will contain spoilers from the jjk manga and the latest mcu shows + movies (particularly wandavision and loki, as well as doctor strange in the multiverse of madness). once again, this will contain heavy spoilers—you have been warned.
other stuff to look out for? this is a part-crackfic slash reader-insert story, so you'll be breaking reality (plus some hunky hearts, mehehehe) with your chaos magic while being a shop-owning badass grandma. i'm telling ya'll, it's just absolute craziness here and the author being sleep-deprived. (シ_ _)シ
what's even better? #girlbosses nobara and maki call you a milf (cutiepatootie yuuji calls you mom, though). if you don't like that and the webtoony title, just scroll away. („• ֊ •„)
oh! before i forget, i was also inspired by the amazing @elysianslove and one of her wonderful works about a haikyuu x scarletwitch!reader. mwah, go and check it out! ヾ(*'▽'*)
[✔ - Rewritten and edited after the events of Dr. Strange in the Multiverse of Madness]
00. how it all began ✔
01. nanami kento: the workaholic who needs a year-long vacation from everything and a limitless—pun intended—white-haired headache ✔
02. gojo satoru: the overpowered manchild who loves to annoy everybody and splurge his excessive wealth on sugar instead of being an actual sugar daddy ✔
03. fushiguro toji: the ex-assassin who wears his shirts two sizes too small while being an expert at not paying child support ✔
04. ryomen sukuna: the sadistic maniac who's just too bored with his life so he waits to pick a fight as he sits on his throne made out of the skulls of his enemies ✔
05. geto suguru: the traitor who calls people monkeys but later on gets his body hijacked by a literal mastermind creature ✔
06. kamo choso: the precious big brother who only wants to have his little brothers all safe and sound ✔
07. witchcraft & other shenanigans ✔
08. spellbound ✔
09. grief ✔
10. fantasy ✔
11. cursed ✔
12. destiny ✔
13. madness ✔
...?
(still a work in progress; chapters will be updated with links throughout the next few months)
Bonus Scenes:
Visitors
The Return to KFC
synopsis:
When you moved into this new universe, no one warned you that you would become the mother figure to several traumatized kids while at the same time juggling six adult men who had their own personal issues (one was a blunt workaholic with a peculiar fashion taste in neckties, the second was a narcissistic overgrown kid with too much power, the third was a supposed-to-be-dead deadbeat dad slash hitman, the fourth was a sadistic tattooed psychopath with a secret chocolate addiction, the fifth was an ex-mass murderer who had his body stolen by a brain, and the last one just wanted his brothers together, poor thing).
You were just a retired witch owning a small shop, wanting to live the rest of your miserable life in peace. They called themselves jujutsu sorcerers, and apparently this new universe you'd chosen to settle down in had nasty monsters—curses, they said—that were born out of people's shitty emotions.
Who knew that being an old lady was hard these days? Now you understood what Dr. Strange felt when you and Loki accidentally unleashed the Multiverse of Madness. Maybe you did need to see Bucky's therapist.
taglist: to be added! (just comment below or message me if you'd like to be included)
With the political crisis your kingdom is in, your father arranges you into an unwanted marriage with the notorious Prince Gojo—an elegant solution to keep two powerful kingdoms from tearing each other apart. Despite your hopes for the kind of love you’ve always dreamt of, Prince Gojo is everything the rumors said he was: lustful, untouchable, and emotionally closed off in ways you couldn’t begin to fathom. And when the suffocation of court life finally drives you beyond ballroom walls and polished smiles—you find yourself wandering in the palace gardens. It is there in those gardens, that you find your true salvation in a man who looks at you in the way you’ve always craved—like a human being rather than a title.
pairings: suguru geto x princess!reader x prince!gojo
content/warnings: renaissance au, arranged marriages, toxic relationships, angst, tension tension tension, patriarchy, love triangle, infidelity, morally grey characters, lots of political drama, fluff, deception, not super accurate to the renaissance era
notes: I’m so so excited for this! I’m not sure how many chapters this series will include. This is my first fic on here, so please be kind! I’m open to any advice. I’ll be posting the masterlist soon after I post this. Sorry for any cliches
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Reader , Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Genre: Angst
Warning: Slow-burn, Major character death, angst, Female reader, no happy ending, manipulation (kind of), self doubt, curses spirit, description of wound, reader is a grade one sorcerer, reader is a teacher at Jujutsu high, Yuji is Sukuna’s vessel, this story is NOT based on the canon, English is not my birth language!
Synopsis: You died protecting your students after a mission went wrong—one made worse by Gojo Satoru’s harshness and the distance that grew between you both, leaving you hurt, frustrated, and ultimately alone when it mattered most. In death, you became Sukuna’s vessel, not as a curse, but as something in-between. Carrying the King of Curses within you while the world marks you as a disaster. All the while, Satoru refused to accept your loss, desperately trying to save you from Sukuna, and the consequences of a fate he believes he helped set it motion.
Your life at a Jujutsu High was good in the same way that surviving a natural disaster every day could technically be considered “good.”
The campus itself had become strangely familiar over he years, the old wooden hallways creaking beneath your shoes, the faint scent of incense drifting from the administrative offices, distant arguments echoing from the dorms at ungodly hours of the night. There was comfort in the routine, even if that routine consisted mostly of near-death experiences and emotional exhaustion.
Still, it was also a living hell.
There was always paperwork stacked high on your desk after missions, endless reports written in painfully formal language about curses that had nearly ripped someone’s limps off thirty minutes ago. Yaga somehow always knew the exact moment you planned to avoid doing them too. There was no escape.
And then there were the students.
You cared about them more than you wanted to admit, which only made the responsibility heavier. Watching over reckless teenagers with terrifying amounts of cursed energy felt less like teaching and more like tying to prevent disasters before they happened.
Yuji threw himself into danger without thinking.
Nobara argued with literally everyone.
Megumi looked permanently one inconvenience away from giving up on society entirely.
And somehow, despite all of that… the one thing that could genuinely make you lose your mind was still a single person.
Gojo Satoru.
The strongest sorcerer alive.
An invincible menace personally sent into your life just to test your patience.
———
The training grounds behind Tokyo Jujutsu High looked like a battlefield after a small war.
Chunks of broken concrete littered the courtyard in uneven piles, dust still drifting lazily through the air from the force of cursed techniques colliding moments earlier. Deep scorch marks carved jagged paths across the stone walls, and one unfortunate training dummy had been reduced to something barely recognizable.
Somewhere off the side, Panda was loudly accusing Inumaki if cheating during a card game while Maki threatened violence if they didn’t shut up.
Completely normal afternoon.
You stood near the center of the destruction, breathing harder than you wanted to admit. Your shoulders tense as remnants of cursed energy sparked faintly around your fingertips. Sweat clung irritatingly to the back of your neck, and your muscles ached from maintaining output for so long.
Across from you, Satoru sighed dramatically like he had just witnessed the most disappointing performance of his life.
“Wow,” he said, shoving both hands into his pockets as he surveyed the damage with exaggerated disappointment. “That was actually kind of pathetic.”
Your eye twitched immediately.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m serious,” his grin widened beneath the blindfold, infuriatingly amused. “If that curse had been any slower, it probably would’ve died of old age before your attack landed.”
“You told me not to destroy the building.”
“And you interpreted that as move like a dying grandmother?”
“You—”
You stopped yourself before the insult fully escape. Mostly because the last time you snapped at him during training, Yaga had somehow heard about it within the hour and assigned both of you joint supervision duty as punishment.
Which had only mage everything worse.
Satoru laughed openly now, shoulders shaking slightly with genuine amusement as he stepped over a massive crack running through the ground. The late afternoon sunlight caught against his silver white hair, making him look almost unfairly untouchable.
The strongest sorcerer alive stood there completely unharmed, not a single scratch or even a dust on his uniform.
Meanwhile, you looked like you’d survived an explosion.
You hated him a little for that.
Actually no.
A lot.
“Aw,” Satoru mocked sympathetically, tilting his head. “Are you getting mad?”
“No,” you answered flatly.
“You have that vein thing happening.”
“There is no vein thing.”
“There it is again.”
You inhaled slowly through your nose, counting backward from ten before murder became a reasonable option. Behind you, Yuji leaned closer to Megumi and whispered nervously, “Should we stop them?”
Megumi didn’t even glance up from his phone.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because this happen everyday.”
Nobara crossed her arms with the exhausted confidence of someone who had accepted this dynamic long ago.
“Honestly, at this point I think they just enjoy arguing.”
“I do not enjoy arguing with him,” you snapped instantly. Satoru hearing that, he placed his hand over his heart in mock offense.
“Ouch.”
“Shut up.”
“There’s the aggression again.”
“You are the aggression.”
Yuji looked back and forth between the two of you like he was watching a high-speed tennis rally that had completely stopped following any know rules. His eyes darting so fast it was almost impressive in it’s own right. The way you and Satoru kept clashing and syncing in the same breath made the whole scene feel less like a normal conversation and more like some kind of bizarre, tense routine he had accidentally walked into.
“This feels weirdly married,” he blurted out, the words coming out before he could properly think then through, as if his brain had briefly diconnected from his mouth and left no supervision behind.
The entire courtyard froze so abruptly it was almost comedic. Both you and Satoru slowly turned towards him at the exact same time.
“WHAT?” You both snapped in unison, your voice overlapping so cleanly it somehow reinforced his point instead of denying it. Yuji immediately looked like a man who had just realized he’d step on a landmine labeled ‘social consequences,’ his expression draining of confidence in real time.
“Ah,” he laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his head with exaggerated nervousness while already shifting his weight backward. “Sorry. Sorry! That came out wrong. I’m just gonna—uh—go train now. Yeah. Training.”
Without waiting for permission or further reaction, he grabbed Nobara by the sleeve in desperate attempt to escape
“Hey!—what the hell? Don’t drag me into your panic exit!” She protested loudly, her voice echoing across the courtyard as she was pulled along like an unwilling luggage.
Megumi followed a few steps behind them without saying a single word, his shoulder slightly slumped and his expression carrying the tired resignation of someone who had witnessed this exact kind of chaos enough times that it no longer surprising, only inevitable.
Eventually, the three of them disappeared, living behind a silence that felt heavier than it should have been.
For a brief moment, only the wind moved through the room, courtyard starring loose dust and grid across the crack pavement in slow drifting patterns the aftermath of training still lingering in the air. Scuff ground, scattered debris, and the faint tension of unfinished sparing.
You bent down and retrieve your weapon from the crown, brushing it off with a short, controlled motion, as if trying to reset the atmosphere along with it.
“Your footwork improved,” Satoru said suddenly, his tone casual enough that it almost sounded like an afterthought that rather than a genuine observation.
You paused mid-motion.
The comment landed unexpectedly, enough that you looked back at him before you could stop yourself. Suspicion and curiosity briefly outweighing irritation.
“What?” you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly as if expecting a follow up insult to immediately follow.
He shrugged with effortless nonchalance, hands loosely at his sides, as though offering praise was something that only happened to slip out of hin when he wasn’t paying attention.
“You adjusted faster this time,” he continued, his voice easy but precise. “Stopped relying on the brute force halfway through. You actually strated thinking instead of just swinging through it.”
For a second, your irritation didn’t know where to land. It’s soften just slightly, caught off guard by the fact that he had actually noticed something specific rather than just mocking you.
“You’re still predictable, though.”
There it was, right on cue.
The earlier flickered of calm snapped right back into place as annoyance surged up again like it had never left.
“You know,” you muttered, brushing the dust of your sleeve a little harder than necessary, “normal people manage to compliment someone without immediately following it up with an insult.”
Satoru tilted his head slightly, as if genuinely considering that statement, before responding without missing a beat. “Normal people also can’t vaporize buildings.”
He smile lightly, the usual teasing curve returning to his lips—but there was something different beneath it this time. Something quieter, less performative. His gaze lingered on you are second longer than it usually did, like he was measuring something he didn’t often say out loud.
“You’ve gotten stronger,” he said again, slower this time, the words landing with less humor attached.
Your chest tightened before you could stop it. Not because of what he said exactly—but because for a fraction of a second, there was no joke layered underneath it. No sarcasm. Just a clean, unguarded observation.
And that made it harder to dismiss.
Praise from Satoru was already rare enough to feel like an anomaly, but sincere praise—unfiltered, unshielded, felt almost disorienting coming from someone who stood so far above everyone else it was difficult to even define the distance.
Then—
“But you’re still nowhere near my level.”
The moment shattered instantly, like glass dropped onto concrete. You scoffed loudly, forcing the tension out of your expression as you turned away from him before he could catch anything real on your face.
“Arrogant asshole,” you muttered under your breath, already walking past him.
“Aw, c’mon,” he called after you lazily, voice returning to its usual playful ease as if nothing had shifted at all. “If I don’t humble you occasionally, who will?”
You didn’t answer him, mostly because if you opened your mouth right now, there was a very real possibility that whatever came out would be less of a sentence and more of a threat with punctuation.
The hallway leading back into the school felt noticeably cooler than the shattered heat of the training grounds, the polished wooden floor reflecting faint light as your footsteps echoed in a steady rhythm that tried, and failed, to drown out what had just happened behind you.
But your annoyance didn’t stay behind. It followed. It practically walked beside you.
You heard footsteps approaching from behind a moment later and immediately resisted the urge to sigh so hard it turned into a resignation speech.
Of course he was following you.
“You know,” Satoru said casually, matching your pace with infuriating ease despite the fact that you had never once invited him to walk beside you, “most people would consider themselves lucky if I offered to help them train personally.”
His voice carried that same effortless confidence it always did, as thought the possibility of anyone refusing such an offer had simply never occured to him. It wasn’t boastful in the conventional sense—he wasn’t trying to convince you of his worth.
He simply assumed you already knew, and you didn’t even bother looking at him.
Instead, you kept your eyes fixed ahead, your footsteps remaining steady along the stone path that wound through the quiet campus, pretending that if you ignored him long enough, perhaps he would eventually grow tired of entertaining himself at your expense.
He didn’t.
“Most people don’t have to tolerate your personality while they’re doing it.” You replied after a beat, your voice perfectly flat.
“Ouch,” he sighed. “That actually hurts.”
“I was aiming for it.”
His grin widened instead of fading. It was genuinely irritating how impossible it was to discourage him. Every insult seemed to amuse him more than the last, as though verbal sparring wasn’t something to avoid but something he actively looked forward to.
You finally turned your head just enough to give him an unimpressed look.
“Why are you even following me?”
He tilted his head slightly, his expression hidden behind the black blindfold that never seems to leave his face, though somehow you could still imagine the playful smile waiting underneath it.
“I’m bored.” The answer came so quickly that it almost sounded rehearsed. You sighed.
“Go bother Nanami.”
“I tried, and he told me to go die yesterday.” He pouted and you didn’t hesitate to bite back.
“Smart guy.”
Satoru burst into laughter immediately. It was not forced or offended. Just bright, genuine laughter that echoed lightly through the otherwise peaceful walkway, as though your response had been the funniest thing he’d heard all day instead of a blatant insult directed at him.
You watched him from the corner of your eyes for a moment before looking away again.
Sometimes—no, most of the time, you wondered whether there was anything in the world capable of getting under his skin.
Every jab rolled of him. Every sarcastic remark was answered with another joke, and every attempt to annoy him somehow became entertainment instead.
Maybe that was simply what happened when you spent years being told you were untouchable.
Being the strongest came bundled together with an unbearable amount of confidence, an almost reckless disregard foe how other people perceived him, and what often seemed like a complete inability to treat anything with the level of seriousness it probably deserved.
At least, that’s what he let everyone see.
The version of Gojo Satoru that most people know laughed too loudly, smiled too easily. Hid behind humor so naturally that it was almost impossible to tell where the act ended and the real person began.
“You really hate me that much?” The question slipped into the conversation so unexpectedly that it almost didn’t register at first.
His tone remained light, almost playful. Just like every other question he had thrown your way. If someone had been listening from distance, they probably would’ve assumed he was still joking.
Maybe he was.
But there was something different about it. Something quieter beneath the humor, something that lingered just long enough to catch you off guard.
Without realizing it, your steps slowed ever so slightly before instinct kicked in and you forced yourself to keep walking, refusing to let him noticed even the smallest hesitation.
You looked away first, the trees lining the pathway suddenly seemed far more interesting than the conversation unfolding beside you.
“You make it very easy,” you answered eventually. The words came out dry, almost automatic, carrying the same sarcasm you always used whenever he tested your patience.
Satoru didn’t answer. The silence that followed stretched between the two of you in a way that felt unfamiliar. It wasn’t comfortable, not exactly. There was no tension demanding to be broken, no pressure hanging in the air.
It simply existed. Quiet. Still.
Long enough for you to become aware of the sound of your own footsteps against the floor, the distant rustling of leaves overhead as the afternoon breeze drifted lazily through the trees, and the faint chorus of insects humming somewhere beyond the training grounds.
It was strange. Satoru almost never let silence linger. He always filled empty space with another joke, another ridiculous comment, another attempt to get a reaction of whoever happened to be nearby.
But this time, you get nothing.
Curiosity got the better of you, almost reluctantly, you glanced sideways. And he was already looking at you.
The blindfold concealed his eyes as always, leaving nothing for you to read, and yet somehow his expression still felt impossible to decipher. The easy grin that usually came so naturally to him had softened into something quieter.
More thoughtful.
For just a fleeting second, he didn’t look like the loudest person in every room he entered. He simply looked…. Human.
The realization tightened something unexpectedly in your chest before yo could stop it. Then he spoke, voice softer than before.
“You still keep up with m though.”
That make you frowned immediately.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
A tiny smile returned to his lips, not nearly as smug as usual.
“Nothing.”
The answer was accompanied by the familiar carefree shrug that made it seem a though the previous moment had never happened at all.
And just like that, the brief crack in whatever wall he kept around himself disappeared, the teasing expression slipped back into place so naturally that you almost questioned whether you had imagined the change in the first place.
You exhaled slowly through your nose.
“God,” you muttered, shaking your head lightly. “You’re unbelievably annoying.”
“You still hanging out with me though.” He replied with entirely too much satisfaction. His grin spread wider, the kind that only appeared when he’d somehow won a conversation despite having accomplished absolutely nothing.
It was infuriating and ridiculous, making you rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt.
Yet… despite the endless arguments that somehow became a daily occurrence and the constant irritation that seemed to follow wherever he went. Neither of you ever noticed that your footsteps had unconsciously fallen into the exact same rhythm.
Your pace never once quickened enough to leave him behind.
And for all his complaining about boredom, he never made any attempt to walk ahead of you, either.
——————————————————————————————————
You didn’t know why Satoru enjoyed bothering you so much.
At first, you had assumed it was just his personality.
Satoru teased and annoyed everyone. He ignored personal boundaries like they were optional suggestion. But with you, it felt different somehow.
More persistent.
It was like he paid far too much attention to you for someone who constantly acted uninterested in everything around him. Sometimes it genuinely felt like he watched your every movement like a hawk circling overhead, waiting patiently for the exact moment you made a mistake.
And the second you did—he appeared immediately.
You could miss a single step during training, hesitate for half a second in combat, or accidentally choose the wrong strategy during a mission briefing, and somehow Satoru would materialize beside you out of nowhere just to point it out with that unbearably smug grin stretched across his face.
“You’re leaning too much on your right side.”
“That reaction time was slow.”
“You telegraphed that attack from a mile away.”
“You seriously thought that would work?”
Every. Single. Damn. Time.
It was exhausting.
You had started to wondering if he spent his free time specifically searching for opportunities to criticize you. Which honestly wouldn’t even surprise you anymore.
You hated the way he constantly compared you to himself as if standing beside the strongest sorcerer alive was somehow a fair standard for anyone to meet. And somehow, even worse than that, he compared you to the other sorcerers too.
Nanami’s precision, Mei Mei’s efficiency, Kusakabe’s defensive instincts.
There was always someone better. Always another flaw for him to point out.
It didn’t matter how hard you trained beforehand or how well the mission actually went. He always found something lacking.
Your stance was weak, your timing was weak, your reactions were weak.
Everything about you felt weak in his eyes.
And no matter how often you rolled your eyes or snapped back at him, it still stung every single time. Because unlike him, you had not been born special. You were not blessed with overwhelming power that made the world bend around your existence.
Everything you had now came from clawing your way upward through years of brutal training, failed missions, injuries, sleepless nights, and constant pressure to survive i a world where weakness got people killed.
Becoming a Grade 1 Sorcerer had not been easy.
People looked t the title now and assumed talent, but they didn’t see the exhaustion behind it. They didn’t see how many times you had pushed yourself past your limits just to stand beside stronger sorcerers without becoming dead weight.
You remembered missions where your hands shook afterward from adrenaline. Nights where you collapse into your bed, too exhausted to even remove your uniform properly. The terrifying realization that one mistake during a fight could mean never coming home again.
You had worked for it, fought for it, sacrificed pieces of yourself for it.
And yet, every time Satoru casually tore apart your techniques with effortless criticism, doubt crawled back into your chest all over again.
Maybe you really weren’t enough.
Maybe all your effort looked pathetic compared o someone like him.
Maybe no matter how hard you trained, there would always be an impossible gap separating you from people born naturally powerful.
The thought frustrated you more than anything else. Because part of you knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. That was what made his words hurt. If his criticism had been completely baseless, maybe you could have ignored it more easily. But Satoru noticed everything.
Every hesitation, weakness, and a tiny flaw hidden beneath your fighting style.
And he pointed them out mercilessly.
Sometimes during training, you caught him watching you from afar with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, head tilted slightly as though analyzing every movement you made. Observing.
Those moments unsettled you the most.
Because beneath all the teasing and arrogance, he was terrifying perceptive.
You wondered if he pushed you this hard because he genuinely expected you to improve. The possibility irritated you almost as much as the insults themselves. Because if there was one thing worse than being underestimated by Gojo Satoru.
It was desperately wanting his approval anyway.
————————————————————————————————
Rain hammered violently against the windows of Jujutsu High by the time you finally returned.
The storm had swallowed the entire campus in darkness, heavy clouds blotting out the evening sky while distant thunder rolled low enough to shake the old wooden beams overhead. Water dripped steadily from the ends of your har onto the polished floor beneath your feet, your soaked uniform clinging uncomfortably to your skin with every exhausted step forward.
Your shoulder burned.
No, burning wasn’t even the right word anymore.
It felt like someone had carved molten metal directly into your arm and left it there to smolder beneath your skin.
The torn fabric hanging near your shoulder was stiff with drying blood, dark crimson spreading unevenly across navy cloth. Every movement pulled painfully against bruised muscles and cracked ribs, and the mission report crushed tightly in your hand had long since become wrinkled beyond recognition.
A mission that no one cared enough to go, had always been dump to you.
A Grade 1 curse. That’s what they had called it.
A manageable mission, nothing outside your capabilities.
Except the curse had adapted too quickly, moved too fast. This thing should be called a Special Grade, not Grade 1.
And for one horrifying moment—you genuinely thought you were going to die. The memory still clung to you in fragments as you walked.
Your cursed technique destabilizing mid-fight. Concrete shattering beneath your body after being thrown through an entire building. The sickening crack of something in your side giving out on impact and the taste of blood flooding your mouth so suddenly you nearly choked on it.
And worst of all—that awful moment where fear finally settled into your chest. Not a fear of pain, but the fear that you weren’t strong enough.
Again.
The hallway outside Principle Yaga’s office was quiet except for the distant rumble of thunder and the soft dripping of rainwater from your clothes onto the wooden floor.
You barely managed three more exhausted steps before a familiar voice cut cleanly through the silence.
Of fucking course he was here, but you didn’t stop walking.
“Go away.”
“Aww,” he replied mockingly. “No greeting? After I came all the way out there to save you?”
Your grip tightened painfully around the mission report, turning around to faced him and there he was.
Hands shoved casually into his pockets, blindfold slightly damp from the rain. Standing there like this was another normal conversation instead of one of the worst nights you’d had in months.
“I didn’t ask for your help,” you muttered quietly, and that makes him scoffed behind you.
“Right, because getting thrown through two buildings was clearly part of your strategy.”
You froze mid-step. The exhaustion vanished beneath a sudden wave of humiliation. The fluorescent hallway lights reflected faintly off the water dripping from his hair as he looked back at you with frustrating calmness.
“You were watching?”
“I arrived before you got yourself killed,” he answered easily. “So yeah.”
The casualness in his voice made something sharp twist violently in your chest. Because the moment he arrived replayed in your head with unbearable clarity.
You remembered collapsing against broken concrete, struggling to breathe while blood ran down our face. The curse towering over you, laughing in your face, at your weak stance.
You remembered trying to stand despite your body screaming at you to stop. And then he appeared.
Untouchable, effortless, and overwhelming.
The entire fight ended in seconds after that.
The curse that nearly killed you had barely managed to touch him before being erased completely from existence.
Just like always.
“You know,” Satoru continued, voice sharper now beneath the teasing tone, “there’s a difference between confidence and stupidity.”
“I don’t need you to lecture me.”
“You pushed yourself too far against something you couldn’t’ handle.”
“And I handled it.”
“No,” He snapped immediately, the harshness in his voice hit like ice water and the hallway suddenly felt colder. “You survived long enough for me to fix it.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Not because they were cruel, but because you knew they were true. And that somehow hurt even more.
You stared at him silently while rain battered the windows behind him in uneven bursts.
Satoru ran his hand through his damp white hair with visible frustration.
“Why do you keep doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like you have something to prove every single time you step into a battlefield.”
Your expression hardened immediately. Oh yeah, you forgot that he was the strongest sorcerer in the world. How could he understand what you’ve been through to pushed yourself this far?
“You think I can’t tell?” He continued, watching you carefully now. “You overworked yourself constantly trying to keep up with people stronger than you.”
And there it was. That familiar sting and humiliation buried beneath every conversation yo had with him.
Stronger than you.
Not enough.
Never Enough.
You laughed softly, but the sound came out bitter and exhausted.
“Right,” you muttered. “Sorry. I forgot who I’m standing next to.”
That made him frowned slightly, his brows pinched together.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Really?”
The pain in your shoulder pulsed violently now, but it barely registered beneath the anger rising steadily in your chest.
“You always do this,” you said quietly. “Every single time something goes wrong,” you continued, your voice trembling despite your efforts to steady it, “you stand there and remind me exactly how much weaker I am to you.”
“Because you never learn.”
“And you never stop looking down on everyone around you.”
The air shifted subtly between you, the tension thick enough to suffocate and his usual smile had disappeared completely now.
“I’m trying to keep you alive.”
The words should have comforted you. But no. Instead, they felt unbearable. Like it was pity and your chest tightened painfully.
“I don’t need you to babysit me.”
“Clearly you do.”
“Why is it huh? Tell me then. Because I’m too weak? Or is it because I’m not good enough?”
Satoru exhaled sharply through his nose, frustration bleeding visibly into his expression now, even with his blindfold on, you can clearly see that he was frustrated.
“Because every mission with you turns into me cleaning up aftermath!”
Your eyes widen, your body froze and you can feel something inside you cracked. The second the words left his mouth, you saw it happen on his face too. That tiny flicker of realization. Like he suddenly understood immediately how cruel that sounded. But he didn’t take it back.
Instead, he kept talking like he physically couldn’t stop himself now that the words had started spilling out.
“Do you know how exhausting it is?” He dragged a hand over his face tiredly. “Every single time you get hurt, everyone expects me to save you.”
Because I don’t want to see you getting hurt.
Something hot and ugly twisted violently in your chest. Suddenly, all you could picture was every moment he’d ever looked disappointed in you. Every correction during training, every insult hidden inside his compliments.
Every reminder that you would never stand beside him as an equal.
And maybe the cruelest part—you had spent years trying anyway. And right now, it was getting exhausting.
“You know what?” You said softly. “Go fuck yourself, Satoru.”
For once, he looked startled.
You stepped closer before you could stop yourself. Your breathing felt uneven now, emotions clawing painfully against your ribs.
“Yeah,” you laughed bitterly. “I get it. You’re the strongest. Nobody compares to you. Nobody’s ever good enough next to you.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.
Your throat burned. You hated this. Hated how vulnerable you suddenly sounded. Hated that your eyes stung with something dangerously close to tears. And most of all—you hated that he was the one making you feel this way.
“I worked for everything I have,” you continued shakily. “Do you have any idea how hard it was just to become a Grade 1 Sorcerer?”
Satoru said nothing, and that somehow hurt even more.
"You were born powerful" your voice cracked slightly now despite your efforts to steady it. "You were born special. But people like me-“
You swallowed hard.
"We don't get that luxury."
The hallway suddenly felt too small. Rain continued pounding violently against the windows, but even the storm sounded distant compared to the rushing noise inside your head
"I know I'm not the strongest," you admitted quietly. "I know I'll never be like you."
Your fingers curled tightly at your sides.
"But I'm so tired of feeling small every time I stand next to you."
That finally made something in his expression shift. You didn't know what it was, but you can see something shift in his body.
"I don't need you saving me every time things go wrong,” you whispered. "And I definitely don't need you treating me like I'm weak."
Satoru stared at you silently. For once in his life, he looked uncertain. Like he genuinely did not know what to say. And somehow-that made everything worse. Because if he argued back, if he laughed or even denied it, maybe this wouldn't hurt so badly
But he didn't.
He just stood there silently while you unraveled in front of him. And realizing far too late what his words had actually done to you over the years.
"So excuse me," you said quietly, forcing your voice steady despite the ache climbing into your throat. "I have a wound to tend to."
Then you turned sharply before he could answer.
Your footsteps echoed harshly through the empty hallway as you walked away. shoulders tense and vision blurring slightly from exhaustion and emotion.
You didn't look back. You didn't want to see his expression and you didn't think you could handle it if he pitied you right now.
Behind you, Satoru remained completely motionless.
The hallway felt unbearably empty after you disappeared around the corner. Rain continued tapping softly against the windows. Thunder rolled low in the distance.
And for the first time in a very long while,Satoru felt something unfamiliar settle heavily in his chest. Not guilt exactly, but something worse.
Because you yelling at him wasn't unusual. You'd done that countless times before.
But this…this was different.
Tonight, there had been no exaggeration in your voice. No dramatic anger. No playful irritation hidden underneath the insults.
You had meant every single word. You genuinely believed he looked down on you. And standing there alone in the quiet hallway, he realized with growing horror that maybe, Without meaning to—He had spent years making you feel that way.
satoru gojo was unfortunately very good at talking. he could hold a conversation with anyone. he could flirt with anyone. he could tease anyone.
which was exactly why you found this so strange.
"...why are you staring at me?"
he blinked. "am i?"
"yes."
"my bad."
"..."
"..."
"...you're doing it again."
gojo smiled to himself before looking away. "didn't realize."
"liar."
"you caught me."
you rolled your eyes, taking another sip of your iced coffee.
it was one of those lazy afternoons where neither of you had anything important to do. the café was quiet, rain tapped softly against the windows, and somehow the conversation had drifted from movies to childhood stories to arguing over whether cereal counted as soup.
"satoru."
he tilted his head back to glance at you. "hm?"
"you've been weird all day."
"define weird."
"you're... quieter."
he gasped dramatically. "you think i'm quiet?"
"for you? absolutely."
he leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. "maybe i'm growing as a person."
"or maybe you're plotting something."
he pointed at you. "that one's closer."
you laughed. "i knew it."
the smile on his face softened. he liked making you laugh. more than he'd ever admit out loud.
the conversation faded after that, replaced by comfortable silence. it wasn't awkward. it never was. you'd always liked that about the two of you. there was never any pressure to fill every quiet moment.
you looked out the window, watching people hurry through the rain. "satoru?"
"yeah?"
"...can i ask you something?"
"you just did."
"..."
"..."
"...i'm taking your coffee."
he laughed.
"okay, okay. ask."
you turned back toward him. "have you ever actually been nervous?"
he raised an eyebrow. "about what?"
"anything."
he thought for a moment.
"yeah."
"really?" your mouth formed into a small ‘o’ shape, clearly not expecting him to actually admit to it.
"mhm."
"when?"
his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his cup. "...right now."
you frowned. "why?"
he looked at you for a long second before letting out a quiet laugh. "because i don't actually know how to do this."
"do what?"
another pause.
for once, satoru gojo looked... unsure. not scared. not anxious. just careful. like he was choosing every word before he said it.
"everyone thinks i'm confident."
you nodded. "you are."
"most of the time."
he quietly sighed, not prepared for this conversation. "but there's one thing confidence can't really help with."
you tilted your head. "what's that?"
he looked down at his hands. then back at you. "asking someone something when the answer actually matters."
your heartbeat stumbled. "...oh."
"yeah."
neither of you spoke. the rain outside only grew louder. gojo rubbed the back of his neck, letting out an awkward laugh.
"this is probably the first time i've ever overthought something."
"that's... kind of impressive."
"don't make fun of me."
"I'm not."
"you smiled."
"because you're being cute."
he groaned dramatically. "don't say that."
"why?"
"makes this harder."
you couldn't help smiling wider. "satoru."
"hm?"
"what are you trying to ask me?"
he took a slow breath. then met your eyes.
"can i kiss you?"
just like that. no jokes. no teasing. no cocky grin. just a simple question. asked so quietly you almost missed it. your heart felt impossibly light.
"you've been thinking about that all day?"
he looked away. "...maybe."
"and you were nervous?"
"terrified."
you laughed softly. "you? terrified?"
"don't tell anybody."
"i'll consider it."
he smiled. "...so?"
you leaned forward slightly. "you really needed to ask?"
"i wanted to."
"why?"
his answer came without hesitation. "because i wanted your answer."
not an assumption. not a guess. not a moment he hoped you'd go along with. your answer.
you felt your smile grow. "then..." you reached across the table, gently taking his hand. "...yes."
the grin that spread across his face was brighter than anything you'd seen all day. "yeah?"
"yeah."
he stood, walked around the table, and stopped beside your chair. "still okay?"
you nodded. his hand rested lightly against your cheek. he was being careful. like you were something precious.
he gave you one last chance to pull away. you didn't.
he leaned in closer before closing his eyes, pressing his lips against yours. you mimicked his action, closing your eyes as well. almost immediately, a small blush formed on your cheeks.
the kiss was brief. soft. warm. when he pulled back, the biggest smile you'd ever seen was waiting for you.
"...worth stressing over?" you teased.
he laughed, resting his forehead against yours. "absolutely."
"dramatic."
"you like it."
"...maybe a little."
he smiled. "good."
outside, the rain still hadn't stopped.
inside, neither of you minded waiting a little longer before heading home.
can you guys tell im shitty at writing kiss scenes
A/n: sorry if it sucks… i cant write the ending to angst. Give me requests on what i shld write next.
Part 1 here
You hadn’t answered a single one of his messages.
Not the late-night ones that started with jokes and ended with quiet admissions he never would have said out loud. Not the memes he’d carefully chosen because they reminded him of the way you used to laugh against his shoulder. Not the voice notes that grew shorter and more careful the longer the silence stretched. After the whole mess with the new teacher—after you’d walked in on the two of them in bed together, snuggled up and fast asleep in each other’s embrace, something in you had simply closed. Quietly. Completely.
Gojo had never been good with closed doors.
So he did what he always did when words failed him: he threw everything he had at the problem and hoped something would stick.
First came the food.
Your favorite takeout from the tiny place three stations over—the one that only made limited portions and usually sold out before noon. He waited outside in the rain for nearly forty minutes, water sliding down the back of his neck, just to secure two orders. He left the bags outside your apartment door with a sticky note written in his usual messy handwriting:
Still warm. Still yours. -S
The next morning the bags were gone. That was enough to keep him hoping.
Next were the movie tickets.
Two premium seats for the limited re-release of that old film you both used to quote at each other until the lines became a private language. He’d bought them the second they went on sale, grinning like an idiot as he typed the message:
Front row. Extra butter. Just like old times?
You left him on read.
Then the flowers.
Not the flashy, expensive bouquet he usually defaulted to when he wanted to impress someone. These were quieter-soft whites and pale pinks, the kind you once said reminded you of early mornings when everything still felt possible. He left them on your desk at the school with another note, this one longer, more careful, the words scratched out and rewritten twice:
I’m an idiot. I know. Let me try to be less of one. Please?
The flowers stayed on the desk all day. By evening they were gone. He told himself that meant you’d taken them home. He needed to believe that.
He was still telling himself that when he finally stopped circling and decided to just show up.
It was late afternoon. The training grounds were quiet, the kind of heavy quiet that settled after a long day of missions and lessons. He found you near the edge of the courtyard, leaning against the railing, talking to someone. Your shoulders were relaxed in a way they hadn’t been around him in weeks. You were smiling, it was small, real, the kind of smile that used to be his.
Nanami stood beside you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, holding two coffee cups. He passed one to you without looking, the gesture easy and familiar, like he’d done it a hundred times. You took it. Your fingers brushed. Neither of you pulled away.
Gojo stopped walking.
For a moment he just stood there, the last bag of takeout still warm in his hand, and watched the two of you exist in a space that no longer had room for him.
You glanced up and saw him. The smile didn’t vanish, but it changed, it became polite, distant, the kind of expression you might offer a colleague. Nanami followed your gaze and gave a short, measured nod. Nothing more.
Gojo’s usual grin didn’t make it onto his face.
“Hey,” he said, voice lighter than he felt. “Been looking for you.”
You didn’t move closer. “I know.”
He held up the bag like an offering, like a peace treaty, like the last card he had left to play. “Thought maybe we could… talk. Or just eat. Or sit in silence and pretend I’m not the worst person alive. Your call.”
Nanami’s eyes flicked between the two of you, calm and assessing. He didn’t leave. He simply stayed, solid and quiet, as if he had every right to be there.
You looked at the bag, then at Gojo. There was no anger left in your expression. Just something tired and final. something that made his chest feel too tight.
“I already ate,” you said quietly. “With Kento.”
The name landed heavier than it should have.
Gojo’s fingers tightened around the paper bag until the edges crumpled. “Right. Of course.”
You hesitated, then added, softer, almost gently, “We’re… together now. Officially.”
The courtyard felt suddenly too quiet. The air too thin.
Nanami didn’t gloat. He didn’t smirk or look triumphant. He simply stood there, steady as ever, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to stop being temporary. Like he’d known, long before Gojo did, that the space beside you had become his to occupy.
Gojo let out a short, almost soundless laugh. It didn’t sound like him. “Movie tickets. Flowers. Food. And you still chose the guy who doesn’t even like sweets.”
You didn’t smile at the joke.
“I didn’t choose him because of sweets,” you said. Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t waver. “I chose him because he never made me wonder where I stood.”
The words settled into him like something cold and permanent.
He looked at you then, really looked. At the way you held the coffee cup. At the way Nanami’s presence didn’t make you tense or careful. At the quiet certainty in your eyes that hadn’t been there the last time you’d spoken to him. And for the first time, Gojo understood that this wasn’t something he could charm or joke or gift his way out of.
He had already lost.
Not in some dramatic, explosive way. Not in a fight or a shouting match. He had lost in the small, quiet moments he hadn’t been paying attention to. the ones where you stopped reaching for him, where the silence between messages grew longer, where someone else learned the shape of your days and filled the spaces he had left empty.
The bag in his hand suddenly felt ridiculous. All of it did - the late-night deliveries, the carefully chosen notes, the desperate little performances of affection he’d been throwing at the wall hoping something would stick. He’d been trying to win back something that had already slipped through his fingers while he wasn’t looking.
He set the bag down on the nearest bench. The paper made a soft sound against the wood.
“Okay,” he said. His voice came out rougher than intended. “Okay.”
You looked like you wanted to say something else, maybe an apology, maybe nothing at all. but Nanami’s quiet presence kept the space between you and Gojo exactly as wide as it needed to be. There was no room left for him to step closer. No room left for the version of this story where you forgave him and everything went back to the way it was.
Gojo shoved his hands into his pockets, tipped his head back toward the sky, and let the silence stretch until it hurt. The late afternoon light caught on the white of his hair, on the edge of his blindfold, on the empty space where you used to stand beside him without thinking.
Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Behind him, the takeout bag sat untouched on the bench, cooling in the fading light. The scent of your favorite food drifted faintly on the air for a moment before the wind carried it away.
And for the first time in a long time, Satoru Gojo understood that some things couldn’t be fixed with charm, or gifts, or the desperate hope that love would wait for him to finally get it right.
He had lost his chance.
And the worst part was how quietly it had happened.
“surely it is a privilege to approach the end still believing in something.”
- october, louise glück
you're caught at the wrong place at the wrong time, and the bruises on your palm match the ones on leon's. after the requiem is sung, you find you fit together in more ways than one.
pairings: re9 leon kennedy x reader | genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, angst | warnings: posted by chapter | read on ao3
part one: iron gates of the private houses — it's your first shift at rhodes hill, and you've been tasked with letting the higher-ups know when mr. kennedy arrives to meet with the head doctor.
part two: the light of autumn; you will not be spared — as the clinic dissolves into chaos, leon takes your hand and doesn't let go.
part three: we are companions here, not speaking — gideon has you and leon in his clutches, but at least you're both alive.
part four: nearly mauve on the gravel paths — you and leon catch a breather, but the violence of rhodes hill still looms.
part five: pools of cold light formed in the gutters — in gideon's office, you and leon find more than you'd bargained for in tenderness and questions that neither of you have answers for.
part six: dark, now, with desolation and anguish — in the treatment plant, you face something more horrible than anything that's come before. after, you learn something about leon that makes sense of the whole thing in a way you wish it wouldn't.
part seven: the songs of morning sound over-rehearsed — leon knows that entangling himself with you would be foolish, selfish, irresponsible. but the way you hold his hand and look at him with your heart in your eyes makes it hard to remember every reason he shouldn't.
part eight: only my mind, cautious and wary — still reeling from leon's last words to you, you find the dso compound a calculated danger that's the first one so far you have to face alone.
“I sat on your lap.” you say, as if presenting evidence.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you did.”
“You got hard, didn’t you?”
The bluntness would have shattered a lesser man. Hiromi’s jaw tightens. He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit you remember from years ago. The physical act of swallowing words he refuses to let exist.
“You already know that.” he says.
GENRE: alternate universe - modern au;
WARNING/S: r18, angst, explicit, smut, romance, fluff young love, exes to lovers, second chance romance, divorce, toxic relationship, slandering, pet names, complicated, protective, possessiveness, mutual pining, cursing, crossing boundaries rekindled romance, emotional baggage, whirlwind romance, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, reputation, scandal, trauma, smoking, cheating, alcohol, explicit sexual content, naked bodies, office sex, desk sex, oral sex, female receiving oral, fingering, creampie, morning after, p v sex, different sexual positions, rough sex, dominance, praising, dirty talk, size difference, unprotected sex, pregnancy, remarriage, actress! reader, lawyer! higuruma;
WORDS: 16k words.
NOTE: this got delayed yesterday because i didn't think it was okay and now here we are with such a long fic......but thats okay i guess, since today is valentines day anyway. that being the case, i hope everyone has a good valentines day. i have nothing to do and no one to spend it with, but im glad im able to give yall something to make you all have some enjoyment with me!!! anyway, i'll see you for nanami's tomorrow. i love you all!!! happy valentines!!!
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if you want to, tip! <3
buono san valentino, 2026;
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” was the first thing he says to you after all these years, and you can’t pretend you didn’t expect it. He has always been brutally honest. Even back then, he had been too quick to strip a moment down to its barest truth, no matter how it cuts. You did not expect anything other than that now.
Even so, the question lands quieter than he means it to, the edges worn rough by disuse. He sounds like a man unused to speaking your name, to shaping words meant only for you. It almost felt like something so foreign to the tongue that mastered it all.
And despite himself, he leans toward the warmth that lingers in your proximity. Once, you had an open door, it was as though spring was waiting on the other side. And it frustrates him to no end. He thought he had left that all behind.
Yet, how wrong he was. For you were just waiting, waiting in what felt like a door sealed for years and years, now forced open all at once with your tender palms, letting that same youthful season rush back into his life whether he wants it or not.
Divorce lawyer Higuruma Hiromi no longer resembles the man who used to fall asleep on open law books and wake with ink smudged across his cheek in your dormitory late Friday night, clumsily whispering what he had learned even in his sleep.
He was the man who argued with every footnote, who treated precedent like holy scripture, and yet, the same man who still let you doodle in the margins of his case files because, he said, the law should remember it was written by human hands.
Hands soft enough, you used to joke, to strangle him gently every night with such passionate conundrums that can rival every argument in the law books. You had giggled at that thought so viciously, almost so innocently, unsure about what he was saying. Yet you were no fool. And neither was he.
Now he looks like a verdict.
And you expected that, too.
Ten years have carved themselves into him.
His tie hangs loose, collar unbuttoned, his body folded into a leather accent chair that probably costs more than your first apartment. You could remember, the one with the flickering kitchen light and the neighbor who played ballads at two in the morning.
The office is dim, lit only by the city bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. Tokyo Metropolitan could only hum with humble extravagance beneath you both. The neon blazing, sirens wailing, headlights crawling like arteries carrying the restless.
He looks tired to you. But not the soft kind that invites sympathy. Not the kind you once soothed with cheap takeout and your feet in his lap while he read passages you pretended to understand, pouting as his fingers drifted absently through your hair.
This is a different exhaustion.
The kind that calcifies into bone.
You think in some ways he did not change at all.
You lean against the doorframe like you own the building. As though you had the right to own the night. You stand there daringly, as though the tabloids haven’t spent three weeks dissecting your marriage like carrion birds.
Each and every time, they foolishly, cleverly, disgustingly followed you about. They were picking up the spectacle of your smile, your rings, the way your husband stopped touching you in public months before anyone noticed. You were sure they’re writing about this moment now.
You take a drag of your cigarette, slow and deliberate. "Haven't you heard?” you whisper, blowing the nicotine into the room, a smirk curving your mouth like a blade. “I’m getting divorced.”
The smoke curls between you like a dare. It was like the ghost of every almost-confession you both buried under timing, under unruly, shameless pride. Under the simple cruelty of choosing other people. People who offered advances, advances that Hiromi could not offer to you.
He exhales through his nose, long and measured, as if filing the statement under expected disasters. Of course you would arrive like this. Of course you would burn your life down and come to him for the ashes, to feed it to him until he was choking in it.
“Well, congratulations.” he whispers back, starting to straighten, vertebra by vertebra, as though assembling himself for court. He finally meets your eyes. “What do you want me to do about it, [name]?”
The way he says your name in that flat, careful, tone sends shivers down your spine. It was like evidence he refuses to mishandle words and tones he chooses with intent to underpin the other party. You let the smoke enthrall you whole, for the childish feeling comes and goes, his words land harder than the headlines.
You push off the doorframe. “Well, one simple thing, really.”
He raises a brow, that same precise arc that once dismantled a witness in under three questions. “And that is?”
You step fully into the office, heels silent on polished wood. The city lights catch on your fine gold rings, your glistening watch, the immaculate tailoring of a suit chosen to look effortless and cost a fortune. Armor, tailored. War paint in neutral tones, the red lipstick sharper than anything man had ever known.
“Settle my divorce.” you whisper, mirth flickering in your eyes like something dangerously close to relief. “And destroy my husband.”
Silence.
A long, echoing, courtroom kind of silence echoes in the room. The kind where truth stands up slowly, adjusts its cuffs, and prepares to ruin everyone and everything in its path. His jaw tightens. A muscle jumps.
“……Are you fucking kidding me?”
The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it. Almost too bright and unrestrained Something that sounded more reckless than a confession to a murder. But you were certain that it was more authentic than anything you had let out in these ten years.
You think that you had portrayed so many people that you found yourself unsure what sort of laugh you truly had now. And it would seem that this is all that was left. After playing the part of a happy wife, there was nothing left but this. This grating, irritating, disgusting guttural laugh of a pitiful woman like you.
You cross to his desk, set the cigarette into his ash bowl like you’ve done it a thousand times before. He watches your every move, eyes dilated. It was like the years between never existed, Everything about it felt like muscle memory to you.
In that instant, it was as if it could resurrect entire versions of yourselves that never got to live, versions of yourselves that had long been forgotten. Yet it did not come naturally. Instead, it came in a cage. Before he can move, you close the distance and sit squarely on his lap.
His entire body goes rigid.
Not with desire.
At least not yet.
With restraint.
“[name], this is—”
“Why not?” you murmur, fingers sliding up his tie, smoothing the crooked knot, the gesture intimate in a way that has nothing to do with skin. “Can't the best divorce lawyer get me out of this trouble?”
His massive hands, those massive familiar hands that were once all over you, now hover in the air beside you, suspended between instinct and refusal. Almost as though he’s forgotten what they’re for.
Almost like the law has finally presented him with a case he cannot argue without perjuring his own heart. Almost like the act of touching you is a crime he’s already been convicted of, and a crime he cannot know if he wants to flee or stay for.
His voice, when it comes, is lower. Far too careful for its own good. “You don’t need a lawyer to destroy your husband.” he says to you. “You married him, you were with him for ten years. Certainly as his wife, you already know where he’s weakest.”
A beat.
A frown.
He expected that.
“And you…..” he adds, eyes searching yours with a precision that used to feel like safety. “You don’t come to me unless you’re already bleeding.”
Your smile falters, just for a second. A crack in the verdict. “Do you find that insulting?”
“No.” He says far too quickly than he should. “I find it foolish. But then again, foolish decisions are the antithesis of the better.”
He still hasn’t touched you.
And that, somehow, is the most intimate thing of all.
Your fingers remain at his tie, smoothing a crease that no longer exists. A nervous habit masquerading as control. Up close, you can see the faint shadow along his jaw where he forgot to shave, the tiny scar near his chin from the time he slipped on courthouse steps during a downpour and laughed while you scolded him for bleeding on legal documents.
He doesn’t laugh anymore.
At least not as he used to.
Not to you, most especially.
“Get off.” he says quietly.
Not harsh.
Not pleading.
Judicial.
You tilt your head, studying him like you’re trying to remember the exact moment he stopped being yours to ruin. “You used to like it when I ignored your instructions.” you murmur.
His eyes flicker somewhere. Not to your mouth, not to your hands but to the window behind you, to the city lights smeared across the glass like fingerprints. He’s looking for distance. For precedent. For anything that isn’t you, warm and breathing and sitting in his lap like a closing argument he cannot object to.
“That was before you decided to marry up for the contacts.”
There it is.
Not jealousy. Not accusation.
A fact entered into record.
“I told you that was my managers—”
“Well certainly you still did it.” he whispers to you, his eyes intently away from you. “Just because you did it with someone else’s intentions, does not mean it was not your actions.”
You inhale, slow. The cigarette smoke clinging to your hair mixes with the clean, dry scent of his office. paper, leather, something faintly medicinal. He has built a life that does not require you. You can feel it in the geometry of the room. Everything was too precise, too deliberate, ever so impersonal.
And yet you are here.
On his lap, like you used to be.
Disrupting the symmetry.
“Still….I didn’t come here for nostalgia.” you say.
“Good to know.” he replies. “because i don’t practice it.”
But his hands are still hovering.
Not pushing you away.
Not pulling you closer.
Waiting for a ruling.
You lean in just enough that your forehead almost touches his. Your voice drops, stripped of performance. “He’s going to bury me.”
The confession lands between you like broken glass. You feel it in the way his breath changes. It was a quiet hitch, quickly suppressed. In the way his fingers curl slightly, like muscle memory trying to remember the shape of your waist and stopping just short of treason.
“Financially?” he asks.
You shake your head. “No, he can’t steal my money. That’s secure, in some way.”
“Then in what way?”
“Reputation. Custody of everything, of my pets. Everything that can’t be itemized.” you say to him. “And….you know that he’s a big shot in the industry. He’s going to make sure I never get roles or work again.”
His eyes sharpen. The lawyer is back now. At that moment, you were not with a man. You were with a sphinx. This version of him is dangerous in a different way. He was focused and surgical, merciless to systems and the people who weaponize them against everyone else. He knew best how to do it. You know that too well.
“Did he hit you?” he asks.
The question is so blunt it knocks the air from your lungs. “No.”
A pause.
“He didn’t have to.” you whisper, your eyes lowering. “He can’t use me if he breaks my face.”
Something in his expression fractures. At least not outwardly, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you see it. You’ve always seen the microcracks first. The tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his molars press together when he’s holding back fury that has nowhere to go.
His hands finally move.
At least not to hold you.
To grip the arms of the chair.
Control, reasserted.
“Get off my lap, [name].” he says again, softer now. “Go on and sit like a client.”
You search his face for a trace of the man who once let you steal his fries and his sleep and his carefully constructed boundaries. You find him. He’s the one refusing to touch you. You pursed your lips in a tight line.
Slowly, you slide off his lap. The loss of contact is immediate, a draft where warmth used to be. You take the chair across from him, almost like a stranger in that client’s chair. A little further, a little lower. Deliberately so. The distance is obscene.
He adjusts his tie where you smoothed it, fingers lingering for half a second too long. He was starting to reset. No, he was certainly doing more than that. He was armoring. “Go on and start from the beginning.”
You almost laugh. There are too many beginnings. The first lie. The first headline. The first time your husband introduced you as if you were an acquisition. The first time you realized love, in his hands, was a transaction with better lighting on the sound stage.
Hiromi Higuruma listened to the details of your life he had not been privy of with focus. He tried to settle himself in that role of an outsider, as a lawyer and not that man he was. Not the man he still was who gets angry, emotionally overblown when it comes to you.
“He filed first.” you say to him, a second cigarette now on your lips. “It was a sealed motion. Allegations I can’t respond to without violating the injunction.”
His brows knit. "On what grounds?”
“Irreconcilable differences, apparently.” you say, a humorless smile ghosting your mouth. “And with such audacity, moral instability.”
Silence once more.
He sits more straight.
Then, very quietly, he repeats it.
“Moral instability.”
You nod. “Yes.”
“He has photos. Messages taken out of context. Staff willing to testify to things they were paid to misunderstand.” Your fingers lace together in your lap to stop them from shaking. “He’s building a narrative against me. I’m the unfaithful, erratic wife. He’s the patient, dignified husband forced to protect his legacy.”
“And the truth?” he asks.
You hold his gaze.
“I was lonely and I was isolated.” you say with such a morose look. “And he knew it. He orchestrated it… No one could be my friend, or my confidant unless he approved of them. How could I….I could be the one at fault if he’s doing this to me?”
The admission sits heavy in the room. Not infidelity. Not denial. Just the small, devastating truth of neglect. His jaw flexes again. This time he doesn’t look away. “Do you want to win this case?” he asks softly. “Or do you want to survive?”
The question startles you. “Aren’t they the same?”
“No.” His voice is iron. “Winning is a spectacle. Surviving is silence. The law can give you one, it takes good framing. But of course, your choices determine the other.”
Outside, Tokyo Metropolitan’s lights flicker as if the city itself is holding its breath. You lean back in the chair, studying the man across from you as smoke releases from your lips. This was the one you didn’t choose, the one you left, the one who still looks at you like you are both evidence and wounded.
“I want him to never do this to anyone again.” you say to him more honestly. “For him to pay for every bit of those ten years.”
You did not beat around the bush. You said something colder. Something far more cleaner in the dirt you surround yourself with. His eyes soften even more, perhaps just a fraction. But it was echoing with approval. Still every bit of him seemed reluctant. Yet ever so ready to be dangerous.
“Then we don’t destroy him.” he says in reply. “Instead, we document him.”
“Document him?”
“You have the money to drag it along. Why not? Let's make the truth so boringly precise…..” he adds as he narrows his gaze. “That no one can look away.”
Your throat tightens. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone to believe you without spectacle. “Does this mean….you’ll take the case?” you ask.
He studies you for a long moment. He was not searching for who you were, but measuring who you’ve become against the cost of letting you stand here again. Many things rush in his head, things he could not comprehend yet, things that he cannot say yet. But he does not move. Nor does he speak.
The office is too quiet once more. Even the city feels distant, muffled by glass and altitude. He looks at you like a man standing at the edge of a familiar cliff, aware of exactly how far the fall goes because he survived it once.
“There are a dozen reasons to refuse you.” he says at last.
Your chest tightens, but you hold his gaze. “And?”
His jaw shifts. “None of them change the outcome.”
You don’t breathe. “Is that so?”
“This is a conflict of interest, between us.” he says.
Your stomach drops anyway. The words are procedural, expected and still they land like loss. “Then—”
He doesn’t look away. “I have prior…involvement.”
Your laugh comes out thin. “We dated in our twenties, Hiromi. You’re not going to lose your license over bad timing and worse decisions.”
“That’s not the involvement I’m referring to.”
The air changes. Perhaps not in the way you would have expected. It came so quietly. There was nothing dramatic about it. There was no thunderclap, no cinematic revelation. Instead, it was just a subtle pressure shift, like a courtroom before a verdict is read.
You go very still. He wasn’t talking about who you used to be to each other. He’s talking about the way his voice lowers when he says your name. About how his hands refused to touch you, certainly not because he didn’t want to, but because he did.
Hiromi cannot let it be. He lets it fester, especially about the fact that you came here first, before the statements, before the damage control, before the world could tell you what your marriage was worth. Your pulse trips over itself.
“Are you refusing me?” you ask, quieter now.
He leans forward, forearms resting on the desk. Not close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows, the one that only appears when he’s choosing restraint over instinct.
“No, not really.” he says. “I’m…merely setting terms.”
“Terms?” you repeat, tasting the word.
His gaze flicks briefly to your left hand. Your expensive ring is still there, still gleaming under city light like a lie with excellent marketing. Then it lifts and returns to your eyes. You could feel your heart skip a beat.
“If I take this case, [name]...you know what I’ll do.” he says, each word placed with deliberate care, “I will dismantle him. Methodically. Publicly if necessary. There will be no ambiguity when it’s over. No narrative he can hide behind.”
The promise is not cruel.
It is precise.
It was why he was good.
“And when it’s done….” he continues, softer now, “There will be nothing left tying you to him. Not legally. Not socially. Not in the quiet spaces where people pretend vows still echo.”
Your throat tightens. “I know.”
“But you don’t walk out of that clean.” he adds.
You blink. “What?”
His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.“You don’t get to burn your life down and pretend you’re untouched by the smoke. If I do this, you lose the version of yourself that survived by smiling beside him. You lose the safety of being misunderstood.”
A pause.
“And you don’t come back here….” he finishes quietly to you. “Unless you’re prepared for the possibility that I will ask for something you can’t litigate.”
The words settle between you, heavier than any threat could be. It is not a threat. But it certainly wasn't a confession either. It’s a door that was closed, but not locked. It was with the understanding that opening it will cost you both the illusion of restraint.
“I sat on your lap.” you say, as if presenting evidence.
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Yes, you did.”
“You got hard, didn’t you?”
The bluntness would have shattered a lesser man. Hiromi’s jaw tightens. He bites the inside of his cheek, a habit you remember from years ago. The physical act of swallowing words he refuses to let exist.
“You already know that.” he says.
No denial.
No apology.
Just a fact.
You turn away first, not in retreat but in consideration, letting the cigarette die in the porcelain ashtray. The ember collapses inward, a soft surrender. Smoke curls up, thin and fading, like the last excuse either of you had.
When you face him again, you don’t return to the client’s chair.
You close the distance.
Slowly at first.
More animalistic now.
More deliberately.
You kneel in front of him. Not submission, not performance, but proximity stripped of pretense. The city light spills across the polished floor, catches in your hair, turns your eyes bright in a way he hasn’t seen in years. Not since before careful smiles and strategic silences replaced whatever this was.
Hiromi’s throat tightens. You see it in the movement of his swallow, in the way his fingers flex once against the arm of the chair before going still again, as if he’s afraid of what they’ll do if he lets them move.
“I thought about finding you again.” you say softly. “Years ago. Even when I was married.”
The admission lands like a dropped glass. It was not loud, but irreversible. His brow furrows. “Was I meant to be your secret, then?”
You shake your head immediately. “No. Never that.”
Your lips curve. Perhaps not into a smirk, not into cruelty but into something tired and honest. “You would’ve been as visible as his mistress.” you say. “An open scandal. No shadows to hide in.”
He exhales, a quiet, disbelieving sound. “Then why didn’t you?”
You look down at your hands, at the faint tremor you can no longer disguise as poise. “Because I wanted to believe I was better than him….That if I stayed, endured, kept choosing the respectable ruin, I could pretend I took the higher ground.”
Silence stretches between you.
Not empty nor was it depraved.
Instead, it was full of the lives you didn’t live.
“But I’m lucky, aren’t I?” you add, lifting your gaze back to him. “Now I don’t have to pretend.”
Your hands come to rest lightly against his thighs. You were not grasping, not pulling. Your palms were simply there, the contact almost formal in its restraint. You feel the tension in him, coiled and controlled, the rigid discipline of a man who has built his entire life on not reaching for what he wants.
“And besides….you know I’m no good.” you smiled at him. “But still….you want me anyway.”
“[name], you shouldn’t—” he begins.
You huff a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. Your other hand settles opposite the first, mirroring the contact, a balance he cannot misinterpret as accidental. “Let me make it up to you, Hiromi. Let me love you.”
Hiromi’s hot breath catches in his throat as your hands settle on his thighs. The contact is light, almost innocent, but the implications are anything but. He swallows hard, his eyes locked on yours as he tries to process your words.
"You don't know what you're offering to me, [name]." he says hoarsely. "What I want from you." His hands twitch, hovering just above your shoulders as if he's fighting the urge to pull you closer.
"I've waited too long for this. If we start down this path, I won't be gentle. I won't hold back." He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "I'll take everything you're willing to give and then some. Are you sure this is what you want?"
His voice is low and intense, filled with a hunger that has been building for years. You could feel your heart beating harder and harder against your chest second by second. You meet his gaze steadily, your own eyes filled with a determination that matches his intensity.
"I'm sure." you say quietly to the man you left ten years ago. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. "You lean in closer, your lips brushing against his as you speak. "Take me, Hiromi. Take everything I have to offer. I'm yours."
Your words are like a match to gasoline, igniting the desire that has been simmering between you for so long. Higuruma Hiromi's control snaps. With a growl, he pulls you onto his lap, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he kisses you with a ferocity that steals your breath.
He stands abruptly, lifting you easily as if you weigh nothing. He carries you to his desk, sweeping the papers and books onto the floor with a single swipe of his arm. He sets you down on the edge of the desk, stepping between your legs as he continues to ravage your mouth with kisses.
Hiromi’s big hands roam over your body, squeezing and kneading your flesh through the fabric of your clothes. He tugs impatiently at your shirt, popping buttons in his haste to bare your skin to his hungry gaze.
He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the swell of your breasts, his tongue darting out to taste the soft skin. His fingers hook into the waistband of your dress skirt, pushing it up around your hips as he steps closer, pressing his hardness against your core.
You can feel the heat of him even through the layers of clothing, and it sends a shiver down your spine. Hiromi’s cold lips trail up your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. He finds a particularly tender spot and bites down hard enough to leave a mark.
"You’ve decided but I decided on something too…." he growls against your flesh. "The only payment I’m taking is you.”
Your eyes widen at his words, a mixture of shock and arousal coursing through you. A while ago he was ruminating with the past, with the spring of your youths and the distance that was left behind. Yet it was as if the door had been fully opened.
The implication is clear.
He's not interested in money or any other form of payment. The only thing he wants is you. After a decade, it was still you he wanted. Even when you had abandoned him and made his life a misery and lonely desert, he still wants you to blossom in it.
Your heart races as you consider the implications. This is more than just a one-night stand or a fleeting affair, you were aware of this. This is Higurama Hiromi, your ex-boyfriend, the lawyer you just acquired to defend you in your divorce, was now claiming you as his own, demanding your complete surrender.
"And if I refuse?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.
Hiromi chuckles darkly, his hand sliding up your thigh and beneath your dress skirt. "Then I'll just have to convince you otherwise." he says, his fingers brushing against the lace of your panties. "I can be very persuasive when I want to be. And I want you. More than anything."
His fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them aside as he seeks out your most intimate flesh. You couldn’t help but release a gasp as he finds your clit, circling it with a gentle touch that sends shockwaves of pleasure through you.
"See how wet you are for me already?" he murmurs to you. "Your body knows who it belongs to, even if your mind is still resisting." He slips a finger inside you, pumping slowly as his thumb continues to tease your clit. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me to take you right here on my desk. I need to hear you say it."
His voice is low and commanding, leaving no room for doubt. He's not going to stop until he gets what he wants, not until he hears the words from your own lips. He has waited for so long for spring to come. He was not going to let it go.
You bite your lip, torn between desire and hesitation. The rational part of your mind screams at you to stop this, to push him away and walk out the door. But the ache between your legs is impossible to ignore, and the way he's touching you feels too good to resist.
"I...I want it…I want you." you whisper finally, your voice barely audible. "I want you to take me. Right here. Right now."
As soon as the words leave your lips, Higuruma Hiromi's control snaps in its entirety. With a growl, he lifts you onto his desk, sweeping the remaining court documents, other papers and all those law books onto the floor with a single swipe of his arm.
Higuruma Hiromi doesn't hesitate. He lowers his body, his hands gripping your thighs and pushing them further apart. He leans in without hesitation, his breath hot against your core as he inhales deeply.
"You smell so fucking good, you always have." he murmurs to you. "I bet you still taste the same."
He doesn't wait for a response before burying his face between your legs. His tongue slicks through your folds, teasing and tasting as he explores every inch of you. He finds your clit and sucks it into his mouth, his tongue flicking against the sensitive bud in a way that makes you see stars.
Your hands all but fly to his darkened hair, gripping tightly as you grind against his face, chasing the pleasure he's giving you. Hiromi’s masterful tongue delves deeper, the nostalgia of pleasure hitting you as you scream.
He keeps plunging into your entrance as he fucks you with his mouth. His hands grip your ass, lifting you closer to his face as he devours you. He can feel you getting closer, your walls fluttering around his tongue as he pushes you towards the edge.
He pulls back suddenly, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. "Come for me, [name]."he commands. "Come on my tongue like a good girl."
He expertly dives back in, his tongue circling your clit rapidly as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back in your head. It only takes a few more strokes before you're crying out his name, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Higuruma Hiromi doesn't let up, continuing to lick and suck through your climax until you're a trembling, boneless mess on his desk.
You do not remember much after that.
But you knew that you felt good, far too good.
You hadn’t felt like this in a long time.
WHEN YOU WAKE, IT ISN’T BECAUSE OF THE SUNLIGHT GLEAMING IN. It’s to the low murmur of a voice you know by muscle memory. For a moment, you don’t move. Your body is warm everywhere, especially down there where his cum dwelled ceaselessly.
It was still heavy with sleep everywhere, with the dull, satisfying ache of muscles used and reused, with the unfamiliar safety of not being alone when you open your eyes. The air smells faintly of tobacco and paper and the ghost of your perfume clinging to borrowed cotton.
You’re wrapped in a blanket. Not tucked. You were fully wrapped, securely. With intention to keep you comfortable. Beneath it, a long dress shirt drapes over your skin, the fabric soft from years of laundering, the cuffs hanging past your wrists. It smells like him in a way cologne never could. The starch, smoke, and something clean and dry, like old books and winter air.
You are naked underneath.
The realization arrives without panic.
Only memory.
Dawn, filtered through half-closed blinds. His name in your mouth is like a verdict you chose.The way restraint finally broke, not with the ardent violence that could have been, but with the quiet, tender inevitability of something deferred too long.
You turn your head.
Hiromi Higuruma sits at his desk, backlit by the pale gray of early morning leaking into the city. His upper body is bare, dress shirt discarded somewhere out of sight, tie gone, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. A cigarette rests between his lips, forgotten more often than smoked, its ash grown long and precarious.
He looks like he hasn’t slept.
Not in the frantic, unraveling way you’ve seen in tabloids and courtrooms, but in the deliberate stillness of a man who chose wakefulness over vulnerability. The kind of sleeplessness that comes from watching the shape of a life shift in real time and refusing to blink.
“…No, we have to do it immediately.” he says into the landline, voice even. “Go and file the response by noon. We’re not contesting jurisdiction and I am not arguing more about something ridiculous.”
A pause. He listens, eyes flicking briefly toward you. Somehow not surprised to find you awake, as if he’s been aware of every shift in your breathing. He takes a moment to look at you, taking in the sight of you before he ends up talking back to the other line.
“No, that’s not important.” he repeats, quieter. “And there will not be a statement. That’s not advised right now. That’s it. Yeah.”
Your chest tightens.
Not she.
Not the client.
Not your name.
Just a boundary placed between you and the world.
He exhales, finally taking a drag from the cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before dimming again. Smoke curls upward, dissolving into the dim office air. You find how perfect this sight of him was. How focused he was about his craft, about your business. It made you feel something wanton.
“…Because there is nothing to clarify about it.” he says into the receiver. “The filings will speak for themselves, as they usually do. Fine, yes. Goodbye.”
He hangs up with a soft click. Silence returns in the room. Yet this time, it was not empty. But rather it was dense. Delicately layered with everything that happened between midnight and dawn, everything that still hasn’t been said.
You push yourself up slightly, the blanket slipping enough to reveal your shoulder. The shirt shifts against your skin, cool where it’s lost your warmth. He notices. You can tell by the way his gaze drops for a fraction of a second before he deliberately looks back at the paperwork in front of him. Restraint, reassembled.
“You’re up.” he says. It’s not a question. His voice is rougher than usual, worn at the edges.
“You didn’t sleep.” you reply.
He stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray without looking. “I had calls to make.”
You study him more closely. You could tell the tension in his shoulders, the faint marks at his collarbone you don’t remember leaving but know you must have, the way he sits perfectly straight despite the hour, as if posture alone can impose order on what you’ve done.
“What time is it?” you ask.
“Six twenty-three.”
Too early for the world. Too late to pretend this was a dream. The realization settles over you with the slow certainty of daylight creeping through the blinds. The thin, pale bands stretching across the floor, the couch, the edge of his desk. Morning makes everything real. Night allows for ambiguity. The morning files it into record.
You gather the blanket closer, the wool warm but not warm enough to quiet the awareness of bare skin beneath borrowed fabric. His long shirt hangs loosely on your frame, the hem brushing your thighs, cuffs swallowing your hands.
It smells like starch and smoke and something unmistakably him, a scent that feels more intimate than anything that happened before dawn. You could feel nostalgic, remembering when you were much younger. How he would always smell so good, full of smoke and old oak scent.
Daylight makes you aware of the consequences.
Everything about you two is easily fractured.
You hadn’t realized how fragile this quiet is.
But then again, you had left him to boost your career.
Everything about this is going to be fragile.
“You covered me, huh?” you say.
Your voice is soft, rough with sleep, carrying across the immaculate stillness of the office. Shelves of case files stand in perfect order. The city hums faintly beyond glass. Everything here is controlled, except the space between you.
“Cleaned me a bit…” You attempt a smile that doesn’t quite land. Honesty has made a habit of slipping past your defenses in this room. “But not down there—”
The words hover, intimate and absurd in equal measure. Across the room, Higuruma Hiromi stills. It’s subtle to you. The pause of ink on paper, the faint tightening along his shoulders. But you’ve always noticed the small fractures in his composure. His pen hovers over the document as if the next word suddenly requires more care than the law usually demands.
“I was still inside for quite a while.” he says.
The statement is delivered in the same tone he uses to cite statute. Every bit of it is factual, unembellished, yet just as much impossible to misinterpret. You could feel your ears turn red. He sets the pen down with deliberate precision.
“I didn’t have the heart to see my hard work disappear.”
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. It is the closest thing to humor he’s allowed this morning. It is also not entirely humor. Heat rises beneath your skin. Not embarrassment, not shame, but the quiet recognition of care expressed in a language that borders on claim and stops, deliberately, at respect.
He finally looks up. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones, barely visible in the cool morning light. The cigarette in the ashtray has burned itself into a thin column of ash, forgotten mid-thought.
“You were asleep for a while, though,” he adds, quieter now. “You looked…peaceful.”
The word sits strangely in the air, as if it does not belong to a room built for litigation and controlled ruin. It sounds unfamiliar in his mouth, like something he rarely permits himself to witness, let alone protect.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
Outside, the city continues its orderly ascent into the day. The morning trains gliding into stations on the minute, crosswalk chimes repeating their polite insistence, the low murmur of a million lives resuming their scheduled negotiations. Tokyo does not pause for private upheavals. It absorbs them, files them away, moves on.
Inside, your chest tightens with the weight of what he’s admitting without saying. He chose to let the night remain intact. He chose not to erase you from it. And more than ever, he wants more of it. Not wholly in the reckless, devouring way of midnight, but in the dangerous quiet of morning, where wanting becomes a decision.
Your fingers tighten on the blanket, knuckles whitening beneath the wool. “You could have woken me up and sent me on my way, Hiromi.” you say again. “My driver is downstairs.”
The reminder lands between you like a line drawn in chalk: escape is available. Logistics are intact. The world you built, the one with schedules, staff, and careful exits, is still waiting at the curb. You were certain you even had a schedule to fulfill today.
His gaze lifts to you, steady, searching. Not pleading. Not apologizing. Simply present. “Dl Yes.” he says. “He is.”
Not was. Not might be. He knows. Of course he knows. He noticed the car idling before dawn, the silhouette in the front seat, the quiet discipline of a driver trained not to ask questions. He leans back slightly in his chair, the movement measured, buying himself distance without retreat.
“I could have woken you, like I used to do, when you had auditions.” he continues. “Ensured you left before the building filled. Before anyone could speculate. Before this became… complicated.”
A pause.
“I did not.”
The admission settles into the room like dust in sunlight, still visible, yet so inescapable. You swallow. “Why?”
He studies you for a long moment, as if weighing which truth will do the least damage and finding none that qualify.
“Because you were not a problem to be managed.” he says at last. “You were someone who finally stopped running…At least that’s how I took last night.”
The words land somewhere deep.
You were bypassing your practiced defenses.
Outside, a train departs. Inside, you feel very still.
“And…I know you would have left and discarded it.” he adds, voice lower now. “Sending you away would have made it easier to pretend this was a lapse.”
The words settle into the space between you. It was not accusatory, nor was it pleading. The way you heard it, you think it was simply a truth he has carried long enough to recognize on sight. Many things can be real at the same time. He will see the truth differently from you, most of all because you were sure you had jaded him as much as his profession had.
You purse your lips, the instinct to deflect rising like muscle memory. “You wanted to cage me.”
His gaze holds yours, steady and unflinching. “You caged me first, sweetheart.” he says.
“I know.” you whisper, wanting to look away in shame.
No heat. No bitterness. Just facts laid bare. “You did so ten years ago. And I still am now. What do you think I feel?”
The question lands harder than any raised voice could. The city hums beyond the glass, indifferent. Inside, the air feels thinner, as if honesty has displaced the oxygen. You open your mouth. You wanted to argue, to dismiss his words, to reach for the practiced defenses that built your life and find none of them fit.
“I know and I just—” Your breath catches.
It was not a lapse. You couldn’t even call it an accident. Not even a moment of weakness you could file under is regrettable but necessary. His eyes do not leave yours. He is not rescuing you from the sentence. He is waiting to see if you will finish it.
Your throat tightens. “It wasn’t.” you try again, softer now. “And that’s the problem.”
The admission changes the shape of the room. His shoulders ease at your words. Perhaps not even in victory, but in recognition. As if a tension he’s held for a decade has finally been named aloud. You think you hold your breath for a long time, transfixed in his gaze.
“You think I wanted to cage you.” he says quietly. “I wanted you to choose me.”
The simplicity of it steals the air from your lungs. So plain and so simple. The boring truth you thought to yourself long ago could not be enough. That safety you had risked for this starlight on the stage. Yet they were words you think you were more fond of hearing now.
“I did choose you.” you whisper. “Once.”
“Yes, you did.” he says to you, as you find yourself standing to move towards him. “And then you chose a life that required you not to. After all, the glamor was tempting, wasn’t it?”
Your fingers curl against the edge of his desk. “You think I didn’t feel it? Walking away like I’d amputated something and calling it maturity?”
His jaw tightens. “I thought you were relieved to see your dreams come true.”
The words are so quiet you almost miss them. You stare at him. “Relieved?”
“You didn’t look back,” he says. “Not once.”
Because if you had, you might have stayed.
Because if you had, you might have ruined him.
Because if you had, you might have ruined yourself.
Both of you would have been miserable, you think.
“I couldn’t.” you say, the truth scraping on its way out. “If I looked back, I would have run. Because I would have been miserable….if I didn’t get to enjoy the life I lived—”
“I know.” Hiromi affirms your words as you stand before him, his clothes pooling over you, hiding nothing but the upper half of your body. He lifts your head, your chin tight in his fingers. You were forced to meet his eyes.
“But now you don’t have that excuse.” He speaks to you, a small smile on his lips.
“No, no…I do not.”
YOU DON’T SEE HIGURUMA HIROMI FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS. But he doesn’t disappear at all like he did many years ago. Instead, he takes the time to tell you about many things happening with the divorce proceedings.
He updates you thoroughly, yet all the while still finding it to be brief and concise, polished to the point that you wonder if he’s talking to you more like a client and not the person he seems to be infatuated with. He sent at odd hours, the kind that suggest he drafted them between hearings or long after the office emptied.
Filed motion to expedite proceedings.
Opposing counsel acknowledged receipt.
Estimated timeline shortened by two weeks.
No emojis. No pleasantries. No mention of that night.
You appreciate it more than you can say. The efficiency. The care hidden inside professional language. He’s using his reputation, his firm, his time to make this easier for you in a quieter, faster, cleaner way. A kindness disguised as procedure.
You type thank you more times than you send it.
Because what are you supposed to say to a man whose life you walked out of once, a decade ago, in pursuit of a future you weren’t sure would love you back? What do you say to the man you reappeared before, all the sudden, so desperate and distressed, asking for help dissolving a marriage you built in the aftermath of leaving him?
What do you say to the man you slept with in his office, as if ten years had folded in on themselves, as if the versions of you that never happened were trying, briefly, to exist? And worst of all, what do you say after confessing the things you should have told him ten years ago?
That you were terrified of staying.
That you loved him in a way that made you feel small and enormous at once.
That you chose your dreams not because they mattered more but because you were afraid you would disappear if you didn’t try.
You had watched the words land in his silence, heavy and irreversible. Now there are only his messages. Far too efficient and distant for your liking. But you supposed it was your karma now. You did break up with him.
Work fills the space where he used to be. You went ahead with a coffee in your hand to the early call times, ate some good instant ramen at the late-night shoots, the mechanical repetition of lines you’ve said so often they no longer feel like yours while drinking bourbon.
Wardrobe racks being brought to your trailer, the beam of the harsh lighting on your skin, the directors and staff calling your name. You move from film set to soundstage, from one role to the next, slipping into other lives so you don’t have to sit too long with your own.
It’s easier that way. On set, you are decisive, luminous, untouchable. You hit your marks. You deliver tears on cue. You fall in love with co-stars beneath artificial rain and forget them the moment the director calls cut.
No one here knows that your phone lights up with legal updates from the man you once almost built a life with. No one here sees you stare at his name until the screen goes dark. No one knows that you are starting to become more fond of him again.
It’s easier than thinking about the last time you saw him. His office lights dimmed, case files pushed aside, the city lights glowing through the windows behind him. Easier than remembering how his hands hesitated before touching you, like he was already bracing for the consequences. Easier than the quiet afterward, when neither of you said what you were both thinking to each other.
This changes everything.
But the world doesn’t stop for complicated feelings. Contracts are signed. Scenes are shot. Your manager reminds you of schedules. Your lawyer reminds you of dates. You could feel your phone buzzing from your trailer table again.
Court confirmed hearing date.
You stare at the message for a long time. The sound behind you disappears into nothing. You try your best to think of something. All the sudden your heart skips a beat. Your thumbs hover over the screen, the cursor blinking in the empty reply field like a pulse.
You type: Thank you for doing this.
Delete.
You type: I’m sorry.
Delete.
You type nothing.
You groan aloud, frustrated.
“You okay, [last name]–san?”
You looked up, feeling a bit embarrassed being caught in the moment. “Y–yes….I’m fine. Just some updates on the divorce.”
“Oh, that’s right!” The staff gasped. “I’m so sorry that this happened to you, [last name]–san. It’s really rough to leave a marriage that lasted that long.”
Not really. You think to yourself. I already slept with my ex turned divorce lawyer….
“Uh…thank you.”
Before long the days passed.
The weather changed.
All of a sudden, you were in court.
The courthouse looms ahead in stark gray, all sharp lines and unforgiving symmetry. You arrive early, sunglasses on. You don’t do it for the press, even when they get your best side of the face in the shot. Instead, you do it for the illusion of distance.
Your heels echo against the marble floors as you step inside, each click too loud in the cavernous lobby. First hearing. Divorce proceedings. Routine, procedural, impersonal. You tell yourself that’s all it is. You can get through this.
And then you see him.
He stands near the courtroom doors, dark suit immaculate, posture straight in that way that always made him seem taller than he is. Higuruma Hiromi looks exactly as he always does in court.
He looked handsome in his suit, standing with severe composure. But you notice the details no one else would: the faint crease between his brows, the way his fingers tighten around the folder in his hand, the fraction of a second he freezes when his eyes meet yours.
It’s the first time you’ve seen him since that night.
For a moment, the courthouse noise fades. The murmur of other cases, the shuffle of papers, the distant echo of a gavel. There is only the space between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You wonder if he regrets it. You wonder if you do.
He inclines his head in a small, formal greeting, the kind reserved for colleagues and opposing counsel. Not for someone whose name he whispered like a confession just days ago.
“Good morning.” he says, voice even with professionalism.
Your throat tightens anyway. “Good morning.” you reply, matching his tone.
You compose yourself as he does. You know that the courtroom doors are opening and the world is watching, and whatever you were in his office cannot exist here. Not for anyone else, not for the press and not even for him. Not today.
He steps closer, stopping at a careful, neutral distance. But it was close enough to speak without raising his voice, far enough that no one could mistake the interaction for anything but legal. You found your lips in a tight line.
“What is it?”
“I received confirmation from the clerk.” he says, eyes flicking briefly to the folder before returning to you. “The judge assigned is known for efficiency. If both parties remain cooperative, this should proceed without delay.”
You nod. “That’s…good.”
A pause. He studies you for a fraction too long, gaze softening in a way that would be imperceptible to anyone else. “You look tired.” he says quietly, then, as if catching himself, adds, “Filming schedule?”
You almost laugh at the awkward correction. “Something like that.”
Another pause stretches between you both, something so thin and fragile. You see him taking a breath as he nodded. “I hope you get some rest soon then.”
“I hope this ends and settles itself, so I can get some rest.”
“I reviewed the financial disclosures. You were not lying.” he continues, voice returning to its measured cadence. “There are no irregularities. Your interests are protected.”
“My interests, huh.” you repeat, the words tasting strange. “Thank you.”
He gives a small nod. “It is my responsibility.”
But you both hear what he doesn’t say: I would have done it even if it wasn’t.
The courtroom doors open wider at that moment. You could tell that the people interested in this entire clown affair had begun filing in. He shifts his weight slightly, as if preparing to step away, to return to the role the world recognizes.
Instead, he says, very quietly. “Did you sleep at all?”
The question lands like a dropped glass. You meet his eyes. “Did you?”
A beat passes. He smiles. “No.” he admits.
The honesty sits between you, raw and unfiled, with no legal language to contain it. Footsteps approach. Voices echo. The world resumes. He clears his throat, the sound soft but decisive. “We should go inside.”
You nod. “Of course.”
He gestures toward the courtroom with professional courtesy, allowing you to enter first. As you pass him, you catch the faint scent of his cologne. It was the same, you think to yourself. Everything about it was achingly familiar.
For one reckless second you are back in his office that night once again, the endless beam of Tokyo Metropolitan’s city lights burning behind him, his hand hovering at your waist like a question he already knew the answer to.
Inside the courtroom, you take your place at the table. He sits beside you, close enough that your sleeves almost touch, yet separated by a distance far greater than the width of polished wood. He leans slightly toward you, voice barely audible.
“We will get through this.” he says.
You whisper back. “I can only hope so.”
The courtroom doors close with a heavy, final sound that reverberates through your chest. You sit beside Higuruma Hiromi, your tender hands folded too tightly in your lap, exhausted eyes fixed on the polished wood of the table as people settle around you.
You could hear the loudness of the papers shuffling, the chairs scraping, the loud yet quiet murmurs filling the air like static. You tell yourself to breathe. Then you feel it. Anxiety flooded through you at that moment.
A presence across the aisle. Familiar in a way that makes your spine go rigid before you even look. Your ex-husband is there, even when he said that he wasn’t going to attend, to focus on a new movie he was working on.
He looks older than the last time you saw him. He was already older, yet this time, he was older beyond his years. Grey everywhere, somber in all of his skin. His shoulders are tense beneath an expensive suit that fits like armor.
His jaw tightens when his gaze lands on you, then flicks. It was brief yet sharp and it was towards the man sitting at your side. To Hiromi. The realization hits him in real time. You see it in the narrowing of his eyes. The way his mouth presses into a thin line. The way his attorney leans toward him, whispering something urgent that he doesn’t seem to hear.
Your pulse roars in your ears. Beside you, Hiromi doesn’t move. But you notice the subtle shift in his posture was evident. You could see how his chest puffed. His shoulders squaring, presence sharpening, like a blade quietly unsheathed.
“Do not look at him.” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear.
But the warning came too late.
You already have.
And it made you both sad and angry.
This was the man you married.
A pitiful shell of a man who took advantage of you.
Your ex-husband’s gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment you are dragged back into the life you are trying to leave. The arguments that looped without resolution, the silences that lasted days, the texts and calls with the other women and so much more.
The slow erosion of something that once felt unbreakable came to you, more and more. He glances again at your strident dark haired lawyer. Recognition dawns. Not personal per say. You think it was more professional.
Higuruma Hiromi was a famous high-profile attorney. He has always had a reputation for ruthless precision. A man who does not take cases he cannot win, and pushes forward without a care in the world, so long as his clients are satisfied.
Your ex leans toward his lawyer, whispering sharply. The lawyer’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly before schooling their expression. You swallowed as you found your gaze towards Hiromi who seemed to not be fazed by it all.
“This is going to get messy, isn’t it?” you whisper.
Hiromi’s reply is calm, measured. “It was always going to be.”
The judge enters. Everyone rises. You barely register the formalities. The case number is read, then the names, then you got lost in all the procedural language. It goes on and on, until your ex-husband’s attorney stands.
“Your Honor.” she begins to say. “My client has concerns regarding the accelerated timeline and—” her gaze flicks toward you, then to Hiromi himself. “—potential conflicts of interest.”
The words land like a slap. "Of course he’ll bring it up.”
Hiromi doesn’t look at you. His eyes remain forward, expression unreadable. “Anticipated.” he murmurs. “Not a worry.”
Your ex-husband stands abruptly. “I’d like it on record at this moment.” he says, voice tight. “My wife’s attorney has a prior personal relationship with her.”
The courtroom stills. Every sound seems to vanish into the high ceiling. Heat floods your face. Your hands go cold. Higuruma Hiromi confidently rises slowly beside you, unhurried, composed. He looks at your ex-husband before focusing on the judge.
“Your Honor, this is not a concern.” he says, voice clear and steady. “I disclosed all relevant professional history to opposing counsel. There is no legal conflict that impairs my ability to represent my client.”
Your ex lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Professional history, huh?” he repeats. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Your chest tightens. “Please—” you start, but your voice falters.
Hiromi’s hand shifts slightly on the table, not touching you, but close enough that you feel the steadiness of it like a barrier between you and the storm. “There is no conflict. I am her legal representative here, not anything else.”
The judge’s gaze sharpens. “Sir, you will address the court with decorum. There is no conflict here. Mr. Higuruma is a lawyer. The record shall state nothing.”
Hiromi nodded at the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
Your ex’s eyes return to you, and for a moment the anger fractures into something rawer. “Him?” he says, quieter now. “You replaced me with him?”
The question is not legal. Not procedural. Not appropriate for a courtroom. It is personal. It always was. Yet it was more than likely a wound for him, even if he had been cheating first. Regardless of whether he knows you slept with Hiromi or not, he knew that Higuruma Hiromi was your ex-boyfriend. That was worth a bleed. Your throat closes.
Hiromi speaks once again before you can. “My client’s personal life is not on trial.” he says, each word precise. “We are here to dissolve a marriage that has, by both parties’ admission, irretrievably broken down.”
Silence hangs heavy for a moment, broken only by the shuffle of papers and the quiet clearing of throats as the attorneys prepare. You glance at your ex-husband. He’s sitting straighter now, jaw tight, hands clenched over the table. There’s a dangerous tension in his shoulders, like a coiled spring that’s only waiting for the right trigger.
The judge clears her throat again. “We will proceed with the matters relevant to this hearing.”
Chairs creak as everyone settles. But the usual rhythm has come and gone with all of its legal formality and its endless procedural monotony. You feel it in the way your hands tremble in your lap, the faint pulse in your throat.
You stare down at the polished table, seeing the reflection of your own face. You were someone caught between past and present, between two men who know different versions of you. Yet you do not want more of the past, even when one of the past sat beside you. You just wanted to move forward.
Beside you, Higuruma Hiromi leans close enough that only you can hear him. His breath is calm, measured, a quiet anchor. “Stay with me here, okay?” he murmurs. “This is going to be a bit long.”
You lift your head, meeting his eyes. There’s something in his gaze. He was firm with it, almost protective, a silent warning. “I know that.” you reply, forcing a steady tone. “Let’s just get this over with.”
The judge’s gavel has barely settled when the clerk begins the session. “This is the first mediation session regarding the divorce petition filed by the petitioner. Today, we will discuss division of assets, spousal support, and any other matters requiring mutual agreement. Please provide statements as necessary.”
You swallow hard, your hands still trembling slightly in your lap. Across the aisle, your ex-husband sits rigid, jaw tight, fists clenched. The air between you is sharp, charged. It was not welcoming. You don’t expect it to be when he wasn’t done with having more influence with you.
The mediator gestures to your ex. “Please begin.”
Your ex rises abruptly, voice taut. “I…I don’t accept the terms of this divorce!” His gaze fixes on you, fiery and wounded. “I don’t agree with any of it!”
You brace yourself, fingers tightening around your own notes. Hiromi leans close, his voice low. “Stay calm. Answer only when necessary.”
But your ex isn’t listening. He stands taller, chest puffed with a dangerous energy. “You can’t just walk away! You can’t—”
Before he finishes, he lunges toward you. Your body freezes. Hiromi reacts instantly. He steps in, positioning himself between you and your ex. Your ex’s momentum carries forward, and instead of hitting you, he collides with Hiromi.
The impact thuds sharply against Hiromi’s chest, but Hiromi doesn’t stumble or falter. Instead, he shifts his weight, steadying your ex-husband without letting him fall, his darkened eyes hard and commanding.
“Sit down. Now, sir. Or we’ll be having these procedures with a criminal assault case too.” Hiromi says, voice low but unyielding. Every word carries a precision that makes your ex pause mid-motion.
Gasps echo through the courtroom. The attorneys snap to attention. The mediator’s pen hovers in midair, but Hiromi doesn’t flinch. Your ex stumbles back, chest heaving, glare still locked on you. He mutters incoherent threats, but Hiromi’s calm presence is unbreakable.
You exhale shakily, hands pressed to the table. “I…I just wanted—”
Hiromi’s hand gestures slightly, firm but subtle. “You will speak only when addressed by the court. Go back to your position, sir.”
Your ex glares, mutters under his breath, but slumps back and this time, remains seated. His lawyer seems apologetic to all of you and to the judge. Hiromi sighs as he gathers his composure before going back to his seat.
You lean slightly toward Hiromi, whispering, “Thank you. I…I don’t even know what would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slides a document slightly closer to you, the corners brushing your fingers. It’s neat, precise. It was the summary of the points the court will discuss today, written in Hiromi’s careful hand.
“Focus on what matters, okay?” he murmurs, voice low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly to your ex, sharp and calculating. “Answer only what is necessary. Don’t give him more than he’s entitled to.”
You nod, swallowing hard. “I…I’ll try.”
He gives the barest tilt of his head in acknowledgment, eyes softening just enough to remind you he’s not just your lawyer today. He’s a shield. And just as much, he’s a man that cares for you above all else.
The mediator calls the session back into order. “We will begin with a review of joint assets. Please provide an account of your holdings.”
Your ex-husband leans forward immediately, voice sharp, venomous. “I should be entitled to more than half! She—she’s hiding things! She thinks she can walk away with everything while I—”
Hiromi’s eyes flick to him, icy calm. “Your Honor, if I may?” he interrupts smoothly. “My client has disclosed all joint accounts, investments, and property. Allegations of undisclosed assets are unsubstantiated.”
The ex’s face flushes red. “I—this isn’t fair! After everything—after what she did—”
You stiffen. He thinks he has moral leverage, but Hiromi’s presence is steady, unwavering. “Sir, you cannot argue with the law.” Hiromi says, voice firm but controlled. “And the law does not reward infidelity. Any personal grievances are irrelevant to the division of property. The petitioner is entitled to exactly what the law grants her.”
The courtroom falls silent. Your ex sputters, muttering under his breath, “I can’t believe this… she—she cheated me…”
You feel a flush of anger, your chest tightening. Hiromi leans slightly toward you, whispering, “Ignore him. Stick to the facts. We protect only what is yours. Nothing more, nothing less.”
You nod at him. You took a breath, letting the control of the situation settle in. When asked to provide information about your finances, you answer calmly, factually, leaving nothing out but adding nothing extra.
Your ex grows more frustrated. “And what about the house? The savings? I—she can’t just—”
Hiromi interrupts, smooth and precise. “Your Honor, the petitioner has already offered her fair share for the jointly owned home, as according to the law. Further demands are without legal basis.”
“Without legal basis?” Your ex’s voice rises. “I earned half of everything while she—while she—”
Hiromi’s gaze snaps to him, unflinching. “Your Honor.” he says, voice low and deadly calm. “The petitioner’s entitlement is calculated according to law, regardless of any personal misconduct by either party. Attempts to claim more than legally entitled are not permitted.”
Your ex freezes, jaw tight, caught between fury and impotence. He mutters something incoherent and sits down, defeated for the moment, the tension around him simmering but contained.
The mediator continues, going step by step through assets, savings, the main residence, and potential spousal support. Hiromi handles every challenge, keeping your ex’s arguments firmly grounded in reality. Each time your ex tries to exaggerate or claim more, Hiromi counters calmly, legally, without a trace of emotion.
By the end of the session, partial agreements are reached. The joint assets are divided according to law, the house’s status is clarified, and once it is sold, you share the profit. The spousal support is conceded, because your ex-husband had cheated. He has nothing beyond what the law allows and certainly nothing more.
You lean back slightly, a fragile sense of relief washing over you. The chaos through these many hours, the ceaseless verbal attacks, the endless grasping, the bitter attempts to punish you, has been neutralized for now.
Hiromi leans slightly toward you as you gather your bag, his voice quiet but firm. “Today went exactly as it should. You protected everything you’re entitled to. He won’t take more than the law allows, don’t worry.”
“I know that but I worry.”
“He cheated first. He has no moral ground here, either.” He tells you straight. “Don’t worry about how everyone will react. You are the victim here.”
You exhale slowly, feeling the tension finally begin to drain. “I…I couldn’t have done this alone.” you whisper.
“You didn’t have to.” he replies simply. “That’s why I’m here.”
THE MEDIATIONS COME AND GO, ONE AFTER THE OTHER AND YOU ATTEND EACH AND EVERYONE. Your ex-husband stops attending altogether. At first, it was excuses, vague claims of work obligations, illness. Whatever the reason, the court accepts them, and the sessions proceed without him.
When he does attend, he always causes nothing but grievances to you. The most you would say was bringing the woman he had cheated on you with, as “his most ardent support” in the proceedings. That had caused you much anger, and a verbal match ensued.
It wasn’t long before you started to become infuriated with each and everything he has said, especially with the things he had done. You asked the judge to put a stop to his attacks and the judge all together barred him from his own divorce proceedings.
With every mediation that passed, your ex-husband’s absence became the new normal. Hiromi and you were left alone at the table with his associates, the court mediators, and the procedural formalities, but no one challenged you directly. Your answers remained calm, precise, factual. There was no room for him to maneuver, no way for him to manipulate the process.
Hiromi’s presence beside you made all the difference. His posture, calm and unflinching, his voice low but firm when speaking on your behalf. Every motion, every word, seemed measured to protect you while keeping things efficient.
What should have been tense, exhausting, and emotional hearings had become almost mechanical under his guidance. You began to rely on that steadiness, letting him take the weight of confrontation while you followed his lead.
Eventually, you noticed something strange happening. The tight knot of anxiety you used to carry before each session began to loosen. Sitting across from him, listening to his calm explanations, watching him handle lawyers and mediators alike, you realized you were…calm. Comfortable, even.
It wasn’t just the court. It was everything about being with him. His patience with you in everything was impeccable. In every question, every fear, every irrational worry, it was everything to you.
And it was not limited to the courthouse. It extended into private conversations, even into the quiet moments between you in his apartment, or in the rare times when you found yourselves together at his place after long days. Even in bed, his patience never faltered.
There was no judgment, no rush, no pressure. It was just a steady, patient understanding of you. Wanting you, in ways that your ex-husband never had the patience or desire to desire. Perhaps that was what made it even more beautiful to you.
You let yourself realize, finally, that the divorce was no longer the storm it had once been. The documents, the court dates, the ex-husband’s fleeting threats. All of them existed, but they no longer defined your sense of stability. You were protected. You were in good hands. In Hiromi’s hands, most of all.
And yet, a different worry began to creep in. A worry of a more trivial, but no less real kind. You glanced down at your phone during a lunch “meeting” that everyone assumed was strictly professional.
Hiromi reached across the table to push a menu closer to you, his fingers brushing yours for just a second too long. He didn’t look up from the documents in front of him, but you felt it. You felt the warmth that had long belonged only to you.
A notification popped up on your phone: a journalist’s account of a photo snapped from outside the restaurant. Someone had caught a glimpse of you and Hiromi leaning toward each other over papers and coffee, captions speculating about more than just legal discussions.
You groaned softly. “Great. Just great. We’re officially the courthouse power couple now.” you muttered, not looking up from your phone.
“Maybe outside of the courthouse too, but well. Besides the point.” Hiromi glanced at you over the top of his folder, eyes sharp but amused. “Are you worried about what they think?” he asked, voice low, calm, and entirely too knowing.
“I can’t help it, I suppose.” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Half the time, we’re pretending this is all strictly ‘lawyer and client’ for the world to see but…everyone can see us now. They’re going to assume the wrong things.”
He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth tilting in that way that always made your pulse skip. “Let them assume. We know the truth, don’t we?”
You exhaled, realizing he was right. No matter the whispers, the photographs, the attention, you and Hiromi knew what was real. That was all that mattered. Only the truth you both hold matters.
Still, you couldn’t help glancing at the phone one more time, thinking to yourself, if someone got a good photo of the two of you laughing over lunch, leaning a little too close, sharing the same umbrella after a drizzle, it would be chaos. But maybe, just maybe, it was a chaos you didn’t entirely mind.
By the time the next formal hearing arrives, something has changed. The courthouse lobby is buzzing with life. A few journalists linger near the entrance, cameras discreetly aimed at the front doors. Then there were more in other places within the facilities itself.
Many people all but flooded in the corridors and the hallways and they all whisper as you walk past them with your bodyguards and your entourage. It’s not that you did anything public, at least, not intentionally.
But your previous relationship with Higuruma Hiromi, the story of your messy, public divorce, and the glimpses of your closeness during mediations came to light, this has also made you both figures of fascination in the public eye.
“Seems we’ve become the courthouse’s most talked-about case.” Hiromi murmurs as you ascend the steps, his tone dry but amused. He adjusts his tie with that effortless composure that always makes him look taller, sharper, untouchable. “It’s been a while since I have had a cult following.”
You glance at him, smirking despite the nerves prickling your skin. “Cult following, huh? Because we’re…efficient?”
He shoots you a look, one corner of his mouth quivering. “Not because of efficiency. And you know that. I know you see the edits on the internet.”
“They’re not exactly what I think of every time we’re together.”
He pauses, his eyes narrowing, getting darker. “Then what do you think about?”
“Something else.” you say almost too confidently, looking at him, and then his body. “You know what I like.”
“Your professionalism wavers easily, it would seem.”
“So does yours.”
Inside the courtroom, the atmosphere is different. Everyone in the room started to glance toward you as you entered, a murmur of recognition passing quietly through the gallery. Some nod politely, others whisper behind their hands. Your presence here, once private and procedural, now feels performative, almost the same as it usually was when you were on the film set.
You slide into your seat, Hiromi beside you as always. His tender, caring hand brushes briefly against yours, not in a claim, but a grounding touch. You notice the slight tightening of his fingers, subtle enough that only you would feel it.
“Focus.” he murmurs, eyes forward. “They’ll stare, they’ll whisper. It doesn’t matter.”
You nod, though your stomach twists. Every eye in the room seems to measure the distance between the two of you, the ease of your closeness, the quiet familiarity that’s impossible to ignore.
The mediator calls the session to order, but the whispered attention doesn’t fade. Your ex’s absence is glaringly obvious now. His chair remains empty. The judge raises an eyebrow, but neither you nor Hiromi flinch. You are the center of the room, the story. You are the ones in control.
Hiromi leans slightly toward you, voice low. “Remember what we’ve done. All your assets, your reputation are secure. He can’t touch anything anymore. This is just…noise.”
You let out a small, almost humorless laugh. “It feels like we’re celebrities in a soap opera.”
He glances at you, expression unreadable. “If it keeps your ex from showing up, I’ll allow the end of the soap opera.”
For a moment, the tension lightens. The eyes, the whispers, the cameras. They are distractions, nothing more. But you feel it, a strange thrill: you and Hiromi, together, untouchable in the eyes of the court, and impossible to ignore.
The hearing begins. Questions are procedural, predictable. But every time your ex’s name comes up, the emptiness of his chair resonates like a victory to you. Hiromi answers calmly, legally, flawlessly, leaving no room for dispute. Every asset, every account, every legal right you have is protected.
As the session wraps, the judge nods. “The court will continue the remaining matters on the scheduled date. This hearing is adjourned.”
You rise, gathering your papers, your bag, your composure. Hiromi stands beside you, close enough that the press and onlookers can see the subtle connection between you. Nothing overt, nothing staged but undeniable.
Outside the courtroom, whispers follow you down the marble steps. People notice the way he walks beside you, the ease of your closeness, the quiet strength in your interactions. He takes your hand in his. Your eyes widened slightly.
Hiromi leans slightly toward you as you exit. “They’ll talk, either way. Close or not, holding hands or not, it’s the same.” he murmurs. “Let them all talk. It changes nothing here.”
You squeeze his hand, fingers curling instinctively around his, feeling the warmth and quiet strength radiating through the simple touch. For a moment, the chatter, the flashing cameras, the whispers, they all fade.
You are acutely aware of the weight of his presence beside you leaning closer at each moment, steady enough to ground you, entirely willing ot be yours in that small moment, as everyone's eyes, everyone's lenses turned to th two of you.
“I…” you start, unsure what to say, your voice low. “I didn’t expect—”
Hiromi gives a small, knowing smile, eyes forward. “That you’d notice? Or that you’d care?”
“Both, I suppose.” you admit, your throat is tight. “It’s……weird. Being seen like this. Everyone is staring. And yet, it doesn’t feel wrong.”
“It shouldn’t, it never should have.” he murmurs, tightening his grip just slightly, enough to anchor you without drawing unnecessary attention. “They can talk all they want. None of it changes what’s real. None of it changes us.”
You glance down at your joined hands, the simple act carrying a weight far beyond its size. The world may have spun stories around you, assigned motives and imagined scandals but here, on the steps, walking away from the courtroom, you feel a rare, quiet certainty.
“Do you think they’ll follow us?” you ask, a wry note creeping into your voice despite the tension. “The reporters, the whispers, the courthouse gossip?”
Hiromi shrugs almost imperceptibly, a small, controlled movement that somehow carries both amusement and warning. “Let them. This isn’t about them. We’re not performing, we’re…here.”
“They’ll call you no good.”
“Then let them.” Hiromi smiles at you. “We’re happy. That’s all that matters here, isn’t it?”
His words settle into your chest like a promise. Amid the chaos of everything that had been happening in that short amount of time, there is a clarity, a center you never thought you’d have.
With Higuruma Hiromi beside you, even a hand held quietly in public feels like armor as much as his words were in the courthouse. It was everything and more.
A flash from a camera catches the corner of your eye. You instinctively glance at the crowd, then back at him. Hiromi’s gaze meets yours, steady and unwavering. There’s a subtle challenge there, but also a quiet reassurance.
“Ready?” he asks.
You nod, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. “Ready.”
And together, you walk down the steps, hand in hand, letting the whispers follow behind you. The courthouse fades in the distance, the world is still watching, still talking but that doesn't matter. Not when you are happy, not when he is happy. You were aware you were no good, but so is he. But that’s better, because you can be the same together.
THE SUN WAS TOO BRIGHT. You moan aloud, the sound tearing itself free before you can think to stop it. On this day of all days, the day the divorce was officially granted, you find yourself trapped in Higuruma Hiromi’s embrace, his body pressing against yours with a weight that is both grounding and consuming.
The world outside doesn’t exist. The courthouse, the whispers, the cameras, the lingering traces of your ex-husband’s attempts to claim what was never his, everything was gone. They all dissolve into nothingness the moment Hiromi’s harsh, yet careful hands settle over you.
Skin slides against skin, slick with the heat of desire and the rawness of emotion. Every movement is charged, urgent, yet precise, a reflection of the man beside you who has guided you, protected you, and understood you in ways no one else ever could.
You arch into him instinctively, clinging to the familiar strength of his body, feeling the steady, deliberate rhythm of his control. He keeps you close, almost cruelly, his hands tracing paths over your curves with a confidence that borders on domination.
“Today…” you gasp, voice trembling. “Fuck….…I can’t…not think of you.”
Hiromi’s lips brush against your neck, his voice low and husky. “You don’t have to think. You only need to feel. Here. With me.”
He had decided earlier that morning that attending court was a waste of time, especially getting out of bed when you were underneath his sheets, tainted by his touch. One phone call led to his underlings being able to handle the paperwork and formalities.
All that mattered that special morning was claiming you, marking you as his own once again. His hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you onto his cock with each snap of his hips. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room, mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure.
"Fuck, fuck…." Hiromi growled freely. "You feel so good. So tight around my cock."
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss as he continued to pound into you relentlessly. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down your neck as he bit and sucked at the sensitive skin. He knew he was leaving marks, claiming you in the most primal way possible.
But he didn't care. Let the whole world see that you belonged to him now. He felt your walls starting to flutter around him, signaling your impending orgasm. He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it.
"Come for me, sweetheart.” he demanded. "Come on my cock like a good girl."
His thrusts became erratic, his own release barreling down on him as he chased yours. His thumb pressed hard against your clit, pushing you over the edge. You screamed his name as you came, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice. That was all it took to send him spiraling into his own orgasm. He buried himself deep inside you with a roar, filling you with his hot seed as he shuddered above you.
Even as he emptied himself inside you, Higuruma Hiromi knew he wasn't done. Not by a long shot. He had waited too long for this for a long time, dreamed of this moment with you in his bed for years and years. He wasn't about to let it end so quickly. He rolled his hips, grinding his still-hard cock against your sensitive flesh as he felt himself starting to swell again.
"I'm not done with you yet, sweetheart," he murmured again, voice rough and low, vibrating against your skin. "I'm going to take and take, push and push. We have something to celebrate, after ten years, after all."
You shivered violently, breath hitching. Your hands clutched at him, pulling him closer, needing every inch of his body. "Hiromi… please…" you gasped, words breaking into moans, incoherent, but full of longing.
He didn’t answer with words. He pulled out slowly, watching as his cum leaked out of your well-used hole. Then he flipped you over onto your stomach and entered you from behind in one hard thrust, setting a brutal pace that had the headboard slamming against the wall.
He just moved closer, pressing into you with a fierce, unrelenting rhythm that stole your breath. Every thrust, every movement sent sparks through your nerves, and your body melted against his, all thought and restraint vanishing.
You moaned loudly, arching into him, lost. Lost in the heat, lost in the feel of him, lost in the sensation of being wanted, claimed, worshiped. “Ah… I can’t… can’t hold it…”
"Don't hold back, sweetheart. Keep screaming, keep meeting me half way." Hiromi growled against your ear. "I want to feel you come apart on my cock. I want to hear you scream my name."
You do as he says, screaming loud as his gruff hands gripped your hips tightly, pulling you back onto him with each thrust. The heat makes you feel like you could pass out at any moment. You feel drool pouring out the corner of your lips as he starts kissing you, his tongue pushing deep into your throat as you moan.
The more he pushed deeper, the faster he went, the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room with echoes that were sure to be more thunderous than before. Your hands on his hair, his lips now kissing your neck, as much as he started sucking and biting.
Your pleasures were mingling with your moans and his grunts of pleasure. He could feel your walls starting to flutter around him once again, signaling your impending orgasm. He reached around, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles around it.
"Come for me, pretty sweetheart." he demanded of you, this time more hoarse than before. "Come all over my cock like the good babe you always have been."
Your body obeyed his command, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name over and over, losing the tone as it cracks in the flood of pleasure, your pussy clamping down around him like a vice as you came undone.
Hiromi followed you over the edge, his own release hitting him hard. He buried himself deep inside you with a roar, filling you with his hot seed as he shuddered above you. He collapsed onto you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath.
Your body trembled beneath him, still shivering from the intensity of your climax, each pulse of pleasure leaving you weak and raw. Hiromi’s weight pressed you gently against the sheets, grounding you even as your mind spun from the aftermath.
You could feel the lingering warmth of him inside you, the heat of his release, and it anchored every shiver, every quiver. He stayed there, chest pressed against yours, breathing heavy, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin layer of skin between you was intoxicating.
His fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns across your shoulders, down your arms, lingering in places meant only for him. “I love you. I love you more than I could ever describe. Even when you’re no good, I want to be with you.”
Your breath hitched at his words, the raw honesty in his voice sending a shiver straight through you. “Hiromi…You don’t have to…” you whispered, voice trembling. You…you don’t have to say that. You…you’ve given me everything already.”
He lifted his head slightly, eyes locking with yours, dark and unflinching. “No, no.” he said firmly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “I have to say it.”
“Hiromi—”
“Because if I don’t, you might think—” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin. “—that any of this is just physical. That any of what I feel can be contained by words, by touches, by…this.”
Your chest tightened. “I…I don’t deserve you sometimes, I hurt you. I broke your heart and I….” you admitted, voice breaking. “After everything—after the mess with him, after—” You stopped yourself, not trusting your voice.
Hiromi shook his head, pressing another kiss to your forehead, soft and grounding. “Stop it, okay?” he murmured. “Don’t apologize. Don’t justify. You’re not ‘no good’ to me. You’re human. You wanted a life and I just….things are different now. Nothing can prevent us from being together.”
You felt overcome with emotion at his confession. “Hiromi….”
“And I…I want every part of you. Every flawed, beautiful, messy part. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I stayed.”
You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, a mixture of relief, exhaustion, and the lingering thrill of what had just passed between you. “I’ve never…felt this safe with anyone. Only you. Even back then….” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper
Hiromi tightened his hold, pressing his body closer. “Good.” he breathed. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not ever. You don’t have to worry. You don’t have to carry the weight alone. Ever again.”
“Hiromi.”
“There’s nothing to forgive.” He whispers to you, pressing a kiss on your cheek, then to your lips. He smiles. “Let me love you.”
You tilted your head, pressing a kiss to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. “I…I love you too, Hiromi. More than words could describe.” you whispered, letting yourself finally melt into the warmth of him. “I’ve been waiting…I’ve been holding back for so long, and now…I can’t anymore. I just…”
“You don’t have to say more, okay?” he interrupted softly, nuzzling into your hair. “I know. Every look, every touch, every time you let me in…it tells me more than words ever could.”
You rested your head against him, chest rising and falling against his, shivers still running through your limbs. “Thank you.”
“No, no.” He shakes his head, smiling wider. “Thank you.”
epilogue
A few months later, the same courthouse that once echoed with the hollow finality of your long suffering marriage in divorce now buzzed with a different kind of anticipation. It wasn’t exactly the same fanfare, but it was everything to you.
The Tokyo District Court was reserved compared to the grand hall wedding you had with your ex-husband. But even with all fluorescent lights, polished floors, and quiet authority, this was probably a better wedding to you than the first one.
The last time you stood there to declare your wedding after the glamorous ceremony, your hands had trembled as the clerk stamped the final page. The air had felt heavy, like something irreversible had just been carved into stone. This time, your hands were steady.
The clerk recognized you. Her brows lifted almost imperceptibly before her professional composure returned. Papers were placed in front of you again. A pen slid across the desk. Beside you stood the infamous divorce lawyer Higuruma Hiromi.
He looked as he always did. Dashing in his immaculate suit, tie aligned with near-mathematical precision, expression composed enough to intimidate a courtroom. Yet there was something unmistakably softer in his gaze when it turned to you. His hand rested at the small of your back, firm and grounding, as though the world itself might tilt without his steadying touch.
“I suppose this is ironic, isn’t it?” you murmured, glancing at the very bench where you once sat alone.
“The law is not concerned with irony. It records conclusions and beginnings with equal neutrality, sweetheart.”
You smiled faintly. “And what is this?”
His fingers intertwined with yours. Warm. Certain. “A new precedent….One I intend to uphold for the rest of my life.”
There were no sweeping violins. No dramatic audience. Only a quiet exchange of vows that felt far more binding than any spectacle could offer. Your voice wavered only once, not from doubt, but from the overwhelming clarity of knowing you were choosing again. This time, without any intention to let go.
When the final signature was placed and the declaration made, the sound that echoed in the hallway was not the hollow stamp of loss. It was your laughter. You stepped out of those courthouse doors no longer carrying the weight of something broken, but the certainty of something rebuilt.
“I’m very happy to call you my wife.” Hiromi whispered against your skin, pressing a kiss on your cheek.
You giggled. “I’m very happy to call you my husband too.”
It caused quite a stir. But of course it would. He was your long time ex-boyfriend, the one who represented you in your divorce and now after just mere months of reconnecting, you were both getting married like nothing happened. Yet that was just life.
Life was as unpredictable as the weather. But this unpredictability was more than welcome to you, to him. It was all you both could have ever strived for after such a long time being apart, suffering in the silence of your own respective chaotic worlds.
But now things made sense.
Being together made sense.
Being happy made sense.
Months later, the world was louder. The red carpet stretched endlessly beneath your heels, a river of crimson beneath flashes of white light. The premiere banner of your new film towered behind you, your name emblazoned in gold.
Reporters called out questions in overlapping waves. Microphones extended toward you like reaching hands. And beside you, as he had been since that quiet courthouse a few months ago, stood Higuruma Hiromi, your husband.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo now, the severity softened by the unmistakable pride in his posture. His hand never left your waist, ever so protective and careful. Your own hand, where your gleaming wedding band shone, rested instinctively against the gentle curve of your stomach.
You were pregnant.
You both were happy about it.
And certainly, it seems everyone is too.
The news had broken hours before the premiere, it was the right time, seeing as you were already far along. Headlines called it shocking. It was so sudden, so unexpected. It was the effect of that beautiful whirlwind romance that people did not even expect.
The internet, as always, had opinions. People always had something to say about things. But none of that noise reached you the way his quiet voice did when he leaned closer. He was all that mattered to you, as much as you were all that mattered to him.
“Are you tired?” he asked, low enough that only you could hear.
“I’m fine, sweetie.” you assured him. “I have a very capable attorney ensuring my safety.”
A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “But I’m not just your attorney now, no?”
You giggled happily. “No, no. You’re also my equally very capable husband.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” he whispers to you, kissing your lips, which makes you giggle even more.
A reporter shouted, “How does it feel to be newly married and expecting while starring in the most anticipated film of the year?”
“It’s amazing! It’s everything that one can dream of, after a long long winter.” you tell them, smiling and waving at everyone. The cameras flicker even more. “I’m with someone that makes it all easier.”
Hiromi’s gaze looked at you lovingly before it flicked toward the cameras, measured and calm. “Life rarely adheres to strict timelines. But when events align in one’s favor, it would be unreasonable not to express gratitude and contentment.”
You laughed softly, the sound warm despite the chaos. “He means we’re very happy.”
The flashes intensified even more as your husband smiled and kissed you again, everyone eager to capture every angle of that kiss. Before long, you both moved along, but even then, everyone was crazed in capturing more of you two.
The protective curve of his arm around you, the way he adjusted his pace to match yours, the softness in his eyes that only ever appeared when he thought no one else was looking. It would be on the front page of every newspaper, article and social media site before the end of the night.
Once, that courthouse had marked your ending.
Now, it was merely a footnote in a far greater story.
You leaned toward him as photographers called for one final shot. “Marrying you in that building might be my favorite plot twist.”
Hiromi glanced down at you with happiness, nothing else mattered now. “Then let us ensure…..that every chapter that follows from here on out surpasses it.”
Spynosis: Even though relationships aren’t his thing, Satoru believes he could make one last if he really wanted to. What other way to prove that than to bet on it, with you being the bet?
Warnings: Eventual smut, porn with plot, college au, modern au, quiet girl! reader, switch!reader, frat!jo, switch!gojo, fluff, angst, fratjo is kind of a dick, fratjo gets character development, fratjo gets humbled, introvert x extrovert dynamic, each chapter gets their own warnings.
ac: thatsallitchief on X
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Chapter One: The Boy From PSY201
Chapter Two: The Carnival
Chapter Three: How To Tutor An Idiot 101
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Disclaimers:
♡ ONGOING
♡ Available on AO3 @/satorusnovia
♡ Contains fluff, angst and smut, so MDNI
♡ Hate will not be tolerated here and you WILL be blocked. Reader's personality is based on mine, so hate towards her will especially not be tolerated. If it's against fratjo before his character development, then that's fine.
♡ This is all my original work. I don't use AI, and neither should you. Don't plagiarize my work or repost it without proper credit. Don't feed my work into AI. I do not consent to this being translated.
All work belongs to @satorusnovia. Do not repost, translate, plagiarize, or modify in any way shape or form on any kind of platform.
