired warrior scowls and your eyes turn to the man talking.
Dark hair and eyes. A handsome smile. Something snaky behind his eyes that he attempts to soften for you. He steps forward.
"We know what this means. Nearly all of us have attempted to beat this challenge that none of us could ever overcome. We understand what you are trying to say, that we will never fill Satoru Gojo's shoes. But if I may offer myself up as a man who will try, knowing the great shadow that looms over me. Knowing that I will fail. I will do all that I can to please you, to mend this kingdom. I may not be able to win your challenge, but I am eager to win your heart."
No one says a word. Telemachus' eyes fly around the hardened faces of the suitors, discouraged by their own failure, and the mischief of the man who just spoke up. He swallows, and you merely look the man in the eye, doing all you can to remain polite. To stand tall. To give him a chance, when what you truly wish to do is lock the doors behind you and set the entire room ablaze.
Satoru has had enough.
Slowly, he rises, his cloak fluttering around his figure. He is cautious to keep his posture slightly slumped, his head bowd, and his voice low. As if unsure.
"I haven't tried yet."
All heads turn to the back of the room where the former king stands as a beggar. The silence is piercing before it is interrupted by an outburst of laughter, laughter that makes the suitors' inadequacy feel much lighter.
The suitor who had just spoken freely to you chortles particularly loud. "You? A beggar?!" he sputters. "What could possibly make you think that you would succeed if none of us could? You're nothing," he spits.
You watch the beggar slowly step past the man taunting him, his footsteps echoing throughout the space. Your brows knit with curiousity, and something you don't quite allow yourself to acknowledge gnaws at the back of your mind.
The dark haired suitor scoffs as the beggar stands before him, throwing his arm out in disdain. "Your majesty, you can't possibly-"
You raise your hand, and the man immediately cuts himself off. You keep your eyes on the cloaked face before you, the way this stranger approaches so humbly, so surprisingly willing to try after watching everyone fall short of what your husband was - is.
Something is... off here. You can't quite name it, but your heart knows.
The beggar stands still, presenting only himself before you. No titles. No land. No pride. Merely his own hands, a veteran's status, and a face you have yet to see.
You inhale slowly, something scratching at the back of your throat as you lower your hand. You nod toward Telemachus, who holds the bow toward his father.
"Please. By all means," you encourage him. "Good luck."
Satoru reaches his hand out and wraps his worn fingers around the wood soundly. He expels a long, gentle breath as he reunites with the weapon, taking it carefully out of his son's hands, who slowly backs away to stand at the far end of the room, knowing what is to come.
You notice. You notice every movement that occurs from this moment forward.
Sunkissed hands trace over the intricate detailing, following the curve of the bow as he sinks slowly down to his knee. Memories of hunts, of teaching children archery, of battle come to his mind as he methodically fiddles with the bow, then soon comes the memory of his performances in the banquet hall. The roar of triumph. The raise of his bow in the air. Your proud grin and flushed cheeks.
Satoru breathes in. Taking his time. You hang onto each second, brows coming together as you watch this stranger touch your husband's bow just as he would, pinching that string between all thick digits.
Suddenly, arms curve inward and biceps puff. Veins bulge in the strangers muscular forearms and hands as he clutches the top of the bow with one and the string with the other, arching his body inward as the weapon curves and stretches under his force.
Your heart drops.
The beggar gives way for a moment, releasing the string due to misuse, and takes a breath. A rumble of further laughter comes once more as the suitors prepare to throw more doubt at the man, but the room goes silent again when the beggar repeats the action. Only this time, he twists the bow backwards.
He stretches the string. He curves the bow inward. His muscles flex, and his shoulders round. The bow folds, the room freezes, the string catches, and connects.
The bow is strung.
The breath leaves you as your knees suddenly go weak. Your mind spins, dizziness overcoming you, and before you can allow your emotions to get the best of your senses, he does it.
He grips the wooden arch in one hand and plucks the string with the other, a resounding single, daunting note ringing out into the space.
A predator warning its prey for what is to come.
And with the force of his pluck, you almost faint. For you know this motion. You know this presentation. You know those hands, those veins and the way that body curves to match his weapon's mold.
Your husband has returned.
You gasp out a shuddering sigh before retreating back to your chambers. You have no time to think, to process, for you know what is coming the second that bow is strung.
The room is heavy with shock as Satoru rises to his feet, taking the arrow, hooking it, and shooting it through the axes. The arrow flies with a sharp whistle and hits the target in one shot.
Telemachus, who has only heard stories of such demonstrations, lets a grin slip onto his face. The room remains eerily still in the man's victory, and his shoulders gradually ease back, his posture straightening to reveal his true height.
You make it to your doors, hand on either one as you watch from the top of the steps. Your world goes quiet. The beggar you spoke to the previous night stands suddenly tall, and his cloak slips away from his face with such stature.
Sapphire pools. The same ones that have haunted you every night for two decades meet your gaze.
Tears stray past your lashes, dribbling down your cheeks like shooting stars as you take in his face, your heartbeat and his steady breath the only things your ears can catch.
Skin tanned and aged by the merciless beat of the sun. Snowy hair bright and graceful, slipping down to his ears, swiping across his forehead in ivory tendrils. Sharp cheekbones, facial stucture matured, hardened, a beard that garaces his once clean shaven face, and his heart on his sleeve.
Your love incarnate. Disguised as a beggar. Nothing but a man before you, once more seeking your hand the only way he knows how.
He's come back to you.
"You're..." a suitor begins. "You're him. You're Satoru Gojo-"
An arrow pierces his neck before he can finish his sentence, and when everyone focuses, they see the stance for battle that Satoru has taken. Ocean eyes ablaze, arrows hidden under his cloak, teeth grinding.
One down. The rest to go.
A breathless grin breaks across your face, your teary eyes blurring your vision as you close the doors shut before you, granting your husband complete free reign. To kill every last one of them.
Satoru's focus is the sharpest it has every been as his arrows fly and strike through the flesh of one man after another. Chaos breaks out as suitors attempt to search for weapons that were hidden from them. Servants fly to the boarded doors, banging helplessly, pleading for escape as Satoru lays waste to every man he sees.
His hair flies about his face as he whips his head around, locating each incoming attack and stopping it before it could reach him. His pupils are shrunken, face straight and seemingly calm, eyes edged with a hint of insanity and anger.
These men think they can walk into his home? Make themselves cozy within his walls? Drink his wine? Kick his son and dog around? Pursue his wife, the very love of his life, the greatest thing to ever happen to him, and walk away without punishment? Without paying?
Satoru's teeth bear as he reaches forward to grab one pair of the bound axes from the challenge, swinging it around to thrust into an attacking suitors face, the blades chopping away at his flesh, knocking him dead and backward onto the ground. He uses the hilt of the axes to thrust backward, plowing into another suitor's gut blindly, sending him rocketing back into the stone walls.
Satoru huffs. Not a fucking chance.
Droplets of blood splatter as the suitor who spoke freely to you orders for someone to find and retrieve the weapons. One disloyal servant manages to thrust himself out of the wooden barred doors and run for the storage room, a tip having been provided by another servant. Telemachus pursues, engaging in a brawl with the bald headed man as punches are thrown. The servant manages to send Telemachus flying across the room and to the floor with a bloody nose as he thrusts a hole into the wooden floor below, leading into the room where Satoru's murder spree transpires.
He throws spears through the hole, equipping some suitors with weapons to corner the King of Itchaca. Satoru persists, rocketing arrows left and right, when he feels sharp blades pierce his shoulder blades from behind, the long weapons trapping him inside a small circle at a distance.
Telemachus, eager to assist his war hero father, scrambles to his feet and tackles the servant once more. He plunges his fist into his face, pinning him against the wall of weapons. The blue eyed boy stretches his arm to reach for another spear, which he hastily grabs and tosses through the hole for his father to catch. The servant finds an opening, reaching behind him for a dagger, and thrusting it into Telemachus' side. The boy hisses and stumbles back, and the war between the loyal and disloyal persists.
Satoru catches the spear tossed overhead to him and slices it through the air, knocking the other spears into a strayed direction, allowing him the freedom to use his bow once more before thrusting the spear into the hearts of other men.
Above, Telemachus scrambles beneath the weight of the servant pinning him down. His eyes shoot up to the table next to him, spotting a sword dangling off the edge of the wood. Just as the servant raises the dagger high above the boy's face, he narrowly dodges, mustering up all the strength he can find to flip himself over, rolling over to the side as the dagger comes down to split the wood. Telemachus jumps for the sword on the table as the servant rises to his feet, and in a flash, he pulls a swift move, sweeping the blade under the servant's neck stealthily, watching as blood sprays and the body falls limp at his feet.
Beneath him, broken spears impale Satoru's back, but he moves on, three weapons wielded in his hands, alternating between each like a monster as men continue to follow around him. A spear thrusts for your honor. An arrow flies for his son's safety. Two axes slice for his home.
And as blood trickles through the crevices and cracks of stone, heaps of bodies scatter the ground. Those who no longer wish to fight, who no longer desire to risk their lives for an unbeatable battle against and unbeatable foe, drop to their knees and the weapons they happened upon, ducking their heads in homage.
It is not over until Satoru finally corners the dark haired suitor who was mouthy enough to present himself to you in isolation, using the hilt of the axes to thrust against his chest and pin him down to the floor. He stares up in horror as blazing sapphire eyes glare down at him wide, disconnected, furious.
The king's chest rises and falls slowly, his cloth now half ripped from his exposed body. His skin is bare, pectorals swelling and falling with his heavy breaths, lines of blood trickling down his well defined abdominals from the wounds that pierce his flesh. His foot raises to press down into the suitor's shoulder, all of Ithaca's might and Troy's victory hovering over the man who thought he could stand a chance, who spoke far more than he could ever take action. A pitiful coward who Satoru recognizes from youth, who once wanted to follow his footsteps into battle at such a young age.
He grew into a pathetic excuse for a man.
Satoru bends over, leaning in close as the suitor watches with frightened, blown eyes. "My wife," he grits out huskily. "would sooner see you in Hades than by her side. And I'll be sure to fulfill her wishes."
With that, Satoru raises his spear gripped in his right hand and thrusts it down into the man's chest with a strained rumble in his throat.
With the leading suitor dead, all other contendors go mute and drop their weapons in defeat. The ivory haired man slowly lifts his foot from the corpse before him, lowering his arms at his sides to turn around. Before him, the sight of all those who attempted to kill him moments ago now kneeling in a crescent around the room greets him.
The hilts of spears thud into the ground, the rhythm of victory, the beat of recognition for the king's homecoming. Satoru stumbles slightly, muscles stinging under to pierce of spears. He looks around, and finally drops his weapons to the ground with a resounding clang.
He won. The King has finally come home.
But Satoru cares not for the men who kneel at his feet. He cares not for the walls he has reclaimed, for the title he has settled back into, for the fame that his name brings.
What he cares for now lies behind those deep, wooden doors just at the other side of the room.
He shuffles, slightly dazed from bloodlust and domination. The remainders of his cloak drop softly to the ground, revealing him in all of his six foot three mass, all of his rippling, sweat drenched, blood smeared muscles. The very sight of him speaks volumes, exudes power, and strength unbridled.
But he does not care for such things as he trudges toward your doors, limping in a trance. He can hardly feel the little blades sheathed into his skin as he walks, for his mind is fuzzy with adrenaline and the image of you that he can now savor, hold, treasure.
Telemachus rushes back through the busted doors in search of his father, finding that he has already won, and that he is already making his way toward his mother.
Satoru stops before the few steps leading up to your doors. They slide open cautiously, revealing you standing there, awe scribbled over your gorgeous features.
You're as beautiful as the day he left you behind.
You shiver, tears staining your (s/c) cheeks as you stare into your husband's eyes. You ask yourself if this is a trick of the gods, of the light, or of your mind, but as your eyes momentarily sweep over the damage he has done, taking into the kneeled stances of the surviving suitors, you finally breathe.
Your husband came back to you after all those years.
You tremble with soft cries as Satoru stares at you with all the love and relief the world has to afar. His eyes have softened, his pupils growing in your presence, and he carefully reaches back into his pants, lifting his hand to reveal the golden brooch that he promised he'd bring back to you after keeping it on his person at all times.
You blubber out a laugh, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and you rush to your husband. The moment your arms reach out to him longingly, he submits to the exhastion and collapses to his knees with a warm grin and creased eyes. You follow him instantly, dropping to your knees in turn and gathering his body, bringing him close to you. You lay him over your knee as you cry gently, droplets of your tears dotting onto his skin as he looks up at you like you've hung the moon and the stars. His hands grip your waist and upper arm as you prop him up to meet your gaze.
"Satoru," you whisper tenderly, his name no longer a hush that torments your dreams at night. Your shaky fingers trace over his skin as his always did yours, experimentally stroking over his white beard, tracing the lines beside his eyes, his sharp nose, his pink bowed lips. Your heart races, your skin flushed, your mind at ease.
"Hi, baby," he beams despite himself and his wounds, all sap and softness in your embrace, a stark contrast to the raging monster he was moments before. "I'm home."
You laugh, or sob - you aren't sure, disbelievingly. "My love. My Toru," you coo, stroking his lengthened hair. "You came back to me."
"Of course I did," he mumbles, reaching a bloody hand to your cheek. "I'm sorry I took so long."
You shake your head, uncaring of the time anymore. Your husband is here, after so very long, and that's all that matters. "I thought you were never coming back,” you croak.
"I know, pretty. I know," he soothes, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. "But I'm here now. It's been a long journey, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere ever again."
"You better not," you sniff. "I won't let you. Twenty years, Satoru. I spent twenty years without you."
"I know," his eyes crinkle with happiness, a weight surging from his chest now that he has made it back into your embrace. "I know. It was torture. I know I left you waiting so long. I'm so sorry," he apologizes again. "I carried you with me the whole time. I couldn't rest until I made it back to you. I'm yours. Here. Always."
You don't wait any longer. You've waited long enough.
Your heads both move in unison, your hands hold his face as your lips meet in a hungry, desperate lock. Your body slumps, and Satoru lifts himself higher to chase the taste of your salty lips, years of anguish slipping away at the very contact.
Satoru almost forgot your sweetness. The sugary taste that always lingers in your mouth as though you were made of pomegranate and sugar, as if his tongue was made to taste you. His fingers curl into your hair, eyes lashes fluttering blissfully against his cheek, brow arching as your lips glide together like the sway of a perfect wave.
You cry into the kiss, and Satoru presses in deeper.
Telemachus smiles warmly from afar, clutching his side, forgetting his wounds. The suitors turn their gazes away shamefully, and Satoru shamelessly marks his territory, kisses you as though it is the last time to make up for all the damage he's caused you. Your kiss so addicting, more addicting than the Lotus Calypso fed him and the insatiable song of the sirens, that he has no plans to part from you any time soon.
The two of you are nothing but heated breaths and smacks of lips, sniffles and gentle chuckles.
A string of saliva connects you when Satoru mistakenly parts, the curve of his shoulder shooting lightning up his back from the arrows still embedded there. He hisses with a wince, and you watch him with concerned eyes, looking over his state.
He catches the worry in your expression, and smiles warm again, only ecstatic to see your face before him and not in his tormented nightmares of failing to reach you. You frown as his thumb slides down your cheek and over your chin, light shimmering in his gaze.
"Do you like the rugged look or should I shave?"
You laugh loud, unrestrained, free, for you have longed to here such stupid jokes told at the most inappropriate times for as long as you can remember. You duck back down to kiss Satoru's lips as his head falls back against your knee.
"You're perfect," you whisper against him.
ׂ╰┈➤
You can't put words to the way Satoru looks at you as you finish cleaning the cut on his neck, the wounds on his back having been patched by the servant who washed his feet the previous night.
A thick film of heat occupies your once vacant bedroom, firelight crackling against the distant walls. Celebrations have long concluded, the night's recognition of the king's return and all his accomplishments cut short by your urgency to disinfect Satoru's wounds.
He lay with his back against the wall of your bed, eyes watching every movement you make as you dab cloth over his soothed gash, his face clean shaven and fresh thanks to your steady hand. You sit upon his lap, warm thighs straddling him, your night gown spilling over the exposed spaces of your skin, barefeet tickling the silk comforters.
Satoru feels as though stuck in a dream, watching your calmed face as you bring the cloth away from his skin, placing it back into the water on the side table beside you. You feel your husband's eyes following you, his warm palm soothing over the skin of your bare thigh, his gaze hazy, his body warm under yours.
He is still adjusting to his return, not fulling trusting that he is finally safe and sound within well earned royalty, and renewed by his lovely wife's touch. His son, once a baby, is now over twenty years old, and when he looked in his eyes earlier that day, he saw himself. Brave. Responsible. Noble.
His family has grown up without him.
The king can't quite name what he feels right now, but he knows that a good chunk of it is love as his eyes graze over the signals of beautiful age on your face. How you've managed to keep everything together in his absence continues to baffle him, but he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he's never met a woman quite like you.
Gods, he loves you. He loves the way your lashes curl and the way your teeth sink into your soft lips. He loves the way your hair falls and the way your skin melts in the orange hue of fire. He loves the way your thighs squeeze over him as if he never left, as he if he will never leave again, and he's sure that he won't. After twenty years away, Satoru plans to stay buried beneath your body for his long as he possibly can, unmoving. Sound.
"I'm sorry."
You look up at the sound of his gentle voice, his soft tone ringing out like a whisper in the dark. You tilt your head slightly, abandoning the cloth to turn your attention to your long awaited husband and king.
"Honey, you've apologized so many times," you sigh, smoothing a hand over his chest. You feel Satoru jolt beneath you, feel the way he still reacclimates to your touch, afraid that it isn't real. "It's not your fault that you were away so long. The gods were angry. So were you."
"It is my fault," he denies. "I made them angry. I let my pride get in the way. I let it ruin me. I let it kill my men, and steal away my life with you... with our son..."
"Satoru," you say his name tenderly, yet assertively. He looks you in the eye, brow curving pensively. "You can't take back all those years. What happened is in the past. I don't care about any of that anymore now that you're here."
"You should," he argues. "Look at what I left you to deal with."
"I never gave up hope," you counter. "I always knew you were coming back. Everyone told me you were dead. I didn't believe them."
You reach for his hand, pulling it from your thigh to press to your chest. His palm flattens over your heart, the precious thump pounding against his touch. You see the way he sinks into the feeling, jaw tight.
"I felt you in my heart. All these years."
His eyes flicker back up to you, darker now. "Baby, I'm so sorry I left you alone."
"Satoru, you have to stop apologizing. I'm not angry anymore. I'm happy. I'm relieved," you urge, holding his hand to you soundly. "My husband is back. That's all I care about now."
"You should care about more," he says solemnly.
You furrow your brows. "Did you find someone else out there while you were gone?"
Your husband's eyes go wide at the sentiment, disgust crossing his features momentarily. "What?"
"Well, did you?" you raise a brow.
"Baby," Satoru starts. "There's no one else across the oceans for me but you. I only ever thought of you when I allowed myself to remember. When I didn't block out the pain of being away. How could you even as me that?"
You know there's weight to the things Satoru says, but you don't press it any further. You'd rather not discuss all that happened to him when he wasn't with you. "Then why do you keep talking like I shouldn't forgive you?"
"...Because..."
"Because you haven't forgiven yourself for everything that happened."
He presses his lips together and shakes his head. You know him well.
"My love," you shift, bringing his hand from your chest to clutch between your palms as you look at him. "You've crossed the sea. You've watched your comrades fall. You've burdened the weight of thousands on your shoulders. You almost lost yourself and you found your way back. To your mind. To your home. To your son. To me," you speak passionately. Satoru watches you with great emotion, his nose flaring as you keep his gaze. "You must extend yourself grace. If you can't forgive yourself for everything, or believe that I could forgive you, then what of all that you've been through? What of me?"
Satoru's lips curve downward. "What of you?" he repeats.
You gulp. "I don't want to think about what we lost any more than we have, Toru. I don't want you to look at me and be sad... I want to start building our life again from where we've just picked up. What of me if you can't look past your own guilt to see that all I care about is having you with me again?"
Somehow, even as Satoru torments himself for his sins, you still look at him and see the man you love instead of all his mistakes. You don't blame him for what he took from you. You don't resent him for all his time spent so far away.
He does not understand how, except for the fact that he loves you so very dearly, and you love him in turn. He refuses to argue with you on his first night back, especially if you insist on leaving it all behind when the two of you are in each other's company the way you used to be.
Satoru's other hand slide up to your chin, caresses just beneath your bottom lip. Dark pupils observe you sweetly, his heart aching with want as he watches the way your plush lip drags beneath the pad of his thumb when he touches you. "What of you?" he says again. "You're everything, (Y/n). You're all that's been keeping me together. Just because I'm burrowed in self deprocation doesn't mean you're any less of the woman you have always been to me," he tells you earnestly.
You feel his hand shift in yours to clutch tightly in return, your other hand still holding over his.
"I love you," he says for the first time in twenty years. You fall apart. "You have been and always will be my perfect girl. My queen. Don't ever question where you stand in my mind. Our separation has tormented me for decades. I haven't been able to sleep. My soul ached to be away from you, baby. I love you. You're everything right about this world, about me. Don't forget that."
You breathe in sharp, thighs squeezing, heart lurching for more closeness, for your husband's praise, for his love. You are nothing but sap at his hands as his fingers graze your lips, trailing down to your neck slowly, past your clavicle, over your exposed collarbone. Satoru watches, mesmorized, as goosebumps sprout over your skin. And you feel that familiar tension, the way he hardens beneath you, the way his body presses firm and sound to yours, needing more. For just one touch isn't enough.
He's spent too long away from you. It's been too long since he has been able to savor you in the intimacy of your bed, in the privacy of your chambers, where no one exists but your intertwined souls as he makes love to you in a way that has you seeing stars and planets in orbit, that ruins you for any other man.
And how could you ever want any other man, when you have Satoru?
His hair is messy in that well loved way, from your hands gripping into them during messy kisses, and the freshness of a bath. He looks so much older, much more mature, but still as breathtakingly handsome as ever with lines of stubble tracing his face, white lashes blinking slowly, and dark pupils shrinking the outter ring of blue orbs. His chest is exposed to you, shirtless, and your hands trickle down his heated skin, exploring every scar that you do not recognize, every bump and ridge that you've missed in time.
His exterior has somehow physically hardened, his shape having been beaten into perfection by the gods' brutality. You wince as the pads of your fingers follow every unsaid story of his faded wounds, and you hear his heavy breath grow more weighted under your feather light touch.
Satoru brings you in closer by your chin, lids low, eyes hungry and desperate to make you happy again. To feel you again. "Do you still love me, pretty?"
He knows the answer, and you know he knows as well, but you do not hesitate to give him what he wants. "Of course I do," you murmur, "I've wanted you to come back and kill every last one of those suitors the second they arrived. I have and only will ever love you."
"Yeah?" he hums. You nod, entranced. He smiles. "That's my girl. I'd do it all over for you again in a heartbeat. No one touches my wife."
"I missed you so much, Satoru," you exhale as your noses brush, your eyes falling closed as his scent invades you.
"I missed you too. So much. You don't even know," he says, wrecked.
"I missed your hands. Missed the way they touch me."
"Mhm?" his hand slips from yours to slide back up your thigh. Your lips part as his touch creeps higher and higher, sending vibrations shooting through your body. His fingers reach past the silk that adorns you, creeping between your legs lovingly as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "What else did you miss, my love? Tell me. Tell your king."
"Missed the way you talk to me," you moan softly. "Missed your voice."
"And I missed those pretty sounds you make," he groans, slipping his hand lower. His thick fingers brush your thinly clothed core, dragging lightly against the ball of nerves that swells knowingly, needily at his slightest presence. You gasp softly against him, leaning further into him, and he hums lovingly. "Just like that," he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "You always sound so beautiful when I touch you. Gods, it's a crime to have been pulled away from this."
"Toru," you whine, your hips grinding desperately down against him. Satoru's breath hitches, something low and unsteady rumbling out against you as you grip his shoulders. "Please don't make me wait any longer."
He wastes no time, hastily tugging your undergarments aside, but doing so with care. "Oh, baby, I won't. I won't torture you anymore. You've been so strong. So good. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll make up for everything. I'm here."
You let his hands grab your waist and carefully flip you over. Your head sinks into the silk sheets and your undergarments are completely discarded, a string of your arousal stretching along with their removal. Satoru hovers over you, soft, primal, and curves down to unite your lips.
You whimper softly, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you. His warm chest presses to yours, your gown hiking up over your hips, your bottom half bare to the man you love as his fingers slip down your stomach and curve over your swollen clit.
Your soft moans spill into Satoru's lips as his tongue slants past, plunging eagerly into your mouth. The muscle swirls around your own, your tongues tangling in a desperate, greedy dance, the smack of lips rising into the air as Satoru begins to work little circles over your clit.
"Yeah, sweetheart, I'd never forget," he breaks away to grumble against your mouth as you whine, your thighs curving outward to grant him more access. He swoons, taking the opportunity to drag out his touch, slowing his circular motion with two, fat fingers, collecting your sweet juices over his fingertips. He ducks to kiss your jaw. "I'd never forget what makes you whine like that."
"Satoru."
You call his name out like a prayer, and the said man can not help but answer. He's longed for this. Starved for this.
"I'm here," he assures you again, his pace dizzying, his lips gliding down to the sensitive space of your neck. "I'm here. I promise. I'll take care of you."
The squelch of your fruit eases the tension of years when he inserts two of his fingers. Their sheer width stretch you out from years of lack of use, and you groan out something throaty, clinging tight to Satoru as he lavs warm kisses over your skin. His teeth graze your neck as he sucks hot kisses over it, feeling you squirm with delight and hold him tighter, mindful of his wounds.
"Fuck, still so wet for me," he marvels, burying his face in your neck as he sheathes his fingers slowly in and out of your slippery folds, his lashes fluttering with ecstacy. "Oh baby, you have no idea much I've thought of this."
Your thighs tremble around his hand, your body too weak for his dominance and touch. You know you won't last long, for the strength of his fingers ache so deliciously that you can't even think straight. All you can think of is your husband, and how such things were a far off fantasy merely two nights ago.
But now, he hugs you close, marking your skin, fingering your warm pussy like it was made for him, splitting you apart with just the power of his index and middle digits, undoing you in order to mend you both again. "Talk to me, (Y/n)," he huffs into you. "Tell me what else you missed. Please baby, I need to know."
"Mmmm, missed - missed your fingers so fucking much," you mewl, head tossing back as he peppers kissed across your chest.
"I know, honey, you have them now, don't you?" he teases slightly. "What else? What else can your husband do for you?"
You moan at his title, at what he is to you, at the way his fingers curl against that spongey spot inside and hit just a little bit deeper as they plunge into your walls, gliding in and out eagerly. You leak over his palm freely, soaked. The sound lands raw on your ears, and Satoru releases a muffled groand, addicted to the sensation he feared he would never experience again.
"Oh gods, Toru, missed your - hah - missed your mouth," you whine as his lips trail lower, his other hand curving around the hem of your gown to expose your breasts. They spill free, and Satoru lifts his head to gaze down at you. Your head slightly tossed back, your mouth agape, your eyes barely open, brows pinched with pleasure, and your chest bare before him.
"You're ethereal," he breathes, ducking back down to lick a long strip from your nipple to the bottom of your chin. You whine, hips bucking, walls squeezing. "Oh, honey, do that again. Please. Need to feel you. Squeeze me like you love it."
His pace goes faster, his fingers transitioning from a slow and steady rock to a fastened rocket into your core. You squelch loudly around him, moaning out, and Satoru moans in turn.
He ducks back down to you, taking your nipple between his lips and sucking softly. His tongue rolls around the bud as his cheeks hollow, slurping greedily at the plush fat, toying you gently between his teeth. Your back arches, and his free hand follows to hold the position, fingering you swiftly as he sucks at your pretty tits.
You're a piece of art. A masterpiece. Satoru thinks so when he looks up to watch the way your face pinches in that familiar pleasure, the way the breath floats from your chest, and your pussy clamps hard down on his fingers before you gush around them, spilling syrupy release over your bed and onto his palm. He moans freely, marking your breasts as you writhe and squirm beneath him, his hand keeping your back arched against him.
Is this the afterlife? Is the Elysium? Has he achieved immortal bliss?
He believes so as his wife's perfect pussy cums all over his hand for the first time in decades, and his length aches to cum after, unable to stand the pressure of your intimate reunion.
He breaks away from your tit to smash his lips against yours again, fumbling blindly with his pants, grinding his lower half against you as you prolong your high.
"What else did you miss?" he breathes raggedly against you as you see stars and cling to his neck.
There is not much for you to say when the night drags on, and his pants are discarded to free his massive length. You'd almost forgotten the sheer size of it, how it curves at just the right angle, how his tip shines an angry pink, glistening with pre cum as it twitches against your thigh, his lips leaving marks over every patch of skin they can find.
Satoru, ordinarily the talkative type in bed with you, can hardly find the words when his dick presses into you, past your slimy folds, and eases into your tight, hot cavern. You cry out with the sting of his long awaited intrusion, and he kisses away the pain, your lips slick with spit and your own cum from when your husband licked your cunt clean after fingering you over and over.
You're stuffed full when he finally, eventually bottoms out. Tears brim your eyes from both the penetration and the reality of your connection, for it's been so long since you've had sex with your husband. Since he's been home to ease your needs. Since he's filled you up, made you take him all with his starry eyes holding yours.
"I'm here," he says continuously, as though he needs the words to engrain themselves in your mind, so you don't have to worry about him disappearing anymore.
Tears trickle down your cheeks as he pushes in deeper, brushing your cervix, your walls snug around him. He kisses you again, repeatedly, gripping your hips tight, knocking his forehead against yours. You feel the expansion of his girth inside you. You feel every beloved ridge and curve. You feel him throbbing as you tighten, refusing to release him, holding on to the unimagineable pleasure of his intrusion.
You're already spilling around his length, wetting him down to his balls and upper thighs, and Satoru loves every second. Savors it. Treasures it.
"Satoru!" you bellow, throat raw as he pistons in and out of you, thrusting deep and heavy, keeping a slow, agonizing pace. He wants to feel every second, every drop of your release, every snug squeeze of your beautiful walls, every drag of his cock against your pillowy pussy, which went so long without his attention.
Well, no more. He's here to make it better. To love you. To hold you. To make you feel good. To rip that sadness away indefinitely.
"That's it, baby," he praises hot against your ear, voice thick with tension and pleasure. He groans, jaw slack, brows scrunched, eyes heavy as his nose tucks against your pulse. "That's it. Let me make you feel good. Missed this pussy so much, honey. Missed you so much. Let your husband take that pain away."
And he does.
The night drags on in a haze of sweat and fluid and pleasure. Your fingers graze his scars as he makes powerful love to you, acknowledging all that he's done to make it back, all that he's done to be the man that hovers over you, pieced together by your touch.
And as you lay wrapped up in his limbs as the sun peaks over the horizon, the thick scent of sex and Satoru lingering in the air, you thank Athena for bringing your husband back to you.
hiii my lovelies! these are all updated in the pinned post on my page, but here's what to expect coming up next!! it looks like i'm off this week, so i'll be trying to knock these out as quickly as i can :)
in terms of dates, i tend to always psych myself out with them if i put deadlines before i get started on things. the expected post dates will come along as i sort through these. i've been doing that these past couple fics and it's worked out smoothly! also don't expect the headcanons at the bottom to come super fast. those are just listed so you'll know what to expect going forward! they take way too long for them to all come in the next few weeks lmao
anywhoooo SUPER excited to get these out for you tehehe
fics & hcs schedule:
-> "don't play with me" - toji [posted]
fluff, suggestive themes, slight crack | a little jealous toji fic where you just can't help but to pick at him and get him riled up, so, fed up, one day he tries to make you jealous right back... it's not so funny anymore when he does it though.
[appr. 6k]
-> jjk men realizing they’re in love with you - gojo, geto, choso, higuruma | nanami, toji, sukuna [posted]
fluffffff, some angsty but mostly fluff [appr. 3k per hc - 35k total]
-> "sanctuary" - geto [date TBD]
slight angst, pining, enemies(?) to lovers, possible suggestive themes | pirate captain geto rec in which you are the fiance of a wealthy prince. seeking diplomatic advantage and riches, as well as revenge for the government's corrupt acts against all pirates alike, captain geto steals you away and holds you for ransom - little does he know that he has saved you from a miserable fate with your wretched future husband.
[appr. +15k]
-> "i didn't mean it" - higuruma [date TBD]
heavy angst | your husband has always been a very gentle, empathetic man. when a strange technique suddenly manifests, and it is revealed to you that higuruma wiped out an entire courtroom full of people, your love darkens into fear.
[appr. 6k-10k]
-> "always, yes" [Five More Minutes pt. 5] - choso [date TBD]
flufffff, college au | in which choso finally, finally musters up the strength to ask you to be his girl.
[appr. 5k-7k]
-> "nightmares" - geto [date TBD]
hurt / comfort, angst, fluff | plagued with chronic nightmares all your life, suguru is the only one who makes the night terrors more manageable.
[appr. 4k-6k]
-> jjk men reactions to when someone is racist to you [date TBD]
cw, heavy angst, mentions of discrimination / racism, poc!reader
[appr. 5k per hc - 35k total]
other upcoming hcs:
-> jjk men with a people pleaser partner [date TBD]
-> gojo, geto, choso reactions to your attempt [cw] [date TBD]
various instances of jjk men realizing that they're in love with you, pursuing you, confessing to you, and everything in between ... ₊˚⊹♡ | fluffy, mutual pining except for sukuna's - you hate him, yearning, sapppppyyyyy
nanami, toji, sukuna (appr. 3.4 - 3.8k each)
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
kento nanami: it's quiet!
at the end of long, trying days, kento finds that the safest place to retreat to is the warmth of your plush thighs, the space in your lap that is reserved solely for him.
the world is noisy, wild, chaotic, and unforgiving. in the field that kento's responsibility dragged him to, relief is not something that he can easily come by. he finds himself working overtime most days, narrowly escaping the clutches of grief or death at the hands of some insidious curse that he is burdened with erradicating.
his job is to save lives, and he does. he is good at what he does, too. precise, timely, always keeping an eye out for the next threat, whether it is gojo imposing on his reading time during lunch or the threat of the memory of haibara ressurecting in another poor, innocent student's soul, unfit for the brutish nature of their education.
nanami is practical and prepared, therefore when the noise comes during the day, he is ready for it. he has practiced his life around it long enough to let it become a dull murmur in the back of his head, one that does not overpower him the way it used to in his youth, when jujutsu took his best friend away.
and while he is accostumed to it, noise is still noise. the tension it always used to bring in the back of his neck still remains each time he steps across that threshhold and into his place of work. the memory of a curse's hiss still haunts the confines of his mind, and the nagging knowledge that one day his very breath could be stripped away by the insanity of what he devoted his life to claws at the back of his head like a sickness he can't quite shake.
noise is still noise, and it leaves kento eerily silent most days as his coworkers (gojo) invade the space with their voices, their numbness to the cruelty, their pinches of insanity that they shield behind hazes of smoke, stupid incessant jokes, and the bright youth of their students. students who could be lost to them at any second, at any moment's time.
kento often feels as though his perfectly organized world is slightly tilted on an axis, his practiced stability the only thing keeping it from completely flipping upside down. the task of a sorcerer is to live with the burden of fear, the crushing reminders of temporary life, and that noise that just never seems to go away, and nanami keeps a straight face. remains poised. focuses on time and neatness and maturity to keep him upright rather than the blaring red that bangs against his brain.
the blonde is tired most days. every day. every day of his life, actually, since as long as he could remember. tireless missions across sea, the shadows of miserable curses rising high above the vision of his fifteen year old self, the call he received when the school thought that satoru was dead, the call he received when haibara died a year later instead. when his mortality, as well as everyone else's, was thrown in his face brutally by the realization that the only being who could ever overcome such confines of life was satoru gojo. the world's savior, the honored one. spoiled. bratty. practically immortal.
the exhaustion of such knowledge, of such tireless pain weighs heavy, and kento finds himself pretending most days that he doesn't wish he had stayed away, that he could have lived a normal, boring life had it not been for the tug of his conscience, the sorcerer's responsibility that never quite leaves you after you get a taste of what the world is truly like behind an ordinary human's eyes.
and his brain is always running, chugging behind the shield of his opaqe goggles, the noise of yuji urging to assist him and make a big name of himself by saving people, swearing his future to the curse of this livelihood. and nanami tries his damndest not to see that boy with brown hair and brown eyes reflective in yuji's youthful air, the optimism that will slowly be poisoned either by death or the inability to escape it. time and time again, kento will attempt to scream out over the noise and challenge it by reiterating how young his students are, how young yuji is, how young he was, how young haibara was when he was killed, and how young satoru was when the world decided to completely lean on him.
but the world doesn't care. jujutsu turns a blind eye to mercy, to suffering, to the hope of youth. it takes and takes and takes, and nanami finds himself going quiet to the noise once more when he listens to people like mei mei ramble on about stipend increases during meetings where all his mind can go back to is the fact that everyone in this room will likely die one day. and there is nothing that any of them can do about it but fight until their time is up.
save for satoru gojo of course, who will stand by as everyone continues to fall away. and what can the white haired sorcerer do but poke at nanami's shoulder while he hides his grimace behind the wall of a newspaper, death's reminder of his weakness teasing him at his very side.
heavy sighs filter from nanami's chest when the days finally come to their end. he piles onto public transport, gripping the rails tight overhead inside the stuffy train, watching wearily as little curses trample about the cabin, squirming around shoulders, creeping into briefcases. nanami looks at his watch. he's off.
the public's murmur overlaps the noise already roaring inside nanami's mind, children crying, men and women arguing over the phone with their places of work, the restless squeak of the train's wheels when it screeches to a stop, and the bodies that bump into his broad one as herds rush to spill from the train doors.
voices blabber inside his head as he walks calmly along the route home. he keeps his eyes straight, heavy and puffy behind his glasses, the sun's late glare practically blinding his sight. but he keeps going, knowing the path by heart, letting the automatic pull of his familiarity drag his aching feet.
with each step his loafers click across the concrete, he hears the echoes of his life, the past that his restlessness has brought him in the blare of the sun. another weighted sigh spills past his lips as he tells himself he only has one more block to go.
and then he arrives at the door, his key turning into the lock, the heavy door giving way as he pushes himself inside.
and suddenly, like an off switch, the scent of you intermingled with whatever has been cooking on the stove overcomes nanami's senses, numbing him. the second he closes the door behind him, he hears your voice from the kitchen and the cut of the running faucet turning off.
"ken?"
the blonde lets his briefcase slip from his fingers and land onto the floor as he goes to remove his shoes silently, your voice, the house's warmth, his sanctuary finally rendering him unable to speak quite yet as he adjusts to the stark contrast between in here and out there.
and there you are, emerging from around the corner, having just dried your hands with a towel. you take in your husband's figure at the door as he removes his goggles and finds your eyes, and you light up, moving to greet him.
"hi baby," you coo. the second your body meets his, your arms wrapping smoothly around his neck, the noise that kento could never quite escape completely goes mute, and all that he can think of is the way you smell of miso and a hint of something sweet as your warmth melts against him.
the mask of composure kento wears every day to keep himself from breaking, to keep his occupation from breaking him, withers away, his body sinks into you like molasses slipping slowly from a bottle, and a final heavy sigh leaves his body, pulling all the burrowed fear, stress, and exhaustion from his being.
helpless to you, his heavy arms curl around your midsection slowly, as if every movement he makes is an act of testing whether his mind will truly allow him this peace. and when no further noise comes, he slumps into you, melting, falling apart.
you feel the stiffness sink away as you hold him, and you smile, closing your eyes as his presses himself into you, his forehead falling to the crook of your neck, rubbing softly against your skin. brows knit with relief, and quiet comes sweet and soft like a wordless lullaby.
your boyfriend speaks a thousand words without opening his mouth, his body answering the silent questions that do not leave yours. your fingers slip into his hair, gliding over his cropped undercut, soothing the space where you know the most tension balls up in a little knot. kento hums something weak and broken and free, holding you closer, savoring this moment for all its worth, and the infinite silence that you magically bring.
you don't ask him about his day. you already know.
instead, as dinner finishes cooking in the oven, you retreat to your sofa, where kento always slips quietly onto his side, long legs oustretched horizontally over the furniture, his head sinking down to your lap just before your hands settle over his head.
he closes his eyes, veiny hand reaching to loosen his tie, tugging it resentfully from around his neck. a temporary pinch in his brow results, but you smooth it away with the soothing glide of your fingers through once neatly slicked blonde strands. you study his face as the anguish melts away from his handsome expression, a rhythmic stroke settling as you caress through his hair, your other hand cradling around his jaw.
blonde lashes flutter, and what noises and thoughts seemed to come so easily during the day are nowhere to be found. his mind finds blankness, calm in the way your fingertips stop every now and then to scratch at his scalp, the way the side of your palm presses to his skin as he recovers from the day's burdens. silence filters through the house comfortably, the occasional tick from the oven echoing out.
a safety nanami has only felt in your arms tackles him soundly. his head angles slightly toward your stomach, nose brushing against the sweater you stole from him. your body always responds to his movements, hugging closer, stroking softer.
kento remembers the first time it happened, the first time you touched him and the noise suddenly wiped clean from his mind like he was born that day all over again with a blank slate. he stiffened slightly at first, your hand in his, and he looked at you like you'd solved the riddle for all life's misery. like you'd singlehandedly resurrected him from the dead with nothing but your hand squeezing in his.
you've always had this serene quality about you, one that makes kento want to rot in your company for as long as he possibly can. it takes one look at your face, one sniff of your perfume, one chirp of your voice for every horror that plagues nanami's head to dissipate like it never existed, and nanami was not foolish enough to question it any further. his body told him that you were his sanctuary, therefore, he siezed you, courted you, held onto you, cherished you so that you'd never go away.
and every day, when he wonders why he forced this livelihood on himself, he remembers your soft touch and easy smiles, and the urgency to protect, to protect this life, reinstills itself in him. and he remembers that if the responsibility should fall onto anyone to preserve the sanctity of your kiss, it should fall to him.
something peachy and bright swipes through the darkness of nanami's closed lids as he lay in your lap like a child, raw, vulnerable, tired. warm colors filter into his subconscious, the sweetness he imagines the sun would taste like on your lips swirling around his head. he often swears it's some kind of trick, for it awes him how you take what is dark and gloomy and drab and strict and bend it into something easy and light and whimsical and tender.
his heart trembles like a bird who has not yet learned to fly, and everything he once thought he knew is laid bare at his feet for him to attempt to piece back together, to reconfigure as though it is his first day on this planet. something heavy aches inside his being, and he knows what it is. he thinks deep down he's always known, but in the warmth of your embrace this day, with your fingers in his hair and your silent attentiveness and care keeping him breathing, he thinks he knows for sure.
kento's eyes peel back open to reveal honeyed pools of (e/c) gazing down at him softly. your gentle lips are smiling, the gold of your first initial dangling from the expensive chain around your neck as you watch him with eyes so sweet that kento's surprised he hasn't rotted away right there.
and instead of thoughts of his and his students' mortality, his mind gets fuzzy and blurry. he can't conjure up a thought on anything but you. his eyes are lidded, blinking slow as he stares up at you, letting your beauty overpower him, letting it render him a speechless, weakened vessel at your will.
something emotional overcomes him, something that claws at his chest warmly, sacredly. he knows what it is when your gazes speak for the words you do not say, when your touch grows somehow softer, and the corners of kento's lips finally pull upward now that he knows this isn't a dream and some curse isn't pulling him in for a brutal, gruesome, vile death, using you as a pawn.
chocolate eyes catch the light pouring in from the window behind you past hooked, wrinkled curtains. you see all the world's passion soaking up into those circles of brown, like a sponge absorbing water, or the muffled hum of a pressed piano key floating off into dragged, eventual silence. your finger shifts to trace along his jaw, along the sculpt of his cheekbone, then to the corners of his mouth that you pull slightly to lift higher. kento's eyes shimmer, the day’s first hints of humor catching him as his eyes wrinkle and a laugh, soft and breathless, flutters from his chest as he obeys your silent plea for further relief, for a little more of a smile.
he can't help it. he can't help but smile when he looks at you. when he thinks about everything you are and continue to be, when he thinks of the great impact you have on what he always thought would be a dull, inevitable future of broken hope.
kento's hand reaches up slowly, catching your cheek. you smile warm, letting him guide you down to his lips. they meet in a gentle peck, sweet and lingering like the aftertaste of a sugary treat. the warmth spreads at the moment of contact, and when your eyes close, kento sees an entire life spent in your arms, in your steady silence.
his heart aches again, and he pulls away to hover just centimeters from your breath. slivers of eyes hold one another's, and kento smoothes a hand over your hair, smile dwindling with something serious.
it isn't just this moment, this day. it's all the others that have lead up to this one. how easily you slip into his life, how you always seem to read his mind and know exactly what he needs, how silence seems to speak louder than your words, and in between those spaces of muteness, you see him and he sees you. every day he leaves the house, he counts down the seconds to get back to you as war wages in his thoughts, like there's some blanket over his senses when he's with you that is ripped away the second he steps outside.
it's the times you have spent patching up the deep wounds that no one but you can see, the wounds he hardly knew he had before meeting you, as he'd been so accostamed to their rooted, soulful ache.
he wonders sometimes where you came from. he wonders how he managed to stumble across this glittering pool after years of wandering through drought. how you make everything feel ten tons lighter just by existing, just by standing by his side, just by waiting for him to get home and wrapping him up in an embrace that solves all the world's problems in a second.
kento thinks back to when he didn't have you. to when he was young, and tormented, and distraught, and angry at a world he could never change but could help. he thinks back to what it felt like for the noise to circle through his mind twenty four hours, seven days a week, and he wonders how he survived. he wonders how he pushed through without you, for now that you are here, now that he's found safety in your arms, he at least has something to protect, to look forward to, to keep him alive.
he doesn't know what he'd do without you. without moments like these, where nothing exists but the melt of your lips against his and the weight your glittering eyes carry.
his lips press together with a bit more pressure, eyes taking in every detail of your face. the little strands of your brow curving out into an angle of your eyes. the little scar on your chin left behind from an accident when you were a child. the round of your nose, the gloss of your waterline that always intensifies when he's looking at you like this. he feels the trace of your fingers and swears to preserve their softness. he feels the warmth of your thighs against his head and promises to kiss over them beneath the privacy of your comforter. he feels you, your soul, your essence, molding into his, holding him close, and thinks that no feeling he has ever experienced in his life has ever come quite close to this one.
he knows it now, when you come down to kiss him again, and his hand finds the back of your head, his watch glittering under the lowering sun. that there is no better feeling than this, than your lips to his as your hum vibrates against his mouth, and travels all the way down to the tips of his toes. no better feeling than you.
"i love you."
it comes in a solid murmer in the space of your breaths when you part, and you freeze where you hover. kento watches almost sadly, as though he knows this can't last forever, but he will claw his way out of hell in order to make it last as long as it possibly can. he gives you another sweet smile as his thumb caresses over the back of his head, watching as your brows curl slowly with the processing of his soft declaration.
your breath hitches, then releases with a shudder. you search his eyes, and he lets you, enjoying your closeness, preserving it, vowing to shield it with his life.
when it finally settles in your brain, a thin film slides over your eyes, your lips parting, brows curving with a happiness you can't express in words. you've known. the both of you have had an inkling for some time, but to hear it voiced for the first time, to see it clear in his soft expression before you makes you want to weep.
slowly, kento rises, turning to sit upright beside you, holding your hands over his lap. his knees touch yours, his eyes staring into you, and he says it again, confident. "i love you."
you could die happily, full of joy and content you've never known, that nanami has singlehandedly shown you. his confession is simple, but the weight of it simmers beneath, and all that comes with it. you smile, bright and big and toothy.
"i love you too, kento. i always have."
and it's silent as he tugs you back in by your chin and melts into your kiss, intoxicated off of you and your mute peace.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
toji fushiguro: megs' teacher!
megumi knows his father. indusputably.
he knows that he hates the sound of morning alarms, and would sleep through all ten he sets for himself if he wanted to, for the man sleeps like a log and could likely sleep through a hurricane if it swept through his neighborhood.
he knows that when his dad disappears late enough, long after he and his sister have been fed and done their homework, that he's off to feed his stupid gambling addiction again, and will likely come home early in the morning to call up shiu and ask for an extra job because he lost all the money from the last one to his lack of self control.
megumi knows that his father can't cook for shit, and always elects to either recruit satoru to make something for them or order takeout for the tenth night in a row, ordering him and his sister not to complain about having chinese again.
and he knows that if you, his ninth grade geometry teacher, were not attending this field trip to the museum, then his father certainly would have been no where to be found. but instead, the spiky haired teen watches with disdain as his father signs the pink chaperone slip on the kitchen counter with an urgency, eager for the opportunity to harrass you about giving him the time of day.
toji fushiguro is not an easy man, against popular belief. he'll flirt, rather incessantly, with a woman at a bar, or with the lady who bags his groceries, or even with the waitress at a family restaurant, but he hardly has any desire to pursue anything outside of keeping his life a little entertaining. sometimes, he really just likes to talk and get on his kids' nerves, or pester someone for a discount that he insists he'll get any time he goes anywhere, but outside of convenience, flirting has no real appeal to him.
that is, until megumi starts high school, and toji is forced to attend parent teacher night in order to meet all of his son's teachers and acclimate himself with the kid's schedule. megumi had to practically drag his father to the door to attend it, for tsumiki had an equally hard time trying to make her father leave the house to go to hers when she started high school. toji hates large gatherings of snobby parents and annoying teachers, for he always insists that his kids are practically adults, and they don't need him breathing down the school's neck just to see what block he has lunch in and who's teaching him the language he already knows.
besides, he's seen all the teachers' faces before. he knows who will teach megumi what subject because his daughter went through the same thing the year prior, so why the hell is it so important for him to go again? he thought at least going for one kid would have been enough.
but megumi insisted as he pushed at the immovable brick wall that toji calls his back. "we have a new teacher there, remember? she doesn't know how fucking shitty you are yet. you need to introduce yourself to her so she knows what she's getting into."
toji yawns at the front door, quirking a brow down at his teenager. "shitty?"
"yes. you never answer emails or sign anything when teachers send stuff home. i got in trouble once for forging your signature, and you still didn't bother to show up to the meeting."
"because, it ain't forgin' a signature if i told ya to do it."
"it doesn't matter if you told me to - forgery is still forgery."
"i squeezed you outta my balls, you know. i don't gotta stand for this shit."
"just go, dad!" megumi barks.
grumbling curses under his breath, toji obliges, because internally he admits that he does need to show up as the brat's only parent. and he expects two hours of a snooze fest until he steps into your classroom.
his bored expression falls slightly when his ivy eyes land on you as you turn and greet the parents with a warm smile and reading glasses propped over your head. you wear a simple white blouse and dark jeans that hug your curves, stacked necklaces hanging around your neck, and nails painted ruby red. your eyes are like stars, and you speak with a gentle, smooth confidence, a well-rounded maturity toji can't help but to notice.
he stands against the whiteboard with his hands tucked in his pockets, looking all around at the arrangement of your classroom. surrounding your projector are warm paper lanterns that hang from ceiling, giving the room a soft, non-nauseating glow. formulas, numbers, and symbols line the walls above the boards in laminated strips, and a blue hue takes your room from the soft navy rug on the floor to the gentle light of the projected screen at the very front. a few plants line the window sills on the far left, nurtured by the space where sunlight would pour in during the day. encouraging posters, as well as band tees and show references are plastered over the walls. little trinkets and stuffed animals line your organized desk clutter, and the hominess and your structured room screams that you are the new teacher that megumi was talking about.
after all, your classroom feels less like a stuffy place kids go to learn and more like a soothing nook, with beanbags in the corner by your desk and calculaters lined up in a cute little tray labeled take one :)!
he's never seen you before, after all. he'd remember a face and a voice like yours.
so when you turn to toji with a knowing smile, and something calm and lazy in your eyes, he does not quite know what he will say or how he will speak to you. his instinct to flirt is a bit blurred, for there's nothing he necessarily wants from you... maybe for you to give megumi straight a's, or, more accurately, straight b's all year, but even so, trying to sweeten you up does not seem right upon first glance.
upon first glance, as he said. he at least wants to feel out what he'll be dealing with for the rest of tsumiki and megumi's high school years first.
"you must be mr. fushiguro," you greet with an air of amusement about you, cool, airy. you stretch your hand out, and toji listens to the clink of your bracelets as you do so. a waft of cinnamon sugar stretches from your arm and into toji's face, and the navy haired man has to find some strength deep within him in order to keep an unfazed composure. how are these kids gonna be able to learn a damn thing if you look, sound, and smell like that? toji certainly wouldn't be able to if he were in your class.
the corner of toji's scarred lips twitch upward mischievously as he claps his hand into yours firmly, shaking boldly. you chuckle lightly, brows lifting as toji squints subtly at you. "how'd ya know that?"
you release his hand to prop your own on your hip. "you and megumi share a face," you joke. "it'd be impossible to mistake you for anyone else."
toji snorts, crossing his arms. his muscles bulge with the action, tensing against the tight shirt he always frequents. "megumi's that memorable, huh? don't you got a shit ton of students comin' in and out of your classes?"
"i remember all of my students, mr. fushiguro. it's my job," you say. "i also brushed over the roster before you all got here."
toji's shoulders jerk with a little chuckle, and he eyes you closely as you smile. "so my kid ain't been givin' ya trouble, then?"
"trouble?" you tilt your head. "no, why do you say so?"
"just thought you'd remember his face for some other reason."
"megumi's been doing great in my class so far. it's only the beginning of the school year, but i can tell he'll be just fine. he seems like a really sweet kid."
"so he ain't get in a fight yet?"
"a fight?” you repeat wildly. "no, i'd hope not. not that i've heard of, anyway."
"good. 'cause it's comin'. don't say i ain't warn you."
your brow wrinkles slightly. "he got in fights a lot in middle school?"
"damn near every day."
"i see... and what influences are making megumi so prone to fighting, if this is a real issue?"
toji falls silent for a minute, caught by your inquisition. "you callin' me a bad influence?"
"no, mr. fushiguro. i'm just asking a question. after all, i'm only just meeting you."
toji hums, a smirk curling his lips as your raise a brow.
"he can't fight at school, much less in my classroom. i don't tolerate that kind of thing," you add.
"aren't you a great teacher, then," toji grins playfully. “i’ll be sure to pass on the message.”
you sense his playful tone and sigh, shaking your head. "i'm gonna have my hands full this year, won't i?"
"like i said. don't say i ain't warn ya."
"not with megumi," you lift your chin, smiling gently. "with you."
toji pauses, taken aback for a split second, then he laughs. "if you'll have me."
the said man leaves that night a bit thrown off, for he hadn't expected megumi's new math teacher to be so... down to earth? funny? sexy?
but it's something more than your looks. it's your ability to joke around, the gentle way you carry yourself, like you're gliding through the air, like math could never be a difficult subject as long as you're the one teaching it.
you’re pretty for a math teacher, and after a while, toji just can’t seem to leave you alone whenever you’re around.
so he shows up at things his kids know he would never bother to otherwise. he slips in to speak with you whenever he catches you heading to your car long after pick up has ended and the buses have left. he answers your emails unprofessionally and plainly, trying to weasel his way closer. trying to understand what this allure you possess is all about. trying to feel more of it, letting you pull him closer, letting your sweetness dizzy him just a little bit.
I hope this email finds you well. I am reaching out pertaining to the midterm reports that were issued out last Friday. The students were informed that they should return them to school with a signatue from a parent or guardian by this morning, after the weekend, and I have yet to receive Megumi's form. When I asked him about it in class, he said that he did try to get you to sign it, but you refused, hoping to "wait for an email from me instead." Let it be known that I am emailing you now, as you prefer, and would greatly appreciate it if you could return Megumi's signed report no later than tomorrow. I will accept an electronic copy if that is easier for you.
Please keep this line of communication appropriate and strictly about Megumi's report, which you still have not told me how you will send. I need to transfer signed forms to the principal no later than tomorrow morning.
relax, i'll make him bring it in tomorrow don't worry. for the record, i told him not to tell you that last part about the email thing. little prick. you sure he aint givin you a hard time over there? cause he's always givn me one.
is that a teacher thing by the way? someone gonna monitor the way you talk in emails? should i say something more interesting then? 😏
Thank you. Please do not forget! I will send you a reminder tomorrow morning before Megumi comes to school, as well.
And yes, remaining appropriate on a school mandated email is a "teacher thing." It would be nice if you would respect that by also refraining from using such language to refer to your son. He is a good student. No trouble at all.
Seeing as I just reminded you about the expectations of a school monitored email and you chose to ignore them within no less than five minutes, I will wish you a good night once again. Look out for my reminder tomorrow morning. I will be sending an extra one to Megumi as well so that he can force your hand if you pretend not to see my email.
i'd be stupid to pretend not to see an email from you
i'll get that number sometime
-toji
for toji, it isn't a matter of discovering whether he has a thing for you or not. he knows he does. every time he speaks to you, watches your eyes twinkle with an ominous lumiscence that reflects an orange moon's gloomy kiss, his heart patters to a weird rhythm. he knows he's got a thing for you and that it's not just because of your looks when he begins to associate the thought of you with the sweetness of a starry night, an inky, soothing, midnight's blue encapturing your energy every time you approach, every time you sweep an area.
megumi's grades in your class are stellar, for toji knows that he's always been a smart kid overshadowed by his short temper and quickness to violence - which the boy could have only inherited from toji himself. nevertheless, you speak highly of the fifteen year old nearing sixteen, claiming that he always pays attention, and always maintains a collected air about him when performing in your classroom.
and ever the easily agitated boy, toji finds that it makes sense that megumi finds solace within your space. math is something that always made sense to the blue eyed boy, something that always slips into certain conversations when megumi is detailing something he is working on, or trying to verbally piece together how certain things work. how much tsumiki should budget after she makes another online order, and how meals should be split and prepared throughout the week to leave some money leftover for anything else. with a gambling addict for a father, he thinks such precautions are necessary.
having seen your room, toji gets it. it's a safe space with low lighting and all that megumi's ever really known. and geometry, of course, proves way to easy for him, easy enough for you to bump him up to a higher math level.
toji thinks that what tugs at him the most about you is the way you always praise his son amidst your playful tones and your forced rejection of toji's advanaces for the sake of your job. you have a true passion for what you do, for how you teach, and who you are teaching. you talk of megumi's intelligence like it is something toji should be proud of, something right he has done throughout his life that he overshadows with jokes about his kid being mean to him and talk of his past.
toji's only ever heard teachers complain about his son. how violent he is. how standoffish he is. how quick he is to snap at a moment's inconvenience, or at someone pestering him or bothering someone who doesn't deserve it. middle school was hell, which is why toji backs away from interacting with most teachers now. sure, his kid gets into fights, but he wins every one of them. teaches those little shits a lesson. while fighting isn't "good", if the only thing anyone will ever see is megumi's anger, then toji won't bother trying to prove otherwise. trying to serve as the perfect parent to fit into their close minded ideas of his family. they don't deserve that effort if it's not already seen.
toji isn't going to change his son. he and his daughter are fine just the way they are. if the former gets in trouble, toji will deal with it, but who is he to care if megumi roughs up some necks and proves his place in the world as he grows older? he knows how to stand up for what's right. and he's smart all on his own without school, anyway.
but even after toji almost testingly told you about megumi's past in middle school to see how you'd react, brushing over the gory details, you don't hyperfixate on it. toji knows that notes on megs' previous behavior are tucked somewhere on a record in the principal's office, but you doesn't bother to further investigate, not unless it actively becomes a problem on your hands, and it doesn't. it never does.
instead, you see megumi for who he is. a good kid with a bright future. peaceful when treated as a human being, and silent in his genius. and if your beauty or your impressive teaching skills or your passion hadn't been enough for your toji to get hooked, your inherent recognition of his son's talent certainly does the trick.
but you won't cross that line. you won't let him come any further than jokes here and there and those dangerous looks he flashes you when you should be talking about megumi's behavior throughout the first quarter of the year instead. you always shake your head with a soft laugh, always roll your eyes with a pretty smile before redirecting the conversation, turning to your computer, clicking and sneaking a glance up from your monitor to see that he's still looking at you from where he lounges shamelessly in his seat.
toji continues to try his luck, however, hoping one day to get your personal number. hoping one day to know you beyond his kid's academics. hoping one day that you'll allow yourself to look at him as a man and not as one of your student's parents. hoping one day that you'll damn the rules and give in to the attraction that he knows you have for him. that he knows you hide away for the sake of your job. for the sake of your student.
you're not surprised when toji chaperones for the field trip. a father who once didn't give a damn whether he sent megumi's midterm report in signed or not suddenly hopping up at the chance to help monitor three buses full of high school kids could only have one goal in mind, and you know it when he sits next to you at the front of the bus.
you're in the window seat, almost pressed to the glass by the sheer mass of his frame, his legs spread out as wide as possible, leaving just enough room for his knee to knock against yours with every bump in the road and rock in the bus.
he smells of some woodsy cologne, rugged and warm, and you try to busy yourself with writing something down on a clipboard, but toji cuts through your concentration.
he leans over slightly, voice low. the chaos of the bus is loud enough for your conversation to be unheard. "y'look real pretty today."
you shoot your head up to look at him with a glare, countenance strict though toji sees the way you tense. "toji," you warn softly, eying him.
the ebony haired man's eyes light, smirk dragging over his sharp features. "good to hear ya got used to usin' my name."
"how could i not, when you're always pulling stuff like this?" you hiss. he smiles. "please, please don't flirt with me during this entire trip," you beg, exasperated.
"who says i'm flirtin'?" he teases, well aware that he is. "i'm just sayin. you look nice. i can't compliment a woman who looks good anymore?"
"don't try me. you know what you're doing," you murmur. toji chuckles.
"is it working?"
"no," you lie with a hint of a smile.
toji grins. "gotta try harder then."
"look, you signed up to be responsible for group a, okay? remember why you're here. for the kids."
"you and i both know i ain't here for these damn kids."
"well, you're gonna have to act like it. i don't need one of our parent chaperones being less responsible than a hundred high school freshmen. and i sure as hell don't need him breathing down my back all day."
"i'm always responsible."
"okay," you say, unconvinced.
"i won't breathe down your back," he adds. "i just wanna see you work."
"all you do is see me work. i'm your son's teacher."
"i wanna see you in action."
you roll your eyes, though your little grin counters your words. "do the job you signed up for."
"yes ma'am, i will," he swears. you look up to meet his eyes for a moment. he winks. and you groan.
throughout the day, toji keeps his promise, letting the kids do what they want as he keeps an eye out, monitoring. the whole thing is a chore, so much so that he starts making bets with some of the kids on the basketball team that they can't hump high enough to touch the ceiling of one of the exhibits, promising two bucks for the photo machine to whoever can do it first.
in the middle of the day's haze, toji catches sight of you from afar with one of your students at your side. his gaze softens as you walk through the exhibit with her, pointing out interesting facts, engaging in her nerdy talk of physics in relation to the screen before you.
and you're smiling wide, like this science museum could be the most exciting place you've ever stepped your foot into. like every word your student speaks to you holds weight that you will cling to forever. like your world surrounds you in your students' enjoyment and the intriguing little nerdy sanctuary that this place has to offer you.
toji loses a kid or two for a second while staring at you from afar, and he doesn't notice when megumi walks by him, his nose wrinkled in disgust when he follows his father's gaze. poor you. you should run while you still can.
toji sighs, figuring he is in to deep with no way to make you his, stuck with this weird, nostalgic feeling that tears away at his chest and makes him weak.
and when he isn't looking, when he realizes he's gotta track down the couple that disappeared, your attention goes to him, and your mind races with the images of his attentiveness, the way he casually handles the kids like it's nothing but a tiring exercise. you shouldn't be surprised, after all. he's a single father to two teenagers. he's good at this.
you chew on the inside of your lip, heart fluttering, and you exhale with a frown, knowing your dilemma. knowing that you like him just as much as he seems to like you. that despite his nuisance, you enjoy his company. you enjoy him being around.
at lunch, he sits with you. megumi pretends not to know him, and sits with his friend yuji. in the tense silence of your proximity, you look at him gently.
"you're actually really good at this," you say.
toji perks up, mouth full, burger clenched tight in large hands. he blinks at you, confused, for this is the first time he's ever heard you compliment him so freely. he could have choked on his food.
shoving down the lightness that takes him, toji swallows, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, eyes still glued to you. "y'think?"
you smile, un-teasing for a moment. "yeah. thank you for your help."
toji's jaw clenches, and he nods eventually after staring at you in stillness for a moment longer. "sure," he grumbles. "y're good at this too."
you giggle. "well, i'd hope so."
"nah, but... you really are. you're a good teacher," he reiterates. you soften, cheeks warming slightly against your best wishes.
"thank you," you say sincerely.
the two of you turn away, looking elsewhere, and toji keeps eating, unable to stand the heat.
the ride back is silent, something having shifted between the two of you. toji watches the road ahead as the bus jerks and the kids yammer on behind him, when he suddenly feels a light weight plop to his shoulder.
he freezes, and turns to find that you've dozed off, your head knocked against his arm as gentle breaths leave your parted lips.
toji's eyes go momentarily wide as he registers the feeling of you against him, of your warm head resting on him like your subconscious told you that you could trust the figure next to you, that you could take a second to breathe and rest after a hectic day.
toji watches you tenderly without a word, heart clenching. he doesn't move a muscle for the rest of the ride.
and at the end of the day, when you all part, a crumpled receipt is slipped into toji's hand with a quickness as you murmur something about nonexistent compensation. you disappear into the school before he can ask any questions, and when toji unfolds the silky piece of paper in his hand, he sees your number scribbled on the back of it.
he grins.
a step closer to making you his.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
ryomen sukuna: your hatred!
sukuna is... confused.
perhaps confusion is not the proper word to decribe the complexity that is racing through his ancient mind, but it is certainly a part of it, though he attempts to shield so with his ordinary, demanding air.
he snatched you up, stole you away as prisoner. his initial plans for you were to force you to work, however, when he saw how much of a fuss the neighboring palace was making about having stolen you away, he decided to use you as a pawn to his advantage.
uraume later informed him that you are, in fact, closely related to the emporer across the mountains, who has had complications with sukuna's temple for quite sometime, but has kept to himself in order to preserve his respect and his... well, his life. the foolish emporer had believed that he and the beast far north had come to some kind of agreement, and sukuna laughs at the sentiment, for why would he dare to make peace with such false royalty, with such puny, idiotic reign? he's lucky sukuna got bored of rampaging and devouring his people about a decade ago. he had turned his sights elsewhere... until you, of course.
you shouldn't have been wandering off on your own, shouldn't have gone on such a fool's errand for the sake of an environment which hardly cared whether you lived or died.
you'd traveled far, across the mountains, wrapped in furs up to your neck, your eyes dull with lethargy, your teeth chattering from the cold. how you survived such a trip alone, sukuna hardly knows, but he decides that you were did not leave alone by the haunted look in your eyes when he stands over you while you kneel before him in chains.
you were hauled in from outside, having been seen standing idly by the gates to his grand temple, torch fire blistering in your gaze as arms seized you and dragged you through the double doors. sukuna was prepared to kill you when you were dropped to his feet at the foot of his throne, the expanse of his polished throne room floors singling you out in the center of the room as you crumpled against them in cold and fear.
but when you lifted your head to him on command, his earth shattering boom of a voice ordering you to do so, the four armed curse did not see fear in your eyes. he saw anger.
you shiver out something about your home having been deprived of essential resources for weeks, waste having befallen your livelihoods as a result of sukuna's neighboring brutality on the wildlife, the roaring fires he sets across valleys for fun, the livestock he's either killed or sent running south, the merchants and travelers and traders who no longer pass through, keen to avoid sukuna's cruel forms of hellish entertainment. you mention that you live past the mountains, under that damned emporer's rule, and the conviction holds you together as you tremble and cough, very clearly ill and battered from your journey.
you're desperate. you risked your life to visit his temple with no plan but to beg, to merely ask for mercy, for food, for anything. no aces up your sleeve. no weapons meant to idiotically charge into his direction out of spite. nothing but the pitiful arch in your brow and the grind of your chattering teeth as you glare up at him with a distant resentment only someone who has heard of sukuna and experienced his impact from afar would know.
there's hatred in your steely eyes.
when uraume asks what they should do with you, he takes a moment to ponder. his instinct at first is to merely kill you, his sharp fingers lifting calmly as crimson eyes peer down at you over the bridge of his nose. it would be easy. like squashing a bug. he's done so enough times for it to be over and done with in miliseconds, but strangely, he pauses. for someone like you, who crossed the mountains those who live beyond them swear never to trek past - for if the cold doesn't get to them first, the monster that lies beyond them is sure to serve as a stubborn traveler's end - who lost your supplies, your men, and your means of travel somewhere along the way, can't be unimportant. can't simply be... useless.
so he sends you to the dungeon below, wrists chained to the wall behind spidery metal bars. and he learns from his right hand as you rot under his feet that you aren't just closely related to the emporer... you're a well favored concubine. in fact, the most desired.
the beast shakes the walls with the burly laugh that rips through his chest when he hears the news that you are, in fact, not important at all. not truly. beyond the pampered palace life of a tool used for the emporer's pleasure, you do not exist beyond such usefulness. and looking at you now, a starved, thirsty shell on the brink of death, hardly able to keep her eyes open behind those bars, sukuna can't say that he sees such a reality in your eyes.
you're far too gritty, and perhaps it is at the fault of the journey you've taken, but you're covered in filth and furs as though they are a part of you. as though you've only clung to them to survive.
a concubine, huh? how is that possible, when you've come so far and survived, with nothing to carry you on but that fierce hatred bubbling in your eyes, a hatred that a woman who has lived a cushy life of sex and comfort could never quite muster?
is the state of your palace so bad? was life as a concubine horrible enough for you to tear away and run off to death itself, stare it in the eye, and overcome it?
the beast is... intrigued.
the letter that arrives to him days later is enough for him to know that you at least served your duties as a concubine well, that you indeed are a favorite, a prized possession for a reason, as the emporer makes quite the fuss about your whereabouts, clearly knowing that you had run off to his temple for help.
sukuna decides that he will test how far the emporer's loyalty to you runs, and demands control over the other side of the mountains in exchange for your return. both the emporer, himself, and you know that he is bluffing. that if he returns you safely, sukuna will still rampage your home. that you will likely die either way, as well as everyone you've ever known or dared to love, and soon they will become prisoner or fodder to him and his hungry appetite, just as you have.
after all, what fool in his right mind would risk his future for someone so meaningless?
word of war spreads, and within the coming month, having survived off of the meals that uraume brings down to you to keep you alive, you hear word of your home's final collapse under sukuna's hellish, pointless seige. he brings back to you the head of the empire who tossed his life away for you.
foolish.
you refuse to eat anything after that as you wither away in his dungeon, wondering why sukuna hasn't just killed you. why he elects to make you suffer so heavily. you stew for days on end in your regret over your stubbornness, your desperate urge to find help, to do something about the sorry state that the pile of ashes that was once your home was in.
they told you not to slip away. told you not to do anything rash. to play your part and be happy, but you looked around at the scraps for dinner each night and you couldn't sit still. you couldn't be the perfect doll that the empire made you. you couldn't toss aside the weight of responsibility that sank over you, for if no one else was going to face the reality, someone had to.
and at the rate your home was moving, everyone was bound to die sooner or later anyway.
ryomen asks himself the same question of why he just hasn't brought himself to kill you. he's had his fun torturing you, bringing your world to dust, stealing that fire from your soul, but each time he treks down to see you, to mock you, and your steely eyes glare at him past those bars, he can't find the incessant desire in him to wipe you clean from this earth and move on, despite how easily he does so with everything and everyone else that crosses his path.
and then you say it, sharp words, hoarse and dry from misuse that you spit into his direction each time he stands tall before you, watching as you crouch limp in the corner.
"i abhor you," you growl.
sukuna can only grin proudly each time you express your intense, raw hatred for him.
he continues to make uraume bring you meals, only as time goes by and you continue to refuse the food, they become more elaborate. scraps of bread turn into generous loaves. limbs of elk, pheasant, and boar swarm the plate, and chipped glass full of water become challises of wine over gold and glittering plates, with prestine silverware.
yet each night, your food goes untouched, no matter how lavish, no matter how grand, no matter the temptation of the savory aroma that wafts from the plate and into your skeleton decorated cellar. you refuse to become his pet. you refuse to feed into the scraps of humanity he leaves like a dog's bowl at your door. you refuse to give him what he wants, and it makes sukuna angry with time.
for it's not that you want to die. sukuna sees it in your face. you haven't given up hope for life yet, but still you do not eat. you do not give in, and sukuna's gears grind, his frustration growing with every second you do not bend to his will.
"perhaps it's time to get rid of her," uraume suggests as he paces down the hall with thudding steps. "she is only taking up space. and if she refuses to eat much longer, she will not last the rest of the month anyway."
he should just kill you. he should, but he can't - he doesn't want to. your eyes, glossy and heavy with hatred, haunt him when you are not around, and he would prefer to look into them to see if such animosity has shifted rather than toss you away completely.
"i will not kill her," he grumbles heavily. "she could still be of use to me."
"...my lord, may i ask how? her home has been destroyed. there is nothing left for her. she is alone. and weak. do you wish her to become a servant?"
he doesn't answer. they are right. you are weak and isolated. keeping you here is pointless.
the ancient sorcerer's mind troubles himself as he attempts to conjure up what he could use you for, how he could keep you around, before he suddenly ponders why he wants to keep you around. why your hatred is so enticing.
the salmon haired king of curses approaches your cellar with a frown, a desolate glint in his crimson eyes. they scatter about the dark space, locking onto you in your miserable corner. your knees are to your chest, your mouth shielded by them, but your eyes pierce the veil to sukuna's innermost workings, like an arrow splintering through skin.
the silence stretches between you, long and heavy, as water drips from the ceiling, splattering in rhythmic taps against the stone of your holding cell. you fight the trembles, the pangs of hunger, and stare hard into the beast's eyes. just as you always do. unafraid. angry with nothing to show for it.
and while sukuna should truly be considering what on earth to do with you next, his mind can't help but wander to how you are the first prisoner he has captured in all of his existence, trampling this earth, who has dared to glare back into his four eyes. who has dared to keep his hard gaze. who has dared not to look away.
first prisoner. first human being.
and your eyes always tell a strange, twisted story. one that fails to align with that of a well loved concubine time and time again, each second he stares back at you. perhaps you were a prisoner in another life. perhaps the life you lived before finding temporary sanctuary as the former emporer's most favored concubine tells a better story than the life sukuna stole you from ever could.
even so, beneath all the grime and dirt that's caked over your skin, he can see the physical appeal. he sees the distant whispers of a beautiful woman, one cherished and yearned for and wanted so desperately that an entire kingdom collapsed for it. though, it is truly your fault that things had to end this way. that your home had to be destroyed. you left your home. you went searching for trouble at the hands of the most horrific being to ever roam the earth, and you got it.
perhaps that is why such anger rages in your eyes, for a bulk of it is misdirected, once harbored toward yourself and now pointed back into sukuna's direction.
he merely watches you like you are some odd piece of art he can't quite understand, hoping to find the answer in your eyes that you never give. you are far too interesting for him to discard of, your eyes and all their caked hatred too enticing for him to tear away from.
and your words, always venemous, soaked in poison when he asks you a question.
"why do you refuse food?"
"because i will not be your slave," you'd hiss.
"you will die."
"then i will finally be free from you."
"you do not wish to die. i see it in your eyes."
"death is a better fate than wasting away under your oppression. i hate you."
your conversations always end the same, with little answers, and the emphasis of your detestation. it's alluring, how fiercely you continue to hate with such little energy, with nothing to return to.
still, despite the circles he continues to run in with you, he proceeds with a new question after your prolonged silence. "how long were you a concubine?" he questions. "you will answer, or i will force your consumption."
your nose curls in disgust, but knowing that you have no choice, no true reason to hold back your truth without some form of gruelish punishment, you answer stiffly. "two years."
"only two?"
"are you hard of hearing?"
sukuna smirks. "then what of you before then?"
"nothing."
"there must have been something."
"i was no one."
"an orphan? a slave?"
you fall quiet, your face hardening, and sukuna decides he has got some kind of idea of you now. you happened upon that status of a concubine completely by luck, after years of wasting away, and now you return to your once sorry fate.
sukuna's eyes slim, and something preposterous leaves his lips. "i will release you."
you pause. "what?"
"on the condition that you become my favored concubine. so long as you prove yourself worthy."
your face morphs with something wicked, and your hatred glowers like a roaring flame in your hues. you lift your head from your knees with trembling lips, nose flaring.
you stumble, chains swinging and clanking as you rise to your feet slowly. you trip slightly over your bare feet, metal dragging as you step toward the bars. you press your forehead to them, your pupils small and tormented, a crazed pinch in your brow as sukuna hovers just before you, the closest you've ever allowed him to be with this barrier standing between you.
"i would rather die," you whisper, seething with rage.
and for some strange reason, sukuna's chest tightens. he brings his head down to you as you breathe heavily, wrath overtaking you as your eyes meet his at your height. his inhumanely large hands grip the bars and he leans in, grinning. "you may very well soon reach that fate" he sneers.
and up close, despite your filth, wrapped up in such inescapable anguish, you are quite... beautiful.
in a swift motion, he snatches your cheeks up in one hand, gripping tight, pulling you taut against the bars. you hiss, eyes wide as you struggle, attempting to pull away, but you can do nothing with your hands bound.
sukuna's grin goes dark. "you will change your mind," he threatens.
and for that brief moment he holds you close, and his sharp canines bear with the wave of his breath over your cheek, something snaps in the back of sukuna's mind as he looks into your eyes.
his smile drops, he grunts, and he snatches his hand away from you, forcing you to fall back with the force onto the floor. you gulp in a breath of air, chest heaving wildly as you glare up at him, stunned, elbows scraped against the stone.
ruby pools promise hell as they stare down at you, before he turns away and leaves without another word.
sukuna is confused, for the light feeling ripping in his ordinarily hardened chest ails him for the rest of the day. your eyes plague him like some damned curse that has befallen him, your hatred sweeping him up in the strange desire to keep pushing, to make you bend at his will whether you like it or not.
though, he wants you to like it. he wants you to turn against yourself, against every instinct in your body, against everything you've ever known to succumb to him willingly. to win your stubbornness. to reign over you, body, mind, and soul indefinitely.
sukuna groans that night as he tends to his garden in the back, finding your eyes in the piercing red of the spider lilies that litter the grass. why is it that you roam about his every waking thought? why is it that his foul, stubborn, disrespectful human prisoner is twisting his ambitions, stealing away his desire to kill, and greedily gathering all of his attention?
you hate him. you despise him. he's come across many humans under his capture, those who beg for their life like sniveling swine, those who offer to service him in exchange for his mercy, those who merely tremble in fear, unable to speak, unable to move.
and each and every one of those pitiful, disgusting creatures has met death at his hand one way or another, joy deriving from the sound their screams make when he hears their bones crack, watching the blood splatter, the red all consuming.
but it is not blood that comes to sukuna's mind when he thinks if you. it is your eyes, and the way they regard him unapologetically. it is the manner in which you hold your ground and remain firm in your beliefs, unlike many others who become a stranger to themselves when such ferocity stands before them. you merely wait, watch, brew, hate, and he does not quite understand yet where your grit comes from.
for this is how you survived that trip through the mountains, and how you continue to survive sukuna's captivity. you are strong. you are... odd. and you make sukuna's head ache and split like no other, for you should have no place within his mind in the first place.
sukuna tramples around his temple angrier and angrier each day, that you haven't given in, that you have not left his mind. is it witchcraft? sorcerery? some trick you have mastered under his nose?
he does not like it, how off kilter he feels, though he’d never let it show. how strangely you have made him feel ever since you first looked at him as he peered down at you in his throne room.
he finds himself venting to uraume one night about the nuisance you pose, how you have yet to change your mind about his offer, when the right hand's eyes slowly go wide, and they stop mid action entirely.
sukuna catches the look and glares. "what is that deplorable look for?"
"my lord, you offered to make her a concubine?" they repeat slowly.
"yes, what of it? she was a concubine before. this way, she would be useful should she not choose to starve first."
uraume's eyes slim, and their lips tug downward. "you prefer this over killing her?"
"i already told you, killing her is not an option. do not make me repeat myself."
uraume regards him silently, praying that what they think is ailing their lord is not reality. sukuna glares back, pretrubed. "what have you to say? spit it out."
uraume sighs. "you would like my honesty, yes?"
"always."
"...i fear you have taken a liking to our prisoner, my lord."
"a liking?! how preposterous! what on earth would make you fix your mouth to say such a thing."
uraume looks up at him boredly. "is it not you who often says no mortal who has crossed you can escape a death at your hands by any means?"
"…yes," he growls.
"well, hasn't she? escaped death?" sukuna pauses. "what means are there that serve as an exception outside of... any?"
the room falls silent as the two stare at one another. sukuna's brow twitches as he thinks back to the disrespect he's allowed you to throw at him. the disrespect he's come to enjoy. the picture of your eyes so sharply engrained in his mind that he can no longer close any four of his own without seeing yours.
you should be dead. but you are not. and that lightness, that strange pull toward you, suddenly becomes grotesque, as it starts to make an inkling of tormented sense.
the king of curses lurches up and flips his futon over, roaring loudly with anger as he trashes the room. uraume watches him with a sigh, proceeding to polish the vase that is left standing before their lord picks it up and smashes it against the wall beside their face.
uraume's lips fall into a flat line as they stand calmly. "i will retrieve the staff to rearrange your chambers when you are done."
they leave sukuna to his tantrum as he fights the reality that uraume may be right, as they often are.
he has forsaken his unintentionally ideals for the sake of you.
hey pooks so i did in fact think id be done editing jjk hcs pt. 2 before i went to work but i wasnt and I just got back home and in bed 🌚 IT WILL BE UP IN THE NEXT 12 HOURS I PROMISE🙏🏽😫😝
various instances of jjk men realizing that they're in love with you, what triggers their realizations, confessing to you, and everything in between ... ₊˚⊹♡ | fluffy, mutual pining, yearning, sapppppyyyyy, a bit of angst in higuruma's - i fear i lost the og request somewhere so sorry, this was long overdue!
satoru thinks he's heard your laughter before, only he's not so sure anymore now that the very sound has made his smile drop in stun and his heart flutter with something too terrifying to name.
there's always a certain level of professionalism that you maintain when you are within your work environment, always keeping order in your classrooms or during your lessons to prevent any room for distraction. this very discipline does not allow room for distraction, and you are sure to lead your teachings with this very motto. your students understand. they respect it. they learn.
consequently, you don't allow much to sway you during work hours - things like off kilter jokes or a pencil accidentally flying across the room, a shameful result of toge's frequent pencil tapping against his desk to occupy his body whilst retaining the information you share, don't receive much reaction. the most you'll give is an exasperated glance, or a weary eye roll that leads the corners of your lips to twitch with the slightest bit of amusement, but that's all you've got before you're redirecting focus back to the chalk board.
satoru, of course, took notice, as he finds himself picking on any of his coworkers or students who dare not to flash even the subtlest of grins within such a dreary atmosphere. he gives you grief frequently about it, telling you that you would look a hell of a lot prettier if you'd flash those pearly whites of yours. you know that he is, of course, purposefully being gross and annoying about it just to get a rise out of you, just as he does nanami or utahime or, hell, even poor megumi or nobara on occasion.
you brush him off time and time again, reminding him that you aren't some unfeeling monster who does not show joy. in fact, you're quite down to earth as a professor, much more down to earth than other mentors who have taught you, sparking memories you look back on with a resentful chill.
"i'm just doing my job," you would say as satoru walks beside you, hands tucked in his pockets as he leans over to meet your eye level. his head tilts and pink lips curl into that teasing, self-satisfied smile he always wears.
"yeah, a real boring job," he'd sigh wistfully, dramatics and airiness twisted up in his tone. you'd shoot him a glare, he'd chuckle. "come on, just one smile."
"what are you talking about, gojo? i smile all the time," you slightly chuckle at his sheer ridiculousness, a mild display of what you insist to be the personality that you very much so do have that satoru is always griping that you don't.
"you know what i mean. let loose. live a little."
"i let loose while i'm teaching, i put those kids' lives at risk. i'm not doing that."
"are you insinuating that because i have a more laid back teaching style than you, my students are more prone to danger?" the ivory haired sorcerer gasps, mimicking offense.
you think back to yuta's first day under satoru's watch. "yes," you deadpan.
"blasphemy," he'd deny. "my kids are smart and powerful because of me. and funny."
he'd go on about something else regarding the way you carry yourself at work, mentioning something about the way your nose always crinkles a certain way when you're too focused, how you'll give yourself worry lines instead of smile lines.
you'd ask him how he even notices something so minuscule like that, and he'd stand upright again with a shrug and his tongue peaking past his smiling lips playfully. he tries not to give your question much thought when you've arrived to the field where your students are sparring, approaching side by side like sun and gloom.
and you'd leave it be. no matter how much he continues to try and pester you into entertaining his mockery. no matter how many stupid jokes and stories he throws your way as you work your way through the winding halls of the school, just to get you to crack the kind of smile or laugh that shakes your entire body instead of lingering small in the front of your face.
you don't think anything of satoru's constant nagging, and neither does he. at first.
you see the way he treats the others who perform more rigidly than you do within their fields, who always - always groan and toss their eyes to the ceiling in disdain when satoru's jolly frame saunters into a room or barges through the door. you see how strategically he stretches out his pestering tactics, how he'll say just the right thing at the right time to bait nanami into forcefully shutting his newspaper and muttering something about taking a bathroom break to just get away from the sound of satoru's neverending words.
despite having not spent your youth with your coworkers the way they have with each other, as your addition to the school transpired within the recent year, you think you've got a good idea of who satoru is behind that big, shiny, glittering title of the honored one.
lighthearted, a little arrogant in a way that charms those less familiar with his antics, pride acceptable enough for it to be overlooked by his warm energy and indulgence in everyday simplicities: sweets and laughter and childlike wonder. he's a big kid. and though he's an irritating little shit, what the world does not see is the generosity, the care, the intelligence. he's a good guy. stupidly aggravating and too flirty at the best of times, but far more human than how he is perceived, how he is treated.
you don't think anything of the way he tends to follow you around, as you assume this is his routine treatment of fresh meat, of the less boisterous among you. shoko told you that's just how he is. too friendly. too invasive. too loud. too talkative.
too clingy.
satoru, on the other hand, doesn't quite know what's wrong with him yet, but he knows something is wrong.
he likes you. a bit too much, probably. it's been so long since he's met someone new who is like you, someone who fit so well into the dynamic him and his former classmates have cultivated for their students. your arrival was greatly anticipated, if not slightly disorienting. you came in with a regal air and a face so pretty that it almost paralyzed him where he stood, but he thought nothing of it. he's met beautiful women before. he’s flirted with them before. he knew it meant nothing. yet he’s flirted with you, and it always feels like something.
so he's not so sure why he often finds himself stopping dead in his tracks when he hears your voice echoing from the sparring field, instructing your students with a stern yet almost motherly cadence. he'll turn and locate you down there from where he stands by winding pillars, watching the way your hands find your hips and your (e/c) eyes monitor your students' movements with that pinch of concern. like you didn't just get here. like you raised them yourself, and their survival is your responsibility.
satoru will swallow the saliva that has built in his mouth, suddenly becoming aware of the way his cheeks ache from having smiled at the sight and sound of you for so long from afar.
he's not sure why he is so curious about you and your adjustment to your job. he perks up at the very mention of your name in any setting, tuning out whatever yuji is rambling on about to listen to what yaga is detailing about your next mission in the room over. he wonders if you're even up for the job, and decides to catch yaga long after his conversation about you to offer himself up to go in your place. yaga would lower his sunglasses and quirk his thick brows, pursing his lips in inquisition as he stares up at the white haired man he's known since he was a young boy.
"why are you so worried about (l/n)'s business?"
why is he?
satoru shrugs. "just looking out for the newbie."
"(l/n) has been a grade one sorcerer for years. she can handle herself just fine," yaga gives gojo one last skeptical work. "get back to worrying about your job, satoru. not hers."
he brushes off the bitter taste yaga's words leave in his mouth, as though peers and colleagues and friends and former classmates have not come and gone at the hand of the unknown, having been thrust into what they had believed to be familiar territory only to find themselves sorely mistaken, outnumbered, and overpowered.
you're new. you're nice, and humble, responsible, and you actually listen to what gojo has to say, despite how everyone around him feigns or feels palpable disdain or aggravation toward him. you don't treat him like he's a joke. you go to him for advice, looking to him as an inspiration rather than a pest to belittle, his title neither pushing you away or sparking excessive glorification. you simply respect him, beneath all that goofiness and bickering. you're sweet in that way. unbiased. unjudging.
and you treat every one of your students like family, bracing them for the cruel world, remembering that they are still children. not weapons. people like you, people who are kind and generous and stable, are a rarity within the jujutsu world. satoru would prefer not to lose the refreshing air that you bring to the campus just because you were sent on an muddy mission too soon.
he would prefer not to lose you at all.
when shoko starts to look at him sideways whenever you walk by or finish up a conversation with him, satoru knows for sure that his suspicions about his own behavior are not just in his head. that the strange way he is acting, the strange way he is feeling whenever you are around, is actually noticeable. she observes how your presence slowly begins to dictate how satoru is feeling, or how he will behave for the remainder of the day.
you'll tell him and the brunette that you'll be sent away for a few days, and satoru is pouting, glossy lips pulled downward as his brow furrows with disappointment beneath his blindfold. he'll bombard you with a hundred questions, asking how far away you'll be, what kind of curse you'll be encountering, if you will be going alone. and with each patient answer you give, his sulking grows tenfold.
because why do you have to leave? it's so boring without you here, though he always claims that you contribute to the drab atmosphere with your refusal to entertain his antics throughout the school day just to get a reaction out of you.
still, that would be days without your soft smile. days without your eager questions that satoru always drops everything to answer happily, his heart thundering at the calm, attentive way you look past his blindfold as if to hold his gaze, to let him know that you have all of his undivided attention.
days without your heavy lectures that ring out in the halls and weigh down the air, your delivery so urgent and resolute that it makes the snowy haired man himself want to stand at attention.
days without those reserved chuckles and thoughtful eyes. without your maternal agency toward your students. without those breezy compliments that must hold no true substance, as they flutter past your lips like daily greetings.
your hair looks really fluffy today, gojo.
did you get a new uniform jacket tailored? it looks nice.
you have really broad shoulders, you know that?
and you're never flirting. never seeking anything in return. you're just... like that. endearing and observant and eager to share the good that you see in others with them. you're fully aware of gojo's arrogance, yet unbothered by the possibility of making his head ten times bigger than it already is. you compliment him the same way you'd compliment utahime, or kusakabe. it's effortless, thoughtless kindness.
and the higher ups expect satoru to go days without that?
he's all but begging you to stay, though there isn't much of anything you can do to get out of direct orders from higher command. shoko will watch lazily with a cigarette hanging from her glossed lips, her cheek in her palm as the gears turn in her head, and she decides that maybe gojo isn't like this with everyone. that with you, he's a bit more clingy than too clingy.
she can tell for certain that something is up when an air of silent, tormented pensiveness captures satoru when you leave to meet with one of your students, unaware of the fact that your absence truly wounds satoru. you think he's overexaggerating his desire for you to stay.
he's not.
"what was that about?' shoko asks from where she sits just behind satoru, the sorcerer standing before her desk as he stares at the empty doorway.
"i don't know," he sighs. "some new mission. they've been throwing her out in the field a lot lately."
"it's her job," shoko says flatly. "but that's not what i mean. i'm talking about you."
he turns to look at her, a bubble of anxiety brewing in his chest as he tries to appear normal. "what about me?"
shoko's brow raises, her index and middle finger pinching the cigarette between them. a cloud of smoke wafts from her lips as she lowers it away from her mouth. "you were really persistent just now. why don't you want her to leave so bad? it's just a few days. do you always get like that when she leaves?"
yes. he does. and it's only been a few months.
"what do you mean? i worry about all of my friends and colleagues."
she's being dramatic. he claims everyone but himself is being dramatic when they toss him those questioning looks, the looks that scream out how different he has been acting since you came along.
he just cares about you. he cares about everyone at jujutsu high. he wants you to stay safe, vigilent, like the rest of them, so that you can stay in one piece and he can spend more time with you. so that he can learn more about you, and sit with you as you talk with that hypnotic, smooth authority that makes his brain mushy and his knees weak. what's so bad about wanting to be around you?
satoru is still trying to figure out exactly what is going on when a few of you go out for a couple of drinks. satoru, as usual, does not indulge, but encourages you to nonetheless, eager to see how you'd behave when alcohol has made you limber and slow.
it's been a long month, you're a bit battered and overworked, and normally you wouldn't, but you finally have a day ahead of you where you don't teach or get sent out to damn battle, so you think that just one drink won't hurt.
you're four drinks in when the others leave, leaving you and satoru at the bar talking for hours. your inibitions have lowered significantly, and in contrast to the tight composure you keep at school, you’re slumped casually in your bar stool, elbow propped on the counter and eyes big and glittery as satoru tells you a story from his days back in high school, where the sun seemed to shine all the time and his best friends' laughter constantly filled the air.
he's telling you this one story about when a group of them - him, nanami, geto, haibara, and shoko, all snuck out of the dorms one night to try to make it to a concert that was happening a few blocks away, only to be caught by yaga the second they stepped off school grounds. satoru, ever the rebellious teen, was dragged back to his dorm kicking and screaming by the principal after having attemped to combat him.
something about the liquor warming your stomach and lightening the atmosphere makes satoru's story and the animated hand movements and voices he incorporates to revive the memory for you all the more hilarious. and instead of brushing him off or telling him to quit playing around, you bend over at your waist and release the loudest, most obnoxious laugh satoru has ever heard in his entire life.
the sound startles him at first, his sapphire eyes going slightly wide behind his dark shades, his lips twitching in shock as he freezes just to watch you and listen.
your skin is slightly flushed, your eyes a little glassy. but your lips, your lips are stretched wide across your pretty face, all teeth on display, your jaw open to free the symphony of cackles that spill from you. your hand raises to hover over your mouth as if to conceal your laughter, but it doesn't work. you're still laughing, your eyes little crescents, the skin beside and underneath wrinkled, your nose crunched, your brows curled just slightly with humor as if it pains you.
satoru's mouth runs dry, and the chaotic white noise of the buzzing bar goes mute. his surroundings blur out to slowly focus on you. your laughter seems to echo through satoru's mind like a distant memory playing on repeat, ringing out through the hollow space of his head. the dim bar lights appear to glow about you, twinkling around your hair and against your (s/c) skin slightly moist from the atmosphere thick with heat from confined bodies.
satoru always jokes about your dismal air. he's seen you smile. he's heard you laugh.
but never like this.
it's like music to his ears. like the prettiest song he's ever had the privilege to hear. your entire body shakes with your laughter, like it has completely taken over you and you don't care that it has. it shines in your gaze, flutters out so bright and loud that gojo thinks it brightened your entire aura.
satoru's smile is gone, having faded away with each passing second your laughter soaked through his ears. he watches you like that for a while, awed, and then, his smile returns as if compelled. his skin warms, dimples poke into his cheeks, and he beams along with you, his own laughter slipping into yours. it's just so contageous.
his heart is hammering in his throat, his gaze suddenly soft and tender on you, the vision of you before him so angelic that it makes his entire mass quiver with the electricity of your beauty.
you laugh. the very thing satoru has been trying to get out of you finally happened. all because of him.
then you say it. clipped words between breathless giggles, your true soul finally bearing itself raw in the comfortability of the public. away from your concerns. away from the safety you must ensure your kids practice. away from the burden of sorcery. you exist.
"you kill me, gojo."
he feels something resolute strike him in the chest right there, his lips twitching in his smile and his body running hotter than the sun.
you think he's funny. you think he's funny. you're laughing all breathless and beautiful and shamelessly because of him, and he's choking over charm, fumbling in his mind for a smooth quip, an i told you so, a finally.
but all he can think of is how fucking pretty you look laughing like that, letting joy take you, letting your cares slip away in his company.
that strike to his chest cements firm and hot, and he chuckles rather awkwardly, chin thumping against his palm as he gazes at you with an impending realization. his mind conjures up glittery flowers and floating hearts that surround your laughing figure, and he abruptly knows what's been wrong with him.
it's not just that you make every room brighter when you step into it. it's not just that your beauty renders him speechless any time he's within your vicinity. it's not just that he has a little work crush on you and likes to tug your pigtails over it.
it's not any of that. he knows by the way he's looking at you now, by the way his body feels warm and fuzzy like he's stuck inside a sweet, insulated dream that he doesn't want to wake up from, that what is plaguing him is far stronger than the aforementioned simplicities.
he knows by the way your laughter makes him want to drop to his knees before you and plead you to never stop, to never deprive him of such a sound again.
he sighs. he's in love with you.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
suguru geto: the future!
suguru has always known that he likes you.
he has no reason to deny it. nothing is standing in the way of how he feels, even if he finds out one day that you don't feel the same. suguru has accepted his crush, his puppy dog attraction to you and his simultaneous desire for your affection.
he shields it thinly but smoothly, always greeting you with warm smiles that make you feel toasty inside and eyes that always lock directly onto yours, as if he is reminding you every day that he sees you and wants to continue seeing you for the rest of his life. you're a dear friend to him, very dear, and you should know it each time you see him - how much he appreciates you. how much he cares.
his fingers always find some way to touch you, whether curving a piece of hair from your face or grazing your arm to eventually slip his hand into yours, and hold it as you walk side by side as if it is nothing. as if friends do this all the time. and whether he's saying hello or goodbye, he always opens his arms wide to invite you into a soothing embrace, his arms circling around you and holding you snug to his chest. you always hum in content, smiling sweetly and hugging tight around his middle, sinking into his comfort.
and when he's departing for an extended period of time, when your face just looks too sweet as you look up at him and wish him safety, he ducks to hold your head and press his lips to your forehead chastely, pulling away to smile sweetly down at you.
like friends do.
suguru has nothing to be ashamed of.
especially when you make him feel the way he does. flooding him with joy and fuzziness that he once believed himself undeserving of. helping to lift the weight of the world from his shoulders at the end of long, testing days with the time vessel association, without even trying. further fueling his ambitions for a non-sorcerer free world for you, because someone as sweet, loyal, selfless, and beautiful as you deserves a peace that only the world he has envisioned promises.
a world where the two of you can live freely, where you can be perfectly, permanently, blissfully happy by his side. void of any unwarranted responsibility, void of any pain.
why should suguru feel embarrassed of his affections toward you? why should he shield how dearly you mean to him? how deeply he cherishes you, alongside the rest of his family?
especially when you stayed, when everyone else he loved turned away from him. he doesn't blame them, and never has, but you. you didn't leave him behind. you didn't hesitate. you stayed.
and that's all that mattered in the end.
despite suguru's overt self awareness regarding his feelings for you, he does not attempt to pursue you until he has realized that these said feelings have grown past what he initially believed them to. and this intensity dawns on him much later than he would have expected for himself.
it hits him one sunny day on the roof of the time vessel association, a spot he frequents with his girls when the three of them need a bit of quiet time away from all the noise just below their feet.
geto has a newspaper cracked open over his lap as mimiko weaves a fishtail braid into his long, black locks. the breeze whistles through pinned linen on wires, a slight chill nipping at the wind, an indicator of the cooler months creeping in.
the cult leader and his girls ordinarily talk of whatever comes to mind, catching up on little things happening around the facility, dreaming up all the wonders that geto intends to provide when his goals reach fruition.
he expects further talk of the new phone that is coming out within the next few months, or the rom coms that the girls desperately want him to watch with them, but what he doesn't expect is the bold question that leaves nanako's mouth that inevitably draws his mind right back to you, as it always does.
"geto, do you think you'll ever wanna get married in the new world?" the blonde questions curiously from her spot crouched next to geto's chair, her nose still pressed into her telepohone screen.
the hazel eyed man blinks, turning slightly to look down at the young girl's head. "married?" he echoes, taken aback. "what could have possibly made your mind go to that, nanako?"
she shrugs, tilting her head back to look up at her father figure from upside down. "i dunno. i feel like you should get to settle down after all your hard work has paid off."
he smiles softly, half amused, half affectionate. "you think so?"
"sure. mimiko and i were talking about it the other day."
"were you now?"
the brunette teenager behind him hums flatly. "mhm."
he chuckles. "well, i'll be honest with you girls, marriage hasn't crossed my mind just yet. other priorities come first, and will continue to until i see fit."
"but," nanako twists her body around to look up at him properly. "wouldn't it be nice for you to have someone by your side? to care for?"
"i already have that. i have you all."
"that's different," mimiko says monotonously.
"it is!" nanako agrees, puffing her cheeks. "what we mean is, like, someone to love. someone to hold and to tell you how great you are," she fantasizes, painting a pretty idea of a domestic life.
suguru's brow quirks slightly down at the teenager, as he detects from her tone that she is imagining such things for herself as well.
"like i said girls, i already have people to love. i love you and the rest of our family very dearly," he says calmly. he feels mimiko hesitate amidst his strands, and catches the pout that begins to cross nanako's face. he smiles, closing his eyes. "though i understand what you're saying, and it's sweet of you to care about things like that, but i don't plan marry. i never have."
"...are you sure?" mimiko asks gently, carefully crossed one section of silky hair over another.
"i'm positive," he affirms.
"but why not? we thought you liked (y/n)."
suguru's eyes snap open wide, the brunette's hands completely freeze in his hair, and nanako's face swarms with a bashful pink as she puckers her lips, testing the waters.
he doesn't miss the way his body reacts to your name. the way his heart swells the slightest bit more as if pumped with obsessive air. the way his entire nervous system seems to halt its functions, his brain swarming with your phantom touch and scent. the way a smile subconsciously comes to his face with ease, like your name is a trigger for his happiness, even when mentioned in this setting.
"nanako," the blonde's sister hisses after a few beats of silence, and the said girl throws her hands up in defense.
"what?! we did! you do, don't you master geto?"
"even if he does, why would he admit it to us, let alone entertain talking about marrying her?"
"don't be such a hypocrite! you know you were thinking the same exact thing as me, sis! we just talked about it!" nanako reiterates.
"so? it's not the same as confronting him with our speculations, dummy."
"don't call me a dummy! you're the dummy, dummy!"
"girls," the cult leader's voice rings out sternly, and the teens know to instantly stop fussing. they clamp their lips shut and look to the man who saved their lives, and he eyes them with a fatherly assertiveness. "what did i say about fighting? we only have each other, alright? no one's a dummy. enough of that."
"sorry," they murmur in unison. suguru sighs and turns his head forward again, allowing mimiko to resume her task.
"that being said," he starts lowly. "i'm a little anxious about these 'speculations' of yours. you thought i would marry (y/n) when it's all said and done. is that it?"
the girls exchange glances. "well," mimiko starts slowly.
"we'd be surprised if you didn't."
"and why is that?"
"...don't you like her, geto?"
the sentiment comes again, and suguru's head rings. not because his girls, and likely everyone with the time vessel association have caught wind of his very obvious emotons regarding you, but because he can't seem to shake this strange feeling hat sits in the pit of his stomach now that the idea of settling down with you has been abruptly brought to his attention.
suguru always assumed that you would just be by his side forever, as you've already promised to remain loyal to him and only him for the rest of your life. being a part of his family, that was a given. that you all would never part.
but... marriage? settling down?
in truth, despite being a planner down to his very core, he hasn't thought that far ahead yet, not of anything beyond making his new world become a reality. for so long, that's all that has consumed his head. erradicating the weak. preserving the safety and dignity of the strong. taking care of those who have always taken care of him. his family. his girls. you.
but suddenly, he envisions you in white. a veil long enough to drag past your ankles, a soft white dress that hugs your body as if it was made just for you - and it would be. suguru would have it tailored by the best in the country, so long as you'd let him take some part in the dress planning. he imagines you'd be quite anal about such things, not letting him see the dress or you during your wedding day. he'd respect it, entertain it for a bit, but have his girls sneak to see you and report how gorgeous you appear as you prepare to stroll down the aisle as his bride.
he's clasping your warm, small hands in his like he always does, smoothing his fingers over the ring he's just slipped onto your digit. the rock twinkles over your skin, a grand symbol, but not quite grand enough to account for all that you mean to him. still, the 8 carot gold will do for now.
his vision is blurry, and his cheeks ache from how hard he knows he would be smiling. and you look like an angel in front of him, eyes glossing over with something gracious and sweet, your lips pinched together to prevent from bursting with the sheer emount of emotion overcoming you. you'd be happy there. he'd make you so happy.
your lips would unite with a passion, the weight of waiting finally released. he'd tug you close by the small of your waist with one hand holding your cheek delicately, and you'd melt into each other, knowing that you could finally rest in each other's arms and enjoy the life he once dreamed to give you.
if you'd want kids, he'd maybe ponder giving you one more, but you have the children you need in the teenagers who he swears make his strands go grey, who are responsible for even making him conjure up this fantasy. though, to see you waddling through the house, glowing with oncoming maternity and content would be a treat he could never deny himself.
he'd give you everything. he'd make you the happiest wife to grace this earth. he'd work hard every day to keep you, to remind you of his love the way he does now.
his heart aches with yearning.
it doesn't bother him that the girls gossiped about the possibilities between the two of you in private, or that they know how he feels. everyone knows except you.
what bothers him is that he was wrong. the ever prideful, ever diligent suguru geto was wrong about what he had thought he had all figured out.
he doesn't like you at all. he loves you. and he does in fact want to be with you until the day he dies, united in holy matrimony under his name. (y/n) geto. a beautiful, hypnotic ring he must make come to fruition in addition to a curse-less world.
he turns to look down at nanako with a gentle grin, one that makes the breeze feel warmer and the golden rays above shine the slighest bit brighter.
"maybe i do like her," he says playfully.
nanako stares up at him for a moment before a big grin spreads over her face in understanding.
"but you two are skipping a few steps. i'd have to ask the lovely woman out before jumping into marriage, now wouldn't i?"
suguru decides to forgive the way mimiko accidentally yanks at his roots due to jumping up with her sister in excitement.
he lets the girls yammer on about various ways for suguru to ask you out, a perfect fishtail woven into his hair and long forgotten. he humors them, enjoying the sheer excitement they bestow regarding his affections for you, further solidifying your place in their lives as a wife and mother, but he does not have the heart to tell them just yet that he already knows what he'll do to attempt to woo you into being his.
suguru is a dramatic man, one of great gestures and movements. he is passionate, at times almost scarily so, and he handles everything with empassioned precision. he certainly handles his pursuit of you the very same.
he stretches the act out over the course of a few days.
he starts, first, by greeting you with his familiar hugs accompanied by a fresh bouqet of flowers that the girls take the privilege of making with him every night.
he watches your face flush with red, your pretty eyes blinking almost confused before you allow yourself to swoon, your fingers gingerly reaching for the bunch of stems that suguru presents serenely to you, a relaxed captivation gracing his gorgeous features.
the first bunch are an arrangement of chysanthemums, a bright explosion of fierce reds and fushias that pops against your eyes and skin when you bring them to your nose to smell. suguru watches you calmly, heart twisting, cheeks burning, and he thinks that he could do this for the rest of his life when you bat those pretty eyes up at him and beam with a sheepish thank you fluttering from your lips and into the petals that you use to hide your face.
you don't know that there are more coming. that this first bouqet is meant to represent a sanction of what he promises you, a symbol of devotion and his unyielding legacy, the legacy you have helped him build. the legacy he intends to share with you.
the next day, he gifts you a bunch of cream colored anemonaes when he first sees you in the morning. you're shocked expression makes him chuckle lowly as he presents the flowers to you, the stems laced with a white ribbon, the petals fluttering eagerly around their black pistils. you stare up at suguru in awe, as he has caught you off guard once again, stolen the breath from your lungs and made your jaw drop in a stupor. two bouqets of flowers, two days in a row, in tandem with his soft hugs and soft looks and soft hands brushing yours.
"suguru, wha...?" you trail off as he places the bouqet in your hands, helping to secure your fingers around them. you stare at him, stunned, bashful, flattered, and he simply flashes you that serene, warm smile that soaks up the sun. "more flowers? but you already - "
"i know," is all he says, his hands holding yours around the bouqet. he glances at the flowers, a symbol of his patience, of how long he would be willing to wait for you if you decide to have him. the sincerity of his emotions, and how far he'd go for you and only you. his eagerness to obtain you, despite his willingness to hold off so long as it would make you comfortable. "they're all for you, angel," he eventually says.
you melt, your shoulders sagging with the curl of your brow. "i don't know what to say... why are you doing this?"
"because you deserve it."
the third and final day, suguru tells you to meet him in his drawing room. you're buzzing with the adrenaline of his very recent affections, the way he has been looking at you as of late in addition to his gifts of flowers.
you don't think you can find the words when you slide the door open to reveal the inky haired cult leader standing before you, at the very center of the room. sweet perfumes of incense intoxicate the candle lit space, and a generous bunch of your favorite flowers settles in his arms amidst his buddhist robes. a symbol of all that you are in his life, radiant. bright. loyal. a symbol of his immense adoration, and the fruitfulness of his love for you.
sunflowers.
your throat clamps up and you attempt to swallow the automatic lump that ails you. your heart pounds in your ears, your skin hot to the touch, and you ask yourself if you are inside of some kind of dream. if the man you've fallen for is truly right here in front of you with his heart in his hands and your world in his hazel eyes.
you freeze up, shaking your head. this can't be real. suguru is all dreams of the new world, ambitions to wipe out existence, eagerness to make the unloyal and the greedy pay with their lives. he is a passionate man, yes, but never one for romantics. never one for love, as you had previously believed.
he's generous, therefore you thought nothing of the way he would hold you close to him, his breathe murmuring that he's missed you throughout the day against your ear, though you've only been parted for a few hours within the cult. you thought nothing over those lingering, sultry looks past miguel's figure during family meetings, or the way his warm lips would meet your skin with fatigue. you thought nothing of it because suguru is a man of his people who hardly shies away from bestowing such affections on those he cares for.
still, you've never seen him hug miguel the same way. or look at manami with such intensity, let alone kiss any of the others on the head, save for his girls.
nevertheless, you never allowed yourself to believe that you were special. not when suguru has always made his priorities in this life painfully clear.
so you struggle to understand what this means. why he is showering you with affections and doting on you like you could possibly mean anything more to him than family.
"no, this is too much," you shake your head, your voice ringing out wobblier than you intended. "this is too much, suguru, what are you doing?"
the hazel eyed sorcerer does not panic when he hears your voice crack, for any time you are in his presence, a pink filter washes over his senses, and all he can register is your unfathomable beauty shining through the way you speak and the way you look at him.
he smiles, body warm. "do you not like them?"
"do i - no, i - i love them. that's not what i... those are for me, too?" you ask incredulously, though deep down you know the answer.
"of course they are."
"...suguru, why?" your breath hitches. "this is way too much."
"it's not nearly enough."
"but why would you - "
"you should let me talk, beautiful. then everything will make more sense. i promise."
you frown, eyes glazing over. suguru only smiles and shifts the bouqet, holding a hand out to you.
"come here."
you do, carefully sliding the door closed behind you in a stupor and moving to approach him. he takes your hand, holds your gaze, and brings it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your fingers. you inhale sharply, lips twitch, eyes glossy.
"i was talking with the girls the other day," he starts slowly, lowering your hand as he caressing it gently. "and they made me realize something."
you're scared to speak, but your voice croaks out anyway. "what?"
"that i don't want to waste any more time with you," suguru's voice dips just slightly, his tone taking a raw vulnerability that you have not heard in quite sometime. it takes you back to high school, before he snapped, when the two of you were just kids seeking one another's comfort within a strange and unforgiving education.
"suguru, what are you talking about?" you breathe a whisper.
"ever since we were kids, i've known. that i never want to live without you," he confesses. "but it's taken me too long to truly understand what that means and to actually do something about it."
you shake your head with a disoriented breath, a tear you can't fight catching your lashes. suguru releases your hand to swipe the tear away with his thumb.
his hand curves to your chin and he lifts your head slightly, encouraging your teary eyes to meet his again. his pupils expand, his eyes lidded.
"so now i'm doing something about it," he mumbles. "i want you to be with me, (y/n). i want you to be mine. there's no one else in this godforsaken world for me but you. it's always been you."
you feel another tear trail down your cheek, your heart soaring, your mind still not quite comprehending that this is real. that this is happening.
suguru is patient. he doesn't need an immediate response, nor does he demand your immediate reciprocation. instead, he is merely happy to tell you, to watch the awe float over your pretty face as his chest becomes lighter, having freed the weight of his truth to you.
"these flowers are a promise. i'll be good to you. i'll put you before everything. i'll love you as you should be loved. because i do. i love you. and i always will, whether you'll have me or not."
your heart skips a beat. or two. or ten. "...you love me?"
"i love you," he confirms.
the past nine years whip through your head, all the doubts, the hopes, the longing, the fear, that have brought you to this very moment. your cloudy gaze finds the flowers brushing your chests between you, then his warm hazel eyes. you see into his soul, you see the cracks exposed, the hint of anxiety that swirls in the back of his mind as he bears himself raw to you behind a front of serenity.
you cave with the breathless call of his name, and he takes the chance, his name on your tongue dispelling any fear and uncertainty. he ducks down and pulls you in, petals brushing your chins as his lips press to yours fervently. you whimper and he groans, both symphonies of long awaited relief, and in the brief disconnect of your hungry lips, you whisper into his mouth.
"i love you too."
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
choso kamo: your patience!
“it’s okay, cho. here, let me help you.”
sharp violet eyes blink down at you in a stupor as you ease your palm onto his shoulder blade, stepping close to take initiative as he submissively backs away. you look up and give him a soft smile before turning your attention to the electronic fast food kiosk to help him navigate the options.
the brunette lets you take the lead, as you always do when it comes to human things like this, and he watches you from your side with a blank expression, something far more intense shining in his wide eyes.
choso knows he can be a handful. basic things do not always come to him very easily, like small talk or technology or anything within the realm of human functionality that he has yet to completely accomodate to. while the brunette has been around long enough to assimilate into his brother's livelihood and the people directly surrounding him, he still significantly struggles to comprehend certain mortal concepts.
it took him a whole day to figure out how to program the phone that yuji helped him purchase, and that was with the help of the salmon haired teenager. each day, he still battles with comprehending some of the slang his kid brother uses when talking to him, often opting to pretend to know what yuji is talking about when he sends little acronyms like lmao or wyd. he doesn't quite grasp the goal of certain sports when he sees yuji and his classmates playing them, and he has absolutly no idea how to decipher or navigate the internet.
in the human world, choso often feels like a fish out of water, much to his chagrin. the persistent internal dilemma of existing as something between a human and a curse often leaves choso confused as he attempts to navigate how he is supposed to behave, what he is supposed to know, how he can be accepted by either jujutsu or human society.
and people are less than forgiving, less than patient with those who appear to be outsiders, choso has come to find. the world is a cruel place, and as he continues to manage how to move about it, strangers expect him to figure it out.
it tells in the way he gets shoulder checked in crowded markets when he does not know where to go, or what the number on his ticket means as he stands in the middle of a bustling grocery store right in front of the deli, having promised yuki that he'd pick up her order during lunch. it tells in the dirty glares that are tossed his way when he scratches the back of his scalp, nose twisted with frustration and brows angled as he tries to figure out which direction this particular train he was told to board is going to take him in. it tells in the way the kids jokingly gasp when they hear that he has yet to try the newest fad sweeping through the social media feeds, some kind of food vendor that everyone is suddenly obsessed with and expects others to share that same obsession in order to be viewed as an equal.
choso sighs. the world is not very understanding toward people like him, who need time to grasp what is happening around him and how to adjust to its functions. to people who move slowly, cautiously, carefully to ensure that he is doing the right thing, to reduce the chances of making excessive mistakes. to people who can not just click into society's expectations with the snap of a finger, who need patience and understanding.
so when you come around and begin to show him such things, begin to teach him those societal functions with a calm, peaceful countenance and an eagerness to help, choso finds his heart fluttering in his chest.
his feelings for you come abruptly, quick and stunning like the shock of an ice bath.
the first time you helped choso with something, he didn't even know what to say. you're one of the institution's frequently traveling sorcerers, about twenty or so years old, often popping in to serve as a mentor for the first years. you are ordinarly paired up with yuki for missions, which is how you were introduced to choso, who was pinned with her as well.
choso already thinks you're pretty and nice when you first introduce yourself to him. you smell like sugary, sunny summer days, and you have (e/c) eyes that pierce the veil to his soul. but what makes him weak and renders him a fool at your beck and call is when you catch him one day in the break room fiddling with the rather expensive coffee machine.
you saunter in the room behind him and notice his hunched figure over the device, and when you approach his side, you see that the dark circles that live under his eyes are more prominent, and an irritated grimace is crossed over his lips. your eyes follow his gaze to the stubborn machine and you realize that he is having a hard time getting the water to filter through.
choso sees you out of the corner of his eye and straightens up, locking eyes with you, attempting to blink away his clear vexation. "(y/n)," he says your name surprised, as if he would have never expected to see you here despite this being your place of work as well. "hi," he fumbles.
you grin. "hi choso! whatcha doin?"
"j-just trying to make coffee. sorry, are you waiting to use this?" he asks, immediately thinking that he has been standing in your way, taking up the time you could have used to fix yourself a cup of coffee. he thinks himself a useless burden once more and is prepared to abandon the task for your sake, despite how lethargic he feels.
but instead of rolling your eyes or expressing any kind of impatience with him, you smile up at him sweetly. "no, it's okay. just saw you and wanted to check in. do you need any help?" you ask softly, unbothered.
choso's face falls as your question leaves him taken aback. not even just your question, but the way you ask as though you wish to assist him, as if it is really no problem. he goes silent for a second, and you wait for him to answer, still looking up at him with a gentle smile.
his cheeks burst red and he clears his throat. "um - yeah. kinda. if you don't... don't mind. sorry," he scratches the back of his neck.
"you don't have to apologize," you chirp with a soft chuckle. "i know how these things can be. super stubborn sometimes, y'know?"
you don't even blame his incompetence. you blame the coffee maker in order to make him feel less out of place. choso blinks, baffled, and swallows hard. you step closer to him, and he takes an involuntary shuffle away, averting his gaze from your pretty eyes and kind smile. your scent suddenly invades him, and he shivers, a lump forming in his throat.
"what's wrong with it?" you ask.
"...it's - uh - just not pouring. it keeps making a click sound, but nothing's coming out."
you hum thoughtfully. "i hate when it does this," you murmur, looking over the device. "here, let me try something."
you step closer to him, and choso takes the hint to move back, standing behind you as you work your magic. you reach back behind the machine and unplug it, wait a few more seconds, then plug it back in. you then lift the top of the machine open once it powers back on, and close that one more time. you press a few buttons, it clicks, then in seconds, brown liquid dribbles down from the spout and into choso's navy mug.
you grin and turn over your shoulder to look up at the half-curse. "there you go! sometimes it just needs to be restarted to get working again. if it gives you any more trouble, just unplug it and plug it back in, okay? that's what i always do anyway."
choso stares at the coffee filtering into the mug, then at your bright expression. he nods stiffly, eyes shimmering, face beet red. "thank you," he says earnestly.
"don't mention it. let me know if you ever need help with anything else!"
you hum a soft tune as you walk out of the break room, and violet eyes follow your retreating figure. choso feels his heart spasm, for he thinks this is the very first time someone has appeared truly happy to assist him - the first time anyone has ever treated him unlike a chore. and you walk off like it's nothing.
choso starts to like you immediately after that, but he doesn't quite know that those feelings he is experiencing means something more than platonic admiration. he doesn't know what it means when his face flushes in your presence, and your phantom scent smacks him in the face whenever you're not around, and his heart thumps a mile per minute whenever you so much as look at him.
ever new to the human experience, he is much newer to intense human emotions like these.
and the feelings grow more intense each time you assist him with something so nicely, a stark contrast to the way others are so impatient with him. he’s holding a camera the wrong way? no worries, you’re there to pat his shoulder and help him flip it around, demonstrating an easier way to point it at his beloved brother. he can’t figure out directions to that spot his coworkers want to eat at? not a problem! you’ll take over directions with him and set him up for how to find things on his own next time around. trying to follow a tutorial for how to fix the squeaky hinge on his brother’s door? he doesn’t have to do it alone! you’re happy to assist him and make the whole ordeal quicker.
and today, yuji insisted on going out to the nearest fast food place with his friends, both you and choso having accompanied. yet no matter how many things you continue to show him, he still can’t quite grasp how to save his order on this damn screen.
the kamo hears your voice narrating your actions as you tap through the options, inquiring what he wants, and while he responds to you flatly, he’s not really paying attention. not to what you’re showing him.
all he can hear is the sweet, understanding cadence of your gorgeous voice as you swipe through selections, the way your lashes blink when you turn over your shoulder to meet his eyes and double check with him before adding something to the cart. he doesn’t even know what the hell you’re putting in there or what he’s telling you to get, but he knows that your lips are a tint of cherry red today instead of your go-to peachy gloss.
"do you want anything?" he suddenly speaks up, accidentally interrupting you in the middle of your little spiel. he comes closer behind you involuntarily, his chest brushing the tip of your shoulder as you look up at him softly.
you blink a few times, aware of his close proximinity, and you press your lips together, heat flaring in your cheeks, your cool countenance disrupted. "it's okay, i'm not really that hungry."
"are you sure? we've had a busy day. i can get you something. whatever you want."
you're suddenly bashful, biting back a warm smile. "...i mean, sure, if you're offering. i kinda want an icecream cone..."
an ice cream cone. suddenly it's the most important thing on this planet.
choso nods firmly. "okay."
and you watch as he reaches past you to hesitantly take control of the screen under a mask of confidence, utilizing your tips and brief tutorial to scroll through the options, locate your desired item, and land it in the cart.
you beam, your hand flying to his bicep. "look, cho, you did it all by yourself! i'm so proud of you!" you praise. "thank you so much!"
a huff of air dispels from choso's nose as he looks down at your sweet expression, tenses under the soft touch of your palm, and processes what it feels like to be on the receiving end of your gratitude. to step up and do something for you in return for all the patience and kindness that you've shown him.
pink bursts over his pale cheeks, and a wobbly hint of a smile rises. his heart hammers louder and louder in his ears, and his entire body feels as though its catching a sweat. is he sick? is it you?
is he sick off of you?
he doesn't know, nor does he care. all that he knows is, as your fingers slip away from his arm, and your warmth is dragged along with you as you rejoin the teens at the table they snagged, that he wants to feel this way with you for as long as he possibly can. he wants to make you feel just as seen, just as happy, just as heard, just as warm.
the brunette eventually rejoins you all, flustering in silence when you pat the seat that you've saved for him across from the booth nobara, yuji, and megumi cramp themselves in.
choso sits with his broad shoulders tense and his hands in his lap as you talk excitedly with nobara about this new top that you found online, and choso's eyes eventually fall to the two teenage boys across from him who quirk their brows at his posture and exchange knowing glances.
you and nobara somehow convince the guys to trail behind you as you seek out the tops you found. as the boys trail behind, and as choso's eyes glue to the back of your head while you walk beside the brunette fifteen year old, he feels yuji nudge him in the side.
choso looks down at his little brother, blatantly dazed, pupils wide. "hm?" he inquires softly.
"dude. you've been staring at her the entire time we've been out," the salmon haired boy deadpans. on his right, megumi walks while staring boredly ahead, hands in his pockets as he agrees.
"pretty painful to watch," the navy haired boy murmurs.
"oh," choso blinks, turning back to look at you when a giggle spills past your lips. his heart flips. "yeah. sorry," he swallows, distracted.
"aw man, you've got it so bad," yuji shakes his head. "why don't you just tell her already? it's so obvious."
choso turns to him again, suddenly invested. "tell her what? what's it? what do i have?"
"y'know? lovesickness. you're down bad."
choso tilts his head. "i'm sick? down where? it's bad?"
yuji exhales defeatedly. and drops his shoulders. "no man, you're not actually sick. i mean, like, you're in love."
the half curse's eyes grow wide. "in love?"
megumi sighs. "i don't think he knows, yuji."
the said boy's eyes snap wide with realization. "oh shit! choso! do you not know?!"
"know what?"
yuji throws his arm up and around his brother's shoulders, bringing his face down in secrecy as they walk. choso furrows his brows in confusion at the salmon haired boy's abrupt intensity. "answer me this - does your face get all hot whenever (y/n) is around?" he whispers aggressively, megumi rolling his eyes.
"um... yes...?"
"does she make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?"
"...yeah."
"when you look at her, do you just wanna scream and cry and do everything you possibly can to make her happy all at the same time?"
"yes. i think she's the prettiest girl in the world," choso affirms, eyes still stuck to you. his younger brother huffs conclusively, fighting off a gag and releasing choso so that he can stand up straight again. he closes his eyes, nodding as if making an internal diagnosis.
"you're in love big bro. you like (y/n) as way more than a friend. so much it's making you crazy."
choso thinks it over, the strange urges that overcome him when you're near, his desire to always be around you and make you proud. "...you're right. i do feel crazy."
"everyone literally already knew that but you, kamo," megumi adds.
"what do i do?!" choso panics.
yuji shrugs. "you should tell her."
"tell her that i - " the image of confronting you in such a way, standing before you as his feelings get caught in his throat, watching as you bat those pretty lashes up at him and await what he has to say with a patient smile makes his heart sieze up in his throat and his stomach churn with something discomforting. choso grits his teeth, shaking his head furiously. "no, i can't do that. she'll hate me. i don't want her to hate me."
"what? who says she'll hate you?" yuji waves him off.
choso's mind flies to the way strangers regard him, to how clueless he is about most things that someone his age should know about. he imagines all the men out there who are more experienced, who know more than he ever could, including how to treat you the way you should be treated.
he's not that guy. he isn't normal. he doesn't know things. he's only himself, caught between darkness and light, and you are kind enough to stand by his side and help him through some of his confusion, but you deserve more than his empty head. hell, he didn't even know that he had feelings for you until his fifteen year old brother pieced it together for him.
"i don't want to make her uncomfortable," he mumbles.
megumi's eye twitches. "but she literally - "
"shh, shhh, shhh!" yuji blindly smacks his hand over megumi's mouth, earning him a rather merciless smack upside the back of his head. the two glare at each other before yuji turns his attention back to his brother, rubbing the tender spot of his head. "listen choso, the thing about love is that you never know what to expect. you shouldn't assume that (y/n) doesn't like you just because you don't know or haven't tried to tell her. she's super nice and she loves spending time with you. she'd be lucky to have you."
"no, i'd be the lucky one. i'd just slow her down."
"that's your head talking. don't listen to your head, listen to me! your brother!" yuji fumes, gripping choso's shoulder tight. choso sighs, looking down. "look at her, man. look how happy she's been ever since you got her that ice cream. does that look like someone who'd hate you if you confessed?"
choso looks up at you again, noting how the golden sun seems to illuminate you, that smile that could send him into shock spread wide across your face as you talk. god, you're pretty.
"you think that's... because of me?"
"trust me, bro. i know women - "
"do you?" megumi intercepts sharply, ready to go home.
"shut up," yuji bites back. "i know women, and i know for a fact that no girl gets as happy as i see her get whenever you're involved. trust me on this. any time we buy nobara anything, she snatches it from our hands and tells us it's the least we could do for being pains in her ass."
"oh. (y/n) has never said anything like that to me."
"that's because she probably sees you as more than a friend too. but you'll never know unless you tell her." choso hums, taking in his brother's advice. "don't be scared. go for it! besides, you'd end up regretting it if you wait too long."
in a trance, choso moves to march up to you, but yuji's grip tightens on his shoulder as he pulls him back. "what the - not now, i don't wanna see that! just wait 'til you two are alone. it'll be more special that way."
so he does, but every single time the two of you wind up alone, choso chickens out. despite having won difficult battles and overcome extinction itself, the violet eyed half curse can't seem to muster up the courage to face you like a man and tell you that he's obsessed with you, that he thinks about you every single day, that he wants to be able to hold your hand and kiss you and be yours.
every single time he thinks he will, his eyes find yours, and he fumbles. like a coward. he can't get out of his own mind. he can't fight the thoughts that are telling him that he's just not good enough, that you deserve better, that he can't be what you need.
he'd rather have you in his life as a friend than screw things up by confessing to you and inevitably losing you completely.
instead of telling you how he feels, choso finds himself clinging to the memory of your praise, the day he first did something for you and not vice versa, and stepping in to perform random, small tasks for you, tasks that don't even require his help.
he brings extra ponytails to work on his wrist for you just in case you need them in the midst of sparring or mentoring. he keeps an extra jacket close by in case he sees you shiver and rub your arms from the cold of the air conditioned conference room. he asks you every day if you want him to run out and get the coffee he sees you drink so frequently, eager to serve you in any form, eager to make you smile, eager to prove himself worthy of your love.
you notice the change, how he frantically jumps to assist you more and more each day. how he tries to impress you by picking up your hobbies, or telling you about a book that he's reading that's written by an author he heard through the grapevine that you enjoy. you notice him trying to fit into your world more, trying to talk to you about shows and music and ideas that you've never heard him talk about before learning that you've shown interest in them. you observe how much more inherently human he tries to be around you, how desperately he tries to stray from himself with his eyes glued to your every move, and you start to think you know what's going on.
your last straw is when he approaches you one day at the field when you're packing up your weaponry and gloves. the sun sets behind the nearby mountains, the entirety of the sparring field melted in a rich orange glow. you perk up when you hear footsteps against the grass, and you turn around to see choso holding something out for you to take, cheeks rosy and eyes soft.
"hey... for you," is all his says, and when you look down at his palms, you see a cute little cream puff keychain - a gift associated with your passing mention of loving baked goods.
you melt with a sigh. "choso," you coo, abandoning your duffel bag to approach him slowly. "you didn't have to get me this."
"i know. i just thought you'd like it. unless you don't. you don't have to take it. i'll get you something else."
"no," you cup under his outstretched hands and he shivers under your touch, looking up at you shyly. "you don't have to get me anything else. this is - this is so sweet, but, i don't need this. you didn't have to do this."
"oh. okay. i see," he nods, taking your words as rejection.
you notice the dip in his tone and the way he goes to turn and walk off, but you stop him gently. "no, that's not what i - i like it choso i do! i didn't mean to say i don't. i love it... but are you okay?"
"yes," he answers quickly.
"are you sure? you've been so... anxious lately."
you noticed. you notice things about him. he tries not to let that fact alone further push him into a delusional state. when he meets your eyes again, he gets lost in your gentle concern as your palms brush his knuckles. his breath hitches when he speaks again. "i'm fine."
"...okay..." you say slowly, unconvinced. you look over his flushed face, then around at the area, ensuring that you are alone. "hey... listen, i kinda wanted to... to actually talk to you."
choso freezes, keychain still presented to you. "oh. okay," he gulps. is this it? is this the cold sting of rejection that he's been working so hard to avoid? is it time for him to give up on the foolish dream of making you happy? "what's wrong?" he asks.
"i've noticed... lately, on top of being so anxious... it seems like you've been trying to - like - impress me? is that it?" you say softly.
choso's heart begins to pound again, and dread overcomes him. "w-what do you mean?"
"you know what i mean, cho. all the little gestures. the gifts, the acts of service, the pretending to like what i like - "
"i do like what you like."
you give him a look. "cho, i know you've only gotten interested in all of that stuff because of me."
"...is that a bad thing? do you not like that i did?"
"i'm not saying it's bad. i just want to understand why you feel like you have to do that all of a sudden. you never did before, then suddenly you started acting like i would only be interested in you if you do those things. did i make you feel like you have to do all those things for me to... enjoy your friendship?"
friendship. you still think of him as a friend.
choso frowns. "i don't know," he murmurs, nervous. he glances down at his hands over yours, then back into the sun glittering in your perfect eyes. could he ever appear that perfect to you, the way you do to him?
"choso, it's okay. you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
his jaw clenches hard. can he really?
"...and i never meant to make you feel like you have to be someone you're not. it's okay if you have different interests from me. you don't have to like everything i like to get my attention. i like you just the way you are. i always have."
his eyes glisten. "you do?"
you smile something warm and comforting. "of course i do."
"but... i do like liking the same things as you," he says lowly, face fiery. "i like learning about you... and making you happy... and being someone for you to lean on. you always are to me. i want to repay that."
you giggle lightly. "aw, cho. you're so sweet. but i don't do any of that stuff for you out of obligation."
"i know," he says. "that's why i want to do the same for you. you're always so nice to me and it means a lot. i just wanted to show you that i... care."
you soften, heat crawling over your skin. "i care about you too."
he swallows hard again, eyes unblinking. "like... as a friend?"
you hesitate, averting your gaze briefly. "y-yeah. as a friend," you affirm, peaking back up at him hopefully. the corners of your lips twitch as you sway awkwardly, puckering your lips in thought. "...unless you... care about me some other way...?"
choso's body goes rigid. do you know? have you read him so easily? more importantly, are you hoping that he does like you as something more? do you reciprocate the intensity he feels?
he's never felt more scared of anything in his life. "um..." he looks down at the keychain in his large palms and shudders. "well, i don't know... i guess-"
choso's words are caught in his throat when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist and tug him forward. you press onto your tip toes and lean up, pulling him down to press your sweet lips to his cheekbone. the brunette's eyes snap wide, pupils small, the sensation of your pillowy lips on his skin completely disrupting the function of his brain. he stares ahead, shocked as you pull away and you laugh at his expression.
"choso," you chuckle, holding onto his wrist as you toy with the hem of your shirt girlishly. "i like you as more than a friend too. a lot, actually."
he can hardly think or speak. "...what?"
"come on, i'm dying here," you whine. "i like you, choso. okay? and i'd never want you to think that you should change anything about yourself for me to see you that way. i already do. i like you, unfiltered, as you are. you're perfect," you emphasize. "...you like me too, right?"
"...you like me?"
"yes," you laugh.
"as... more than... a friend?"
"obviously, cho."
choso thinks he's seen heaven as your words land gracefully on his ears. your keychain drops to the ground in his stupor, and before you can ask if he's alright or decide that you've completely broken him, he clobbers you in a tight embrace, finally allowed permission, finally assured. his strong arms wrap tightly around your waist and you yelp as he lifts you into the air effortlessly, his face buried into your shoulder as he holds you tight.
his eyes scrunch closed and he breathes you in, overjoyed, relieved, happy enough to bawl his eyes out right there. he sniffs, pressing his lips tight together, savoring your body against his. he hears you laugh out before feeling your arms wrap around him for stability, and he can finally breathe. for somehow, choso lucked out. the most beautiful, kind, deserving woman on this planet chooses him, and now that he knows, he's not going to let a second of you go to waste any more than he already has.
for how can you even begin to ask if he likes you when you are all that he has ever wanted?
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
hiromi higuruma: your new boyfriend!
hiromi has heard all of the accusations, every single last one, and has denied each one with an adamance.
the dark haired attorney has known you for years, and throughout those years, you have remained a gracious constant in his rather chaotic, exhausting, ever so stressful life. having a best friend like you certainly had never been in the cards for hiromi, who always prides himself on his independence and insists that intimate relationships of any kind would hinder his concentration.
that, however, did not stop him from growing close to you after meeting you in law school. before the world got too big. before he became the very center of right and wrong, justice and injustice, guilt and innocence.
it was at an annual law convention that law students were encouraged to attend. he found you at a neighboring booth, tabling as an intern for another firm he had heard of in passing, and in the midst of the day's hectic buzz, the two of you ended up sneaking away to grab a drink after sharing a few rather striking conversations.
your mind is intriguing. that is what first pulled hiromi to you, but what he found beyond that was your ability to shed your professional air to expose your more human side in his privacy. you're quite social, personable, and full of smiles, and with the week hiromi had been having, your company had proven quite refreshing. you weren't stuffy. you didn't seem to be hiding any tricks or secrets up your sleeves. you merely existed in your own space, and the attention came to you, whether you had asked for it or not.
and when you smiled, hiromi smiled. thus beginning your rather close friendship.
you and higuruma do most things together. in your early days, you were often found cooped up together in the library, studying senselessly for the bar. you'd quiz each other, spitballing debates, bouncing ideas and theories and arguments off of one another to the point where it felt like a game, where the most stressful time in your lives was momentarily treated like a challenging, engaging activity.
you made everything feel easier, lighter. caught in a whirlwind of dedication to justice, you often found higuruma in a dissociative state with his pen flicking restlessly between his fingers as he stared out of a nearby window with distance eyes and a blank face. you'd sigh, for you knew this burden all too well. you saw it sag in his shoulders, watched as the weight over his posture built and built with the coming days, as he climbed higher and higher, and filtered his mind with more knowledge.
with the expansion of hiromi's natural intelligence, his light threatened to dwindle. he's a prodigy after all, far beyond anything that you could have dreamed to become, but he was still your best friend at the end of the day. when he withdrew, you were there to pull him back. until study sessions became cooking dates at your apartment, where flashcards were eventually discared after hours of memorization and muttering terms under one another's breaths. you'd say something like: "you can't retain a single thing if you don't give your body nutrients, no matter how smart you are!" and you'd force him out of the cocoon he'd built on your faded leather couch and push him into the kitchen.
stubborn with conviction, hiromi would give you an earfull at first, griping about how the bar isn't a game. about how law is the future, his future, your future, and you can't afford any moments to slack as long as injustice continues to run rampant just outside your window. and you'd hum mindlessly as you move about your cramped kitchen, for you'd heard this lecture countless times, before shoving a red onion into his palm outstretched - mid sermon, and ordering him to dice it into cubes.
"(y/n)," he'd call your name, weary, aggravated. "i was talking."
"shush," you'd hush him, unaffected by his feigned anger with you. hiromi would stand and glare at you in defiance for a minute longer each time, before eventually giving in and dicing the onion as you'd ordered, murmuring under his breath.
he certainly found no reason to complain when the two of you were eating out of chipped china over your dining room table in silence, hunger having finally been satiated after hours of unintentional starvation. thick books lay forgotten just for a moment on your coffee table as the two of you enjoy the silence and satisfaction of a home cooked meal.
you were often the reason he saw the light of day, as you'd drag him to study outside in a nearby park, picnic blanket layed out under a great oak as sun poured through the cracks left in the leaves, a gentle breeze tossing your pages back and forth. you'd lay on your stomach as hiromi sat upright with his back pressed against the bark. against hiromi's better judgment, he'd let his eyes leave the page of his textbook upon registering the sound of a nearby dog barking. he'd find that your attention had already strayed, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you watch life flourish around you, the little dog off in the distance yapping excitedly at a flock of geese gliding across the pond.
and then his chocolate eyes would fall to you, the way you lounge with your elbows caging around your thick book, eyes full of the sky's light and your dream of capturing this peace for those wronged by the justice system, for those abused by the unpunished.
your eyes would eventually snap away, finding hiromi's, and he'd look back down at his book casually, muttering that you need to stay more focused. you'd roll your eyes, nudging his knee playfully.
"lighten up a bit, romi. you can't try to protect the world if you don't look around at it once and a while. see what's actually going on."
and you, of course, are the only reason hiromi ever stepped outside of his apartment past the hours of 09:00. you'd call him up, telling him that a few of your classmates invited you out to trivia night at a nearby bar. he'd click his teeth and tell you that he'd pass, only to find that you're already standing outside of his door, dressed in knee high boots and a leather coat, scarf wrapped around your neck and lips painted dark.
the brunette would open the door to reveal your image and frown at your expecting grin and open arms. he'd give you a flat look before turning to find a coat, for he always knew that you weren't leaving without him. after all, he could never say no to you. not when you refuse to leave him stewing in the intellectual misery that this profession has already imprinted upon him. not when you're constantly reminding him to bring his head up from the water. he'd certainly drown without you.
and without fail, at every outing you'd drag him to, in every space you found yourselves with other people in, some guy you're both acquainted with would tap him on the shoulder and lean in to inquire about you.
"yo, are you two dating?"
and every single time, hiromi would raise his drink to his lips and answer plainly. "no."
you're hiromi's best friend. you have been since the moment you met. you spend every waking moment together, and you hound him like an overbearing mother, but you are not romantically involved. you never have been. and he does not understand why that's so difficult for people to understand. so what, you're the only person he goes to about anything? so what, you can singlehandedly clear the grey skies of his cloudy mind? so what, you're his favorite person to be around, to talk to, to spend time with? you're friends. friendship isn't a crime.
"so you've hooked up?"
"no."
"you haven't even kissed?"
"no."
"but you're attracted to each other, right?"
"no," a vein would bulge over hiromi's temple as he'd growl into his glass. "we're close friends. that's all."
and every time he'd repeat so with such finality, inquirers would lean back with a whistle and the shake of his head, as if being platonic with you was some sort of unfathomable notion.
and then, like clockwork, the question will come. "then... she's single?"
hiromi's eye would twitch, and he'd grumble some kind of affirmation. for it's true, you are single. you don't belong to one another, and you can certainly do as you please. while hiromi has no interest in such affairs, that doesn't mean that you should close yourself off to them as well.
nevertheless, every guy that's come your way after hiromi has confirmed that you are not his girlfriend has always met your rejection. it surprises the dark haired man every time, for you aren't like him. you're brighter. you enjoy people more. you should have fun, but when he asks you about it, you just shrug him off.
"i'm not gonna start fooling around with anyone while studying for the bar, romi. that's just asking for failure."
"that's a little unhealthy. someone could make you happy."
"says you," you'd nudge him. "why don't you listen to your own advice?"
"it's different."
"it's not at all actually."
you've been evasive in regard to relationships for as long as hiromi has known you, and he doesn't know why. your excuses continue to shift as well depending on the time, for after the two of you pass the bar, you say that you're too focused on building your career. after your career has been build, you say that you're too busy with work. hiromi has not even heard of you engaging in one night stands or little flings, much to his relief if he were being honest. he thinks you're far better than something as casual and shallow as that.
still, you've shied away from topics of romance, catching a strange look in your eye every single time he asks. he doesn't understand why, nor what that look has meant as it developed over the years, but he swears he knows you well. he had been confident that, no matter the time or place, you would continue to stubbornly refuse romantic advances.
therefore, the attorney is a bit floored now that you are in your thirties, and after years of watching you turn down advances, you suddenly turn up with a new boyfriend.
higuruma's chopsticks freeze midair, sushi squished between the wooden sticks, and his eyes widen just a smidgen as you stand before him after hours in his office, an excited glint in your eyes.
the sushi drops back down to its container as silence floods the empty space, and you await a reaction. "what did you just say?" he asks slowly.
"i said i met someone!"
"...as in..."
"as in, i have a boyfriend, romi. and i want you to meet him soon!"
the words echo through his mind like some kind of curse that he struggles to digest. slowly, he lowers his chopsticks to his desk and folds his hands before him, adjusting himself in his seat as he processes this odd revalation. he eyes you carefully, brain working overtime to decipher whether you're messing with him or not. your smile dwindles and your hand finds your hip, your brow raising.
"what the hell? what kind of reaction is that? aren't you happy for me?"
"i'm... why... is this the first time i'm hearing about this? a boyfriend?" he echoes, despising the way the word tastes on his tongue. "that's a big step. how quickly are you moving?"
"not that quickly, hiromi, we started talking like two months ago."
"and you never told me?"
"i didn't wanna bother you while you were in the middle of dealing with that one case. you were so stressed!"
"what case?" his brow twitches.
"the saito one."
"that case was forever ago, (y/n). you could've told me when it was over."
"yeah, but - i don't know, it felt stupid - and anyway, i still just didn't wanna disrupt you. you know how you are, you constantly jump from one thing to another like a lunatic."
the brown eyed man exhales, turning to face you fully in his office chair. his left elbow remains propped on the table while his other hand rubs at his forehead. "we tell each other everything," he eventually says.
"i know. i'm sorry. that's why i'm telling you now," you shrug. "what if things went badly? i wasn't gonna tell you about the guy if he ended up being an asshole."
"two months is still hardly enough time to know if he's an asshole or not."
you scrunch your face. "what is with you? i thought you'd be excited for me. you're always telling me that i need to put myself out there."
"yes, i know, but - " hiromi stops himself, his grim attitude on the subject suddenly dawning on him. you have a point. he is always telling you to put yourself first, to find someone to make you happy, but this? this is so abrupt. he had at least expected you to give him a heads up whenever you began seeing someone. he would have liked to learn the journey of how the two of you even got to this point, to be a part of that with you, but instead you spring this on him like he shouldn't feel excluded from that area of your life, the area you've always left so grey. what changed? why, all of a sudden, are you happy to be with someone else - with someone, now?
still, you're his best friend. you're right. he should be happy for you, and put his cynicism aside.
"i apologize. i'm just surprised, is all," his voice softens. you fold your arms across your chest, shifting your weight with a pout. he catches your attitude and rolls his eyes, chuckling tiredly. "i said i'm sorry. i am happy for you. you deserve to be happy."
"jeez, was that so hard?" you grumble. "and... it's fine. i guess i do owe you an apology for not saying anything. i really, honestly just didn't think you'd - wanna hear about it. with everything you've got going on."
"if it's about you, (y/n), i would like to hear about it. you know this. i'm never too busy for you."
you purse your lips, softening. "...yeah. neither am i."
he raises a brow. "are you sure?"
you click your teeth, whacking his knee with your handbag. "yes, i'm sure," you groan. you reach back and pull up another nearby office chair, and plop down in front of him. "at least let me make it up to you by catching you up now," you grin cheekily.
hiromi exhales once more, turning his attention back to his dropped sushi. "i'm listening."
the defense attorney viciously fights the sinking feeling in his stomach when you pull out your phone and show him pictures of the tall, strapping, chestnut haired man who has finally managed to tie you down. you chatter with a giddy tone about where you met, the dates he's taken you on, the flowers he's purchased you, and how he asked you to be his the night before.
a light smile graces hiromi's features as he listens to you talk, for he's never seen you so openly lovestruck over someone, and a lump molds itself in his throat with the realization that this is the first time he's seen you with another man.
and while he tries to be happy for you, while he tells you that he's lucky to have you, while he lets you flaunt pictures of your hand in his and his lips on your cheek as you beam at the camera...
he doesn't fucking like it.
in fact, he hates it, seeing his best friend so happy in such a way. and he doesn't understand why, for he doesn't know the man. he has no personal vendeta against him. from what you've told him, the guy has only passed every test you've thrown his way and treated you nicely. he has a solid job, makes a good living, and he's not bad looking. not at all. in fact, he fits beside you aesthetically, pairs well with your beauty.
but the image makes him sick. the thought of him kissing you, holding you, keeping you in the intimate spaces, late at night, early in the morning, has hiromi souring with something foreign and detestable. he does not like it.
and it feels even worse when he finally meets the guy. when you arrive at the cafe you told hiromi to meet at with your arm linked in his and a smile so bright it blinds him, your hand waving enthusiastically above your head as you approach.
hiromi's eyes flicker to your boyriend. he's tall. muscular beneath the frame of his cashmiere sweater. an easy smile is plastered on his face, one hiromi could never wear in the whirlwind of his cluttered mind.
his arm is locked in yours like you belong right beside him. like you're his.
and you are.
hiromi's stomach drops, and his mood is dampening before the two of you even reach the umbrella shaded table he's reserved. the table he'd reserved for you, because you asked him to. you asked him to book this. you wanted to introduce your new boyfriend to him, praying that he'd like him, and hiromi organized the entire thing solely because you you begged him with that lilt in your voice, the one you use any time you want to guilt hiromi into doing something. the one you used every day in law school, when he wanted to stew in his future and you encouraged him to live in the present.
because he's never seen his best friend so vulnerable and sweet before, and it kills him, but he'd rather kill himself before taking away that light in your eyes.
he'd never say no to you, to your happiness.
still, he doesn't understand his problem. he doesn't understand why he allows himself to speak with a poisonous, dull sting in his voice every time your boyfriend asked him a question. he doesn't understand why his nose curls just the slightest as he turns away to look anywhere else but at the way he drops a kiss to your forehead while you're talking. he doesn't understand why his chest is tight enough to restrict air, why it feels like a thousand tons are weighing down when he sees your knees brush under the table the way yours would against his six years ago back in that library, crowded by the sun-caught lint filtering in the window, dusty books that cursed hiromi's life, and the shoulder of the girl who saved it brushing against his as you read.
he doesn't understand why, when your boyfriend leaves to go to the bathroom and your face falls the moment you're alone, and you ask what the hell is wrong with him, his frown deepens. and he is suddenly... annoyed.
"there's nothing wrong with me," hiromi responds robotically, brows at a slight angle.
you scoff with disbelieving smile. "what are you talking about? you've been glaring at him and hardly speaking the entire morning! he probably thinks you hate him!"
"you're exaggerating."
"i'm ex - okay," you throw your hands up. "you've been acting weird ever since i told you about him. you can't keep denying it."
"i don't know what you want from me. i hardly speak to people outside of work anyway, why is it suddenly different now?"
"because i asked you to make an effort, and you're not. you haven't asked him a single question. you're brooding."
"i'm tired."
"you're always tired."
"i can't think of anything to ask."
you give him a deadpan expression. "you, the nosy ass defense attorney of the century, can't think of any questions to ask your best friend's new boyfriend?"
"why does it matter to you if i like him or not, (y/n)?" hiromi settles is chin over his knuckles, elbows propped on the table. his haunting eyes are sharp on yours as you frown, sadness swirling in your gaze and that hint of something strange he's caught so many times. he just can't name it. "you asked me to have coffee with you two, so i am. i did this for you."
"hiromi, what?" you breathlessly whisper. "why does it matter? you're my best friend, that's why it matters. because you asked to be involved, because... because you always said - you wanted me to explore. so i did, a-and i'm happy, and you're... not. and this is the only time i ever - "
you stop yourself, ducking your head, and hiromi immediately snaps out of it. his eyes catch the curl of your brow, the way your voice falters, and his vexation is suddenly melting away to make room for his concern.
he's supposed to see you happy, after all. not do this. not make you upset.
he's never made you upset before. not like this.
what is wrong with him?
"i'm sorry," he says suddenly, softness and steadiness returning. you shake your head, and hiromi reaches over the table for your hand. your head whips over to him, his warm palm resting over yours. you meet his eye, and see the remorse. "i'm sorry. you're right. i didn't mean to upset you. i'm sorry, sweetness."
your eyes flutter at that old, rare nickname. you look down at his hand, then back up at him. "what is with you, hiromi?"
"nothing."
"yes there is. i know you. what's wrong? why won't you be honest with me."
"it's nothing."
"it is something. do you have have something... to say? something that's bothering you?"
hiromi blinks, and when he stares in your eyes long enough, he sees the years you stayed by his side. the years you remained his, and only his. his best friend.
his shoulders raise ever so slightly, then deflate. you see something retreat back within itself, then watch as a thin wall washes over him. "no."
his hand slips away, and your fingers twitch. your hold one another's gaze longer, lost, until you see your boyfriend walk back outside. you purse your lips in a half attempt to smile as he sits back down beside you, his arm winding around you and pulling you into his side.
hiromi pretends to have a business call, and leavees within the following ten minutes.
that night, in hiromi's sleep, warm figments of you sweep across his subconscious. it's him sitting in your boyfriend's place, holding you close, feeling your body press to his, letting his lips dot to the corner of your nose.
you walk hand in hand back to that library, and before you sit down, he hovers over you, pressing you against the side of the table, his hand on your jaw, the other caging your hip, pressed to the wood surface of the table. your hands melt over his cheeks, and he melts, lips curving into a tender smile as he looks into your eyes.
he brings you closer, your sweet breath wafting against his lips, and the gasp you take before his lips touch yours is what wakes him up in a cold sweat with a snap.
his eyes pierce his bedroom ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest, and breaths heavy. hiromi takes a moment, adjusting to his surroundings, turning to read the alarm clock on his desk that reads 3:05 am, and he realizes that he was dreaming.
the ache of loss comes quick, your warmth tugged away by the mercilessness of his consciousness, and suddenly he feels his chest tightening, his browl furrowing, his mouth running dry.
it all pieces together in the darkness of hiromi's bedroom after years of friendship, years of watching you turn guys away, years of telling you that someone was out there to love you before he realized it was himself.
he's in love with you. he has been this whole time. like an idiot.
and he let you slip away to someone else, like the version of you he just woke up from.
for the first time in his obsessively planned life, hiromi hasn't the slightest clue what the hell to do now.
various instances of jjk men realizing that they're in love with you, what triggers their realizations, confessing to you, and everything in between ... ₊˚⊹♡ | fluffy, mutual pining, yearning, sapppppyyyyy, a bit of angst in higuruma's - i fear i lost the og request somewhere so sorry, this was long overdue!
satoru thinks he's heard your laughter before, only he's not so sure anymore now that the very sound has made his smile drop in stun and his heart flutter with something too terrifying to name.
there's always a certain level of professionalism that you maintain when you are within your work environment, always keeping order in your classrooms or during your lessons to prevent any room for distraction. this very discipline does not allow room for distraction, and you are sure to lead your teachings with this very motto. your students understand. they respect it. they learn.
consequently, you don't allow much to sway you during work hours - things like off kilter jokes or a pencil accidentally flying across the room, a shameful result of toge's frequent pencil tapping against his desk to occupy his body whilst retaining the information you share, don't receive much reaction. the most you'll give is an exasperated glance, or a weary eye roll that leads the corners of your lips to twitch with the slightest bit of amusement, but that's all you've got before you're redirecting focus back to the chalk board.
satoru, of course, took notice, as he finds himself picking on any of his coworkers or students who dare not to flash even the subtlest of grins within such a dreary atmosphere. he gives you grief frequently about it, telling you that you would look a hell of a lot prettier if you'd flash those pearly whites of yours. you know that he is, of course, purposefully being gross and annoying about it just to get a rise out of you, just as he does nanami or utahime or, hell, even poor megumi or nobara on occasion.
you brush him off time and time again, reminding him that you aren't some unfeeling monster who does not show joy. in fact, you're quite down to earth as a professor, much more down to earth than other mentors who have taught you, sparking memories you look back on with a resentful chill.
"i'm just doing my job," you would say as satoru walks beside you, hands tucked in his pockets as he leans over to meet your eye level. his head tilts and pink lips curl into that teasing, self-satisfied smile he always wears.
"yeah, a real boring job," he'd sigh wistfully, dramatics and airiness twisted up in his tone. you'd shoot him a glare, he'd chuckle. "come on, just one smile."
"what are you talking about, gojo? i smile all the time," you slightly chuckle at his sheer ridiculousness, a mild display of what you insist to be the personality that you very much so do have that satoru is always griping that you don't.
"you know what i mean. let loose. live a little."
"i let loose while i'm teaching, i put those kids' lives at risk. i'm not doing that."
"are you insinuating that because i have a more laid back teaching style than you, my students are more prone to danger?" the ivory haired sorcerer gasps, mimicking offense.
you think back to yuta's first day under satoru's watch. "yes," you deadpan.
"blasphemy," he'd deny. "my kids are smart and powerful because of me. and funny."
he'd go on about something else regarding the way you carry yourself at work, mentioning something about the way your nose always crinkles a certain way when you're too focused, how you'll give yourself worry lines instead of smile lines.
you'd ask him how he even notices something so minuscule like that, and he'd stand upright again with a shrug and his tongue peaking past his smiling lips playfully. he tries not to give your question much thought when you've arrived to the field where your students are sparring, approaching side by side like sun and gloom.
and you'd leave it be. no matter how much he continues to try and pester you into entertaining his mockery. no matter how many stupid jokes and stories he throws your way as you work your way through the winding halls of the school, just to get you to crack the kind of smile or laugh that shakes your entire body instead of lingering small in the front of your face.
you don't think anything of satoru's constant nagging, and neither does he. at first.
you see the way he treats the others who perform more rigidly than you do within their fields, who always - always groan and toss their eyes to the ceiling in disdain when satoru's jolly frame saunters into a room or barges through the door. you see how strategically he stretches out his pestering tactics, how he'll say just the right thing at the right time to bait nanami into forcefully shutting his newspaper and muttering something about taking a bathroom break to just get away from the sound of satoru's neverending words.
despite having not spent your youth with your coworkers the way they have with each other, as your addition to the school transpired within the recent year, you think you've got a good idea of who satoru is behind that big, shiny, glittering title of the honored one.
lighthearted, a little arrogant in a way that charms those less familiar with his antics, pride acceptable enough for it to be overlooked by his warm energy and indulgence in everyday simplicities: sweets and laughter and childlike wonder. he's a big kid. and though he's an irritating little shit, what the world does not see is the generosity, the care, the intelligence. he's a good guy. stupidly aggravating and too flirty at the best of times, but far more human than how he is perceived, how he is treated.
you don't think anything of the way he tends to follow you around, as you assume this is his routine treatment of fresh meat, of the less boisterous among you. shoko told you that's just how he is. too friendly. too invasive. too loud. too talkative.
too clingy.
satoru, on the other hand, doesn't quite know what's wrong with him yet, but he knows something is wrong.
he likes you. a bit too much, probably. it's been so long since he's met someone new who is like you, someone who fit so well into the dynamic him and his former classmates have cultivated for their students. your arrival was greatly anticipated, if not slightly disorienting. you came in with a regal air and a face so pretty that it almost paralyzed him where he stood, but he thought nothing of it. he's met beautiful women before. he’s flirted with them before. he knew it meant nothing. yet he’s flirted with you, and it always feels like something.
so he's not so sure why he often finds himself stopping dead in his tracks when he hears your voice echoing from the sparring field, instructing your students with a stern yet almost motherly cadence. he'll turn and locate you down there from where he stands by winding pillars, watching the way your hands find your hips and your (e/c) eyes monitor your students' movements with that pinch of concern. like you didn't just get here. like you raised them yourself, and their survival is your responsibility.
satoru will swallow the saliva that has built in his mouth, suddenly becoming aware of the way his cheeks ache from having smiled at the sight and sound of you for so long from afar.
he's not sure why he is so curious about you and your adjustment to your job. he perks up at the very mention of your name in any setting, tuning out whatever yuji is rambling on about to listen to what yaga is detailing about your next mission in the room over. he wonders if you're even up for the job, and decides to catch yaga long after his conversation about you to offer himself up to go in your place. yaga would lower his sunglasses and quirk his thick brows, pursing his lips in inquisition as he stares up at the white haired man he's known since he was a young boy.
"why are you so worried about (l/n)'s business?"
why is he?
satoru shrugs. "just looking out for the newbie."
"(l/n) has been a grade one sorcerer for years. she can handle herself just fine," yaga gives gojo one last skeptical work. "get back to worrying about your job, satoru. not hers."
he brushes off the bitter taste yaga's words leave in his mouth, as though peers and colleagues and friends and former classmates have not come and gone at the hand of the unknown, having been thrust into what they had believed to be familiar territory only to find themselves sorely mistaken, outnumbered, and overpowered.
you're new. you're nice, and humble, responsible, and you actually listen to what gojo has to say, despite how everyone around him feigns or feels palpable disdain or aggravation toward him. you don't treat him like he's a joke. you go to him for advice, looking to him as an inspiration rather than a pest to belittle, his title neither pushing you away or sparking excessive glorification. you simply respect him, beneath all that goofiness and bickering. you're sweet in that way. unbiased. unjudging.
and you treat every one of your students like family, bracing them for the cruel world, remembering that they are still children. not weapons. people like you, people who are kind and generous and stable, are a rarity within the jujutsu world. satoru would prefer not to lose the refreshing air that you bring to the campus just because you were sent on an muddy mission too soon.
he would prefer not to lose you at all.
when shoko starts to look at him sideways whenever you walk by or finish up a conversation with him, satoru knows for sure that his suspicions about his own behavior are not just in his head. that the strange way he is acting, the strange way he is feeling whenever you are around, is actually noticeable. she observes how your presence slowly begins to dictate how satoru is feeling, or how he will behave for the remainder of the day.
you'll tell him and the brunette that you'll be sent away for a few days, and satoru is pouting, glossy lips pulled downward as his brow furrows with disappointment beneath his blindfold. he'll bombard you with a hundred questions, asking how far away you'll be, what kind of curse you'll be encountering, if you will be going alone. and with each patient answer you give, his sulking grows tenfold.
because why do you have to leave? it's so boring without you here, though he always claims that you contribute to the drab atmosphere with your refusal to entertain his antics throughout the school day just to get a reaction out of you.
still, that would be days without your soft smile. days without your eager questions that satoru always drops everything to answer happily, his heart thundering at the calm, attentive way you look past his blindfold as if to hold his gaze, to let him know that you have all of his undivided attention.
days without your heavy lectures that ring out in the halls and weigh down the air, your delivery so urgent and resolute that it makes the snowy haired man himself want to stand at attention.
days without those reserved chuckles and thoughtful eyes. without your maternal agency toward your students. without those breezy compliments that must hold no true substance, as they flutter past your lips like daily greetings.
your hair looks really fluffy today, gojo.
did you get a new uniform jacket tailored? it looks nice.
you have really broad shoulders, you know that?
and you're never flirting. never seeking anything in return. you're just... like that. endearing and observant and eager to share the good that you see in others with them. you're fully aware of gojo's arrogance, yet unbothered by the possibility of making his head ten times bigger than it already is. you compliment him the same way you'd compliment utahime, or kusakabe. it's effortless, thoughtless kindness.
and the higher ups expect satoru to go days without that?
he's all but begging you to stay, though there isn't much of anything you can do to get out of direct orders from higher command. shoko will watch lazily with a cigarette hanging from her glossed lips, her cheek in her palm as the gears turn in her head, and she decides that maybe gojo isn't like this with everyone. that with you, he's a bit more clingy than too clingy.
she can tell for certain that something is up when an air of silent, tormented pensiveness captures satoru when you leave to meet with one of your students, unaware of the fact that your absence truly wounds satoru. you think he's overexaggerating his desire for you to stay.
he's not.
"what was that about?' shoko asks from where she sits just behind satoru, the sorcerer standing before her desk as he stares at the empty doorway.
"i don't know," he sighs. "some new mission. they've been throwing her out in the field a lot lately."
"it's her job," shoko says flatly. "but that's not what i mean. i'm talking about you."
he turns to look at her, a bubble of anxiety brewing in his chest as he tries to appear normal. "what about me?"
shoko's brow raises, her index and middle finger pinching the cigarette between them. a cloud of smoke wafts from her lips as she lowers it away from her mouth. "you were really persistent just now. why don't you want her to leave so bad? it's just a few days. do you always get like that when she leaves?"
yes. he does. and it's only been a few months.
"what do you mean? i worry about all of my friends and colleagues."
she's being dramatic. he claims everyone but himself is being dramatic when they toss him those questioning looks, the looks that scream out how different he has been acting since you came along.
he just cares about you. he cares about everyone at jujutsu high. he wants you to stay safe, vigilent, like the rest of them, so that you can stay in one piece and he can spend more time with you. so that he can learn more about you, and sit with you as you talk with that hypnotic, smooth authority that makes his brain mushy and his knees weak. what's so bad about wanting to be around you?
satoru is still trying to figure out exactly what is going on when a few of you go out for a couple of drinks. satoru, as usual, does not indulge, but encourages you to nonetheless, eager to see how you'd behave when alcohol has made you limber and slow.
it's been a long month, you're a bit battered and overworked, and normally you wouldn't, but you finally have a day ahead of you where you don't teach or get sent out to damn battle, so you think that just one drink won't hurt.
you're four drinks in when the others leave, leaving you and satoru at the bar talking for hours. your inibitions have lowered significantly, and in contrast to the tight composure you keep at school, you’re slumped casually in your bar stool, elbow propped on the counter and eyes big and glittery as satoru tells you a story from his days back in high school, where the sun seemed to shine all the time and his best friends' laughter constantly filled the air.
he's telling you this one story about when a group of them - him, nanami, geto, haibara, and shoko, all snuck out of the dorms one night to try to make it to a concert that was happening a few blocks away, only to be caught by yaga the second they stepped off school grounds. satoru, ever the rebellious teen, was dragged back to his dorm kicking and screaming by the principal after having attemped to combat him.
something about the liquor warming your stomach and lightening the atmosphere makes satoru's story and the animated hand movements and voices he incorporates to revive the memory for you all the more hilarious. and instead of brushing him off or telling him to quit playing around, you bend over at your waist and release the loudest, most obnoxious laugh satoru has ever heard in his entire life.
the sound startles him at first, his sapphire eyes going slightly wide behind his dark shades, his lips twitching in shock as he freezes just to watch you and listen.
your skin is slightly flushed, your eyes a little glassy. but your lips, your lips are stretched wide across your pretty face, all teeth on display, your jaw open to free the symphony of cackles that spill from you. your hand raises to hover over your mouth as if to conceal your laughter, but it doesn't work. you're still laughing, your eyes little crescents, the skin beside and underneath wrinkled, your nose crunched, your brows curled just slightly with humor as if it pains you.
satoru's mouth runs dry, and the chaotic white noise of the buzzing bar goes mute. his surroundings blur out to slowly focus on you. your laughter seems to echo through satoru's mind like a distant memory playing on repeat, ringing out through the hollow space of his head. the dim bar lights appear to glow about you, twinkling around your hair and against your (s/c) skin slightly moist from the atmosphere thick with heat from confined bodies.
satoru always jokes about your dismal air. he's seen you smile. he's heard you laugh.
but never like this.
it's like music to his ears. like the prettiest song he's ever had the privilege to hear. your entire body shakes with your laughter, like it has completely taken over you and you don't care that it has. it shines in your gaze, flutters out so bright and loud that gojo thinks it brightened your entire aura.
satoru's smile is gone, having faded away with each passing second your laughter soaked through his ears. he watches you like that for a while, awed, and then, his smile returns as if compelled. his skin warms, dimples poke into his cheeks, and he beams along with you, his own laughter slipping into yours. it's just so contageous.
his heart is hammering in his throat, his gaze suddenly soft and tender on you, the vision of you before him so angelic that it makes his entire mass quiver with the electricity of your beauty.
you laugh. the very thing satoru has been trying to get out of you finally happened. all because of him.
then you say it. clipped words between breathless giggles, your true soul finally bearing itself raw in the comfortability of the public. away from your concerns. away from the safety you must ensure your kids practice. away from the burden of sorcery. you exist.
"you kill me, gojo."
he feels something resolute strike him in the chest right there, his lips twitching in his smile and his body running hotter than the sun.
you think he's funny. you think he's funny. you're laughing all breathless and beautiful and shamelessly because of him, and he's choking over charm, fumbling in his mind for a smooth quip, an i told you so, a finally.
but all he can think of is how fucking pretty you look laughing like that, letting joy take you, letting your cares slip away in his company.
that strike to his chest cements firm and hot, and he chuckles rather awkwardly, chin thumping against his palm as he gazes at you with an impending realization. his mind conjures up glittery flowers and floating hearts that surround your laughing figure, and he abruptly knows what's been wrong with him.
it's not just that you make every room brighter when you step into it. it's not just that your beauty renders him speechless any time he's within your vicinity. it's not just that he has a little work crush on you and likes to tug your pigtails over it.
it's not any of that. he knows by the way he's looking at you now, by the way his body feels warm and fuzzy like he's stuck inside a sweet, insulated dream that he doesn't want to wake up from, that what is plaguing him is far stronger than the aforementioned simplicities.
he knows by the way your laughter makes him want to drop to his knees before you and plead you to never stop, to never deprive him of such a sound again.
he sighs. he's in love with you.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
suguru geto: the future!
suguru has always known that he likes you.
he has no reason to deny it. nothing is standing in the way of how he feels, even if he finds out one day that you don't feel the same. suguru has accepted his crush, his puppy dog attraction to you and his simultaneous desire for your affection.
he shields it thinly but smoothly, always greeting you with warm smiles that make you feel toasty inside and eyes that always lock directly onto yours, as if he is reminding you every day that he sees you and wants to continue seeing you for the rest of his life. you're a dear friend to him, very dear, and you should know it each time you see him - how much he appreciates you. how much he cares.
his fingers always find some way to touch you, whether curving a piece of hair from your face or grazing your arm to eventually slip his hand into yours, and hold it as you walk side by side as if it is nothing. as if friends do this all the time. and whether he's saying hello or goodbye, he always opens his arms wide to invite you into a soothing embrace, his arms circling around you and holding you snug to his chest. you always hum in content, smiling sweetly and hugging tight around his middle, sinking into his comfort.
and when he's departing for an extended period of time, when your face just looks too sweet as you look up at him and wish him safety, he ducks to hold your head and press his lips to your forehead chastely, pulling away to smile sweetly down at you.
like friends do.
suguru has nothing to be ashamed of.
especially when you make him feel the way he does. flooding him with joy and fuzziness that he once believed himself undeserving of. helping to lift the weight of the world from his shoulders at the end of long, testing days with the time vessel association, without even trying. further fueling his ambitions for a non-sorcerer free world for you, because someone as sweet, loyal, selfless, and beautiful as you deserves a peace that only the world he has envisioned promises.
a world where the two of you can live freely, where you can be perfectly, permanently, blissfully happy by his side. void of any unwarranted responsibility, void of any pain.
why should suguru feel embarrassed of his affections toward you? why should he shield how dearly you mean to him? how deeply he cherishes you, alongside the rest of his family?
especially when you stayed, when everyone else he loved turned away from him. he doesn't blame them, and never has, but you. you didn't leave him behind. you didn't hesitate. you stayed.
and that's all that mattered in the end.
despite suguru's overt self awareness regarding his feelings for you, he does not attempt to pursue you until he has realized that these said feelings have grown past what he initially believed them to. and this intensity dawns on him much later than he would have expected for himself.
it hits him one sunny day on the roof of the time vessel association, a spot he frequents with his girls when the three of them need a bit of quiet time away from all the noise just below their feet.
geto has a newspaper cracked open over his lap as mimiko weaves a fishtail braid into his long, black locks. the breeze whistles through pinned linen on wires, a slight chill nipping at the wind, an indicator of the cooler months creeping in.
the cult leader and his girls ordinarily talk of whatever comes to mind, catching up on little things happening around the facility, dreaming up all the wonders that geto intends to provide when his goals reach fruition.
he expects further talk of the new phone that is coming out within the next few months, or the rom coms that the girls desperately want him to watch with them, but what he doesn't expect is the bold question that leaves nanako's mouth that inevitably draws his mind right back to you, as it always does.
"geto, do you think you'll ever wanna get married in the new world?" the blonde questions curiously from her spot crouched next to geto's chair, her nose still pressed into her telepohone screen.
the hazel eyed man blinks, turning slightly to look down at the young girl's head. "married?" he echoes, taken aback. "what could have possibly made your mind go to that, nanako?"
she shrugs, tilting her head back to look up at her father figure from upside down. "i dunno. i feel like you should get to settle down after all your hard work has paid off."
he smiles softly, half amused, half affectionate. "you think so?"
"sure. mimiko and i were talking about it the other day."
"were you now?"
the brunette teenager behind him hums flatly. "mhm."
he chuckles. "well, i'll be honest with you girls, marriage hasn't crossed my mind just yet. other priorities come first, and will continue to until i see fit."
"but," nanako twists her body around to look up at him properly. "wouldn't it be nice for you to have someone by your side? to care for?"
"i already have that. i have you all."
"that's different," mimiko says monotonously.
"it is!" nanako agrees, puffing her cheeks. "what we mean is, like, someone to love. someone to hold and to tell you how great you are," she fantasizes, painting a pretty idea of a domestic life.
suguru's brow quirks slightly down at the teenager, as he detects from her tone that she is imagining such things for herself as well.
"like i said girls, i already have people to love. i love you and the rest of our family very dearly," he says calmly. he feels mimiko hesitate amidst his strands, and catches the pout that begins to cross nanako's face. he smiles, closing his eyes. "though i understand what you're saying, and it's sweet of you to care about things like that, but i don't plan marry. i never have."
"...are you sure?" mimiko asks gently, carefully crossed one section of silky hair over another.
"i'm positive," he affirms.
"but why not? we thought you liked (y/n)."
suguru's eyes snap open wide, the brunette's hands completely freeze in his hair, and nanako's face swarms with a bashful pink as she puckers her lips, testing the waters.
he doesn't miss the way his body reacts to your name. the way his heart swells the slightest bit more as if pumped with obsessive air. the way his entire nervous system seems to halt its functions, his brain swarming with your phantom touch and scent. the way a smile subconsciously comes to his face with ease, like your name is a trigger for his happiness, even when mentioned in this setting.
"nanako," the blonde's sister hisses after a few beats of silence, and the said girl throws her hands up in defense.
"what?! we did! you do, don't you master geto?"
"even if he does, why would he admit it to us, let alone entertain talking about marrying her?"
"don't be such a hypocrite! you know you were thinking the same exact thing as me, sis! we just talked about it!" nanako reiterates.
"so? it's not the same as confronting him with our speculations, dummy."
"don't call me a dummy! you're the dummy, dummy!"
"girls," the cult leader's voice rings out sternly, and the teens know to instantly stop fussing. they clamp their lips shut and look to the man who saved their lives, and he eyes them with a fatherly assertiveness. "what did i say about fighting? we only have each other, alright? no one's a dummy. enough of that."
"sorry," they murmur in unison. suguru sighs and turns his head forward again, allowing mimiko to resume her task.
"that being said," he starts lowly. "i'm a little anxious about these 'speculations' of yours. you thought i would marry (y/n) when it's all said and done. is that it?"
the girls exchange glances. "well," mimiko starts slowly.
"we'd be surprised if you didn't."
"and why is that?"
"...don't you like her, geto?"
the sentiment comes again, and suguru's head rings. not because his girls, and likely everyone with the time vessel association have caught wind of his very obvious emotons regarding you, but because he can't seem to shake this strange feeling hat sits in the pit of his stomach now that the idea of settling down with you has been abruptly brought to his attention.
suguru always assumed that you would just be by his side forever, as you've already promised to remain loyal to him and only him for the rest of your life. being a part of his family, that was a given. that you all would never part.
but... marriage? settling down?
in truth, despite being a planner down to his very core, he hasn't thought that far ahead yet, not of anything beyond making his new world become a reality. for so long, that's all that has consumed his head. erradicating the weak. preserving the safety and dignity of the strong. taking care of those who have always taken care of him. his family. his girls. you.
but suddenly, he envisions you in white. a veil long enough to drag past your ankles, a soft white dress that hugs your body as if it was made just for you - and it would be. suguru would have it tailored by the best in the country, so long as you'd let him take some part in the dress planning. he imagines you'd be quite anal about such things, not letting him see the dress or you during your wedding day. he'd respect it, entertain it for a bit, but have his girls sneak to see you and report how gorgeous you appear as you prepare to stroll down the aisle as his bride.
he's clasping your warm, small hands in his like he always does, smoothing his fingers over the ring he's just slipped onto your digit. the rock twinkles over your skin, a grand symbol, but not quite grand enough to account for all that you mean to him. still, the 8 carot gold will do for now.
his vision is blurry, and his cheeks ache from how hard he knows he would be smiling. and you look like an angel in front of him, eyes glossing over with something gracious and sweet, your lips pinched together to prevent from bursting with the sheer emount of emotion overcoming you. you'd be happy there. he'd make you so happy.
your lips would unite with a passion, the weight of waiting finally released. he'd tug you close by the small of your waist with one hand holding your cheek delicately, and you'd melt into each other, knowing that you could finally rest in each other's arms and enjoy the life he once dreamed to give you.
if you'd want kids, he'd maybe ponder giving you one more, but you have the children you need in the teenagers who he swears make his strands go grey, who are responsible for even making him conjure up this fantasy. though, to see you waddling through the house, glowing with oncoming maternity and content would be a treat he could never deny himself.
he'd give you everything. he'd make you the happiest wife to grace this earth. he'd work hard every day to keep you, to remind you of his love the way he does now.
his heart aches with yearning.
it doesn't bother him that the girls gossiped about the possibilities between the two of you in private, or that they know how he feels. everyone knows except you.
what bothers him is that he was wrong. the ever prideful, ever diligent suguru geto was wrong about what he had thought he had all figured out.
he doesn't like you at all. he loves you. and he does in fact want to be with you until the day he dies, united in holy matrimony under his name. (y/n) geto. a beautiful, hypnotic ring he must make come to fruition in addition to a curse-less world.
he turns to look down at nanako with a gentle grin, one that makes the breeze feel warmer and the golden rays above shine the slighest bit brighter.
"maybe i do like her," he says playfully.
nanako stares up at him for a moment before a big grin spreads over her face in understanding.
"but you two are skipping a few steps. i'd have to ask the lovely woman out before jumping into marriage, now wouldn't i?"
suguru decides to forgive the way mimiko accidentally yanks at his roots due to jumping up with her sister in excitement.
he lets the girls yammer on about various ways for suguru to ask you out, a perfect fishtail woven into his hair and long forgotten. he humors them, enjoying the sheer excitement they bestow regarding his affections for you, further solidifying your place in their lives as a wife and mother, but he does not have the heart to tell them just yet that he already knows what he'll do to attempt to woo you into being his.
suguru is a dramatic man, one of great gestures and movements. he is passionate, at times almost scarily so, and he handles everything with empassioned precision. he certainly handles his pursuit of you the very same.
he stretches the act out over the course of a few days.
he starts, first, by greeting you with his familiar hugs accompanied by a fresh bouqet of flowers that the girls take the privilege of making with him every night.
he watches your face flush with red, your pretty eyes blinking almost confused before you allow yourself to swoon, your fingers gingerly reaching for the bunch of stems that suguru presents serenely to you, a relaxed captivation gracing his gorgeous features.
the first bunch are an arrangement of chysanthemums, a bright explosion of fierce reds and fushias that pops against your eyes and skin when you bring them to your nose to smell. suguru watches you calmly, heart twisting, cheeks burning, and he thinks that he could do this for the rest of his life when you bat those pretty eyes up at him and beam with a sheepish thank you fluttering from your lips and into the petals that you use to hide your face.
you don't know that there are more coming. that this first bouqet is meant to represent a sanction of what he promises you, a symbol of devotion and his unyielding legacy, the legacy you have helped him build. the legacy he intends to share with you.
the next day, he gifts you a bunch of cream colored anemonaes when he first sees you in the morning. you're shocked expression makes him chuckle lowly as he presents the flowers to you, the stems laced with a white ribbon, the petals fluttering eagerly around their black pistils. you stare up at suguru in awe, as he has caught you off guard once again, stolen the breath from your lungs and made your jaw drop in a stupor. two bouqets of flowers, two days in a row, in tandem with his soft hugs and soft looks and soft hands brushing yours.
"suguru, wha...?" you trail off as he places the bouqet in your hands, helping to secure your fingers around them. you stare at him, stunned, bashful, flattered, and he simply flashes you that serene, warm smile that soaks up the sun. "more flowers? but you already - "
"i know," is all he says, his hands holding yours around the bouqet. he glances at the flowers, a symbol of his patience, of how long he would be willing to wait for you if you decide to have him. the sincerity of his emotions, and how far he'd go for you and only you. his eagerness to obtain you, despite his willingness to hold off so long as it would make you comfortable. "they're all for you, angel," he eventually says.
you melt, your shoulders sagging with the curl of your brow. "i don't know what to say... why are you doing this?"
"because you deserve it."
the third and final day, suguru tells you to meet him in his drawing room. you're buzzing with the adrenaline of his very recent affections, the way he has been looking at you as of late in addition to his gifts of flowers.
you don't think you can find the words when you slide the door open to reveal the inky haired cult leader standing before you, at the very center of the room. sweet perfumes of incense intoxicate the candle lit space, and a generous bunch of your favorite flowers settles in his arms amidst his buddhist robes. a symbol of all that you are in his life, radiant. bright. loyal. a symbol of his immense adoration, and the fruitfulness of his love for you.
sunflowers.
your throat clamps up and you attempt to swallow the automatic lump that ails you. your heart pounds in your ears, your skin hot to the touch, and you ask yourself if you are inside of some kind of dream. if the man you've fallen for is truly right here in front of you with his heart in his hands and your world in his hazel eyes.
you freeze up, shaking your head. this can't be real. suguru is all dreams of the new world, ambitions to wipe out existence, eagerness to make the unloyal and the greedy pay with their lives. he is a passionate man, yes, but never one for romantics. never one for love, as you had previously believed.
he's generous, therefore you thought nothing of the way he would hold you close to him, his breathe murmuring that he's missed you throughout the day against your ear, though you've only been parted for a few hours within the cult. you thought nothing over those lingering, sultry looks past miguel's figure during family meetings, or the way his warm lips would meet your skin with fatigue. you thought nothing of it because suguru is a man of his people who hardly shies away from bestowing such affections on those he cares for.
still, you've never seen him hug miguel the same way. or look at manami with such intensity, let alone kiss any of the others on the head, save for his girls.
nevertheless, you never allowed yourself to believe that you were special. not when suguru has always made his priorities in this life painfully clear.
so you struggle to understand what this means. why he is showering you with affections and doting on you like you could possibly mean anything more to him than family.
"no, this is too much," you shake your head, your voice ringing out wobblier than you intended. "this is too much, suguru, what are you doing?"
the hazel eyed sorcerer does not panic when he hears your voice crack, for any time you are in his presence, a pink filter washes over his senses, and all he can register is your unfathomable beauty shining through the way you speak and the way you look at him.
he smiles, body warm. "do you not like them?"
"do i - no, i - i love them. that's not what i... those are for me, too?" you ask incredulously, though deep down you know the answer.
"of course they are."
"...suguru, why?" your breath hitches. "this is way too much."
"it's not nearly enough."
"but why would you - "
"you should let me talk, beautiful. then everything will make more sense. i promise."
you frown, eyes glazing over. suguru only smiles and shifts the bouqet, holding a hand out to you.
"come here."
you do, carefully sliding the door closed behind you in a stupor and moving to approach him. he takes your hand, holds your gaze, and brings it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your fingers. you inhale sharply, lips twitch, eyes glossy.
"i was talking with the girls the other day," he starts slowly, lowering your hand as he caressing it gently. "and they made me realize something."
you're scared to speak, but your voice croaks out anyway. "what?"
"that i don't want to waste any more time with you," suguru's voice dips just slightly, his tone taking a raw vulnerability that you have not heard in quite sometime. it takes you back to high school, before he snapped, when the two of you were just kids seeking one another's comfort within a strange and unforgiving education.
"suguru, what are you talking about?" you breathe a whisper.
"ever since we were kids, i've known. that i never want to live without you," he confesses. "but it's taken me too long to truly understand what that means and to actually do something about it."
you shake your head with a disoriented breath, a tear you can't fight catching your lashes. suguru releases your hand to swipe the tear away with his thumb.
his hand curves to your chin and he lifts your head slightly, encouraging your teary eyes to meet his again. his pupils expand, his eyes lidded.
"so now i'm doing something about it," he mumbles. "i want you to be with me, (y/n). i want you to be mine. there's no one else in this godforsaken world for me but you. it's always been you."
you feel another tear trail down your cheek, your heart soaring, your mind still not quite comprehending that this is real. that this is happening.
suguru is patient. he doesn't need an immediate response, nor does he demand your immediate reciprocation. instead, he is merely happy to tell you, to watch the awe float over your pretty face as his chest becomes lighter, having freed the weight of his truth to you.
"these flowers are a promise. i'll be good to you. i'll put you before everything. i'll love you as you should be loved. because i do. i love you. and i always will, whether you'll have me or not."
your heart skips a beat. or two. or ten. "...you love me?"
"i love you," he confirms.
the past nine years whip through your head, all the doubts, the hopes, the longing, the fear, that have brought you to this very moment. your cloudy gaze finds the flowers brushing your chests between you, then his warm hazel eyes. you see into his soul, you see the cracks exposed, the hint of anxiety that swirls in the back of his mind as he bears himself raw to you behind a front of serenity.
you cave with the breathless call of his name, and he takes the chance, his name on your tongue dispelling any fear and uncertainty. he ducks down and pulls you in, petals brushing your chins as his lips press to yours fervently. you whimper and he groans, both symphonies of long awaited relief, and in the brief disconnect of your hungry lips, you whisper into his mouth.
"i love you too."
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
choso kamo: your patience!
“it’s okay, cho. here, let me help you.”
sharp violet eyes blink down at you in a stupor as you ease your palm onto his shoulder blade, stepping close to take initiative as he submissively backs away. you look up and give him a soft smile before turning your attention to the electronic fast food kiosk to help him navigate the options.
the brunette lets you take the lead, as you always do when it comes to human things like this, and he watches you from your side with a blank expression, something far more intense shining in his wide eyes.
choso knows he can be a handful. basic things do not always come to him very easily, like small talk or technology or anything within the realm of human functionality that he has yet to completely accomodate to. while the brunette has been around long enough to assimilate into his brother's livelihood and the people directly surrounding him, he still significantly struggles to comprehend certain mortal concepts.
it took him a whole day to figure out how to program the phone that yuji helped him purchase, and that was with the help of the salmon haired teenager. each day, he still battles with comprehending some of the slang his kid brother uses when talking to him, often opting to pretend to know what yuji is talking about when he sends little acronyms like lmao or wyd. he doesn't quite grasp the goal of certain sports when he sees yuji and his classmates playing them, and he has absolutly no idea how to decipher or navigate the internet.
in the human world, choso often feels like a fish out of water, much to his chagrin. the persistent internal dilemma of existing as something between a human and a curse often leaves choso confused as he attempts to navigate how he is supposed to behave, what he is supposed to know, how he can be accepted by either jujutsu or human society.
and people are less than forgiving, less than patient with those who appear to be outsiders, choso has come to find. the world is a cruel place, and as he continues to manage how to move about it, strangers expect him to figure it out.
it tells in the way he gets shoulder checked in crowded markets when he does not know where to go, or what the number on his ticket means as he stands in the middle of a bustling grocery store right in front of the deli, having promised yuki that he'd pick up her order during lunch. it tells in the dirty glares that are tossed his way when he scratches the back of his scalp, nose twisted with frustration and brows angled as he tries to figure out which direction this particular train he was told to board is going to take him in. it tells in the way the kids jokingly gasp when they hear that he has yet to try the newest fad sweeping through the social media feeds, some kind of food vendor that everyone is suddenly obsessed with and expects others to share that same obsession in order to be viewed as an equal.
choso sighs. the world is not very understanding toward people like him, who need time to grasp what is happening around him and how to adjust to its functions. to people who move slowly, cautiously, carefully to ensure that he is doing the right thing, to reduce the chances of making excessive mistakes. to people who can not just click into society's expectations with the snap of a finger, who need patience and understanding.
so when you come around and begin to show him such things, begin to teach him those societal functions with a calm, peaceful countenance and an eagerness to help, choso finds his heart fluttering in his chest.
his feelings for you come abruptly, quick and stunning like the shock of an ice bath.
the first time you helped choso with something, he didn't even know what to say. you're one of the institution's frequently traveling sorcerers, about twenty or so years old, often popping in to serve as a mentor for the first years. you are ordinarly paired up with yuki for missions, which is how you were introduced to choso, who was pinned with her as well.
choso already thinks you're pretty and nice when you first introduce yourself to him. you smell like sugary, sunny summer days, and you have (e/c) eyes that pierce the veil to his soul. but what makes him weak and renders him a fool at your beck and call is when you catch him one day in the break room fiddling with the rather expensive coffee machine.
you saunter in the room behind him and notice his hunched figure over the device, and when you approach his side, you see that the dark circles that live under his eyes are more prominent, and an irritated grimace is crossed over his lips. your eyes follow his gaze to the stubborn machine and you realize that he is having a hard time getting the water to filter through.
choso sees you out of the corner of his eye and straightens up, locking eyes with you, attempting to blink away his clear vexation. "(y/n)," he says your name surprised, as if he would have never expected to see you here despite this being your place of work as well. "hi," he fumbles.
you grin. "hi choso! whatcha doin?"
"j-just trying to make coffee. sorry, are you waiting to use this?" he asks, immediately thinking that he has been standing in your way, taking up the time you could have used to fix yourself a cup of coffee. he thinks himself a useless burden once more and is prepared to abandon the task for your sake, despite how lethargic he feels.
but instead of rolling your eyes or expressing any kind of impatience with him, you smile up at him sweetly. "no, it's okay. just saw you and wanted to check in. do you need any help?" you ask softly, unbothered.
choso's face falls as your question leaves him taken aback. not even just your question, but the way you ask as though you wish to assist him, as if it is really no problem. he goes silent for a second, and you wait for him to answer, still looking up at him with a gentle smile.
his cheeks burst red and he clears his throat. "um - yeah. kinda. if you don't... don't mind. sorry," he scratches the back of his neck.
"you don't have to apologize," you chirp with a soft chuckle. "i know how these things can be. super stubborn sometimes, y'know?"
you don't even blame his incompetence. you blame the coffee maker in order to make him feel less out of place. choso blinks, baffled, and swallows hard. you step closer to him, and he takes an involuntary shuffle away, averting his gaze from your pretty eyes and kind smile. your scent suddenly invades him, and he shivers, a lump forming in his throat.
"what's wrong with it?" you ask.
"...it's - uh - just not pouring. it keeps making a click sound, but nothing's coming out."
you hum thoughtfully. "i hate when it does this," you murmur, looking over the device. "here, let me try something."
you step closer to him, and choso takes the hint to move back, standing behind you as you work your magic. you reach back behind the machine and unplug it, wait a few more seconds, then plug it back in. you then lift the top of the machine open once it powers back on, and close that one more time. you press a few buttons, it clicks, then in seconds, brown liquid dribbles down from the spout and into choso's navy mug.
you grin and turn over your shoulder to look up at the half-curse. "there you go! sometimes it just needs to be restarted to get working again. if it gives you any more trouble, just unplug it and plug it back in, okay? that's what i always do anyway."
choso stares at the coffee filtering into the mug, then at your bright expression. he nods stiffly, eyes shimmering, face beet red. "thank you," he says earnestly.
"don't mention it. let me know if you ever need help with anything else!"
you hum a soft tune as you walk out of the break room, and violet eyes follow your retreating figure. choso feels his heart spasm, for he thinks this is the very first time someone has appeared truly happy to assist him - the first time anyone has ever treated him unlike a chore. and you walk off like it's nothing.
choso starts to like you immediately after that, but he doesn't quite know that those feelings he is experiencing means something more than platonic admiration. he doesn't know what it means when his face flushes in your presence, and your phantom scent smacks him in the face whenever you're not around, and his heart thumps a mile per minute whenever you so much as look at him.
ever new to the human experience, he is much newer to intense human emotions like these.
and the feelings grow more intense each time you assist him with something so nicely, a stark contrast to the way others are so impatient with him. he’s holding a camera the wrong way? no worries, you’re there to pat his shoulder and help him flip it around, demonstrating an easier way to point it at his beloved brother. he can’t figure out directions to that spot his coworkers want to eat at? not a problem! you’ll take over directions with him and set him up for how to find things on his own next time around. trying to follow a tutorial for how to fix the squeaky hinge on his brother’s door? he doesn’t have to do it alone! you’re happy to assist him and make the whole ordeal quicker.
and today, yuji insisted on going out to the nearest fast food place with his friends, both you and choso having accompanied. yet no matter how many things you continue to show him, he still can’t quite grasp how to save his order on this damn screen.
the kamo hears your voice narrating your actions as you tap through the options, inquiring what he wants, and while he responds to you flatly, he’s not really paying attention. not to what you’re showing him.
all he can hear is the sweet, understanding cadence of your gorgeous voice as you swipe through selections, the way your lashes blink when you turn over your shoulder to meet his eyes and double check with him before adding something to the cart. he doesn’t even know what the hell you’re putting in there or what he’s telling you to get, but he knows that your lips are a tint of cherry red today instead of your go-to peachy gloss.
"do you want anything?" he suddenly speaks up, accidentally interrupting you in the middle of your little spiel. he comes closer behind you involuntarily, his chest brushing the tip of your shoulder as you look up at him softly.
you blink a few times, aware of his close proximinity, and you press your lips together, heat flaring in your cheeks, your cool countenance disrupted. "it's okay, i'm not really that hungry."
"are you sure? we've had a busy day. i can get you something. whatever you want."
you're suddenly bashful, biting back a warm smile. "...i mean, sure, if you're offering. i kinda want an icecream cone..."
an ice cream cone. suddenly it's the most important thing on this planet.
choso nods firmly. "okay."
and you watch as he reaches past you to hesitantly take control of the screen under a mask of confidence, utilizing your tips and brief tutorial to scroll through the options, locate your desired item, and land it in the cart.
you beam, your hand flying to his bicep. "look, cho, you did it all by yourself! i'm so proud of you!" you praise. "thank you so much!"
a huff of air dispels from choso's nose as he looks down at your sweet expression, tenses under the soft touch of your palm, and processes what it feels like to be on the receiving end of your gratitude. to step up and do something for you in return for all the patience and kindness that you've shown him.
pink bursts over his pale cheeks, and a wobbly hint of a smile rises. his heart hammers louder and louder in his ears, and his entire body feels as though its catching a sweat. is he sick? is it you?
is he sick off of you?
he doesn't know, nor does he care. all that he knows is, as your fingers slip away from his arm, and your warmth is dragged along with you as you rejoin the teens at the table they snagged, that he wants to feel this way with you for as long as he possibly can. he wants to make you feel just as seen, just as happy, just as heard, just as warm.
the brunette eventually rejoins you all, flustering in silence when you pat the seat that you've saved for him across from the booth nobara, yuji, and megumi cramp themselves in.
choso sits with his broad shoulders tense and his hands in his lap as you talk excitedly with nobara about this new top that you found online, and choso's eyes eventually fall to the two teenage boys across from him who quirk their brows at his posture and exchange knowing glances.
you and nobara somehow convince the guys to trail behind you as you seek out the tops you found. as the boys trail behind, and as choso's eyes glue to the back of your head while you walk beside the brunette fifteen year old, he feels yuji nudge him in the side.
choso looks down at his little brother, blatantly dazed, pupils wide. "hm?" he inquires softly.
"dude. you've been staring at her the entire time we've been out," the salmon haired boy deadpans. on his right, megumi walks while staring boredly ahead, hands in his pockets as he agrees.
"pretty painful to watch," the navy haired boy murmurs.
"oh," choso blinks, turning back to look at you when a giggle spills past your lips. his heart flips. "yeah. sorry," he swallows, distracted.
"aw man, you've got it so bad," yuji shakes his head. "why don't you just tell her already? it's so obvious."
choso turns to him again, suddenly invested. "tell her what? what's it? what do i have?"
"y'know? lovesickness. you're down bad."
choso tilts his head. "i'm sick? down where? it's bad?"
yuji exhales defeatedly. and drops his shoulders. "no man, you're not actually sick. i mean, like, you're in love."
the half curse's eyes grow wide. "in love?"
megumi sighs. "i don't think he knows, yuji."
the said boy's eyes snap wide with realization. "oh shit! choso! do you not know?!"
"know what?"
yuji throws his arm up and around his brother's shoulders, bringing his face down in secrecy as they walk. choso furrows his brows in confusion at the salmon haired boy's abrupt intensity. "answer me this - does your face get all hot whenever (y/n) is around?" he whispers aggressively, megumi rolling his eyes.
"um... yes...?"
"does she make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?"
"...yeah."
"when you look at her, do you just wanna scream and cry and do everything you possibly can to make her happy all at the same time?"
"yes. i think she's the prettiest girl in the world," choso affirms, eyes still stuck to you. his younger brother huffs conclusively, fighting off a gag and releasing choso so that he can stand up straight again. he closes his eyes, nodding as if making an internal diagnosis.
"you're in love big bro. you like (y/n) as way more than a friend. so much it's making you crazy."
choso thinks it over, the strange urges that overcome him when you're near, his desire to always be around you and make you proud. "...you're right. i do feel crazy."
"everyone literally already knew that but you, kamo," megumi adds.
"what do i do?!" choso panics.
yuji shrugs. "you should tell her."
"tell her that i - " the image of confronting you in such a way, standing before you as his feelings get caught in his throat, watching as you bat those pretty lashes up at him and await what he has to say with a patient smile makes his heart sieze up in his throat and his stomach churn with something discomforting. choso grits his teeth, shaking his head furiously. "no, i can't do that. she'll hate me. i don't want her to hate me."
"what? who says she'll hate you?" yuji waves him off.
choso's mind flies to the way strangers regard him, to how clueless he is about most things that someone his age should know about. he imagines all the men out there who are more experienced, who know more than he ever could, including how to treat you the way you should be treated.
he's not that guy. he isn't normal. he doesn't know things. he's only himself, caught between darkness and light, and you are kind enough to stand by his side and help him through some of his confusion, but you deserve more than his empty head. hell, he didn't even know that he had feelings for you until his fifteen year old brother pieced it together for him.
"i don't want to make her uncomfortable," he mumbles.
megumi's eye twitches. "but she literally - "
"shh, shhh, shhh!" yuji blindly smacks his hand over megumi's mouth, earning him a rather merciless smack upside the back of his head. the two glare at each other before yuji turns his attention back to his brother, rubbing the tender spot of his head. "listen choso, the thing about love is that you never know what to expect. you shouldn't assume that (y/n) doesn't like you just because you don't know or haven't tried to tell her. she's super nice and she loves spending time with you. she'd be lucky to have you."
"no, i'd be the lucky one. i'd just slow her down."
"that's your head talking. don't listen to your head, listen to me! your brother!" yuji fumes, gripping choso's shoulder tight. choso sighs, looking down. "look at her, man. look how happy she's been ever since you got her that ice cream. does that look like someone who'd hate you if you confessed?"
choso looks up at you again, noting how the golden sun seems to illuminate you, that smile that could send him into shock spread wide across your face as you talk. god, you're pretty.
"you think that's... because of me?"
"trust me, bro. i know women - "
"do you?" megumi intercepts sharply, ready to go home.
"shut up," yuji bites back. "i know women, and i know for a fact that no girl gets as happy as i see her get whenever you're involved. trust me on this. any time we buy nobara anything, she snatches it from our hands and tells us it's the least we could do for being pains in her ass."
"oh. (y/n) has never said anything like that to me."
"that's because she probably sees you as more than a friend too. but you'll never know unless you tell her." choso hums, taking in his brother's advice. "don't be scared. go for it! besides, you'd end up regretting it if you wait too long."
in a trance, choso moves to march up to you, but yuji's grip tightens on his shoulder as he pulls him back. "what the - not now, i don't wanna see that! just wait 'til you two are alone. it'll be more special that way."
so he does, but every single time the two of you wind up alone, choso chickens out. despite having won difficult battles and overcome extinction itself, the violet eyed half curse can't seem to muster up the courage to face you like a man and tell you that he's obsessed with you, that he thinks about you every single day, that he wants to be able to hold your hand and kiss you and be yours.
every single time he thinks he will, his eyes find yours, and he fumbles. like a coward. he can't get out of his own mind. he can't fight the thoughts that are telling him that he's just not good enough, that you deserve better, that he can't be what you need.
he'd rather have you in his life as a friend than screw things up by confessing to you and inevitably losing you completely.
instead of telling you how he feels, choso finds himself clinging to the memory of your praise, the day he first did something for you and not vice versa, and stepping in to perform random, small tasks for you, tasks that don't even require his help.
he brings extra ponytails to work on his wrist for you just in case you need them in the midst of sparring or mentoring. he keeps an extra jacket close by in case he sees you shiver and rub your arms from the cold of the air conditioned conference room. he asks you every day if you want him to run out and get the coffee he sees you drink so frequently, eager to serve you in any form, eager to make you smile, eager to prove himself worthy of your love.
you notice the change, how he frantically jumps to assist you more and more each day. how he tries to impress you by picking up your hobbies, or telling you about a book that he's reading that's written by an author he heard through the grapevine that you enjoy. you notice him trying to fit into your world more, trying to talk to you about shows and music and ideas that you've never heard him talk about before learning that you've shown interest in them. you observe how much more inherently human he tries to be around you, how desperately he tries to stray from himself with his eyes glued to your every move, and you start to think you know what's going on.
your last straw is when he approaches you one day at the field when you're packing up your weaponry and gloves. the sun sets behind the nearby mountains, the entirety of the sparring field melted in a rich orange glow. you perk up when you hear footsteps against the grass, and you turn around to see choso holding something out for you to take, cheeks rosy and eyes soft.
"hey... for you," is all his says, and when you look down at his palms, you see a cute little cream puff keychain - a gift associated with your passing mention of loving baked goods.
you melt with a sigh. "choso," you coo, abandoning your duffel bag to approach him slowly. "you didn't have to get me this."
"i know. i just thought you'd like it. unless you don't. you don't have to take it. i'll get you something else."
"no," you cup under his outstretched hands and he shivers under your touch, looking up at you shyly. "you don't have to get me anything else. this is - this is so sweet, but, i don't need this. you didn't have to do this."
"oh. okay. i see," he nods, taking your words as rejection.
you notice the dip in his tone and the way he goes to turn and walk off, but you stop him gently. "no, that's not what i - i like it choso i do! i didn't mean to say i don't. i love it... but are you okay?"
"yes," he answers quickly.
"are you sure? you've been so... anxious lately."
you noticed. you notice things about him. he tries not to let that fact alone further push him into a delusional state. when he meets your eyes again, he gets lost in your gentle concern as your palms brush his knuckles. his breath hitches when he speaks again. "i'm fine."
"...okay..." you say slowly, unconvinced. you look over his flushed face, then around at the area, ensuring that you are alone. "hey... listen, i kinda wanted to... to actually talk to you."
choso freezes, keychain still presented to you. "oh. okay," he gulps. is this it? is this the cold sting of rejection that he's been working so hard to avoid? is it time for him to give up on the foolish dream of making you happy? "what's wrong?" he asks.
"i've noticed... lately, on top of being so anxious... it seems like you've been trying to - like - impress me? is that it?" you say softly.
choso's heart begins to pound again, and dread overcomes him. "w-what do you mean?"
"you know what i mean, cho. all the little gestures. the gifts, the acts of service, the pretending to like what i like - "
"i do like what you like."
you give him a look. "cho, i know you've only gotten interested in all of that stuff because of me."
"...is that a bad thing? do you not like that i did?"
"i'm not saying it's bad. i just want to understand why you feel like you have to do that all of a sudden. you never did before, then suddenly you started acting like i would only be interested in you if you do those things. did i make you feel like you have to do all those things for me to... enjoy your friendship?"
friendship. you still think of him as a friend.
choso frowns. "i don't know," he murmurs, nervous. he glances down at his hands over yours, then back into the sun glittering in your perfect eyes. could he ever appear that perfect to you, the way you do to him?
"choso, it's okay. you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
his jaw clenches hard. can he really?
"...and i never meant to make you feel like you have to be someone you're not. it's okay if you have different interests from me. you don't have to like everything i like to get my attention. i like you just the way you are. i always have."
his eyes glisten. "you do?"
you smile something warm and comforting. "of course i do."
"but... i do like liking the same things as you," he says lowly, face fiery. "i like learning about you... and making you happy... and being someone for you to lean on. you always are to me. i want to repay that."
you giggle lightly. "aw, cho. you're so sweet. but i don't do any of that stuff for you out of obligation."
"i know," he says. "that's why i want to do the same for you. you're always so nice to me and it means a lot. i just wanted to show you that i... care."
you soften, heat crawling over your skin. "i care about you too."
he swallows hard again, eyes unblinking. "like... as a friend?"
you hesitate, averting your gaze briefly. "y-yeah. as a friend," you affirm, peaking back up at him hopefully. the corners of your lips twitch as you sway awkwardly, puckering your lips in thought. "...unless you... care about me some other way...?"
choso's body goes rigid. do you know? have you read him so easily? more importantly, are you hoping that he does like you as something more? do you reciprocate the intensity he feels?
he's never felt more scared of anything in his life. "um..." he looks down at the keychain in his large palms and shudders. "well, i don't know... i guess-"
choso's words are caught in his throat when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist and tug him forward. you press onto your tip toes and lean up, pulling him down to press your sweet lips to his cheekbone. the brunette's eyes snap wide, pupils small, the sensation of your pillowy lips on his skin completely disrupting the function of his brain. he stares ahead, shocked as you pull away and you laugh at his expression.
"choso," you chuckle, holding onto his wrist as you toy with the hem of your shirt girlishly. "i like you as more than a friend too. a lot, actually."
he can hardly think or speak. "...what?"
"come on, i'm dying here," you whine. "i like you, choso. okay? and i'd never want you to think that you should change anything about yourself for me to see you that way. i already do. i like you, unfiltered, as you are. you're perfect," you emphasize. "...you like me too, right?"
"...you like me?"
"yes," you laugh.
"as... more than... a friend?"
"obviously, cho."
choso thinks he's seen heaven as your words land gracefully on his ears. your keychain drops to the ground in his stupor, and before you can ask if he's alright or decide that you've completely broken him, he clobbers you in a tight embrace, finally allowed permission, finally assured. his strong arms wrap tightly around your waist and you yelp as he lifts you into the air effortlessly, his face buried into your shoulder as he holds you tight.
his eyes scrunch closed and he breathes you in, overjoyed, relieved, happy enough to bawl his eyes out right there. he sniffs, pressing his lips tight together, savoring your body against his. he hears you laugh out before feeling your arms wrap around him for stability, and he can finally breathe. for somehow, choso lucked out. the most beautiful, kind, deserving woman on this planet chooses him, and now that he knows, he's not going to let a second of you go to waste any more than he already has.
for how can you even begin to ask if he likes you when you are all that he has ever wanted?
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
hiromi higuruma: your new boyfriend!
hiromi has heard all of the accusations, every single last one, and has denied each one with an adamance.
the dark haired attorney has known you for years, and throughout those years, you have remained a gracious constant in his rather chaotic, exhausting, ever so stressful life. having a best friend like you certainly had never been in the cards for hiromi, who always prides himself on his independence and insists that intimate relationships of any kind would hinder his concentration.
that, however, did not stop him from growing close to you after meeting you in law school. before the world got too big. before he became the very center of right and wrong, justice and injustice, guilt and innocence.
it was at an annual law convention that law students were encouraged to attend. he found you at a neighboring booth, tabling as an intern for another firm he had heard of in passing, and in the midst of the day's hectic buzz, the two of you ended up sneaking away to grab a drink after sharing a few rather striking conversations.
your mind is intriguing. that is what first pulled hiromi to you, but what he found beyond that was your ability to shed your professional air to expose your more human side in his privacy. you're quite social, personable, and full of smiles, and with the week hiromi had been having, your company had proven quite refreshing. you weren't stuffy. you didn't seem to be hiding any tricks or secrets up your sleeves. you merely existed in your own space, and the attention came to you, whether you had asked for it or not.
and when you smiled, hiromi smiled. thus beginning your rather close friendship.
you and higuruma do most things together. in your early days, you were often found cooped up together in the library, studying senselessly for the bar. you'd quiz each other, spitballing debates, bouncing ideas and theories and arguments off of one another to the point where it felt like a game, where the most stressful time in your lives was momentarily treated like a challenging, engaging activity.
you made everything feel easier, lighter. caught in a whirlwind of dedication to justice, you often found higuruma in a dissociative state with his pen flicking restlessly between his fingers as he stared out of a nearby window with distance eyes and a blank face. you'd sigh, for you knew this burden all too well. you saw it sag in his shoulders, watched as the weight over his posture built and built with the coming days, as he climbed higher and higher, and filtered his mind with more knowledge.
with the expansion of hiromi's natural intelligence, his light threatened to dwindle. he's a prodigy after all, far beyond anything that you could have dreamed to become, but he was still your best friend at the end of the day. when he withdrew, you were there to pull him back. until study sessions became cooking dates at your apartment, where flashcards were eventually discared after hours of memorization and muttering terms under one another's breaths. you'd say something like: "you can't retain a single thing if you don't give your body nutrients, no matter how smart you are!" and you'd force him out of the cocoon he'd built on your faded leather couch and push him into the kitchen.
stubborn with conviction, hiromi would give you an earfull at first, griping about how the bar isn't a game. about how law is the future, his future, your future, and you can't afford any moments to slack as long as injustice continues to run rampant just outside your window. and you'd hum mindlessly as you move about your cramped kitchen, for you'd heard this lecture countless times, before shoving a red onion into his palm outstretched - mid sermon, and ordering him to dice it into cubes.
"(y/n)," he'd call your name, weary, aggravated. "i was talking."
"shush," you'd hush him, unaffected by his feigned anger with you. hiromi would stand and glare at you in defiance for a minute longer each time, before eventually giving in and dicing the onion as you'd ordered, murmuring under his breath.
he certainly found no reason to complain when the two of you were eating out of chipped china over your dining room table in silence, hunger having finally been satiated after hours of unintentional starvation. thick books lay forgotten just for a moment on your coffee table as the two of you enjoy the silence and satisfaction of a home cooked meal.
you were often the reason he saw the light of day, as you'd drag him to study outside in a nearby park, picnic blanket layed out under a great oak as sun poured through the cracks left in the leaves, a gentle breeze tossing your pages back and forth. you'd lay on your stomach as hiromi sat upright with his back pressed against the bark. against hiromi's better judgment, he'd let his eyes leave the page of his textbook upon registering the sound of a nearby dog barking. he'd find that your attention had already strayed, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you watch life flourish around you, the little dog off in the distance yapping excitedly at a flock of geese gliding across the pond.
and then his chocolate eyes would fall to you, the way you lounge with your elbows caging around your thick book, eyes full of the sky's light and your dream of capturing this peace for those wronged by the justice system, for those abused by the unpunished.
your eyes would eventually snap away, finding hiromi's, and he'd look back down at his book casually, muttering that you need to stay more focused. you'd roll your eyes, nudging his knee playfully.
"lighten up a bit, romi. you can't try to protect the world if you don't look around at it once and a while. see what's actually going on."
and you, of course, are the only reason hiromi ever stepped outside of his apartment past the hours of 09:00. you'd call him up, telling him that a few of your classmates invited you out to trivia night at a nearby bar. he'd click his teeth and tell you that he'd pass, only to find that you're already standing outside of his door, dressed in knee high boots and a leather coat, scarf wrapped around your neck and lips painted dark.
the brunette would open the door to reveal your image and frown at your expecting grin and open arms. he'd give you a flat look before turning to find a coat, for he always knew that you weren't leaving without him. after all, he could never say no to you. not when you refuse to leave him stewing in the intellectual misery that this profession has already imprinted upon him. not when you're constantly reminding him to bring his head up from the water. he'd certainly drown without you.
and without fail, at every outing you'd drag him to, in every space you found yourselves with other people in, some guy you're both acquainted with would tap him on the shoulder and lean in to inquire about you.
"yo, are you two dating?"
and every single time, hiromi would raise his drink to his lips and answer plainly. "no."
you're hiromi's best friend. you have been since the moment you met. you spend every waking moment together, and you hound him like an overbearing mother, but you are not romantically involved. you never have been. and he does not understand why that's so difficult for people to understand. so what, you're the only person he goes to about anything? so what, you can singlehandedly clear the grey skies of his cloudy mind? so what, you're his favorite person to be around, to talk to, to spend time with? you're friends. friendship isn't a crime.
"so you've hooked up?"
"no."
"you haven't even kissed?"
"no."
"but you're attracted to each other, right?"
"no," a vein would bulge over hiromi's temple as he'd growl into his glass. "we're close friends. that's all."
and every time he'd repeat so with such finality, inquirers would lean back with a whistle and the shake of his head, as if being platonic with you was some sort of unfathomable notion.
and then, like clockwork, the question will come. "then... she's single?"
hiromi's eye would twitch, and he'd grumble some kind of affirmation. for it's true, you are single. you don't belong to one another, and you can certainly do as you please. while hiromi has no interest in such affairs, that doesn't mean that you should close yourself off to them as well.
nevertheless, every guy that's come your way after hiromi has confirmed that you are not his girlfriend has always met your rejection. it surprises the dark haired man every time, for you aren't like him. you're brighter. you enjoy people more. you should have fun, but when he asks you about it, you just shrug him off.
"i'm not gonna start fooling around with anyone while studying for the bar, romi. that's just asking for failure."
"that's a little unhealthy. someone could make you happy."
"says you," you'd nudge him. "why don't you listen to your own advice?"
"it's different."
"it's not at all actually."
you've been evasive in regard to relationships for as long as hiromi has known you, and he doesn't know why. your excuses continue to shift as well depending on the time, for after the two of you pass the bar, you say that you're too focused on building your career. after your career has been build, you say that you're too busy with work. hiromi has not even heard of you engaging in one night stands or little flings, much to his relief if he were being honest. he thinks you're far better than something as casual and shallow as that.
still, you've shied away from topics of romance, catching a strange look in your eye every single time he asks. he doesn't understand why, nor what that look has meant as it developed over the years, but he swears he knows you well. he had been confident that, no matter the time or place, you would continue to stubbornly refuse romantic advances.
therefore, the attorney is a bit floored now that you are in your thirties, and after years of watching you turn down advances, you suddenly turn up with a new boyfriend.
higuruma's chopsticks freeze midair, sushi squished between the wooden sticks, and his eyes widen just a smidgen as you stand before him after hours in his office, an excited glint in your eyes.
the sushi drops back down to its container as silence floods the empty space, and you await a reaction. "what did you just say?" he asks slowly.
"i said i met someone!"
"...as in..."
"as in, i have a boyfriend, romi. and i want you to meet him soon!"
the words echo through his mind like some kind of curse that he struggles to digest. slowly, he lowers his chopsticks to his desk and folds his hands before him, adjusting himself in his seat as he processes this odd revalation. he eyes you carefully, brain working overtime to decipher whether you're messing with him or not. your smile dwindles and your hand finds your hip, your brow raising.
"what the hell? what kind of reaction is that? aren't you happy for me?"
"i'm... why... is this the first time i'm hearing about this? a boyfriend?" he echoes, despising the way the word tastes on his tongue. "that's a big step. how quickly are you moving?"
"not that quickly, hiromi, we started talking like two months ago."
"and you never told me?"
"i didn't wanna bother you while you were in the middle of dealing with that one case. you were so stressed!"
"what case?" his brow twitches.
"the saito one."
"that case was forever ago, (y/n). you could've told me when it was over."
"yeah, but - i don't know, it felt stupid - and anyway, i still just didn't wanna disrupt you. you know how you are, you constantly jump from one thing to another like a lunatic."
the brown eyed man exhales, turning to face you fully in his office chair. his left elbow remains propped on the table while his other hand rubs at his forehead. "we tell each other everything," he eventually says.
"i know. i'm sorry. that's why i'm telling you now," you shrug. "what if things went badly? i wasn't gonna tell you about the guy if he ended up being an asshole."
"two months is still hardly enough time to know if he's an asshole or not."
you scrunch your face. "what is with you? i thought you'd be excited for me. you're always telling me that i need to put myself out there."
"yes, i know, but - " hiromi stops himself, his grim attitude on the subject suddenly dawning on him. you have a point. he is always telling you to put yourself first, to find someone to make you happy, but this? this is so abrupt. he had at least expected you to give him a heads up whenever you began seeing someone. he would have liked to learn the journey of how the two of you even got to this point, to be a part of that with you, but instead you spring this on him like he shouldn't feel excluded from that area of your life, the area you've always left so grey. what changed? why, all of a sudden, are you happy to be with someone else - with someone, now?
still, you're his best friend. you're right. he should be happy for you, and put his cynicism aside.
"i apologize. i'm just surprised, is all," his voice softens. you fold your arms across your chest, shifting your weight with a pout. he catches your attitude and rolls his eyes, chuckling tiredly. "i said i'm sorry. i am happy for you. you deserve to be happy."
"jeez, was that so hard?" you grumble. "and... it's fine. i guess i do owe you an apology for not saying anything. i really, honestly just didn't think you'd - wanna hear about it. with everything you've got going on."
"if it's about you, (y/n), i would like to hear about it. you know this. i'm never too busy for you."
you purse your lips, softening. "...yeah. neither am i."
he raises a brow. "are you sure?"
you click your teeth, whacking his knee with your handbag. "yes, i'm sure," you groan. you reach back and pull up another nearby office chair, and plop down in front of him. "at least let me make it up to you by catching you up now," you grin cheekily.
hiromi exhales once more, turning his attention back to his dropped sushi. "i'm listening."
the defense attorney viciously fights the sinking feeling in his stomach when you pull out your phone and show him pictures of the tall, strapping, chestnut haired man who has finally managed to tie you down. you chatter with a giddy tone about where you met, the dates he's taken you on, the flowers he's purchased you, and how he asked you to be his the night before.
a light smile graces hiromi's features as he listens to you talk, for he's never seen you so openly lovestruck over someone, and a lump molds itself in his throat with the realization that this is the first time he's seen you with another man.
and while he tries to be happy for you, while he tells you that he's lucky to have you, while he lets you flaunt pictures of your hand in his and his lips on your cheek as you beam at the camera...
he doesn't fucking like it.
in fact, he hates it, seeing his best friend so happy in such a way. and he doesn't understand why, for he doesn't know the man. he has no personal vendeta against him. from what you've told him, the guy has only passed every test you've thrown his way and treated you nicely. he has a solid job, makes a good living, and he's not bad looking. not at all. in fact, he fits beside you aesthetically, pairs well with your beauty.
but the image makes him sick. the thought of him kissing you, holding you, keeping you in the intimate spaces, late at night, early in the morning, has hiromi souring with something foreign and detestable. he does not like it.
and it feels even worse when he finally meets the guy. when you arrive at the cafe you told hiromi to meet at with your arm linked in his and a smile so bright it blinds him, your hand waving enthusiastically above your head as you approach.
hiromi's eyes flicker to your boyriend. he's tall. muscular beneath the frame of his cashmiere sweater. an easy smile is plastered on his face, one hiromi could never wear in the whirlwind of his cluttered mind.
his arm is locked in yours like you belong right beside him. like you're his.
and you are.
hiromi's stomach drops, and his mood is dampening before the two of you even reach the umbrella shaded table he's reserved. the table he'd reserved for you, because you asked him to. you asked him to book this. you wanted to introduce your new boyfriend to him, praying that he'd like him, and hiromi organized the entire thing solely because you you begged him with that lilt in your voice, the one you use any time you want to guilt hiromi into doing something. the one you used every day in law school, when he wanted to stew in his future and you encouraged him to live in the present.
because he's never seen his best friend so vulnerable and sweet before, and it kills him, but he'd rather kill himself before taking away that light in your eyes.
he'd never say no to you, to your happiness.
still, he doesn't understand his problem. he doesn't understand why he allows himself to speak with a poisonous, dull sting in his voice every time your boyfriend asked him a question. he doesn't understand why his nose curls just the slightest as he turns away to look anywhere else but at the way he drops a kiss to your forehead while you're talking. he doesn't understand why his chest is tight enough to restrict air, why it feels like a thousand tons are weighing down when he sees your knees brush under the table the way yours would against his six years ago back in that library, crowded by the sun-caught lint filtering in the window, dusty books that cursed hiromi's life, and the shoulder of the girl who saved it brushing against his as you read.
he doesn't understand why, when your boyfriend leaves to go to the bathroom and your face falls the moment you're alone, and you ask what the hell is wrong with him, his frown deepens. and he is suddenly... annoyed.
"there's nothing wrong with me," hiromi responds robotically, brows at a slight angle.
you scoff with disbelieving smile. "what are you talking about? you've been glaring at him and hardly speaking the entire morning! he probably thinks you hate him!"
"you're exaggerating."
"i'm ex - okay," you throw your hands up. "you've been acting weird ever since i told you about him. you can't keep denying it."
"i don't know what you want from me. i hardly speak to people outside of work anyway, why is it suddenly different now?"
"because i asked you to make an effort, and you're not. you haven't asked him a single question. you're brooding."
"i'm tired."
"you're always tired."
"i can't think of anything to ask."
you give him a deadpan expression. "you, the nosy ass defense attorney of the century, can't think of any questions to ask your best friend's new boyfriend?"
"why does it matter to you if i like him or not, (y/n)?" hiromi settles is chin over his knuckles, elbows propped on the table. his haunting eyes are sharp on yours as you frown, sadness swirling in your gaze and that hint of something strange he's caught so many times. he just can't name it. "you asked me to have coffee with you two, so i am. i did this for you."
"hiromi, what?" you breathlessly whisper. "why does it matter? you're my best friend, that's why it matters. because you asked to be involved, because... because you always said - you wanted me to explore. so i did, a-and i'm happy, and you're... not. and this is the only time i ever - "
you stop yourself, ducking your head, and hiromi immediately snaps out of it. his eyes catch the curl of your brow, the way your voice falters, and his vexation is suddenly melting away to make room for his concern.
he's supposed to see you happy, after all. not do this. not make you upset.
he's never made you upset before. not like this.
what is wrong with him?
"i'm sorry," he says suddenly, softness and steadiness returning. you shake your head, and hiromi reaches over the table for your hand. your head whips over to him, his warm palm resting over yours. you meet his eye, and see the remorse. "i'm sorry. you're right. i didn't mean to upset you. i'm sorry, sweetness."
your eyes flutter at that old, rare nickname. you look down at his hand, then back up at him. "what is with you, hiromi?"
"nothing."
"yes there is. i know you. what's wrong? why won't you be honest with me."
"it's nothing."
"it is something. do you have have something... to say? something that's bothering you?"
hiromi blinks, and when he stares in your eyes long enough, he sees the years you stayed by his side. the years you remained his, and only his. his best friend.
his shoulders raise ever so slightly, then deflate. you see something retreat back within itself, then watch as a thin wall washes over him. "no."
his hand slips away, and your fingers twitch. your hold one another's gaze longer, lost, until you see your boyfriend walk back outside. you purse your lips in a half attempt to smile as he sits back down beside you, his arm winding around you and pulling you into his side.
hiromi pretends to have a business call, and leavees within the following ten minutes.
that night, in hiromi's sleep, warm figments of you sweep across his subconscious. it's him sitting in your boyfriend's place, holding you close, feeling your body press to his, letting his lips dot to the corner of your nose.
you walk hand in hand back to that library, and before you sit down, he hovers over you, pressing you against the side of the table, his hand on your jaw, the other caging your hip, pressed to the wood surface of the table. your hands melt over his cheeks, and he melts, lips curving into a tender smile as he looks into your eyes.
he brings you closer, your sweet breath wafting against his lips, and the gasp you take before his lips touch yours is what wakes him up in a cold sweat with a snap.
his eyes pierce his bedroom ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest, and breaths heavy. hiromi takes a moment, adjusting to his surroundings, turning to read the alarm clock on his desk that reads 3:05 am, and he realizes that he was dreaming.
the ache of loss comes quick, your warmth tugged away by the mercilessness of his consciousness, and suddenly he feels his chest tightening, his browl furrowing, his mouth running dry.
it all pieces together in the darkness of hiromi's bedroom after years of friendship, years of watching you turn guys away, years of telling you that someone was out there to love you before he realized it was himself.
he's in love with you. he has been this whole time. like an idiot.
and he let you slip away to someone else, like the version of you he just woke up from.
for the first time in his obsessively planned life, hiromi hasn't the slightest clue what the hell to do now.
various instances of jjk men realizing that they're in love with you, what triggers their realizations, confessing to you, and everything in between ... ₊˚⊹♡ | fluffy, mutual pining, yearning, sapppppyyyyy, a bit of angst in higuruma's - i fear i lost the og request somewhere so sorry, this was long overdue!
satoru thinks he's heard your laughter before, only he's not so sure anymore now that the very sound has made his smile drop in stun and his heart flutter with something too terrifying to name.
there's always a certain level of professionalism that you maintain when you are within your work environment, always keeping order in your classrooms or during your lessons to prevent any room for distraction. this very discipline does not allow room for distraction, and you are sure to lead your teachings with this very motto. your students understand. they respect it. they learn.
consequently, you don't allow much to sway you during work hours - things like off kilter jokes or a pencil accidentally flying across the room, a shameful result of toge's frequent pencil tapping against his desk to occupy his body whilst retaining the information you share, don't receive much reaction. the most you'll give is an exasperated glance, or a weary eye roll that leads the corners of your lips to twitch with the slightest bit of amusement, but that's all you've got before you're redirecting focus back to the chalk board.
satoru, of course, took notice, as he finds himself picking on any of his coworkers or students who dare not to flash even the subtlest of grins within such a dreary atmosphere. he gives you grief frequently about it, telling you that you would look a hell of a lot prettier if you'd flash those pearly whites of yours. you know that he is, of course, purposefully being gross and annoying about it just to get a rise out of you, just as he does nanami or utahime or, hell, even poor megumi or nobara on occasion.
you brush him off time and time again, reminding him that you aren't some unfeeling monster who does not show joy. in fact, you're quite down to earth as a professor, much more down to earth than other mentors who have taught you, sparking memories you look back on with a resentful chill.
"i'm just doing my job," you would say as satoru walks beside you, hands tucked in his pockets as he leans over to meet your eye level. his head tilts and pink lips curl into that teasing, self-satisfied smile he always wears.
"yeah, a real boring job," he'd sigh wistfully, dramatics and airiness twisted up in his tone. you'd shoot him a glare, he'd chuckle. "come on, just one smile."
"what are you talking about, gojo? i smile all the time," you slightly chuckle at his sheer ridiculousness, a mild display of what you insist to be the personality that you very much so do have that satoru is always griping that you don't.
"you know what i mean. let loose. live a little."
"i let loose while i'm teaching, i put those kids' lives at risk. i'm not doing that."
"are you insinuating that because i have a more laid back teaching style than you, my students are more prone to danger?" the ivory haired sorcerer gasps, mimicking offense.
you think back to yuta's first day under satoru's watch. "yes," you deadpan.
"blasphemy," he'd deny. "my kids are smart and powerful because of me. and funny."
he'd go on about something else regarding the way you carry yourself at work, mentioning something about the way your nose always crinkles a certain way when you're too focused, how you'll give yourself worry lines instead of smile lines.
you'd ask him how he even notices something so minuscule like that, and he'd stand upright again with a shrug and his tongue peaking past his smiling lips playfully. he tries not to give your question much thought when you've arrived to the field where your students are sparring, approaching side by side like sun and gloom.
and you'd leave it be. no matter how much he continues to try and pester you into entertaining his mockery. no matter how many stupid jokes and stories he throws your way as you work your way through the winding halls of the school, just to get you to crack the kind of smile or laugh that shakes your entire body instead of lingering small in the front of your face.
you don't think anything of satoru's constant nagging, and neither does he. at first.
you see the way he treats the others who perform more rigidly than you do within their fields, who always - always groan and toss their eyes to the ceiling in disdain when satoru's jolly frame saunters into a room or barges through the door. you see how strategically he stretches out his pestering tactics, how he'll say just the right thing at the right time to bait nanami into forcefully shutting his newspaper and muttering something about taking a bathroom break to just get away from the sound of satoru's neverending words.
despite having not spent your youth with your coworkers the way they have with each other, as your addition to the school transpired within the recent year, you think you've got a good idea of who satoru is behind that big, shiny, glittering title of the honored one.
lighthearted, a little arrogant in a way that charms those less familiar with his antics, pride acceptable enough for it to be overlooked by his warm energy and indulgence in everyday simplicities: sweets and laughter and childlike wonder. he's a big kid. and though he's an irritating little shit, what the world does not see is the generosity, the care, the intelligence. he's a good guy. stupidly aggravating and too flirty at the best of times, but far more human than how he is perceived, how he is treated.
you don't think anything of the way he tends to follow you around, as you assume this is his routine treatment of fresh meat, of the less boisterous among you. shoko told you that's just how he is. too friendly. too invasive. too loud. too talkative.
too clingy.
satoru, on the other hand, doesn't quite know what's wrong with him yet, but he knows something is wrong.
he likes you. a bit too much, probably. it's been so long since he's met someone new who is like you, someone who fit so well into the dynamic him and his former classmates have cultivated for their students. your arrival was greatly anticipated, if not slightly disorienting. you came in with a regal air and a face so pretty that it almost paralyzed him where he stood, but he thought nothing of it. he's met beautiful women before. he’s flirted with them before. he knew it meant nothing. yet he’s flirted with you, and it always feels like something.
so he's not so sure why he often finds himself stopping dead in his tracks when he hears your voice echoing from the sparring field, instructing your students with a stern yet almost motherly cadence. he'll turn and locate you down there from where he stands by winding pillars, watching the way your hands find your hips and your (e/c) eyes monitor your students' movements with that pinch of concern. like you didn't just get here. like you raised them yourself, and their survival is your responsibility.
satoru will swallow the saliva that has built in his mouth, suddenly becoming aware of the way his cheeks ache from having smiled at the sight and sound of you for so long from afar.
he's not sure why he is so curious about you and your adjustment to your job. he perks up at the very mention of your name in any setting, tuning out whatever yuji is rambling on about to listen to what yaga is detailing about your next mission in the room over. he wonders if you're even up for the job, and decides to catch yaga long after his conversation about you to offer himself up to go in your place. yaga would lower his sunglasses and quirk his thick brows, pursing his lips in inquisition as he stares up at the white haired man he's known since he was a young boy.
"why are you so worried about (l/n)'s business?"
why is he?
satoru shrugs. "just looking out for the newbie."
"(l/n) has been a grade one sorcerer for years. she can handle herself just fine," yaga gives gojo one last skeptical work. "get back to worrying about your job, satoru. not hers."
he brushes off the bitter taste yaga's words leave in his mouth, as though peers and colleagues and friends and former classmates have not come and gone at the hand of the unknown, having been thrust into what they had believed to be familiar territory only to find themselves sorely mistaken, outnumbered, and overpowered.
you're new. you're nice, and humble, responsible, and you actually listen to what gojo has to say, despite how everyone around him feigns or feels palpable disdain or aggravation toward him. you don't treat him like he's a joke. you go to him for advice, looking to him as an inspiration rather than a pest to belittle, his title neither pushing you away or sparking excessive glorification. you simply respect him, beneath all that goofiness and bickering. you're sweet in that way. unbiased. unjudging.
and you treat every one of your students like family, bracing them for the cruel world, remembering that they are still children. not weapons. people like you, people who are kind and generous and stable, are a rarity within the jujutsu world. satoru would prefer not to lose the refreshing air that you bring to the campus just because you were sent on an muddy mission too soon.
he would prefer not to lose you at all.
when shoko starts to look at him sideways whenever you walk by or finish up a conversation with him, satoru knows for sure that his suspicions about his own behavior are not just in his head. that the strange way he is acting, the strange way he is feeling whenever you are around, is actually noticeable. she observes how your presence slowly begins to dictate how satoru is feeling, or how he will behave for the remainder of the day.
you'll tell him and the brunette that you'll be sent away for a few days, and satoru is pouting, glossy lips pulled downward as his brow furrows with disappointment beneath his blindfold. he'll bombard you with a hundred questions, asking how far away you'll be, what kind of curse you'll be encountering, if you will be going alone. and with each patient answer you give, his sulking grows tenfold.
because why do you have to leave? it's so boring without you here, though he always claims that you contribute to the drab atmosphere with your refusal to entertain his antics throughout the school day just to get a reaction out of you.
still, that would be days without your soft smile. days without your eager questions that satoru always drops everything to answer happily, his heart thundering at the calm, attentive way you look past his blindfold as if to hold his gaze, to let him know that you have all of his undivided attention.
days without your heavy lectures that ring out in the halls and weigh down the air, your delivery so urgent and resolute that it makes the snowy haired man himself want to stand at attention.
days without those reserved chuckles and thoughtful eyes. without your maternal agency toward your students. without those breezy compliments that must hold no true substance, as they flutter past your lips like daily greetings.
your hair looks really fluffy today, gojo.
did you get a new uniform jacket tailored? it looks nice.
you have really broad shoulders, you know that?
and you're never flirting. never seeking anything in return. you're just... like that. endearing and observant and eager to share the good that you see in others with them. you're fully aware of gojo's arrogance, yet unbothered by the possibility of making his head ten times bigger than it already is. you compliment him the same way you'd compliment utahime, or kusakabe. it's effortless, thoughtless kindness.
and the higher ups expect satoru to go days without that?
he's all but begging you to stay, though there isn't much of anything you can do to get out of direct orders from higher command. shoko will watch lazily with a cigarette hanging from her glossed lips, her cheek in her palm as the gears turn in her head, and she decides that maybe gojo isn't like this with everyone. that with you, he's a bit more clingy than too clingy.
she can tell for certain that something is up when an air of silent, tormented pensiveness captures satoru when you leave to meet with one of your students, unaware of the fact that your absence truly wounds satoru. you think he's overexaggerating his desire for you to stay.
he's not.
"what was that about?' shoko asks from where she sits just behind satoru, the sorcerer standing before her desk as he stares at the empty doorway.
"i don't know," he sighs. "some new mission. they've been throwing her out in the field a lot lately."
"it's her job," shoko says flatly. "but that's not what i mean. i'm talking about you."
he turns to look at her, a bubble of anxiety brewing in his chest as he tries to appear normal. "what about me?"
shoko's brow raises, her index and middle finger pinching the cigarette between them. a cloud of smoke wafts from her lips as she lowers it away from her mouth. "you were really persistent just now. why don't you want her to leave so bad? it's just a few days. do you always get like that when she leaves?"
yes. he does. and it's only been a few months.
"what do you mean? i worry about all of my friends and colleagues."
she's being dramatic. he claims everyone but himself is being dramatic when they toss him those questioning looks, the looks that scream out how different he has been acting since you came along.
he just cares about you. he cares about everyone at jujutsu high. he wants you to stay safe, vigilent, like the rest of them, so that you can stay in one piece and he can spend more time with you. so that he can learn more about you, and sit with you as you talk with that hypnotic, smooth authority that makes his brain mushy and his knees weak. what's so bad about wanting to be around you?
satoru is still trying to figure out exactly what is going on when a few of you go out for a couple of drinks. satoru, as usual, does not indulge, but encourages you to nonetheless, eager to see how you'd behave when alcohol has made you limber and slow.
it's been a long month, you're a bit battered and overworked, and normally you wouldn't, but you finally have a day ahead of you where you don't teach or get sent out to damn battle, so you think that just one drink won't hurt.
you're four drinks in when the others leave, leaving you and satoru at the bar talking for hours. your inibitions have lowered significantly, and in contrast to the tight composure you keep at school, you’re slumped casually in your bar stool, elbow propped on the counter and eyes big and glittery as satoru tells you a story from his days back in high school, where the sun seemed to shine all the time and his best friends' laughter constantly filled the air.
he's telling you this one story about when a group of them - him, nanami, geto, haibara, and shoko, all snuck out of the dorms one night to try to make it to a concert that was happening a few blocks away, only to be caught by yaga the second they stepped off school grounds. satoru, ever the rebellious teen, was dragged back to his dorm kicking and screaming by the principal after having attemped to combat him.
something about the liquor warming your stomach and lightening the atmosphere makes satoru's story and the animated hand movements and voices he incorporates to revive the memory for you all the more hilarious. and instead of brushing him off or telling him to quit playing around, you bend over at your waist and release the loudest, most obnoxious laugh satoru has ever heard in his entire life.
the sound startles him at first, his sapphire eyes going slightly wide behind his dark shades, his lips twitching in shock as he freezes just to watch you and listen.
your skin is slightly flushed, your eyes a little glassy. but your lips, your lips are stretched wide across your pretty face, all teeth on display, your jaw open to free the symphony of cackles that spill from you. your hand raises to hover over your mouth as if to conceal your laughter, but it doesn't work. you're still laughing, your eyes little crescents, the skin beside and underneath wrinkled, your nose crunched, your brows curled just slightly with humor as if it pains you.
satoru's mouth runs dry, and the chaotic white noise of the buzzing bar goes mute. his surroundings blur out to slowly focus on you. your laughter seems to echo through satoru's mind like a distant memory playing on repeat, ringing out through the hollow space of his head. the dim bar lights appear to glow about you, twinkling around your hair and against your (s/c) skin slightly moist from the atmosphere thick with heat from confined bodies.
satoru always jokes about your dismal air. he's seen you smile. he's heard you laugh.
but never like this.
it's like music to his ears. like the prettiest song he's ever had the privilege to hear. your entire body shakes with your laughter, like it has completely taken over you and you don't care that it has. it shines in your gaze, flutters out so bright and loud that gojo thinks it brightened your entire aura.
satoru's smile is gone, having faded away with each passing second your laughter soaked through his ears. he watches you like that for a while, awed, and then, his smile returns as if compelled. his skin warms, dimples poke into his cheeks, and he beams along with you, his own laughter slipping into yours. it's just so contageous.
his heart is hammering in his throat, his gaze suddenly soft and tender on you, the vision of you before him so angelic that it makes his entire mass quiver with the electricity of your beauty.
you laugh. the very thing satoru has been trying to get out of you finally happened. all because of him.
then you say it. clipped words between breathless giggles, your true soul finally bearing itself raw in the comfortability of the public. away from your concerns. away from the safety you must ensure your kids practice. away from the burden of sorcery. you exist.
"you kill me, gojo."
he feels something resolute strike him in the chest right there, his lips twitching in his smile and his body running hotter than the sun.
you think he's funny. you think he's funny. you're laughing all breathless and beautiful and shamelessly because of him, and he's choking over charm, fumbling in his mind for a smooth quip, an i told you so, a finally.
but all he can think of is how fucking pretty you look laughing like that, letting joy take you, letting your cares slip away in his company.
that strike to his chest cements firm and hot, and he chuckles rather awkwardly, chin thumping against his palm as he gazes at you with an impending realization. his mind conjures up glittery flowers and floating hearts that surround your laughing figure, and he abruptly knows what's been wrong with him.
it's not just that you make every room brighter when you step into it. it's not just that your beauty renders him speechless any time he's within your vicinity. it's not just that he has a little work crush on you and likes to tug your pigtails over it.
it's not any of that. he knows by the way he's looking at you now, by the way his body feels warm and fuzzy like he's stuck inside a sweet, insulated dream that he doesn't want to wake up from, that what is plaguing him is far stronger than the aforementioned simplicities.
he knows by the way your laughter makes him want to drop to his knees before you and plead you to never stop, to never deprive him of such a sound again.
he sighs. he's in love with you.
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
suguru geto: the future!
suguru has always known that he likes you.
he has no reason to deny it. nothing is standing in the way of how he feels, even if he finds out one day that you don't feel the same. suguru has accepted his crush, his puppy dog attraction to you and his simultaneous desire for your affection.
he shields it thinly but smoothly, always greeting you with warm smiles that make you feel toasty inside and eyes that always lock directly onto yours, as if he is reminding you every day that he sees you and wants to continue seeing you for the rest of his life. you're a dear friend to him, very dear, and you should know it each time you see him - how much he appreciates you. how much he cares.
his fingers always find some way to touch you, whether curving a piece of hair from your face or grazing your arm to eventually slip his hand into yours, and hold it as you walk side by side as if it is nothing. as if friends do this all the time. and whether he's saying hello or goodbye, he always opens his arms wide to invite you into a soothing embrace, his arms circling around you and holding you snug to his chest. you always hum in content, smiling sweetly and hugging tight around his middle, sinking into his comfort.
and when he's departing for an extended period of time, when your face just looks too sweet as you look up at him and wish him safety, he ducks to hold your head and press his lips to your forehead chastely, pulling away to smile sweetly down at you.
like friends do.
suguru has nothing to be ashamed of.
especially when you make him feel the way he does. flooding him with joy and fuzziness that he once believed himself undeserving of. helping to lift the weight of the world from his shoulders at the end of long, testing days with the time vessel association, without even trying. further fueling his ambitions for a non-sorcerer free world for you, because someone as sweet, loyal, selfless, and beautiful as you deserves a peace that only the world he has envisioned promises.
a world where the two of you can live freely, where you can be perfectly, permanently, blissfully happy by his side. void of any unwarranted responsibility, void of any pain.
why should suguru feel embarrassed of his affections toward you? why should he shield how dearly you mean to him? how deeply he cherishes you, alongside the rest of his family?
especially when you stayed, when everyone else he loved turned away from him. he doesn't blame them, and never has, but you. you didn't leave him behind. you didn't hesitate. you stayed.
and that's all that mattered in the end.
despite suguru's overt self awareness regarding his feelings for you, he does not attempt to pursue you until he has realized that these said feelings have grown past what he initially believed them to. and this intensity dawns on him much later than he would have expected for himself.
it hits him one sunny day on the roof of the time vessel association, a spot he frequents with his girls when the three of them need a bit of quiet time away from all the noise just below their feet.
geto has a newspaper cracked open over his lap as mimiko weaves a fishtail braid into his long, black locks. the breeze whistles through pinned linen on wires, a slight chill nipping at the wind, an indicator of the cooler months creeping in.
the cult leader and his girls ordinarily talk of whatever comes to mind, catching up on little things happening around the facility, dreaming up all the wonders that geto intends to provide when his goals reach fruition.
he expects further talk of the new phone that is coming out within the next few months, or the rom coms that the girls desperately want him to watch with them, but what he doesn't expect is the bold question that leaves nanako's mouth that inevitably draws his mind right back to you, as it always does.
"geto, do you think you'll ever wanna get married in the new world?" the blonde questions curiously from her spot crouched next to geto's chair, her nose still pressed into her telepohone screen.
the hazel eyed man blinks, turning slightly to look down at the young girl's head. "married?" he echoes, taken aback. "what could have possibly made your mind go to that, nanako?"
she shrugs, tilting her head back to look up at her father figure from upside down. "i dunno. i feel like you should get to settle down after all your hard work has paid off."
he smiles softly, half amused, half affectionate. "you think so?"
"sure. mimiko and i were talking about it the other day."
"were you now?"
the brunette teenager behind him hums flatly. "mhm."
he chuckles. "well, i'll be honest with you girls, marriage hasn't crossed my mind just yet. other priorities come first, and will continue to until i see fit."
"but," nanako twists her body around to look up at him properly. "wouldn't it be nice for you to have someone by your side? to care for?"
"i already have that. i have you all."
"that's different," mimiko says monotonously.
"it is!" nanako agrees, puffing her cheeks. "what we mean is, like, someone to love. someone to hold and to tell you how great you are," she fantasizes, painting a pretty idea of a domestic life.
suguru's brow quirks slightly down at the teenager, as he detects from her tone that she is imagining such things for herself as well.
"like i said girls, i already have people to love. i love you and the rest of our family very dearly," he says calmly. he feels mimiko hesitate amidst his strands, and catches the pout that begins to cross nanako's face. he smiles, closing his eyes. "though i understand what you're saying, and it's sweet of you to care about things like that, but i don't plan marry. i never have."
"...are you sure?" mimiko asks gently, carefully crossed one section of silky hair over another.
"i'm positive," he affirms.
"but why not? we thought you liked (y/n)."
suguru's eyes snap open wide, the brunette's hands completely freeze in his hair, and nanako's face swarms with a bashful pink as she puckers her lips, testing the waters.
he doesn't miss the way his body reacts to your name. the way his heart swells the slightest bit more as if pumped with obsessive air. the way his entire nervous system seems to halt its functions, his brain swarming with your phantom touch and scent. the way a smile subconsciously comes to his face with ease, like your name is a trigger for his happiness, even when mentioned in this setting.
"nanako," the blonde's sister hisses after a few beats of silence, and the said girl throws her hands up in defense.
"what?! we did! you do, don't you master geto?"
"even if he does, why would he admit it to us, let alone entertain talking about marrying her?"
"don't be such a hypocrite! you know you were thinking the same exact thing as me, sis! we just talked about it!" nanako reiterates.
"so? it's not the same as confronting him with our speculations, dummy."
"don't call me a dummy! you're the dummy, dummy!"
"girls," the cult leader's voice rings out sternly, and the teens know to instantly stop fussing. they clamp their lips shut and look to the man who saved their lives, and he eyes them with a fatherly assertiveness. "what did i say about fighting? we only have each other, alright? no one's a dummy. enough of that."
"sorry," they murmur in unison. suguru sighs and turns his head forward again, allowing mimiko to resume her task.
"that being said," he starts lowly. "i'm a little anxious about these 'speculations' of yours. you thought i would marry (y/n) when it's all said and done. is that it?"
the girls exchange glances. "well," mimiko starts slowly.
"we'd be surprised if you didn't."
"and why is that?"
"...don't you like her, geto?"
the sentiment comes again, and suguru's head rings. not because his girls, and likely everyone with the time vessel association have caught wind of his very obvious emotons regarding you, but because he can't seem to shake this strange feeling hat sits in the pit of his stomach now that the idea of settling down with you has been abruptly brought to his attention.
suguru always assumed that you would just be by his side forever, as you've already promised to remain loyal to him and only him for the rest of your life. being a part of his family, that was a given. that you all would never part.
but... marriage? settling down?
in truth, despite being a planner down to his very core, he hasn't thought that far ahead yet, not of anything beyond making his new world become a reality. for so long, that's all that has consumed his head. erradicating the weak. preserving the safety and dignity of the strong. taking care of those who have always taken care of him. his family. his girls. you.
but suddenly, he envisions you in white. a veil long enough to drag past your ankles, a soft white dress that hugs your body as if it was made just for you - and it would be. suguru would have it tailored by the best in the country, so long as you'd let him take some part in the dress planning. he imagines you'd be quite anal about such things, not letting him see the dress or you during your wedding day. he'd respect it, entertain it for a bit, but have his girls sneak to see you and report how gorgeous you appear as you prepare to stroll down the aisle as his bride.
he's clasping your warm, small hands in his like he always does, smoothing his fingers over the ring he's just slipped onto your digit. the rock twinkles over your skin, a grand symbol, but not quite grand enough to account for all that you mean to him. still, the 8 carot gold will do for now.
his vision is blurry, and his cheeks ache from how hard he knows he would be smiling. and you look like an angel in front of him, eyes glossing over with something gracious and sweet, your lips pinched together to prevent from bursting with the sheer emount of emotion overcoming you. you'd be happy there. he'd make you so happy.
your lips would unite with a passion, the weight of waiting finally released. he'd tug you close by the small of your waist with one hand holding your cheek delicately, and you'd melt into each other, knowing that you could finally rest in each other's arms and enjoy the life he once dreamed to give you.
if you'd want kids, he'd maybe ponder giving you one more, but you have the children you need in the teenagers who he swears make his strands go grey, who are responsible for even making him conjure up this fantasy. though, to see you waddling through the house, glowing with oncoming maternity and content would be a treat he could never deny himself.
he'd give you everything. he'd make you the happiest wife to grace this earth. he'd work hard every day to keep you, to remind you of his love the way he does now.
his heart aches with yearning.
it doesn't bother him that the girls gossiped about the possibilities between the two of you in private, or that they know how he feels. everyone knows except you.
what bothers him is that he was wrong. the ever prideful, ever diligent suguru geto was wrong about what he had thought he had all figured out.
he doesn't like you at all. he loves you. and he does in fact want to be with you until the day he dies, united in holy matrimony under his name. (y/n) geto. a beautiful, hypnotic ring he must make come to fruition in addition to a curse-less world.
he turns to look down at nanako with a gentle grin, one that makes the breeze feel warmer and the golden rays above shine the slighest bit brighter.
"maybe i do like her," he says playfully.
nanako stares up at him for a moment before a big grin spreads over her face in understanding.
"but you two are skipping a few steps. i'd have to ask the lovely woman out before jumping into marriage, now wouldn't i?"
suguru decides to forgive the way mimiko accidentally yanks at his roots due to jumping up with her sister in excitement.
he lets the girls yammer on about various ways for suguru to ask you out, a perfect fishtail woven into his hair and long forgotten. he humors them, enjoying the sheer excitement they bestow regarding his affections for you, further solidifying your place in their lives as a wife and mother, but he does not have the heart to tell them just yet that he already knows what he'll do to attempt to woo you into being his.
suguru is a dramatic man, one of great gestures and movements. he is passionate, at times almost scarily so, and he handles everything with empassioned precision. he certainly handles his pursuit of you the very same.
he stretches the act out over the course of a few days.
he starts, first, by greeting you with his familiar hugs accompanied by a fresh bouqet of flowers that the girls take the privilege of making with him every night.
he watches your face flush with red, your pretty eyes blinking almost confused before you allow yourself to swoon, your fingers gingerly reaching for the bunch of stems that suguru presents serenely to you, a relaxed captivation gracing his gorgeous features.
the first bunch are an arrangement of chysanthemums, a bright explosion of fierce reds and fushias that pops against your eyes and skin when you bring them to your nose to smell. suguru watches you calmly, heart twisting, cheeks burning, and he thinks that he could do this for the rest of his life when you bat those pretty eyes up at him and beam with a sheepish thank you fluttering from your lips and into the petals that you use to hide your face.
you don't know that there are more coming. that this first bouqet is meant to represent a sanction of what he promises you, a symbol of devotion and his unyielding legacy, the legacy you have helped him build. the legacy he intends to share with you.
the next day, he gifts you a bunch of cream colored anemonaes when he first sees you in the morning. you're shocked expression makes him chuckle lowly as he presents the flowers to you, the stems laced with a white ribbon, the petals fluttering eagerly around their black pistils. you stare up at suguru in awe, as he has caught you off guard once again, stolen the breath from your lungs and made your jaw drop in a stupor. two bouqets of flowers, two days in a row, in tandem with his soft hugs and soft looks and soft hands brushing yours.
"suguru, wha...?" you trail off as he places the bouqet in your hands, helping to secure your fingers around them. you stare at him, stunned, bashful, flattered, and he simply flashes you that serene, warm smile that soaks up the sun. "more flowers? but you already - "
"i know," is all he says, his hands holding yours around the bouqet. he glances at the flowers, a symbol of his patience, of how long he would be willing to wait for you if you decide to have him. the sincerity of his emotions, and how far he'd go for you and only you. his eagerness to obtain you, despite his willingness to hold off so long as it would make you comfortable. "they're all for you, angel," he eventually says.
you melt, your shoulders sagging with the curl of your brow. "i don't know what to say... why are you doing this?"
"because you deserve it."
the third and final day, suguru tells you to meet him in his drawing room. you're buzzing with the adrenaline of his very recent affections, the way he has been looking at you as of late in addition to his gifts of flowers.
you don't think you can find the words when you slide the door open to reveal the inky haired cult leader standing before you, at the very center of the room. sweet perfumes of incense intoxicate the candle lit space, and a generous bunch of your favorite flowers settles in his arms amidst his buddhist robes. a symbol of all that you are in his life, radiant. bright. loyal. a symbol of his immense adoration, and the fruitfulness of his love for you.
sunflowers.
your throat clamps up and you attempt to swallow the automatic lump that ails you. your heart pounds in your ears, your skin hot to the touch, and you ask yourself if you are inside of some kind of dream. if the man you've fallen for is truly right here in front of you with his heart in his hands and your world in his hazel eyes.
you freeze up, shaking your head. this can't be real. suguru is all dreams of the new world, ambitions to wipe out existence, eagerness to make the unloyal and the greedy pay with their lives. he is a passionate man, yes, but never one for romantics. never one for love, as you had previously believed.
he's generous, therefore you thought nothing of the way he would hold you close to him, his breathe murmuring that he's missed you throughout the day against your ear, though you've only been parted for a few hours within the cult. you thought nothing over those lingering, sultry looks past miguel's figure during family meetings, or the way his warm lips would meet your skin with fatigue. you thought nothing of it because suguru is a man of his people who hardly shies away from bestowing such affections on those he cares for.
still, you've never seen him hug miguel the same way. or look at manami with such intensity, let alone kiss any of the others on the head, save for his girls.
nevertheless, you never allowed yourself to believe that you were special. not when suguru has always made his priorities in this life painfully clear.
so you struggle to understand what this means. why he is showering you with affections and doting on you like you could possibly mean anything more to him than family.
"no, this is too much," you shake your head, your voice ringing out wobblier than you intended. "this is too much, suguru, what are you doing?"
the hazel eyed sorcerer does not panic when he hears your voice crack, for any time you are in his presence, a pink filter washes over his senses, and all he can register is your unfathomable beauty shining through the way you speak and the way you look at him.
he smiles, body warm. "do you not like them?"
"do i - no, i - i love them. that's not what i... those are for me, too?" you ask incredulously, though deep down you know the answer.
"of course they are."
"...suguru, why?" your breath hitches. "this is way too much."
"it's not nearly enough."
"but why would you - "
"you should let me talk, beautiful. then everything will make more sense. i promise."
you frown, eyes glazing over. suguru only smiles and shifts the bouqet, holding a hand out to you.
"come here."
you do, carefully sliding the door closed behind you in a stupor and moving to approach him. he takes your hand, holds your gaze, and brings it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your fingers. you inhale sharply, lips twitch, eyes glossy.
"i was talking with the girls the other day," he starts slowly, lowering your hand as he caressing it gently. "and they made me realize something."
you're scared to speak, but your voice croaks out anyway. "what?"
"that i don't want to waste any more time with you," suguru's voice dips just slightly, his tone taking a raw vulnerability that you have not heard in quite sometime. it takes you back to high school, before he snapped, when the two of you were just kids seeking one another's comfort within a strange and unforgiving education.
"suguru, what are you talking about?" you breathe a whisper.
"ever since we were kids, i've known. that i never want to live without you," he confesses. "but it's taken me too long to truly understand what that means and to actually do something about it."
you shake your head with a disoriented breath, a tear you can't fight catching your lashes. suguru releases your hand to swipe the tear away with his thumb.
his hand curves to your chin and he lifts your head slightly, encouraging your teary eyes to meet his again. his pupils expand, his eyes lidded.
"so now i'm doing something about it," he mumbles. "i want you to be with me, (y/n). i want you to be mine. there's no one else in this godforsaken world for me but you. it's always been you."
you feel another tear trail down your cheek, your heart soaring, your mind still not quite comprehending that this is real. that this is happening.
suguru is patient. he doesn't need an immediate response, nor does he demand your immediate reciprocation. instead, he is merely happy to tell you, to watch the awe float over your pretty face as his chest becomes lighter, having freed the weight of his truth to you.
"these flowers are a promise. i'll be good to you. i'll put you before everything. i'll love you as you should be loved. because i do. i love you. and i always will, whether you'll have me or not."
your heart skips a beat. or two. or ten. "...you love me?"
"i love you," he confirms.
the past nine years whip through your head, all the doubts, the hopes, the longing, the fear, that have brought you to this very moment. your cloudy gaze finds the flowers brushing your chests between you, then his warm hazel eyes. you see into his soul, you see the cracks exposed, the hint of anxiety that swirls in the back of his mind as he bears himself raw to you behind a front of serenity.
you cave with the breathless call of his name, and he takes the chance, his name on your tongue dispelling any fear and uncertainty. he ducks down and pulls you in, petals brushing your chins as his lips press to yours fervently. you whimper and he groans, both symphonies of long awaited relief, and in the brief disconnect of your hungry lips, you whisper into his mouth.
"i love you too."
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
choso kamo: your patience!
“it’s okay, cho. here, let me help you.”
sharp violet eyes blink down at you in a stupor as you ease your palm onto his shoulder blade, stepping close to take initiative as he submissively backs away. you look up and give him a soft smile before turning your attention to the electronic fast food kiosk to help him navigate the options.
the brunette lets you take the lead, as you always do when it comes to human things like this, and he watches you from your side with a blank expression, something far more intense shining in his wide eyes.
choso knows he can be a handful. basic things do not always come to him very easily, like small talk or technology or anything within the realm of human functionality that he has yet to completely accomodate to. while the brunette has been around long enough to assimilate into his brother's livelihood and the people directly surrounding him, he still significantly struggles to comprehend certain mortal concepts.
it took him a whole day to figure out how to program the phone that yuji helped him purchase, and that was with the help of the salmon haired teenager. each day, he still battles with comprehending some of the slang his kid brother uses when talking to him, often opting to pretend to know what yuji is talking about when he sends little acronyms like lmao or wyd. he doesn't quite grasp the goal of certain sports when he sees yuji and his classmates playing them, and he has absolutly no idea how to decipher or navigate the internet.
in the human world, choso often feels like a fish out of water, much to his chagrin. the persistent internal dilemma of existing as something between a human and a curse often leaves choso confused as he attempts to navigate how he is supposed to behave, what he is supposed to know, how he can be accepted by either jujutsu or human society.
and people are less than forgiving, less than patient with those who appear to be outsiders, choso has come to find. the world is a cruel place, and as he continues to manage how to move about it, strangers expect him to figure it out.
it tells in the way he gets shoulder checked in crowded markets when he does not know where to go, or what the number on his ticket means as he stands in the middle of a bustling grocery store right in front of the deli, having promised yuki that he'd pick up her order during lunch. it tells in the dirty glares that are tossed his way when he scratches the back of his scalp, nose twisted with frustration and brows angled as he tries to figure out which direction this particular train he was told to board is going to take him in. it tells in the way the kids jokingly gasp when they hear that he has yet to try the newest fad sweeping through the social media feeds, some kind of food vendor that everyone is suddenly obsessed with and expects others to share that same obsession in order to be viewed as an equal.
choso sighs. the world is not very understanding toward people like him, who need time to grasp what is happening around him and how to adjust to its functions. to people who move slowly, cautiously, carefully to ensure that he is doing the right thing, to reduce the chances of making excessive mistakes. to people who can not just click into society's expectations with the snap of a finger, who need patience and understanding.
so when you come around and begin to show him such things, begin to teach him those societal functions with a calm, peaceful countenance and an eagerness to help, choso finds his heart fluttering in his chest.
his feelings for you come abruptly, quick and stunning like the shock of an ice bath.
the first time you helped choso with something, he didn't even know what to say. you're one of the institution's frequently traveling sorcerers, about twenty or so years old, often popping in to serve as a mentor for the first years. you are ordinarly paired up with yuki for missions, which is how you were introduced to choso, who was pinned with her as well.
choso already thinks you're pretty and nice when you first introduce yourself to him. you smell like sugary, sunny summer days, and you have (e/c) eyes that pierce the veil to his soul. but what makes him weak and renders him a fool at your beck and call is when you catch him one day in the break room fiddling with the rather expensive coffee machine.
you saunter in the room behind him and notice his hunched figure over the device, and when you approach his side, you see that the dark circles that live under his eyes are more prominent, and an irritated grimace is crossed over his lips. your eyes follow his gaze to the stubborn machine and you realize that he is having a hard time getting the water to filter through.
choso sees you out of the corner of his eye and straightens up, locking eyes with you, attempting to blink away his clear vexation. "(y/n)," he says your name surprised, as if he would have never expected to see you here despite this being your place of work as well. "hi," he fumbles.
you grin. "hi choso! whatcha doin?"
"j-just trying to make coffee. sorry, are you waiting to use this?" he asks, immediately thinking that he has been standing in your way, taking up the time you could have used to fix yourself a cup of coffee. he thinks himself a useless burden once more and is prepared to abandon the task for your sake, despite how lethargic he feels.
but instead of rolling your eyes or expressing any kind of impatience with him, you smile up at him sweetly. "no, it's okay. just saw you and wanted to check in. do you need any help?" you ask softly, unbothered.
choso's face falls as your question leaves him taken aback. not even just your question, but the way you ask as though you wish to assist him, as if it is really no problem. he goes silent for a second, and you wait for him to answer, still looking up at him with a gentle smile.
his cheeks burst red and he clears his throat. "um - yeah. kinda. if you don't... don't mind. sorry," he scratches the back of his neck.
"you don't have to apologize," you chirp with a soft chuckle. "i know how these things can be. super stubborn sometimes, y'know?"
you don't even blame his incompetence. you blame the coffee maker in order to make him feel less out of place. choso blinks, baffled, and swallows hard. you step closer to him, and he takes an involuntary shuffle away, averting his gaze from your pretty eyes and kind smile. your scent suddenly invades him, and he shivers, a lump forming in his throat.
"what's wrong with it?" you ask.
"...it's - uh - just not pouring. it keeps making a click sound, but nothing's coming out."
you hum thoughtfully. "i hate when it does this," you murmur, looking over the device. "here, let me try something."
you step closer to him, and choso takes the hint to move back, standing behind you as you work your magic. you reach back behind the machine and unplug it, wait a few more seconds, then plug it back in. you then lift the top of the machine open once it powers back on, and close that one more time. you press a few buttons, it clicks, then in seconds, brown liquid dribbles down from the spout and into choso's navy mug.
you grin and turn over your shoulder to look up at the half-curse. "there you go! sometimes it just needs to be restarted to get working again. if it gives you any more trouble, just unplug it and plug it back in, okay? that's what i always do anyway."
choso stares at the coffee filtering into the mug, then at your bright expression. he nods stiffly, eyes shimmering, face beet red. "thank you," he says earnestly.
"don't mention it. let me know if you ever need help with anything else!"
you hum a soft tune as you walk out of the break room, and violet eyes follow your retreating figure. choso feels his heart spasm, for he thinks this is the very first time someone has appeared truly happy to assist him - the first time anyone has ever treated him unlike a chore. and you walk off like it's nothing.
choso starts to like you immediately after that, but he doesn't quite know that those feelings he is experiencing means something more than platonic admiration. he doesn't know what it means when his face flushes in your presence, and your phantom scent smacks him in the face whenever you're not around, and his heart thumps a mile per minute whenever you so much as look at him.
ever new to the human experience, he is much newer to intense human emotions like these.
and the feelings grow more intense each time you assist him with something so nicely, a stark contrast to the way others are so impatient with him. he’s holding a camera the wrong way? no worries, you’re there to pat his shoulder and help him flip it around, demonstrating an easier way to point it at his beloved brother. he can’t figure out directions to that spot his coworkers want to eat at? not a problem! you’ll take over directions with him and set him up for how to find things on his own next time around. trying to follow a tutorial for how to fix the squeaky hinge on his brother’s door? he doesn’t have to do it alone! you’re happy to assist him and make the whole ordeal quicker.
and today, yuji insisted on going out to the nearest fast food place with his friends, both you and choso having accompanied. yet no matter how many things you continue to show him, he still can’t quite grasp how to save his order on this damn screen.
the kamo hears your voice narrating your actions as you tap through the options, inquiring what he wants, and while he responds to you flatly, he’s not really paying attention. not to what you’re showing him.
all he can hear is the sweet, understanding cadence of your gorgeous voice as you swipe through selections, the way your lashes blink when you turn over your shoulder to meet his eyes and double check with him before adding something to the cart. he doesn’t even know what the hell you’re putting in there or what he’s telling you to get, but he knows that your lips are a tint of cherry red today instead of your go-to peachy gloss.
"do you want anything?" he suddenly speaks up, accidentally interrupting you in the middle of your little spiel. he comes closer behind you involuntarily, his chest brushing the tip of your shoulder as you look up at him softly.
you blink a few times, aware of his close proximinity, and you press your lips together, heat flaring in your cheeks, your cool countenance disrupted. "it's okay, i'm not really that hungry."
"are you sure? we've had a busy day. i can get you something. whatever you want."
you're suddenly bashful, biting back a warm smile. "...i mean, sure, if you're offering. i kinda want an icecream cone..."
an ice cream cone. suddenly it's the most important thing on this planet.
choso nods firmly. "okay."
and you watch as he reaches past you to hesitantly take control of the screen under a mask of confidence, utilizing your tips and brief tutorial to scroll through the options, locate your desired item, and land it in the cart.
you beam, your hand flying to his bicep. "look, cho, you did it all by yourself! i'm so proud of you!" you praise. "thank you so much!"
a huff of air dispels from choso's nose as he looks down at your sweet expression, tenses under the soft touch of your palm, and processes what it feels like to be on the receiving end of your gratitude. to step up and do something for you in return for all the patience and kindness that you've shown him.
pink bursts over his pale cheeks, and a wobbly hint of a smile rises. his heart hammers louder and louder in his ears, and his entire body feels as though its catching a sweat. is he sick? is it you?
is he sick off of you?
he doesn't know, nor does he care. all that he knows is, as your fingers slip away from his arm, and your warmth is dragged along with you as you rejoin the teens at the table they snagged, that he wants to feel this way with you for as long as he possibly can. he wants to make you feel just as seen, just as happy, just as heard, just as warm.
the brunette eventually rejoins you all, flustering in silence when you pat the seat that you've saved for him across from the booth nobara, yuji, and megumi cramp themselves in.
choso sits with his broad shoulders tense and his hands in his lap as you talk excitedly with nobara about this new top that you found online, and choso's eyes eventually fall to the two teenage boys across from him who quirk their brows at his posture and exchange knowing glances.
you and nobara somehow convince the guys to trail behind you as you seek out the tops you found. as the boys trail behind, and as choso's eyes glue to the back of your head while you walk beside the brunette fifteen year old, he feels yuji nudge him in the side.
choso looks down at his little brother, blatantly dazed, pupils wide. "hm?" he inquires softly.
"dude. you've been staring at her the entire time we've been out," the salmon haired boy deadpans. on his right, megumi walks while staring boredly ahead, hands in his pockets as he agrees.
"pretty painful to watch," the navy haired boy murmurs.
"oh," choso blinks, turning back to look at you when a giggle spills past your lips. his heart flips. "yeah. sorry," he swallows, distracted.
"aw man, you've got it so bad," yuji shakes his head. "why don't you just tell her already? it's so obvious."
choso turns to him again, suddenly invested. "tell her what? what's it? what do i have?"
"y'know? lovesickness. you're down bad."
choso tilts his head. "i'm sick? down where? it's bad?"
yuji exhales defeatedly. and drops his shoulders. "no man, you're not actually sick. i mean, like, you're in love."
the half curse's eyes grow wide. "in love?"
megumi sighs. "i don't think he knows, yuji."
the said boy's eyes snap wide with realization. "oh shit! choso! do you not know?!"
"know what?"
yuji throws his arm up and around his brother's shoulders, bringing his face down in secrecy as they walk. choso furrows his brows in confusion at the salmon haired boy's abrupt intensity. "answer me this - does your face get all hot whenever (y/n) is around?" he whispers aggressively, megumi rolling his eyes.
"um... yes...?"
"does she make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?"
"...yeah."
"when you look at her, do you just wanna scream and cry and do everything you possibly can to make her happy all at the same time?"
"yes. i think she's the prettiest girl in the world," choso affirms, eyes still stuck to you. his younger brother huffs conclusively, fighting off a gag and releasing choso so that he can stand up straight again. he closes his eyes, nodding as if making an internal diagnosis.
"you're in love big bro. you like (y/n) as way more than a friend. so much it's making you crazy."
choso thinks it over, the strange urges that overcome him when you're near, his desire to always be around you and make you proud. "...you're right. i do feel crazy."
"everyone literally already knew that but you, kamo," megumi adds.
"what do i do?!" choso panics.
yuji shrugs. "you should tell her."
"tell her that i - " the image of confronting you in such a way, standing before you as his feelings get caught in his throat, watching as you bat those pretty lashes up at him and await what he has to say with a patient smile makes his heart sieze up in his throat and his stomach churn with something discomforting. choso grits his teeth, shaking his head furiously. "no, i can't do that. she'll hate me. i don't want her to hate me."
"what? who says she'll hate you?" yuji waves him off.
choso's mind flies to the way strangers regard him, to how clueless he is about most things that someone his age should know about. he imagines all the men out there who are more experienced, who know more than he ever could, including how to treat you the way you should be treated.
he's not that guy. he isn't normal. he doesn't know things. he's only himself, caught between darkness and light, and you are kind enough to stand by his side and help him through some of his confusion, but you deserve more than his empty head. hell, he didn't even know that he had feelings for you until his fifteen year old brother pieced it together for him.
"i don't want to make her uncomfortable," he mumbles.
megumi's eye twitches. "but she literally - "
"shh, shhh, shhh!" yuji blindly smacks his hand over megumi's mouth, earning him a rather merciless smack upside the back of his head. the two glare at each other before yuji turns his attention back to his brother, rubbing the tender spot of his head. "listen choso, the thing about love is that you never know what to expect. you shouldn't assume that (y/n) doesn't like you just because you don't know or haven't tried to tell her. she's super nice and she loves spending time with you. she'd be lucky to have you."
"no, i'd be the lucky one. i'd just slow her down."
"that's your head talking. don't listen to your head, listen to me! your brother!" yuji fumes, gripping choso's shoulder tight. choso sighs, looking down. "look at her, man. look how happy she's been ever since you got her that ice cream. does that look like someone who'd hate you if you confessed?"
choso looks up at you again, noting how the golden sun seems to illuminate you, that smile that could send him into shock spread wide across your face as you talk. god, you're pretty.
"you think that's... because of me?"
"trust me, bro. i know women - "
"do you?" megumi intercepts sharply, ready to go home.
"shut up," yuji bites back. "i know women, and i know for a fact that no girl gets as happy as i see her get whenever you're involved. trust me on this. any time we buy nobara anything, she snatches it from our hands and tells us it's the least we could do for being pains in her ass."
"oh. (y/n) has never said anything like that to me."
"that's because she probably sees you as more than a friend too. but you'll never know unless you tell her." choso hums, taking in his brother's advice. "don't be scared. go for it! besides, you'd end up regretting it if you wait too long."
in a trance, choso moves to march up to you, but yuji's grip tightens on his shoulder as he pulls him back. "what the - not now, i don't wanna see that! just wait 'til you two are alone. it'll be more special that way."
so he does, but every single time the two of you wind up alone, choso chickens out. despite having won difficult battles and overcome extinction itself, the violet eyed half curse can't seem to muster up the courage to face you like a man and tell you that he's obsessed with you, that he thinks about you every single day, that he wants to be able to hold your hand and kiss you and be yours.
every single time he thinks he will, his eyes find yours, and he fumbles. like a coward. he can't get out of his own mind. he can't fight the thoughts that are telling him that he's just not good enough, that you deserve better, that he can't be what you need.
he'd rather have you in his life as a friend than screw things up by confessing to you and inevitably losing you completely.
instead of telling you how he feels, choso finds himself clinging to the memory of your praise, the day he first did something for you and not vice versa, and stepping in to perform random, small tasks for you, tasks that don't even require his help.
he brings extra ponytails to work on his wrist for you just in case you need them in the midst of sparring or mentoring. he keeps an extra jacket close by in case he sees you shiver and rub your arms from the cold of the air conditioned conference room. he asks you every day if you want him to run out and get the coffee he sees you drink so frequently, eager to serve you in any form, eager to make you smile, eager to prove himself worthy of your love.
you notice the change, how he frantically jumps to assist you more and more each day. how he tries to impress you by picking up your hobbies, or telling you about a book that he's reading that's written by an author he heard through the grapevine that you enjoy. you notice him trying to fit into your world more, trying to talk to you about shows and music and ideas that you've never heard him talk about before learning that you've shown interest in them. you observe how much more inherently human he tries to be around you, how desperately he tries to stray from himself with his eyes glued to your every move, and you start to think you know what's going on.
your last straw is when he approaches you one day at the field when you're packing up your weaponry and gloves. the sun sets behind the nearby mountains, the entirety of the sparring field melted in a rich orange glow. you perk up when you hear footsteps against the grass, and you turn around to see choso holding something out for you to take, cheeks rosy and eyes soft.
"hey... for you," is all his says, and when you look down at his palms, you see a cute little cream puff keychain - a gift associated with your passing mention of loving baked goods.
you melt with a sigh. "choso," you coo, abandoning your duffel bag to approach him slowly. "you didn't have to get me this."
"i know. i just thought you'd like it. unless you don't. you don't have to take it. i'll get you something else."
"no," you cup under his outstretched hands and he shivers under your touch, looking up at you shyly. "you don't have to get me anything else. this is - this is so sweet, but, i don't need this. you didn't have to do this."
"oh. okay. i see," he nods, taking your words as rejection.
you notice the dip in his tone and the way he goes to turn and walk off, but you stop him gently. "no, that's not what i - i like it choso i do! i didn't mean to say i don't. i love it... but are you okay?"
"yes," he answers quickly.
"are you sure? you've been so... anxious lately."
you noticed. you notice things about him. he tries not to let that fact alone further push him into a delusional state. when he meets your eyes again, he gets lost in your gentle concern as your palms brush his knuckles. his breath hitches when he speaks again. "i'm fine."
"...okay..." you say slowly, unconvinced. you look over his flushed face, then around at the area, ensuring that you are alone. "hey... listen, i kinda wanted to... to actually talk to you."
choso freezes, keychain still presented to you. "oh. okay," he gulps. is this it? is this the cold sting of rejection that he's been working so hard to avoid? is it time for him to give up on the foolish dream of making you happy? "what's wrong?" he asks.
"i've noticed... lately, on top of being so anxious... it seems like you've been trying to - like - impress me? is that it?" you say softly.
choso's heart begins to pound again, and dread overcomes him. "w-what do you mean?"
"you know what i mean, cho. all the little gestures. the gifts, the acts of service, the pretending to like what i like - "
"i do like what you like."
you give him a look. "cho, i know you've only gotten interested in all of that stuff because of me."
"...is that a bad thing? do you not like that i did?"
"i'm not saying it's bad. i just want to understand why you feel like you have to do that all of a sudden. you never did before, then suddenly you started acting like i would only be interested in you if you do those things. did i make you feel like you have to do all those things for me to... enjoy your friendship?"
friendship. you still think of him as a friend.
choso frowns. "i don't know," he murmurs, nervous. he glances down at his hands over yours, then back into the sun glittering in your perfect eyes. could he ever appear that perfect to you, the way you do to him?
"choso, it's okay. you know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
his jaw clenches hard. can he really?
"...and i never meant to make you feel like you have to be someone you're not. it's okay if you have different interests from me. you don't have to like everything i like to get my attention. i like you just the way you are. i always have."
his eyes glisten. "you do?"
you smile something warm and comforting. "of course i do."
"but... i do like liking the same things as you," he says lowly, face fiery. "i like learning about you... and making you happy... and being someone for you to lean on. you always are to me. i want to repay that."
you giggle lightly. "aw, cho. you're so sweet. but i don't do any of that stuff for you out of obligation."
"i know," he says. "that's why i want to do the same for you. you're always so nice to me and it means a lot. i just wanted to show you that i... care."
you soften, heat crawling over your skin. "i care about you too."
he swallows hard again, eyes unblinking. "like... as a friend?"
you hesitate, averting your gaze briefly. "y-yeah. as a friend," you affirm, peaking back up at him hopefully. the corners of your lips twitch as you sway awkwardly, puckering your lips in thought. "...unless you... care about me some other way...?"
choso's body goes rigid. do you know? have you read him so easily? more importantly, are you hoping that he does like you as something more? do you reciprocate the intensity he feels?
he's never felt more scared of anything in his life. "um..." he looks down at the keychain in his large palms and shudders. "well, i don't know... i guess-"
choso's words are caught in his throat when he feels your hand wrap around his wrist and tug him forward. you press onto your tip toes and lean up, pulling him down to press your sweet lips to his cheekbone. the brunette's eyes snap wide, pupils small, the sensation of your pillowy lips on his skin completely disrupting the function of his brain. he stares ahead, shocked as you pull away and you laugh at his expression.
"choso," you chuckle, holding onto his wrist as you toy with the hem of your shirt girlishly. "i like you as more than a friend too. a lot, actually."
he can hardly think or speak. "...what?"
"come on, i'm dying here," you whine. "i like you, choso. okay? and i'd never want you to think that you should change anything about yourself for me to see you that way. i already do. i like you, unfiltered, as you are. you're perfect," you emphasize. "...you like me too, right?"
"...you like me?"
"yes," you laugh.
"as... more than... a friend?"
"obviously, cho."
choso thinks he's seen heaven as your words land gracefully on his ears. your keychain drops to the ground in his stupor, and before you can ask if he's alright or decide that you've completely broken him, he clobbers you in a tight embrace, finally allowed permission, finally assured. his strong arms wrap tightly around your waist and you yelp as he lifts you into the air effortlessly, his face buried into your shoulder as he holds you tight.
his eyes scrunch closed and he breathes you in, overjoyed, relieved, happy enough to bawl his eyes out right there. he sniffs, pressing his lips tight together, savoring your body against his. he hears you laugh out before feeling your arms wrap around him for stability, and he can finally breathe. for somehow, choso lucked out. the most beautiful, kind, deserving woman on this planet chooses him, and now that he knows, he's not going to let a second of you go to waste any more than he already has.
for how can you even begin to ask if he likes you when you are all that he has ever wanted?
・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・
hiromi higuruma: your new boyfriend!
hiromi has heard all of the accusations, every single last one, and has denied each one with an adamance.
the dark haired attorney has known you for years, and throughout those years, you have remained a gracious constant in his rather chaotic, exhausting, ever so stressful life. having a best friend like you certainly had never been in the cards for hiromi, who always prides himself on his independence and insists that intimate relationships of any kind would hinder his concentration.
that, however, did not stop him from growing close to you after meeting you in law school. before the world got too big. before he became the very center of right and wrong, justice and injustice, guilt and innocence.
it was at an annual law convention that law students were encouraged to attend. he found you at a neighboring booth, tabling as an intern for another firm he had heard of in passing, and in the midst of the day's hectic buzz, the two of you ended up sneaking away to grab a drink after sharing a few rather striking conversations.
your mind is intriguing. that is what first pulled hiromi to you, but what he found beyond that was your ability to shed your professional air to expose your more human side in his privacy. you're quite social, personable, and full of smiles, and with the week hiromi had been having, your company had proven quite refreshing. you weren't stuffy. you didn't seem to be hiding any tricks or secrets up your sleeves. you merely existed in your own space, and the attention came to you, whether you had asked for it or not.
and when you smiled, hiromi smiled. thus beginning your rather close friendship.
you and higuruma do most things together. in your early days, you were often found cooped up together in the library, studying senselessly for the bar. you'd quiz each other, spitballing debates, bouncing ideas and theories and arguments off of one another to the point where it felt like a game, where the most stressful time in your lives was momentarily treated like a challenging, engaging activity.
you made everything feel easier, lighter. caught in a whirlwind of dedication to justice, you often found higuruma in a dissociative state with his pen flicking restlessly between his fingers as he stared out of a nearby window with distance eyes and a blank face. you'd sigh, for you knew this burden all too well. you saw it sag in his shoulders, watched as the weight over his posture built and built with the coming days, as he climbed higher and higher, and filtered his mind with more knowledge.
with the expansion of hiromi's natural intelligence, his light threatened to dwindle. he's a prodigy after all, far beyond anything that you could have dreamed to become, but he was still your best friend at the end of the day. when he withdrew, you were there to pull him back. until study sessions became cooking dates at your apartment, where flashcards were eventually discared after hours of memorization and muttering terms under one another's breaths. you'd say something like: "you can't retain a single thing if you don't give your body nutrients, no matter how smart you are!" and you'd force him out of the cocoon he'd built on your faded leather couch and push him into the kitchen.
stubborn with conviction, hiromi would give you an earfull at first, griping about how the bar isn't a game. about how law is the future, his future, your future, and you can't afford any moments to slack as long as injustice continues to run rampant just outside your window. and you'd hum mindlessly as you move about your cramped kitchen, for you'd heard this lecture countless times, before shoving a red onion into his palm outstretched - mid sermon, and ordering him to dice it into cubes.
"(y/n)," he'd call your name, weary, aggravated. "i was talking."
"shush," you'd hush him, unaffected by his feigned anger with you. hiromi would stand and glare at you in defiance for a minute longer each time, before eventually giving in and dicing the onion as you'd ordered, murmuring under his breath.
he certainly found no reason to complain when the two of you were eating out of chipped china over your dining room table in silence, hunger having finally been satiated after hours of unintentional starvation. thick books lay forgotten just for a moment on your coffee table as the two of you enjoy the silence and satisfaction of a home cooked meal.
you were often the reason he saw the light of day, as you'd drag him to study outside in a nearby park, picnic blanket layed out under a great oak as sun poured through the cracks left in the leaves, a gentle breeze tossing your pages back and forth. you'd lay on your stomach as hiromi sat upright with his back pressed against the bark. against hiromi's better judgment, he'd let his eyes leave the page of his textbook upon registering the sound of a nearby dog barking. he'd find that your attention had already strayed, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you watch life flourish around you, the little dog off in the distance yapping excitedly at a flock of geese gliding across the pond.
and then his chocolate eyes would fall to you, the way you lounge with your elbows caging around your thick book, eyes full of the sky's light and your dream of capturing this peace for those wronged by the justice system, for those abused by the unpunished.
your eyes would eventually snap away, finding hiromi's, and he'd look back down at his book casually, muttering that you need to stay more focused. you'd roll your eyes, nudging his knee playfully.
"lighten up a bit, romi. you can't try to protect the world if you don't look around at it once and a while. see what's actually going on."
and you, of course, are the only reason hiromi ever stepped outside of his apartment past the hours of 09:00. you'd call him up, telling him that a few of your classmates invited you out to trivia night at a nearby bar. he'd click his teeth and tell you that he'd pass, only to find that you're already standing outside of his door, dressed in knee high boots and a leather coat, scarf wrapped around your neck and lips painted dark.
the brunette would open the door to reveal your image and frown at your expecting grin and open arms. he'd give you a flat look before turning to find a coat, for he always knew that you weren't leaving without him. after all, he could never say no to you. not when you refuse to leave him stewing in the intellectual misery that this profession has already imprinted upon him. not when you're constantly reminding him to bring his head up from the water. he'd certainly drown without you.
and without fail, at every outing you'd drag him to, in every space you found yourselves with other people in, some guy you're both acquainted with would tap him on the shoulder and lean in to inquire about you.
"yo, are you two dating?"
and every single time, hiromi would raise his drink to his lips and answer plainly. "no."
you're hiromi's best friend. you have been since the moment you met. you spend every waking moment together, and you hound him like an overbearing mother, but you are not romantically involved. you never have been. and he does not understand why that's so difficult for people to understand. so what, you're the only person he goes to about anything? so what, you can singlehandedly clear the grey skies of his cloudy mind? so what, you're his favorite person to be around, to talk to, to spend time with? you're friends. friendship isn't a crime.
"so you've hooked up?"
"no."
"you haven't even kissed?"
"no."
"but you're attracted to each other, right?"
"no," a vein would bulge over hiromi's temple as he'd growl into his glass. "we're close friends. that's all."
and every time he'd repeat so with such finality, inquirers would lean back with a whistle and the shake of his head, as if being platonic with you was some sort of unfathomable notion.
and then, like clockwork, the question will come. "then... she's single?"
hiromi's eye would twitch, and he'd grumble some kind of affirmation. for it's true, you are single. you don't belong to one another, and you can certainly do as you please. while hiromi has no interest in such affairs, that doesn't mean that you should close yourself off to them as well.
nevertheless, every guy that's come your way after hiromi has confirmed that you are not his girlfriend has always met your rejection. it surprises the dark haired man every time, for you aren't like him. you're brighter. you enjoy people more. you should have fun, but when he asks you about it, you just shrug him off.
"i'm not gonna start fooling around with anyone while studying for the bar, romi. that's just asking for failure."
"that's a little unhealthy. someone could make you happy."
"says you," you'd nudge him. "why don't you listen to your own advice?"
"it's different."
"it's not at all actually."
you've been evasive in regard to relationships for as long as hiromi has known you, and he doesn't know why. your excuses continue to shift as well depending on the time, for after the two of you pass the bar, you say that you're too focused on building your career. after your career has been build, you say that you're too busy with work. hiromi has not even heard of you engaging in one night stands or little flings, much to his relief if he were being honest. he thinks you're far better than something as casual and shallow as that.
still, you've shied away from topics of romance, catching a strange look in your eye every single time he asks. he doesn't understand why, nor what that look has meant as it developed over the years, but he swears he knows you well. he had been confident that, no matter the time or place, you would continue to stubbornly refuse romantic advances.
therefore, the attorney is a bit floored now that you are in your thirties, and after years of watching you turn down advances, you suddenly turn up with a new boyfriend.
higuruma's chopsticks freeze midair, sushi squished between the wooden sticks, and his eyes widen just a smidgen as you stand before him after hours in his office, an excited glint in your eyes.
the sushi drops back down to its container as silence floods the empty space, and you await a reaction. "what did you just say?" he asks slowly.
"i said i met someone!"
"...as in..."
"as in, i have a boyfriend, romi. and i want you to meet him soon!"
the words echo through his mind like some kind of curse that he struggles to digest. slowly, he lowers his chopsticks to his desk and folds his hands before him, adjusting himself in his seat as he processes this odd revalation. he eyes you carefully, brain working overtime to decipher whether you're messing with him or not. your smile dwindles and your hand finds your hip, your brow raising.
"what the hell? what kind of reaction is that? aren't you happy for me?"
"i'm... why... is this the first time i'm hearing about this? a boyfriend?" he echoes, despising the way the word tastes on his tongue. "that's a big step. how quickly are you moving?"
"not that quickly, hiromi, we started talking like two months ago."
"and you never told me?"
"i didn't wanna bother you while you were in the middle of dealing with that one case. you were so stressed!"
"what case?" his brow twitches.
"the saito one."
"that case was forever ago, (y/n). you could've told me when it was over."
"yeah, but - i don't know, it felt stupid - and anyway, i still just didn't wanna disrupt you. you know how you are, you constantly jump from one thing to another like a lunatic."
the brown eyed man exhales, turning to face you fully in his office chair. his left elbow remains propped on the table while his other hand rubs at his forehead. "we tell each other everything," he eventually says.
"i know. i'm sorry. that's why i'm telling you now," you shrug. "what if things went badly? i wasn't gonna tell you about the guy if he ended up being an asshole."
"two months is still hardly enough time to know if he's an asshole or not."
you scrunch your face. "what is with you? i thought you'd be excited for me. you're always telling me that i need to put myself out there."
"yes, i know, but - " hiromi stops himself, his grim attitude on the subject suddenly dawning on him. you have a point. he is always telling you to put yourself first, to find someone to make you happy, but this? this is so abrupt. he had at least expected you to give him a heads up whenever you began seeing someone. he would have liked to learn the journey of how the two of you even got to this point, to be a part of that with you, but instead you spring this on him like he shouldn't feel excluded from that area of your life, the area you've always left so grey. what changed? why, all of a sudden, are you happy to be with someone else - with someone, now?
still, you're his best friend. you're right. he should be happy for you, and put his cynicism aside.
"i apologize. i'm just surprised, is all," his voice softens. you fold your arms across your chest, shifting your weight with a pout. he catches your attitude and rolls his eyes, chuckling tiredly. "i said i'm sorry. i am happy for you. you deserve to be happy."
"jeez, was that so hard?" you grumble. "and... it's fine. i guess i do owe you an apology for not saying anything. i really, honestly just didn't think you'd - wanna hear about it. with everything you've got going on."
"if it's about you, (y/n), i would like to hear about it. you know this. i'm never too busy for you."
you purse your lips, softening. "...yeah. neither am i."
he raises a brow. "are you sure?"
you click your teeth, whacking his knee with your handbag. "yes, i'm sure," you groan. you reach back and pull up another nearby office chair, and plop down in front of him. "at least let me make it up to you by catching you up now," you grin cheekily.
hiromi exhales once more, turning his attention back to his dropped sushi. "i'm listening."
the defense attorney viciously fights the sinking feeling in his stomach when you pull out your phone and show him pictures of the tall, strapping, chestnut haired man who has finally managed to tie you down. you chatter with a giddy tone about where you met, the dates he's taken you on, the flowers he's purchased you, and how he asked you to be his the night before.
a light smile graces hiromi's features as he listens to you talk, for he's never seen you so openly lovestruck over someone, and a lump molds itself in his throat with the realization that this is the first time he's seen you with another man.
and while he tries to be happy for you, while he tells you that he's lucky to have you, while he lets you flaunt pictures of your hand in his and his lips on your cheek as you beam at the camera...
he doesn't fucking like it.
in fact, he hates it, seeing his best friend so happy in such a way. and he doesn't understand why, for he doesn't know the man. he has no personal vendeta against him. from what you've told him, the guy has only passed every test you've thrown his way and treated you nicely. he has a solid job, makes a good living, and he's not bad looking. not at all. in fact, he fits beside you aesthetically, pairs well with your beauty.
but the image makes him sick. the thought of him kissing you, holding you, keeping you in the intimate spaces, late at night, early in the morning, has hiromi souring with something foreign and detestable. he does not like it.
and it feels even worse when he finally meets the guy. when you arrive at the cafe you told hiromi to meet at with your arm linked in his and a smile so bright it blinds him, your hand waving enthusiastically above your head as you approach.
hiromi's eyes flicker to your boyriend. he's tall. muscular beneath the frame of his cashmiere sweater. an easy smile is plastered on his face, one hiromi could never wear in the whirlwind of his cluttered mind.
his arm is locked in yours like you belong right beside him. like you're his.
and you are.
hiromi's stomach drops, and his mood is dampening before the two of you even reach the umbrella shaded table he's reserved. the table he'd reserved for you, because you asked him to. you asked him to book this. you wanted to introduce your new boyfriend to him, praying that he'd like him, and hiromi organized the entire thing solely because you you begged him with that lilt in your voice, the one you use any time you want to guilt hiromi into doing something. the one you used every day in law school, when he wanted to stew in his future and you encouraged him to live in the present.
because he's never seen his best friend so vulnerable and sweet before, and it kills him, but he'd rather kill himself before taking away that light in your eyes.
he'd never say no to you, to your happiness.
still, he doesn't understand his problem. he doesn't understand why he allows himself to speak with a poisonous, dull sting in his voice every time your boyfriend asked him a question. he doesn't understand why his nose curls just the slightest as he turns away to look anywhere else but at the way he drops a kiss to your forehead while you're talking. he doesn't understand why his chest is tight enough to restrict air, why it feels like a thousand tons are weighing down when he sees your knees brush under the table the way yours would against his six years ago back in that library, crowded by the sun-caught lint filtering in the window, dusty books that cursed hiromi's life, and the shoulder of the girl who saved it brushing against his as you read.
he doesn't understand why, when your boyfriend leaves to go to the bathroom and your face falls the moment you're alone, and you ask what the hell is wrong with him, his frown deepens. and he is suddenly... annoyed.
"there's nothing wrong with me," hiromi responds robotically, brows at a slight angle.
you scoff with disbelieving smile. "what are you talking about? you've been glaring at him and hardly speaking the entire morning! he probably thinks you hate him!"
"you're exaggerating."
"i'm ex - okay," you throw your hands up. "you've been acting weird ever since i told you about him. you can't keep denying it."
"i don't know what you want from me. i hardly speak to people outside of work anyway, why is it suddenly different now?"
"because i asked you to make an effort, and you're not. you haven't asked him a single question. you're brooding."
"i'm tired."
"you're always tired."
"i can't think of anything to ask."
you give him a deadpan expression. "you, the nosy ass defense attorney of the century, can't think of any questions to ask your best friend's new boyfriend?"
"why does it matter to you if i like him or not, (y/n)?" hiromi settles is chin over his knuckles, elbows propped on the table. his haunting eyes are sharp on yours as you frown, sadness swirling in your gaze and that hint of something strange he's caught so many times. he just can't name it. "you asked me to have coffee with you two, so i am. i did this for you."
"hiromi, what?" you breathlessly whisper. "why does it matter? you're my best friend, that's why it matters. because you asked to be involved, because... because you always said - you wanted me to explore. so i did, a-and i'm happy, and you're... not. and this is the only time i ever - "
you stop yourself, ducking your head, and hiromi immediately snaps out of it. his eyes catch the curl of your brow, the way your voice falters, and his vexation is suddenly melting away to make room for his concern.
he's supposed to see you happy, after all. not do this. not make you upset.
he's never made you upset before. not like this.
what is wrong with him?
"i'm sorry," he says suddenly, softness and steadiness returning. you shake your head, and hiromi reaches over the table for your hand. your head whips over to him, his warm palm resting over yours. you meet his eye, and see the remorse. "i'm sorry. you're right. i didn't mean to upset you. i'm sorry, sweetness."
your eyes flutter at that old, rare nickname. you look down at his hand, then back up at him. "what is with you, hiromi?"
"nothing."
"yes there is. i know you. what's wrong? why won't you be honest with me."
"it's nothing."
"it is something. do you have have something... to say? something that's bothering you?"
hiromi blinks, and when he stares in your eyes long enough, he sees the years you stayed by his side. the years you remained his, and only his. his best friend.
his shoulders raise ever so slightly, then deflate. you see something retreat back within itself, then watch as a thin wall washes over him. "no."
his hand slips away, and your fingers twitch. your hold one another's gaze longer, lost, until you see your boyfriend walk back outside. you purse your lips in a half attempt to smile as he sits back down beside you, his arm winding around you and pulling you into his side.
hiromi pretends to have a business call, and leavees within the following ten minutes.
that night, in hiromi's sleep, warm figments of you sweep across his subconscious. it's him sitting in your boyfriend's place, holding you close, feeling your body press to his, letting his lips dot to the corner of your nose.
you walk hand in hand back to that library, and before you sit down, he hovers over you, pressing you against the side of the table, his hand on your jaw, the other caging your hip, pressed to the wood surface of the table. your hands melt over his cheeks, and he melts, lips curving into a tender smile as he looks into your eyes.
he brings you closer, your sweet breath wafting against his lips, and the gasp you take before his lips touch yours is what wakes him up in a cold sweat with a snap.
his eyes pierce his bedroom ceiling, his heart hammering in his chest, and breaths heavy. hiromi takes a moment, adjusting to his surroundings, turning to read the alarm clock on his desk that reads 3:05 am, and he realizes that he was dreaming.
the ache of loss comes quick, your warmth tugged away by the mercilessness of his consciousness, and suddenly he feels his chest tightening, his browl furrowing, his mouth running dry.
it all pieces together in the darkness of hiromi's bedroom after years of friendship, years of watching you turn guys away, years of telling you that someone was out there to love you before he realized it was himself.
he's in love with you. he has been this whole time. like an idiot.
and he let you slip away to someone else, like the version of you he just woke up from.
for the first time in his obsessively planned life, hiromi hasn't the slightest clue what the hell to do now.
