when megumi told his friends he was dating you, the first reaction was pretty much the same for everyone — a mix of 'no way' and 'i don't believe you'. the worst part? he couldn't even blame them.
megumi would describe himself as introverted and probably pretty anti social. so when you walked up to him one day and started talking to him like you knew him for years? yeah he knew he was a goner. but honestly he never understood it — you were so beautiful, pink and glittery. him, on the other side, looked like he didn't know any other colors other than black and blue.
and somehow, he still fell inlove with you. he realised it soon when he missed the splash of vivid colors in his dorm or the sweet strawberry vanilla scent you left anywhere you went.
imagine his shock when you, yes you, confessed to him first — your eyes glassy like you were actually scared he might not feel the same way. and yet, the only thing he noticed in that moment was how cute your lips looked with the pinkish gloss.
when you started dating, no one really noticed the change — you always used to kiss his cheek even as friends, and he didn't go around to brag — not because he was ashamed, but because he always was one to admire you quietly. he never hid the relationship, he just didn't announce it shouting like yuji would.
so, when one day, when you joined megumi at training, which doesn't happen often, chaos unfolded. you strut down to watch him train in the sun, your pink customized uniform (curtesy of gojo) shining in the sun. megumi didn't see you immediatly, too focused on fighting off maki.
after the sparring match (which he lost) he finally saw you — sitting on the bench with some kind of iced drink. taking a break, he walked over to you, a small smile on his face at your obnoxious waving. "what are you doing here? i thought you went shopping." he takes the drink you're silently offering him, taking a sip from the sugary liquid. definetly your taste.
"hey babe! i was, but after i bought three bags my arms started to hurt so i came back. i found these really cute purple heels that match that skirt i bought last week, do you remember which one? oh and i also found these new gloss that tastes like strawberry..." he's listening to you rambling off about whatever you bought today, following your every word with quiet acknowledgment.
"do you have the new gloss on right now?" his question throws you off, making you halt your story telling. "yes how did you know? wanna try it? i have it in my bag!" while your searching your bag — which was filled with sweets, lipgloss and perfume, megumi's eyes don't leave you. he doesn't even realise maki is yelling at him to come train until yuji shouts like a gorilla making him jump.
"can i try the gloss?" the question would be weird for anyone else but you always make him put on some to 'taste test' it. "i'm not finding it right now ugh and you have to go—" he cuts you off with a direct kiss on your lips. right there in front of everyone — you swear you hear nobara gasp.
either way, you kiss him back, the gloss transfering onto your boyfriends mouth. it's a rather quick kiss, not wanting to put on a show infront of everyone. when he pulls back his forehead against yours, his breath stuttering. "it tastes nice."
you don't have time to answer — he walks back to the training ground, ignoring the way everyone is looking at him. guess they finally know you're really dating.
synopsis: your husband decides to pester you while you're making an ikebana, a traditional flower arrangement.
pairing: futureclanhead!naoya zen'in x wife!reader
warnings: explicit sexual content, mdni. kinda misogynistic relationship, but reader has him whipped lowk. she's cutesy. tit fondling, vaginal fingering, biting, slight manhandling, very mild dubcon. sadist naoya tbh. he lurv u doh!
masterlist | other naoya drabble
wc: 1.7k (genuinely self indulgent my bad y'all)
a/n: continued naoya brainrot. genuinely do not know what's wrong with me 😴 he's so dumb but also i love exploring traditional japan for worldbuilding.. i may make this a series with other jjk men too. but rn naoya nation is well and alive with me 😷
you heard him before you saw him due to the heavy nature of his stride. his waraji sandals scrape against the wooden floors as he makes his way to you. carefully perched on your knees, you were focused more on the arrangement of foliage on your desk than entertaining your nosy spouse. tapping your hasami clippers on your chin in consideration, your thoughts are rudely interrupted anyways.
“stop playing with the clippers, yer gonna cut your cheek.” your husband’s tone would sound condescending to most people, but you knew what it translated to. “please be careful, my love” was the more accurate statement he intended.
you turn your neck to look up at him. he was clad in his usual navy haori and white kimono, a twisted frown painted on his lips and eyes narrowed at the sight of you doing any kind of work. the corners of your mouth upturn, your voice soft and mellow. “i have been doing ikebana since my teenage years, husband. you know this.”
he scoffs loudly as he takes to lying on his side near you, hand propping up his head to watch. the free hand plays with your floral stitched sleeve, the action not gone unnoticed by you. “just keep the sharp shit away from your face, woman. your skin is too thin and easily damaged,” he snarks.
you ignore him as you choose a piece of kiku, a soft pink that you especially picked out of your gardens. well, the gardens naoya owned and let you run amok with. “did you know the westerners call this chrysanthemum? what a lovely name,” you muse, humming to yourself.
“americans use too many fucking syllables.” he snaps. you let out a small giggle despite yourself, to which he tugs on your sleeve. not hard, just like how an insolent child would. “my love, the word is ancient greek.” you supply with a suppressed smile, sticking in the flower branch into one of your kenzans that hold the structure.
“my wife, the ever-literate and oh so intelligent lady of the house.” he deadpans. “most men would do away with you for your sharp tongue,” he mutters. again, you pay no mind. there was not much use putting up a fight with this stubborn man.
after adjusting some green foliage around the bloom, you give him another glance. “look, my dear. it’s us,” you say shyly. naoya instantly stops his little tantrum to look at your finished arrangement. it was quite remarkable to be honest. your attention to minimalist detail was unmatched. you had created a scene of the bloom being engulfed by greenery, twisting around it and intertwining branches. it looked as if it was protecting the kiku, yet keeping it all to itself. much like your own lover.
he doesn’t say anything for a moment. you raise your brows. not much makes your husband speechless, so this was an interesting sight to see. you set the hasami down and tilt your head at him in an innocent inquiry, the gesture sending more than a couple rushes of blood to his crotch.
something flashes behind his sharp, feline gaze and he moves to grab your face, giving you a wanton kiss that was anything but poised. you manage a small gasp before you inhale him, full of equal want and need for his lips on yours. his hands move to your hips, encasing and pushing you onto the floor as he ravages you further. your mouth moves fervently and without decorum, unlike the act you maintain in the zen’in home beyond your room walls. however this was your fine arts room, anyone could walk in and see the young zen’in devouring his wife in full, which unfortunately gives you a sick thrill. only a perverted man would be blessed with an equally degenerate counterpart, that being you.
his tongue sweeps in to claim yours with the same entitled hunger he shows for everything that belongs to him. you taste the faint bitterness of the kizami tobacco he must have had earlier, mixed with something darker, something that is purely his taste that you craved so bad. your fingers curl into the front of his white kimono, pulling him closer even as your back is pressed harder between him and the cool tatami floor.
“naoya..” you murmur breathily against his mouth when he finally lets you up for air. it comes out shaky, already wrecked from the intensity of his touches. your hair was disheveled and the pink floral kanzashi hairpin (his gift) was barely keeping it all together. with gentle care he removes it from its place, your locks cascading around you in an oddly seductive way that had him make a noise of lust.
“quiet,” he mutters, and though his voice is rough the usual bite is softened, given by the way his thumbs press into the dip of your waist. “you talk too much when you’re supposed to be taking me.”
he shifts his weight, knee sliding between your thighs to part them despite your tied kimono, letting it ride up and expose your smooth legs. the heavy fabric of his hakama skirt brushes against your skin as he settles over you. one large hand slides up your floral sleeve, then higher, tugging at the collar of your kimono until the soft line of your throat and collarbone is out for him to see. his mouth follows immediately in hot pursuit, open kisses that turn into sharp little bites along your neck, each one accompanied by a satisfied hum when you arch into him.
you feel him smile against your skin when a soft, raw whimper slips out of you.
“see?” he rasps, voice smug. “even yer body knows who it answers to.” his hand finds the tie of your obi and makes quick work of it, loosening the wide sash with his natural impatience. the cool air kisses your skin as he parts the layers of silk and cotton beneath. when his palm finally cups your breast, thumb brushing over the already-peaked nipple, your breath hitches sharply.
your idle hand reaches up to push his haori off his shoulders. he lets you, shrugging the dark fabric away without ever fully lifting his mouth from your body. the white kimono underneath hangs open, revealing the hard planes of his chest and the faint scars from sparring you’ve traced with your lips a hundred times before.
your hands explore greedily, wandering nails grazing down his abdomen until you reach the waist of his hakama. he catches your wrist before you can go further.
“not yet.” he says, eyes gleaming with that predatory satisfaction that made your core pool. he pins your hands above your head with a single grip, leaning down so his lips brush your ear. “you were thinking about me while you made yer little flowers? only you would make something so innocent so fucking sexy. now i want to watch my pretty wife fall apart.”
his free hand slides down your body, calloused fingertips tracing the inside of your hip, then lower. the whimper before was nothing like the whine you let out now. you watch his jaw tick in an instant reaction. he pushes your thighs further apart with his knee and cups you through the thin underlayer still clinging to your skin. the heat of his palm makes you jolt in lingering pleasure. when he presses two fingers against your core and starts a slow, teasing rub, you bite your lip hard enough to feel a sting.
“look at you,” he murmurs, voice low. he feels how wet you already are. “already soaking for me just from a few kisses. greedy little creature.”
you try to glare up at him, but it dissolves into a moan when he slips those fingers beneath the fabric and sinks one thick digit into you without warning. your back arches clean off the tatami.
“naoya…!”
“that’s better.” he adds a second finger, curling them just right where he knew you loved it, thumb circling your clit with relentless precision. his gaze never leaves your face, drinking in every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp. “keep saying my name while i taint you. my sinful wife. be loud enough that this whole damn estate knows who this tight cunt belongs to.”
your hand flies to his shoulder, nails scratching him hard as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly. the ikebana sits forgotten on the low desk just beside you, soft pink kiku petals trembling every time his hand moves. the sight of it; your careful respectable work now witness to this? it sends another shameful thrill through you.
he leans down, capturing your mouth again in a messy, claiming kiss as his fingers drive you closer to the edge. when you start to clench around him, thighs trembling against his hold, he pulls back just enough to growl against your breath.
“come for me, my love. then i’m going to fuck you properly on this floor until you can’t even walk through yer gardens tomorrow.”
the promise, delivered in that arrogant, adoring tone only he could manage, is enough to snap the tension. how awful that the only time you feel indescribable bliss is when he uses adornments with you. you shatter around his fingers with a broken cry of his name, hips jerking against his wetted hand as pleasure ripples through you in waves.
naoya watches you through it all, eyes dark with hunger and something softer underneath that belongs only to you. ownership of his true heart, perhaps?
when your eyes stop seeing stars and legs cease trembling, he finally releases your wrist and brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with deliberate slowness.
“good girl,” he purrs, already reaching for the ties of his hakama. “look right at me, petal. no one else will ever get to see my wife fall apart like this.”
his gaze drops to your spread thighs, then back up to your dazed, loving eyes. the same eyes who only saw your wretched partner as the mover of all worlds for you and you only.
“now… let’s see how well my prettiest petal can take the rest of me.”
i'm feeling a collection coming on for real... the voices 😵💫
buy me a drink :)
reblogs are highly appreciated ♡
all dividers by @cafekitsune, photos from pinterest
He’s not the kindest man. He never has been. When you learned about your arranged marriage, a thought struck you to run away. But in the end, somehow the fear of being caught and killed was worse than being the wife of the guy who’d most likely be the one to do the killing.
Besides… you figured being his wife wouldn't be all that much different from being a maid. You’d no longer have communal chores, but housebound ones. There’d be less to do and you’d be free to plan your own days, which is an obvious upside. There’d be downsides too, of course… you’d no longer have the other maids to rant and gossip with, and instead of answering to the head of the maids, you’d have to answer to your husband—the worst, most ill-tempered employer imaginable.
Yeah, maybe you should have given running away more thought after all…
Or, at least, that’s what you feared when you first moved in with him… But, as it turns out, your fears of him hovering over your every move with disapproval all as an excuse to punish you for fun wasn’t going to be your reality. No… in reality, the man barely even acknowledges that you’re there. And with how he’s busy for most hours of the day, you barely notice his presence in return. Even when you actively seek him out, which you have to do for no other reason aside from duty, he’s still not the imposing, obnoxious and all in all difficult guy you were certain he’d be.
No, rather curt and simple, actually... When you inquired about what food he’d like for you to cook, he only replied with the word “meat”. And when you asked what colors he’d prefer for the decorations of your marital home, he only said “nothing girly”.
Other than that, he doesn’t seem like he could care less what you get up to. Basically giving you free reign to do whatever you want. So much so, you might as well have the entire house for yourself.
The only time you’re in each other’s company is when catching some action at the end of the day—which, of course, had been the part of your arrangement you’d been most anxious about. But even that, he doesn’t make too hard to endure—utterly unlike what you’d imagined. Mostly, you just lie there—or sit, or get folded, depending on the way he handles you. He doesn’t talk, he doesn’t ask. He just finishes, then goes to sleep.
Truth be told, it’s actually kind of boring. You know you should be happy about it—or rather, you know you should be counting your blessings—but you can’t help giving some thoughts to how you thought he’d be treating you in bed, even if, overall, you’re happy you’re not being but under a belt.
No. You know it’s no joking matter. But what else can you do? Remembering the days of your childhood when you’d catch him breaking people's arms on numerous occasions for the smallest signs of disrespect, you keep waiting for the moment he decides to snap, as if it’s an inevitability. Morbid humour and dark fantasies are the only ways you can cope when walking around on these eggshells.
Deadly like a handgun, but indifferent without its trigger pulled. You just wish you knew what the trigger was so that you could avoid it altogether. But then again… even if you knew what the trigger was, there’s a good chance you wouldn't be able to stop it from being pulled regardless.
Bang goes the front door, and you can’t think anything but shit, shit, shit, here it comes.
You’ve never seen the man drunk before, but you can smell it on him now, even from afar. It’s the only thing you had yet to rule out, but of course it would be alcohol. All men are worse drunk, after all. This is the day you’re going to experience the full brunt of the burden that comes with being the wife of a man who’s known for his hate.
And yet… “I love you…” are the words slurred against your cheek as the man above you dumps all his weight on top of your trembling body that was otherwise preparing for the worst.
What happens instead shocks your body even more than the beating you were expecting as he sandwiches you between himself, right there on the living-room couch just a short walk from where he’d just come through.
“Need you so bad right now… gotta have you before I lose my mind….”
As always, you don’t do much more than lie there under the onslaught. Eyes peeled, unable to wipe the look of utter surprise off your face, you just continue to listen to his words, trying your very hardest to make any sense of them the best way your muddled brains can. Though, between his mouth softly lipping at your neck and cheek and the way he rubs that hard bump in his slack against you while drunkenly struggling to undress you both fast enough, you can’t help but come up empty for any kind of explanation.
“Tell me you love me–” His ramblings continue regardless of your puzzlement with words rasped between you. Mouth to mouth, feeding you the prayers “Please—say it with your pretty voice and your pretty lips—”
The unnerving confessions and requests spill off his tongue so carelessly you’re starting to wonder if he might have slapped your wits out so hard and fast that maybe you’d started dreaming. And before you’re able to grasp the reality of it, he’s got your thighs hiked over his, pushing your knees up towards your head—not just with his hands, but with his entire body, pressing your flat.
“Been wanting to hear it for so long—please, just once–”
His cock rests heavy and hot upon your mound—so needy you feel it pulse and twitch as he rubs it up and down through your thighs. It distracts you for a moment, but more of his whining brings you right back. Looking back up at him and that odd expression painting his face—cinched brows, hooded eyes, disheveled hair—so foreign you can barely recognize him from his usual restive scowl or haughty smirk, downright pleading with you, “Say it, please—wanna hear you say it so badly my heart can’t take it–”
Feeling his lips press against yours, you actually realize you’ve never really kissed before this. Another little distracting piece of dumbfounding news that makes your head go blank anew, only able to recite one sentence to yourself regarding what the fuck’s going on, and he’s expecting you to pull yourself together enough to tell him what now?
Using his grip in the knotty position, he somehow manages to slide his cock down to meet you at your entrance, and to yet another of your full-bodied surprise, you realize you’re utterly fucking soaked like never before in your life.
“Augh, fuck–-y’gonna make me cum already–” he whimpers, gliding into you slow but steady until he’s all the way at your womb, resting himself there while his head dips above yours, pressed in bliss against the couch cushions with a long groan.
It’s like the start-up of an old train engine after that. Slow and deep, as though he’s stuck in the same spot, unable to bring himself to move, until something gives and he’s thrusting into you as though he’s suddenly got somewhere to be.
“You're so good to me–so so good—too good,” he keeps chanting in your ear, along with messy kisses that leave your skin wet and warm and tingly. “My sweetest prettiest cutest little wife who’s only kind and good to me–”
Caught between a rock and hard place in a way you’re not sure is bad or the best thing ever. Trying to make sense of it all makes your head spin—getting your insides rocked so hard your breath’s knocked out of you and your ear’s filled with so much sweet nothings, you’re unsure you’ll ever recover.
“What would I do without you, huh? ‘Missed you s’much—all day—s’fuckin’ miserable when you’re not with me, I think I might die–”
Realising his grip from under your thighs, he lifts his hands up to cup your face as he leans his head and places his forehead down upon yours. Keeping a steady rhythm with his hips, as he begs the same question as earlier, just as, if not even more desperate as before, “Say it for me—say you love me, please–need to hear you say it, just this once and I’ll be happy–”
And you, equally taken by surprise, though now less choking on the shock and more as drunk on the moment as the man on top of you, finally join in, kissing him back with an “I love you,” coming off your lips.
It’s not the first time he cums inside you, but this time it’s like he’s really trying to fill you with all his worth. Even when he’s done, he takes a moment to keep you plugged, then even goes as far as to carry you to bed with him, where he indulges even further by keeping you close to his chest all night long.
If he’s embarrassed about any of it the next day, he doesn’t say. Things go back to normal. You perform your wifely duties and he those of the husband, coming home to your homemaking after a long day’s work—same as always.
However… you do end up switching something up from the usual.
Although, you know it's not a healthy habit, you start making it a ritual to fetch him a drink or two along with dinner now.
And you can't say you’ve ever lost a night's worth of sleep over it, despite not doing much sleeping anymore…
summary: yuuta working through his grief of losing one of the people most important to him.
length: 8.1k
cw: hurt/comfort. spoilers for the ending of JJK. reader & yuuta do the whole marriage, pregnancy, having a baby thing, if that bothers you you can skip over this fic. there are parts that are suggestive but there is no explicit smut. this fic is mostly yuuta-centric but you play an active role in his healing process.
a/n: i haven't written fic in a couple months so please be niceys, thanks xo also thank you to kana @heyimkana for beta-reading and thank you to niku @stellamancer for helping me with gojo's voice like months ago when i first started writing this lmao
0003 (Dec 28 2018)
“Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Japan’s coolest, most handsome sensei; the world’s strongest sorcerer, Gojo Satoru~! Can’t come to the phone right now, I’m super busy! Buuuuut if you leave a message I’ll get back to you! …Probably.”
Standing just at the periphery of the small crowd of people that have gathered at the crematorium, you glance over towards the grass and trees just a few steps away. Below the canopy stands Ieri Shoko and Atsuya Kusakabe, Shoko-san in a black jacket and black dress with her hair tied in a bun, a lit cigarette perched between two fingers, and Kusakabe-sensei with his hands tucked into his black dress pants, a rather tired expression on his worn face. You can’t hear them, but they have been conversing for quite a while, waiting around for the same thing everyone else is waiting for.
Another figure stands just beside Shoko: Yuuta Okkotsu, wearing a dress shirt and tie for the occasion, though it’s all rather ill-fitting, shoulders crumpled and pant legs too narrow, like his suit had been purchased and hidden away months ago, tucked into the depth of his drawers, only to be pulled out wrinkled and too small for his growing body. The cigarette in his fingers is burned to the filter. He has his cell phone pressed to his ear, but he has said nothing into it. When his gaze meets yours, eyes glassy and pink, he wordlessly, sheepishly, stuffs his phone into his pocket, puts out what’s left of his cigarette, and drags a hand through his bangs, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear before it stubbornly falls back to caress his jaw. He looks down at his shoes, kicks a bit of dust onto his shiny, unused oxfords. You try not to stare at the stitches on his forehead, still raw, red with scabs, the cuts just begging to heal. They’re still too fresh for you to ignore. But you try.
Vaguely, you register a commotion coming from your peers behind you: the door to the crematorium has opened. The hushed conversations all but stop; everyone turns to the sound, ears perked up like dogs. You’ve all been waiting for what seems like forever—but really, it’s only been a couple of hours.
“Two at a time, please,” the employee at the door asks. Yuuta makes his way over to you as the rest of your classmates divvy up into doubles: Megumi and Yuuji, Maki and Nobara—
“Can you go with me?” Yuuta asks you, just as you feel his twitching fingers prod at your own. His fingers are warm against the back of your hand, and for that warmth you are grateful. It wasn’t that long ago that his touch was ice cold, pulse barely perceptible. That he’s standing before you now only days later is a miracle.
You smile, taking his hand into your own. He smells a little like cigarettes, and a lot like fresh laundry and aftershave. It’s calming. Gently, your thumb brushes the back of his hand, round in slow, sweeping circles. It’s a comfort for his jittering nerves.
“Of course, Yuuta.”
You wait in a solemn silence. He doesn’t let go of your hand, even after several pairs of sorcerers go in and come out of the crematorium. When it’s your turn, you lead him by the hand as he walks behind you, robotic, dazed.
The walls of the room are a plain, stale shade of beige. The air is stuffy, thick. It’s unusually cold—colder than the presence of curses, even. Your breath leaves your lips in visible clouds of warmth. The large table in the center, sunken with raised metal-plated edges, suddenly looks rather daunting.
“Take all the time you need,” the black-suited employee standing at the door says, bowing to you both, before closing the door.
You let go of Yuuta’s fingers and move towards the large sets of chopsticks balanced on the raised edges of the table, taking a pair into your right hand. Yuuta stands stiff at the entry way, eyes unmoving from the pile of charred bones in the center.
“Here’s the urn,” you start, moving towards the center of the table. “He’s at the ribs now—”
You hear a sniffle echo in the room. Looking up at Yuuta, you see him staring at his shoes, hands closed into fists as his shoulders shake.
“Hey—hey,” you quickly drop the chopsticks onto the raised metal edge and make your way over to him, placing your hands over his fists as concern colors your features. “Yuuta, it’s okay.”
“S-sorry,” he stutters. A tear that isn’t yours falls onto your coat sleeve. “It’s just… been a while since I’ve done this.” Whether conscious or not, he raises a hand and his gaze flicks to his ring, placed upon his ring finger with an unspoken weight on his body. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his closed fist.
“Let’s do it together,” you tell him, squeezing his other wrist with reassurance.
Yuuta couldn’t be more grateful, though he feels like a burden when he leans into your strength. You walk beside him, closer to the table, leading him by the hand. Yuuta’s stare is hollow as he looks upon the pile of bones—downcast eyes holding insurmountable grief within their murky blues.
“I know what you’re thinking,” you start, as you watch Yuuta’s chopsticks tremble. He blinks at you slowly, as you take up your chopsticks at his side. “You were there, in his body, hoping that he’d wake up with you—or maybe that you’d die together. You’re always up to sacrificing yourself like that.”
He watches in silence as you reach over to the pile, picking up a rib bone with your chopsticks. He idly follows you, picking up the other end of the same bone.
“Gojo-sensei knew the risks. He did it for us, the next generation, to pick up what he started. For you to continue what he started.” You both place the bone into the urn, together. “The best way to honor him is to keep going. Keep living, even if it’s just for sensei’s sake. He trusted you with that dream, didn’t he?”
“I just… feel like he should’ve been here instead. Instead of…” Yuuta’s voice is raw, the words a sharp lump in his throat. He thinks it should be him—Rika should’ve been him. Gojo should’ve been him. Everyone else should’ve lived, but him.
“You deserve to live,” you assure him. “Please don’t think like that anymore, okay? A lot of people would be devastated if it would’ve been you.”
You pick up another bone, and wordlessly he follows your motions. He tries to nod, but his body feels heavy. Like he’s treading water.
“Gojo-sensei will be watching over us, Yuuta. I’m sure of it. So be sure to show him this was worth it.” Yuuta turns to you, eyes widened as your words sink in. He’s always been like that—living for others. “If not for yourself, then at least for him. Okay?”
When you’re both satisfied with the bones which you’ve placed in the urn, you lay down your chopsticks back onto the plated edge of the table. Giving Yuuta’s hand one more reassuring squeeze, you leave the crematorium together hand-in-hand. Once you’re outside, wordlessly joining the other students, you turn to him.
“Were you on the phone earlier, Yuuta-kun?”
For the first time today, his ghastly pale skin warms. Life is breathed into him with his rosy-colored embarrassment.
As he stares at his dress shoes, he breathes out, “It wasn’t anything important… I promise.”
0052 (Feb 15 2019)
It’s been 52 days since the death of Satoru Gojo, 49 since his cremation.
Yuuta wakes the morning of Friday, February 15 with a violent pain in his chest. It is the mark of the end of the formal mourning period for Satoru Gojo, though he knows in his heart it will take much longer than 49 days to overcome the grief he feels. He turns in his bed towards the nightstand, where he keeps the burial urn during the days of mourning. For various reasons, he ended up being the one to take possession of Satoru’s remains.
The Gojo family, sparse and unresponsive as they were, declined to take part in much of the funeral rites. Though there was a crisp and pressed black-suited representative or two sent for each step of the process, and an address for the family burial plots given, no one had any desire to take ownership of the remains during mourning, not even Satoru’s estranged parents. Shoko, the remaining closest person to Gojo, had insisted on leaving it to Yuuta, for he had become Satoru’s ‘successor’ in all but title. And Yuuta’s sense of responsibility, as well as his devotion to Gojo, was unquestionable—the only other possible candidate was perhaps Megumi, but he had his hands full with the funeral rites for his sister, Tsumiki.
Beside the burial urn, which had been sitting there upon his nightstand for the last two months, lay a relatively new addition to his bedside treasures: a small red box, wrapped in a white ribbon, given to him from you just the previous day. A valentine’s gift, you’d told him, eyes hopeful and cheeks flushed. Whether it was a genuine tell of your feelings for him, or an attempt to cheer him up before the impending burial of the urn, he wasn’t sure (though later he would learn it was entirely the former, the latter simply happenstance).
He briefly glances at the floor, where a small suitcase with a few changes of clothes—something more formal for the internment, and a few more casual pieces—lay tucked away. He intends to travel to Kyoto for a couple of days, to place his sensei to rest at his family shrine.
Yuuta dials a number on his phone, one that he hasn’t dialed for 49 days. He lets the timbre repeat itself in silence, a faint vibration echoing each tone when the phone across the room receives his call. It’s plugged in, no longer subject to an owner—but Yuuta can’t find it in himself to get rid of it, nor shut it off.
After a few unanswered seconds, the ringing tone stops. And the voice he wishes to hear, bright and cheery, fills the silent room, like the warm, vibrant sun breaking from behind the greys of a cumulonimbus cloud.
“Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Japan’s coolest, most handsome sensei; the world’s strongest sorcerer, Gojo Satoru~! Can’t come to the phone right now, I’m super busy! Buuuuut if you leave a message I’ll get back to you! …Probably.”
After the tone, Yuuta simply breathes into the phone, staring at the white ceiling of his room. He’s still in one of the campus dorms—it’s easier that way, to continue the clean up of Shinjuku and surrounding areas while staying close by. And sometimes, when the nightmares get bad enough, it’s nice to have a friend only a door or two away. He hasn’t been able to leave that comfort nor be alone, not yet.
“I don’t know if this is the right thing to do,” Yuuta whispers. The phone line, with its number of seconds on the display climbing in the silence, offers him nothing in return. “I was planning to bring you to Kyoto, sensei… but I’m not sure I can.”
He struggles with the indecision—fearful that, upon bringing Satoru’s remains to his family, they may just dehumanize him further; sap out whatever cursed energy residuals exist in his ashes, and turn him into a weapon.
Even in death, Satoru is a man made to be used.
(He’d read it in one of the jujutsu textbooks once, that the bodies of sorcerers, even worn down to ash, could be melded into anti-curse weapons, and he’d never forgotten it since. After all, he too is a special grade.
Could that be his fate one day after death?
He certainly hopes not.)
Interrupting his silence, a single tone emits from the phone. He pulls it away from his ear and squints at the screen. Your contact name pops up, along with a green button, the circle begging to cut short his conversation with the dead. Yuuta swipes at the green circle, ending his voicemail and connecting to you.
“Good morning, Yuuta-kun.” Your voice is so warm, your smile palpable. He raises a palm to his quick-beating heart. “Are you ready to go to Kyoto?”
You had volunteered to accompany him, and that had made him nervous in ways that he hadn’t felt around you before. A weekend away, just the two of you. He would’ve never imagined such a thing… even now, being reminded of it, makes the room feel a hundred times smaller. Especially because you insisted on sharing a room—even if there are two beds, surely breathing the same air for so long may kill him.
“I…” he starts, but words fail him. You hear the clack of his teeth as he shuts his mouth.
Open, close. Open, close.
You give him a few seconds. Then, “We don’t have to go now, you know. It doesn’t have to be 49 days… It’s when you’re ready.”
He sighs, the lump in his throat hard to swallow. “I guess… it’s just…”
“Kyoto doesn’t feel like the right place for him, huh?”
Yuuta’s eyes widen. How would you have guessed…?
“Do what feels right by sensei,” you add. “It’s what he would want, right?”
“Right.”
“Hmm… What about here in Tokyo? There’s a shrine on campus…”
The words slip out before he can contain them: “You always know the perfect thing to say.”
“Do I?” He can hear the uptick in your voice. You’re teasing him. “Maybe I just know you, Yuuta-kun.”
“Thank you.” His tone is too soft, too gentle, too endearing for the teasing mood you had set. Hoping not to lay his feelings too thickly, he quickly adds, “For always being there for me, I mean.”
“And I always will be, Yuuta.”
A stretch of silence passes, and Yuuta just listens to you breathe into the phone for what feels like hours.
“Yuuta?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we still go to Kyoto together, you and me?” You can hear his breath catch at the end. He mulls it over for a few seconds as he stares at his suitcase, as if running through the list, checking for any corner of the universe where he would ever say no to you.
He comes up empty.
“Yes. I’d like that very much.”
0347 (Dec 7 2019)
It takes you almost a year to discover the existence of the cellphone.
It is late, just past midnight on a cold, snowy December night in Tokyo. You’re asleep next to your now-boyfriend, Yuuta Okkotsu. Not a rare occurrence in the months since you’ve began dating. He sleeps so much better with you beside him—and you, too, sleep better in his vicinity. Healing has not been perfect, but sleeping in each other’s arms, well, it’s close.
Your sleep is peaceful; cradled by the scent of his shampoo after your shower, you were so sweetly whisked into dreamland in the comfort of his arms.
At least, you were sleeping so wonderfully… until you were so rudely awakened by the sound of a cell phone vibrating with a phone call.
As the phone begins to ring, you—the lighter sleeper of the two—are roused from your rest. You’re sparsely dressed: a t-shirt that’s much too big and a pair of panties that are much too cheeky. When you stir in Yuuta’s arms it takes effort to peel apart, your eyes creased closed and your limbs heavy with sleep. He doesn’t stir, but he whines softly in his sleep like a child when you leave him.
As you rub the sleep from your eyes and try to adjust your vision to the dark, the phone continues to ring, a low hum from across the room. Perhaps it takes you a moment longer to process because of your state of lucidity, but both you and Yuuta’s cellphones are nearby, perched on the bedside table. You are very sure about this placement, having put both your phones to charge just before crawling into bed. So wouldn’t your phones’ ringing be much closer to you, and not coming from across the room?
It is this realization that actually wakes you from your half-sleeping daze.
Does Yuuta have a second cell phone?
Now, you’ve never even entertained the thought of Yuuta hiding anything from you. So when you realize that the ringing is coming from an unknown phone, your first thought is that perhaps it’s for work—you’re not entirely privy to every one of Yuuta’s missions or dealings with your fellow sorcerers. Perhaps he had thought to keep some dangerous things separated from his daily life?
Though, in practice, being a sorcerer is your life; to think they can be separated, you realize, would be hubris that Yuuta simply lacks entirely.
If you were satisfied with the rationalization that perhaps it were a work phone… or perhaps, if you were just a little less inquisitive and a little more tired, you would’ve gone back to sleep the moment the vibrating stopped (which it has now, leaving you to question your ears now that the room is enveloped in a defeaning silence).
And you almost do, laying your head back down onto the pillow and staring into the dark in hopes of falling back asleep. You close your eyes and sleep comes back easily to you, the heaviness growing quickly upon your bones. You’re almost back to sleeping, breathing slowing and shoulders settling down into the springs…
Until again, the phone rings.
Now, it feels more urgent. Who would call so late, twice?
The walk across the dark room is a little funny, from an observer’s point of view. You push yourself out of bed, and stumble across the wooden flooring, bumping toe-first into one of Yuuta’s dressers. Cursing under your breath as the pain radiates from your stubbed toe, you follow the flashing light and not-so-gentle vibration just a few feet away from your now, the only light in the dark. Again, you stub your toe against something—maybe the TV stand, maybe another dresser, you can’t remember the layout of Yuuta’s room at this level of exhaustion you’re at. But after another curse word or two under your breath and stepping over a pile of clothes that may or may not be yours (so haphazardly tossed about just a few hours ago, when teenage hormones were flaring hot), finally you have the cellphone in front of you.
The bright light makes you squint, and the words are a little blurry, but you’re one hundred percent sure that the caller ID on this cell phone right now says “Megumi-chan❤️” and now you’re WAY too curious about this to let it go. Whatever sleep that was still haunting your half-dead corpse like a phantom has all but vanished entirely from this mortal plane.
What the fuck?
You toss your head back to Yuuta (aka the giant lump on the bed, which is the only thing you can make out in the darkness) and see that he hasn’t moved an inch since your painful, arduous journey across the bedroom. So you look back down at the phone in your palm, unplug the fully charged device, and make your way to the bedroom door, an escapade to the bathroom in mind.
When you do make it to the bathroom (after almost tripping over what felt like Yuuta’s pants and then, again, stubbing your fucking toe on the door) you sit down on the toilet lid in the bathroom across the hall and look down at the foreign cell phone in your palm. It’s an iPhone, perhaps a model from a couple of years ago, in a steely blue color with a cute pink strawberry phone case. There’s even a charm attached, a little panda dangling from the hole in the phone case near the sound switch like a teenage girl’s phone. Now, you certainly know this can’t possibly be Yuuta’s phone because he does not care enough about anything that isn’t you or his friends, much less a cell phone—he would never have these things on his phone. (Unless they were gifts from Panda, or something.)
After getting enough of a look at the outside of the phone, you turn on the screen. The background isn’t anything special—maybe it may even be the default wallpaper on the phone, it feels so bland. But the notifications are what catch your eye: there are several missed calls, including some from Yuuta, who’s contact name is simply “Okkotsu”, and the most recent calls are from Megumi, who, again, you cannot believe is written as “Megumi-chan❤️”. Does Megumi know this—would they kill this person for calling him that? You suppress a chuckle.
Well, as much as you feel like this is an invasion of someone’s privacy, you’re too curious to back out now. So you open the phone—no password to stop you—and poke around. The contact list is all people you know: Yuuta, Maki, Ijichi, Shoko, Yuuji, even you, too. Which gets you even more curious; who could this be?
Before you can snoop any further, another notification arrives: a voicemail, from Megumi. You didn't even realize the missed call had turned into a voicemail in the time you’d been snooping, and suddenly the phone feels hotter, heavier in your palm, like its alive somehow, breathing. You click the voicemail icon and see that the entire first page of voicemails are all from Yuuta, dated randomly throughout the year, as far back as even over a year ago. Megumi makes the two most recent entries, the older one being a few seconds long, the newer one a few minutes. You don’t even bother scrolling further back than the first page—a pit brewing in your stomach at the sight of Yuuta’s name over and over stops you. It threatens to eat through the acid, the lining, rumbling with a barely contained nausea.
You press one with Yuuta’s name, dated a few months ago. The date specifically is what catches your eye.
It’s the date he asked to be your boyfriend.
When it starts to play you lift the phone up to your ear, listening. There’s a shaky breath, the audible opening and closing of his lips; he does that when he doesn’t know what to say, present but wavering like a leaf fluttering in the wind, anchored to a branch. After a few seconds, he says, “Hi, sensei.” You eyes widen in recognition, your heart beat loud in your ears.
Is this Gojo’s phone?
“I asked her to be my girlfriend today,” he says, your name uttered so softly from his lips like it may break if he says it too loudly. He sighs, and it feels so tangible, like a breath to your ear. “Honestly, I’d ask her to marry me instead, boyfriend doesn’t feel like enough… but that sounds crazy,” he laughs a little and your face feels so hot you might burn right into cinders in your boyfriend’s bathroom. This voicemail suddenly feels like a conversation you shouldn’t be listening to.
“I was thinking about when you came to Morocco… when you said that I should just tell her right then—somehow you knew what I was feeling. I never even got to ask you if you dated anyone, if you knew how this felt.” There’s rustling on the other end, before he continues. “Did you get to experience love like this? I hope so, sensei. It’s terrifying… I know you said love was a curse but… I want to love anyway,” he trails off, and you can feel it in his voice, his fears, probably the guilt that comes with knowing the power of his love. Your chest aches. You end the voicemail, unable to hear anymore lest you combust, hazy and besotted with a love-moulded yuuta-shaped lump in your throat.
In an effort to clear the notifications you try to swipe up, but end up pressing on the first voicemail from Megumi. It’s short, and starts to play before you can end it.
First, a sigh. Then, a frustrated, “This is stupid.” And then, he hangs up.
It almost makes you want to laugh, that’s so Megumi.
You press the second, longer one, curious enough to hear what made him call back.
There’s a long pause, so long you wonder if it was a butt-dial or some kind of mistake. Megumi’s voice is smaller when he says, “Okkotsu-sempai told me about this phone line still being open—says it helps him when he wants to talk to you. Can’t believe it still has your stupid voicemail on it, you idiot. Honestly…”
You don’t talk too much to Megumi, not as much as the others in your year do, but even you can tell that his voice has less bite than it usually does.
“Happy birthday, Gojo-sensei.” He says, and you realize that you hadn’t even known when Gojo’s birthday was. Megumi seems to struggle with what to say on the line as you’re hit with another long pause. Unlike Yuuta, where you can hear every breath and every nervous gnaw of his lips and every half-uttered syllable as he struggle with his words, Megumi makes no such noise. It’s so silent you feel like you’re on the phone together, and a rather unpleasant feeling bubbles beneath your skin.
Just before you end the voicemail, despite it having another five minutes or so left, you hear Megumi say the words, “Thank you, sensei.”
You click on the part of the voicemail section of the app, where it says “Greeting”, and listen:
“Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Japan’s coolest, most handsome sensei; the world’s strongest sorcerer, Gojo Satoru~! Can’t come to the phone right now, I’m super busy! Buuuuut if you leave a message I’ll get back to you! …Probably.”
It’s been almost a year since you’ve heard Gojo-sensei’s voice. The tone of the voicemail is so silly it makes you laugh, but the sound of his voice also makes you feel rather melancholy. You lock the phone and stand up, peeling your sticky bare legs off the toilet cover, and shut off the light to the bathroom.
After returning Gojo’s phone to the spot where you found it (luckily without stubbing your toe this time!), you find yourself crawling into bed next to Yuuta. Somehow, feeling his sleep-laden body still welcome you into his arms, with a warm and gentle embrace, all the emotions you’d kept in now wrap around you like a blanket, seeping your skin with a heavy feeling of loss and a fear of losing even more. Yuuta’s a special grade, still taking dangerous missions, still risking his life every day… what if, like Gojo-sensei, something happens to him one day?
You’d been so confident in him for so long that it had never really hit you like this—not since that fight in Shinjuku, not since Yuuta had survived the impossible.
“Yuuta?” You call for him in the darkness, voice soft and crackling with the hours of disuse.
“Hm?” He hums, sleepy, but attentive to you.
“I love you,” you tell him, not for the first time, but with such sweet honey laced between the words that even in the dark you can see his smile. Your fingers come up to his face, to the scar on his cheek and the scar on his brow and the scar on his forehead, and you love them all so gently with your fingers under the cover of night, seeing them without seeing, imbuing each patch of rough skin with your love. “I love you so much.”
He stirs, and with a voice husky and heavy with sleep, he says, “Oh, I love you too,” before kissing your fingers just as they pass over his lips. “You okay?”
“Yeah… Yuuta?”
“Hm?”
“Let’s get married.”
He grins like a fool, “okay.” And begins to drift off to sleep, dopey smile and all.
Until, a few seconds later, he rises out of bed like he’s been electrocuted, a corpse reanimated.
“Wait, what?”
1170 (March 8 2022)
Yuuta, now freshly 21 years old and recovering from a birthday party-fueled hangover, sighs into the receiver of his cell phone as the dial tone rings. He tugs at his hair, just long enough now to graze his jawline, and sits cross-legged upon the sole dark chair in the room. He knows no one will answer the phone—no one has answered this phone number for more than three years now. It only even rings in the first place because Yuuta pays the phone bill, keeping the phone alive, even in the wake of its owner’s death. He tries not to think too much about this habit of his, of keeping things alive when they shouldn’t be. He has enough self-awareness to admit he still needs it, still needs some way to commune with this person who meant so much to him. Maybe that’s why, even after releasing Rika’s soul, he made a shikigami in her image—maybe he just can never let go.
Anyway, he calls Gojo’s phone—as he does whenever he’s faced with uncertainty.
The dial tone wears on his ears, aggravating the pain throbbing at his temples. He’s got quite the horrid headache, both induced by the alcohol and by the situation he’s found himself in this morning. He can think of a million places he’d rather be right now, all one million of them involving his bed and your beautiful thighs, but unfortunately he is not in your shared apartment. Regrettably, he is in jujutsu technical college, across town from the place he’d rather be, pacing around the office that once belonged to Gojo-sensei. These days, this office is mostly used by Itadori, who found that he quite liked teaching students after doing a stint as a substitute teacher for the first years a year ago. Yuuta himself sometimes meets with the third years, unofficially named as their sensei—but by that point, they’re mostly independent, so really there isn’t much to teach them. And Yuuta’s busy with his own missions—being the only special grade and all.
Yuuta stares out the big round window to the courtyard, where a couple of students are running laps around the training grounds early on this Tuesday morning. The dial tone on his phone stops ringing, going to voicemail:
“Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Japan’s coolest, most handsome sensei; the world’s strongest sorcerer, Gojo Satoru~! Can’t come to the phone right now, I’m super busy! Buuuuut if you leave a message I’ll get back to you! …Probably.”
“Gojo-sensei,” Yuuta starts. He looks around the room, despite knowing that he’s alone, self-conscious of this weird habit of his of leaving voicemails for the dead. “I’m um, calling you because…” he gnaws on his bottom lip. Off in the distance, two of the students are yelling at each other, rough housing. Another girl, fiery like he remembers Maki and Nobara to be, yells what he can clearly hear to be “Idiots!” at the both of them. Another shriek, and a peal of laughter.
“A couple of your relatives stopped by the college today,” Yuuta finally says into the receiver, “They um… they want me to take over for you. The Gojo clan, I mean.” The words hurt coming out of his mouth, needles pricking every inch of his throat.
Yuuta has mixed feelings about the whole affair. He knows this is a sort of power play—that he will be the one to fill in the vacuum, to level the playing field. Noritoshi Kamo leads the Kamo finally, with his strong blood manipulation technique, and Megumi, after Maki vehemently declined, has become the figurehead for what remains of the Zenin clan, wielding his ten shadows technique. The Gojo’s, in Sensei’s absence, have nothing to tip the scales. Yuuta knows all they want him for is to check the box, to say they have someone strong, to protect themselves and enrich themselves and play their games as they have for centuries. He knows he is to be used, as all strong sorcerers are. He knows this, and he knows that if he asks you about this that you would be angry for him. He knows you think of him as more than any title, than a pretty little gem to stow away on some wealthy family compound in Kyoto.
And yet, for Yuuta, that doesn’t matter to him.
He’s never been one to care about himself. When faced with this proposition, he thinks about Satoru Gojo. About taking his place, about honoring his sensei and tradition and all the things that Gojo did even when he never seemed to care about them. Yuuta never did understand what exactly Gojo’s plans for change were—but the thought that the three clans could be led by him, Megumi, and Noritoshi makes him think that maybe there is a possibility for things to change. With the higher ups dead, Sukuna defeated, and the three clans under their control, the future of jujutsu is truly in the hands of him and his friends.
“I think I’m going to accept,” Yuuta says into the phone, his voice shaky. A little uncertain, but he faces his decision head-on. He watches the students outside, listens to their laughter, entranced by their happiness. Their youth. “I’ll make sure what you tried to do comes to pass, Gojo-sensei.”
2923 (Dec 25 2026)
Eight years.
Today is Christmas Day, eight years to the day since that fateful fight in Shinjuku.
To many in Japan, time moves so quickly that it seems forever ago now. The city center has been rebuilt, along with a memorial tucked into the corner of a street for the victims of the “terror attacks” of halloween and christmas. The public still does not know much of the existence of curses, even after Shibuya, the culling games, and all the events of that year. Calling them coordinated attacks or bombings is easier than explaining the truth to those who cannot see. And so, life moves on, people blissfully unaware.
For Yuuta, moving on has always been a little more difficult.
Moving to Kyoto helped; he lives on the Gojo family estate grounds these days, mostly juggling missions and clan duties, and teaching at the Kyoto school on occasion. He particularly enjoys being at the school—mostly for reasons involving your working in the infirmary, having taken quite well to reversed curse technique. Though he misses the friends that stayed behind in Tokyo, being only a phone call or a train ride away eases his occasional loneliness.
Right now it is night time, and you are somewhere inside your shared bedroom, resting after what was a rather long day. With it being christmas, you’d invited all your friends to come over and get together, exchanging gifts and the like. Yuuta’s face even hurts a little from how much he’d laughed. It was easy, then, to forget how exactly 8 years ago nearly everyone in the room was fighting for their life. They’re smiling now, despite the scars, despite the missing limbs, despite the missing people. They’re smiling now, and that’s what matters now.
Yuuta sits on the cold engawa in a thick sleeping robe, leaning against one of the poles. Beside Yuuta’s thigh is an ash tray, and between his fingers in his left hand, a cigarette. He still smokes, a creature of habit. It helps on pensive nights like these.
There’s a dusting of snow on the ground, painting the bare trees in the center a soft, fuzzy white. They reflect the warm light coming from a few of the rooms—his friends that had decided to sleep over before making the journey back to Tokyo in the morning. The rooms in this part of the house are arranged in a square, all with doors leading to the engawa, a square shape with a garden and pond in its center.
Yuuta doesn’t really notice the snow, or the lights, or anything in his surroundings. Instead, he stares at the photo that he’d pulled from his pocket, one that you’d given to him this morning when the two of you were alone.
It was just when the room was warming with the golden glow of the morning sun, when Yuuta’s hair was a little disheveled from his pillow and your ear was pressed to his slow, beating heart—it was when you thought the timing was perfect. You’d turned over to your night stand, pulled the tiny little photo from underneath a stack of papers, and clutched it to your chest, knowing his life would change forever the moment you showed it to him.
“Yuuta, baby,” you whispered, watching his sleeping face as it twitched with life at the sound of his name.
“Good morning,” he smiled, “everything okay?”
“Yes,” you sat up, brushing down his tousled strands, tucking them behind his ear. “Merry Christmas, Yuuta,”
“Mm, right,” he hummed, voice thick with sleep. He pushed himself up off the bedding, to sit up beside you. Kissing your hand, he said the same to you. “Merry Christmas.”
“I have something I want to show you,” you started. Your words were quick to leave your lips, slurred together with excitement. “I’m sorry for waking you, I’m just excited.”
He saw the paper you had pressed to your chest, and his brows drew together in curiosity. “I don’t mind… show me, please.”
In your mind, in the days leading up to this moment, you had it all planned out—some speech about your lives together, about the future, about your love and many other things you’d thought sounded romantic.
But at that moment, all you could do was peel the little black and white photograph from your chest and hold it, hand shaking towards him, palm open in offering. He looked down at it and saw what was almost an entirely gray-black photo, save for the small splatter of solid black containing a gray-white little alien of a blob within.
“Is this…?”
You placed the photo into his wanting hands, so gently, like it would float away or disintegrate if you held it any tighter. And he treated it the same, like something divine in unworthy hands.
He stared at it for a while, in some wondrous silence, lips opening and closing softly as they always did when words would fail him. Until suddenly he startled, a flush painting his cheeks.
“Wait—oh my god—did I hurt you?” He sputtered, a hand coming to cradle your still-very-much-not-swollen pregnant belly. He, of course, referred to whatever love he’d made to you in the time leading up to this reveal.
“Ah, no,” you chuckled. “It’s okay—I’m just a little nauseous but, it’s okay.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” he replied, lowering himself until his head was pressed to your chest. He rubbed your clothed stomach with his palm, repeating in a softer voice. “Thank goodness.”
“Are you happy?” You’d asked him, in a voice that was uncharacteristically shy, patting at his hair with a warm hand.
“Of course,” he’d peeled himself apart from you then, to pour the whirlwind of feelings that he had right at that moment into a kiss. “Of course, angel.”
And he meant it then, he thinks as he, later that night, looks at the sonogram photo on the engawa, alone and still feeling the warmth of the christmas party. The both of you had told all your friends and there was nothing but smiles and tight, happy hugs at the news. The thought of bringing a baby into this little family of yours made Yuuta so happy he couldn’t stop smiling, all day long.
Perhaps thats why, now that he’s alone, late at night, in Gojo’s estate, wearing the title of Gojo clan leader, that he feels just a little bit of sorrow, a little bit of guilt. Is it right, to be this happy, living a life that was meant for someone else?
Yuuta doesn’t know if Gojo-sensei ever had his own desires, or dreams. Did he want a family of his own? Did he want to be the head of his clan? Did he want to be in this position, leading this reformed society, watching his friends grow old and be happy? He thinks about Ieri-san, about how, besides Ijichi-san, she doesn’t have this same luxury that he does—to invite all his classmates over for christmas, to share their laughter, to watch them love and grow old.
Yuuta always feels rather undeserving, but especially right now, knowing that Nanami, Geto, Gojo—they all died at this age, just when he feels like he’s really truly found happiness.
He lifts his phone up to his lap, and feels the urge to dial a number he hasn’t called in quite some time. He can’t even remember if he’s kept the phone charged—though he still pays the bill, even now.
To his surprise, when he dials it, the phone rings. He lets in ring in silence, one, two, three, four… eventually, it stops.
“Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Japan’s coolest, most handsome sensei; the world’s strongest sorcerer, Gojo Satoru~! Can’t come to the phone right now, I’m super busy! Buuuuut if you leave a message I’ll get back to you! …Probably.”
A smile plays at Yuuta’s lips; the sound of Gojo’s voice no longer makes him want to cry. Is that what healing is, he wonders.
“Sensei…” his voice is almost a whisper. He fears he’ll wake someone if he talks any louder; he especially fears waking you, just behind the thin walls.
Yuuta lifts the phone to his ear, and takes another drag of his cigarette. As he watches the snow start to fall, just a light, night dusting, he says into the phone, “I wish you were here, sensei.”
The thought of Gojo being around makes him smile. Maybe he would dress up as Santa or something, arrive to their party with some kikufuku and some lavish ridiculous gifts that only Nobara would want. Yuuta imagines when he would tell Gojo the news, Gojo would tease the both of you, maybe insist on being a godparent or an uncle or something. And Yuuta would indulge him, of course, because who more important in his life than Gojo-sensei, who had saved him from execution so many years ago? And he thinks of Gojo trying to teach your little toddler about Digimon, or introducing them to classic movies, and giving them too much candy despite you yelling at him not to. He thinks about too many things, frankly, and breathes into the phone all ragged and sorrowful.
“Is it okay to be happy in your place?” He asks to the phone that will never answer him.
It’s only soon after, when you emerge from your bedroom, obviously half asleep and hugging your robe to you, that he gets his answer.
“Yuuta,” you start. “I thought you were just gonna take a quick smoke…”
Instantly he’s ending the call and stabbing his lit cigarette into the ash tray, putting it out. He’s quickly up on his feet, trying to usher you inside.
“Sweetheart it’s snowing, you’ll catch cold.”
“I’m lonely in bed while you’re brooding away out here,” you tease, just as he wraps his arms around you. “Come inside.”
“Ah, sorry, I was just stuck in thought…”
“What about?”
He doesn’t answer you, a bit of a shy, guilty expression on his face.
After all these years, you know it quite well.
“How many times should I remind you,” you start, reaching up and cupping both his cheeks into your palms. They’re flushed a bit pink and cold to the touch. “You’re allowed to keep on living… you’re allowed to be happy.” You lean up to kiss his cheek, the scar there almost entirely faded now. “It’s okay. They’d be happy for you, too.”
“I know,” he closes his eyes. Leans into your touch. “I know.”
3155 (August 14, 2027)
It feels like the first time in a month that you can breathe.
In the month after the birth of your baby, things were incredibly hectic—between visits from relatives and friends, trips to doctors, the god awful sleep schedule… there was little time for anything, really.
It’s just today that, for the first time, you manage to put the baby down for a nap and actually take a nap with them. Yuuta, in a rare moment of free time, sits in your rocking chair across the room. He watches as you sleep on your side in the bed, your baby curled up right beside you, the tiny little thing on it’s back sprawled out in what can only be described as a milk-induced coma. Yuuta feels like his heart could burst, it’s so full of love. He even sneaks a picture—surely one that you’d make him delete if you saw it.
He scrolls on his phone for a little, just looking through his pictures. (He doesn’t open any other app, afraid that some random autoplaying video will blare out some sound that ruins this perfectly quite moment.) As he scrolls he sees a million pictures of you and your baby, sprinkled with the occasional pictures of his friends and or his students and even little things like food, plants, toys, trinkets—he has a habit of needing to show you anything and everything he sees.
As he scrolls, he comes upon an old photo, taken years ago, back when he was a first year. Him, with a nervous smile, Inumaki and Panda with peace signs, Maki with an annoyed pout, and Gojo-sensei in the back corner with a big flashy smile. It’d been a while since he’d thought about it, and for some reason the fact that it’s been a while since then surprises him.
He recalls the last time he’d called Gojo’s phone, asking Gojo-sensei if it was okay to feel happiness with the life he’s living now. He thinks about it again, watching his darling wife and his baby sleeping side by side, and he realizes that that thought doesn’t bite at him anymore.
He thinks about calling Gojo’s phone one last time, if only to tell him that he thinks he’s finally, truly, completely and perfectly happy. And that he’s ready to do this—to keep on living this life, even if he doesn’t really feel it’s his.
And he leaves the room, as quietly as he can, if only to call one last time.
The phone dials—he remembers having left it plugged in somewhere, it’s battery not even enough to hold a charge these days, but when plugged in, it works.
One… two… three… four… he loses count of how many times it rings.
And when it stops, he holds his breath. That pause, that silence before the recording, has always made his stomach drop. In the past, there was always this fear, that one day the silence would stretch on forever, that he’d never hear Gojo’s voice again. Yuuta doesn’t feel his stomach drop this time—maybe it would be okay, if Gojo’s voice never came.
Then:
“Hey, you’ve reached the voicemail of Japan’s coolest, most handsome sensei; the world’s strongest sorcerer, Gojo Satoru~! Can’t come to the phone right now, I’m super busy! Buuuuut if you leave a message I’ll get back to you! …Probably.”
Yuuta thinks about what to say; opens and closes his lips like he always does when he’s unsure. But this time, there’s nothing weighing down his heart. The uncertainty, this time, doesn’t come from something he needs to hear, nor something he so desperately wants to say.
Maybe it’s because, all this time, this has really just been for him. And now, he knows he doesn’t need it anymore. Can he learn to let go, finally?
He sighs, somehow relieved. Even finds himself smiling, after all. It’s easier than he thought it would be.
synopsis: a story in which a depressed satoru gets sent to the future and sees just how bright it eventually becomes. meanwhile, you're reminded of how much of a brat your husband used to be when you first started dating.
cw: MDNI, time travel, smut w/ a touch of angst bc we LOVE plot, satoru's actually so mean at first lol, dad!jo (him and reader share a daughter together)
notes: hiiii we got 6.5k words for this one ❤️ comm for the lovely @sadlittlecucumber i hope u like!!!!
song rec: drag path — twenty one pilots
Satoru’s life ended up being a fucking bummer.
His best friend’s a mass murderer. Shoko’s gone off to do her own thing with medicine. Nanami left to go become a banker or whatever. Ijichi’s… Ijichi. Oh, and Haibara’s dead. Everyone who’s alive seems to have moved on— so should Satoru, honestly. But times proved that to be quite difficult.
He’s starting to understand where Suguru was coming from with the whole exorcise-absorb mantra. Except for him, it was exorcise and destroy, leaving every cursed site he’s stepped foot on looking like god himself decided to hit the reset button to obliterate the place.
Nobody says anything about it. He’s probably the closest thing to a god. Despite having tried his hardest all throughout his youth to fit in and act as if he was just like everyone else, people were still terrified to fuck with him.
And despite the chaos he’s constantly surrounded by— mainly from his own doing— the days still find a way to bleed into each other, morphing into a never ending cycle of boredom and violence. It’s quite the combo. The higher ups are lucky he’s too tired to plot anything behind their backs.
He’s exhausted.
The past is too blurry. The future’s too bleak.
Gojo was bound to fuck up sooner or later. The thought of him finally snapping like Suguru did, dangling in the back of his mind, taunting him.
He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things?
One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark.
That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way.
“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery.
He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this.
“Oh hey, you’re home.”
Home?
He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.
You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago.
You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”
First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?
Second, who even are you?
Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger.
Fuck.
“Honey–”
Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again.
“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”
Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth.
There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru.
Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances.
“Okay.”
“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.
“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”
He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”
“You also liked to argue, too.”
“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?”
“No.”
“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“
You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?”
“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you.
“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.”
“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.”
–
“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”
The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere.
“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”
Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”
“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”
“31.”
Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.”
Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.
“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”
“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody.
Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude.
“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion.
He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”
Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?”
“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”
“I tried my best! I swear!”
“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”
“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”
“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”
The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.
“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.
The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed.
—
You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand.
“Is the food good?”
“Sure.”
“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement.
“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.”
Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”
“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?”
Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.
“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being.
A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.
“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”
It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital.
“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.
“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake.
“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”
Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.
“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”
Sai wasn’t having that.
Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite.
But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.
“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”
“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself.
You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous.
“What?”
There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”
“She’s weird.”
“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”
“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid.
He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind.
“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious.
He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad.
For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear.
—
It’s been over a month.
Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.
But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort.
Over his dead body.
Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.
So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.
Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising.
Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married.
Satoru looks over your body once.
Twice.
He totally understands his future self.
He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks.
It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you.
You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure.
“Hey… any good news?”
“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.”
“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“
“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”
You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.
After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.
“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”
“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”
The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine.
But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him.
You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.”
It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here.
“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered.
He’s always had a thing for milfs.
Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now.
“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”
You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you.
“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you.
And you fucking miss that.
He opens his mouth to respond.
Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you.
Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid.
His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”
Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”
It’s starting to sound more natural.
“Y-yeah,” she sniffles.
Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried.
His little girl was a dream.
—
Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.
It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world.
He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does.
It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.
With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table.
The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions.
You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off.
“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”
He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?”
“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.”
You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact.
Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.
It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake.
Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”
Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now.
“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone.
Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”
“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”
“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“
“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”
“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“
“Kay’ good night.”
Click.
Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head.
He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning.
“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?”
“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.”
“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him.
“So is waking me up.”
“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”
“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?”
“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.”
Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.”
“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden.
And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.
You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?”
“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.
“I can take care of that, you know.”
“What?”
“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.
“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?”
“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”
“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?”
“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.”
“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief.
“Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.”
Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock.
“Feel good?”
His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”
You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.
“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask.
“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient.
His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”
“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”
You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are.
His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all.
"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.”
“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.
It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that— lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him.
"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."
You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out.
You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort.
"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."
You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder.
He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”
“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”
“You want me to fuck you harder?”
“Yeah.”
Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper.
“Better?”
He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”
“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.”
He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life.
Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”
“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”
He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch.
Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you.
“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself.
When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him.
You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.
And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.
—
It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back.
What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?
He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.
Acceptance.
He likes his life here.
You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.
No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second.
With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life.
You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache.
He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start.
You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.
“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.
There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”
He’s back.
“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”
—
Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.
Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers.
Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly.
Satoru was fucking devastated.
Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo.
God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point.
One Year Later
“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone.
It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job.
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”
“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.”
The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable.
He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit.
It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him.
The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time.
“And what can I get started for you today?”
His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.
“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”
“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”
“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie.
“Name for the order?”
“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”
He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”
“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind:
He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number.
mdni. naoya zenin doesn’t care about women, and he doesn’t care at all for his servants. until you arrive and make him go insane over you. but jerking off to the thought of you is not enough anymore, but then a fever strikes.
content. creampie, breeding risk, size kink, degradation, titty slapping, cum, so much cum, i’m sorry i’m nasty, hair pulling, riding, cock-drunk because yes; 3.8k words
part one ✧ part two ✧ part three ✧ part four
naoya zenin has never been patient.
he’s sitting in the main hall, surrounded by the usual parade of dull elders in stiff hakama, droning about kyoto branch alliances and territory lines and some petty feud over some cursed tools he couldn’t give a shit about. his fingers drum against the table, distracted, because all he sees is you.
bent over your narrow futon, yukata shoved up to your waist, thighs spread wide, cunt dripping and clenching around nothing while you whimper his name. he imagines the way you’d gasp when he finally pushed inside—slow at first, just to feel you stretch—then hard and deep, hips snapping forward until the wet slap of skin on skin drowned out every other sound in the estate.
he pictures your back arching, your hands scrabbling at his shoulders, the way you’d sob when he hit that spot deep enough to make your legs shake.
his cock throbs painfully against the confines of his hakama. he shifts—barely—and the friction only makes it worse.
the elder across the table is still talking. something about supply routes. naoya hasn’t heard a word in ten minutes. he needs to get out of here. he needs to be in your room.
now.
he wants to pin you to the wall the second the door slides shut, yank your panties aside, and bury himself to the hilt in one thrust. he wants to fuck you until you’re crying, until your voice breaks on his name, until you’re so full of him that it leaks down your thighs when he pulls out just to push back in again. he wants to mark you until there’s no part of you that doesn’t smell like him, feel like him, remember him.
the meeting drags. another elder speaks. naoya’s vision swims at the edges—strange, because he hasn’t eaten since yesterday, but he doesn’t care. his skin feels too hot, too tight. sweat beads at his temple despite the cool air in the hall.
he clenches his jaw. he can wait. he has to wait. just a few more minutes and he can dismiss them, stalk to the servants’ wing, kick your door open, and take what’s been driving him insane for days.
the room tilts.
he blinks—hard.
“young master?”
the elder’s voice fades to something distant. naoya tries to stand but his knees buckle. he catches himself on the edge of the table. the room spins faster. black spots dance at the corners of his vision and his head pounds.
“naoya-sama? are you okay?”
he straightens, barely, and tries to push off the table. but then the world tilts and darkness swallows him whole.
---
he wakes in fragments.
cool air on his face. the faint scent of cedar and yuzu. the low creak of wood. his chambers.
he’s on his futon with blankets tucked around him. his head pounds in time with his pulse and sweat clings to his skin, cold and clammy despite the fever heat still burning under it.
a soft rustle. he forces his eyes open. and then he sees you kneeling beside him, with your hair tied back and your expression pinched with worry. in your hands is a small porcelain basin of water and a folded white cloth.
you dip the cloth, wring it out and then lean forward. the cold press of damp fabric against his forehead makes him hiss.
“you’re awake,” you whisper. “you collapsed in the hall. the guards carried you here. i… i told them i’d stay with you.”
he tries to speak—manages only a rough croak. “how long?”
“a few hours. it’s past midnight.” you wet the cloth again, fold it and then press it back to his skin. “your fever spiked fast. i made willow bark tea. you should drink when you can sit up.” he reaches up and catches your wrist before you can pull the cloth away again. your eyes widen.
“why?” he mutters. “why stay?”
you blink. swallow. “because you’re sick,” you say simply, like it’s obvious. “and because… it’s you.” he holds your gaze—longer than he means to.
the fever makes everything feel distant and too close at once. your cool fingers against his burning skin. the faint scent of laundry soap and you. the way you don’t flinch under his stare, don’t look away even when his grip tightens on your wrist.
he wants to pull you down. wants to bury his face in your neck, breathe you in, take whatever comfort you’re offering and twist it into lust and something possessive. instead he lets his hand fall back to the futon—too weak, too tired.
“tea,” he croaks.
you nod and turn to pour the tea. you help him sit and he hates how much he needs it. hates how good it feels when your body presses close for that moment. he drinks—slow sips, grimacing at the taste—while you hold the cup steady.
when he finishes you take it away, set it aside, and want to get some more but he catches your hand again, almost gentle. “stay,” he says. not an order. not quite.
your breath catches. then you nod and settle beside him on the futon, knees tucked under you, hand still in his. his thumb brushes once over your knuckles, somewhat absent, like he’s testing the feel of it and watches you through the fever haze.
as you shift uncomfortably under his gaze and then move to adjust the damp cloth on his forehead, and the fabric of your yukata slips—just a fraction. the collar gapes open on one side and reveals the gentle curve of your shoulder.
you don’t notice at first. you’re focused on folding the cloth fresh, dipping it into the cool water and wringing it out. but then you feel his stare—hot, heavy, unblinking—and you freeze. your eyes flick to his. he doesn’t look away.
slowly, he lifts his free hand. fingers trembling faintly from the fever, but steady enough. he hooks one fingertip under the fallen edge of your yukata, right at the shoulder. the silk is thin, warm from your body. he drags it down, inch by agonizing inch, baring more of your shoulder, of your upper arm, the soft swell where breast meets chest.
the fabric pools at your elbow. cool air kisses your skin. your breath catches. “master naoya,” you whisper. “you’re sick. you need to rest—”
“i don’t care.” the words come out rough.
his hand doesn’t stop. he traces the newly bared skin with the backs of his knuckles, feeling the gooseflesh rise under his touch. your nipple pebbles beneath the remaining fabric; he can see the faint outline through the silk and swallows hard.
“i’ve wanted this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “every fucking meeting. every boring hour. thinking about you under me. around me.” his fingers slide lower, hooking the edge again, tugging just enough to bare the top curve of your breast. “and now you’re here. and i’m burning up. and i still want you.”
your cheeks flush dark. you don’t pull the yukata back up. instead your hand—the one he’s holding—squeezes his fingers once, tentative.
“then let me,” you breathe.
he exhales, then his hand moves again—slipping the yukata fully off the other shoulder now. the silk falls down your arms, leaving your upper body bare to the cool night air and his hot gaze. your breasts rise and fall with shallow breaths; nipples tight under his stare. he cups one breast. thumb brushes the peak. you gasp and arch faintly into his palm. naoya groans low in his throat.
“beautiful,” he rasps. “fuck. you’re so—”
his hand squeezes gently, rolling your nipple between thumb and forefinger in lazy circles. you shiver. he switches to the other, kneading gently, testing the soft weight, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until it hardens further under his touch. your breath hitches every time he pinches and he drinks in the helpless sounds you make, the way your back arches like you can’t help it.
he takes his time. minutes stretch. the fever makes everything hazy and slow; there’s no urgency tonight, only this burning need to feel you, to map every inch he’s fantasized about while trapped in endless meetings.
“so soft,” he mutters. “been thinking about these for days. how they’d feel. how they’d look when i—”
he doesn’t finish. instead he drags his hand lower. slowly. fingertips tracing the underside of your breast, down across your stomach. he nudges the remaining fabric of your yukata aside with the back of his hand until it falls open completely. cool air hits more of your skin. you gasp and your thighs press together. but he doesn’t let them stay closed.
his palm slides between them, nudging them apart until your legs part for him. the heat of you radiates against his fingers before he even touches you. when he does—when two fingers glide along your slit—he finds you soaked. slick coats his fingertips instantly.
“already this wet,” he breathes, almost accusing. “just from me touching your tits?”
you bite your lip and try to stifle the moan that wants to escape. it doesn’t work. the sound slips out anyway when he parts your folds with two fingers and drags them up to circle your clit. slow. teasing. barely enough pressure to make you tremble.
“naoya—” your voice cracks on his name.
he groans at the sound and then he lets one fingertip slip inside. not deep. just the very tip, barely past the first knuckle. he doesn’t push further. he simply holds it there, letting you feel it without giving you more, while his thumb hovers over your clit—close enough that you can feel the warmth of it, but not quite touching.
your hips push forward, chasing him, wanting more of him, all of him—but he doesn’t let you have it. instead he curls his finger ever so slightly, then pulls back until only his fingertip rests at your entrance again and circles. in, barely, out, barely.
“naoya, please—” you say, embarrassed at how bad you want him.
“so fucking desperate,” he breathes. “dripping down my fingers before i’ve even really touched you, huh?”
he watches your face the entire time—eyes locked on yours—drinking in every inch you move, every moan, every time your hips roll in desperate circles trying to take more. but then he pulls his hand away and you whine at the loss.
“ride me,” he says. not an order exactly—more like a need he can’t hide anymore.
you hesitate for half a heartbeat, eyes flicking down to the very obvious bulge of him—a dark spot already blooming at the tip from how long he’s been hard—then back to his face.
he tilts his head slightly, studying you. “have you done this before?”
you swallow and nod once.
“then come here.”
he reaches down and tugs the tie of his yukata open. his cock springs free—thick, flushed dark at the head, veins standing out along the shaft, already leaking steadily from the slit. it twitches against his stomach the moment it’s exposed, a fresh bead of precum welling up and sliding down the underside.
he doesn’t touch himself this time, instead his hand returns to your hip, guiding you closer. “come,” he says. “ride me. slow. i want to feel every inch.”
your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can hear it. you shift, mindful of how weak he still is, and straddle his hips, knees sinking into the futon on either side of him. the slick head of his cock brushes your inner thigh, leaving a sticky trail.
you reach down—fingers trembling—wrap them around his base and your breath catches. oh shit, he’s big. thicker than you imagined, veins throbbing under your palm, the head already slick and swollen. you tremble harder, guiding him slowly, heart pounding as the sheer girth presses against your entrance, stretching just the tip inside with a wet, burning pressure that makes your thighs shake.
“that’s it,” he breathes, hands settling on your hips. “take me.”
you sink down—slowly—feeling every thick inch stretch you open. naoya is so thick that the first real press of him makes your breath hitch sharp in your throat; your walls have to part around him inch by torturous inch, fluttering helplessly, trying to accommodate the blunt girth that feels impossible at first.
you tremble above him—thighs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders for balance—unable to drop all the way down as the stretch burns sweet and overwhelming. you pause there, needing a long moment just to adjust, to let your cunt soften around the fat head and the thickest part of his shaft.
naoya groans low beneath you, head tipping back against the pillow while he feels every tiny clench, every flutter of you trying to take him. his hands settle on your hips as he watches you struggle so prettily.
“look at you,” he says. “shaking like a virgin all over again. can’t even take me properly yet, can you?”
each shallow lift and sink makes your breasts bounce gently, drawing his gaze like a magnet. he stares—unblinking, fever-bright—watching the way they sway with your careful movements. he smirks, even as his own breath stutters from the tight heat gripping him.
“bet your last lover never made you pause like this,” he murmurs. “probably had a little prick—barely filled you at all, did he? no wonder you’re trembling so hard now. poor thing’s never had anything this thick splitting her open.”
the words hit like a slap—hot shame and heat flooding your cheeks—but they only make your cunt clench harder around him. another inch slips inside on a wet, slick slide. naoya hisses through his teeth at the sudden squeeze, fingers digging into your hips.
“that’s it,” he breathes. “keep going. take your time. i want to feel every second of you struggling to fit me.”
you do—slow, agonizingly slow—lifting just enough to feel the drag of him along your walls before sinking back down another fraction. and naoya can’t tear his eyes away. his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts now, teasing the sensitive skin while you work yourself lower, lower, until finally—finally—your ass meets his thighs and he’s buried to the hilt. you both freeze for a heartbeat, your cunt stretched wide around his thickness.
naoya’s head falls back again; a long, low groan rumbles from his chest. “fuck… there we go,” he mutters. “took me so well. look how pretty you are—sitting on my cock like you were made for it.”
his hands slide up—cupping your breasts again, thumbs flicking the nipples once, twice—making them bounce in his palms while you whimper and clench around him.
“now ride me,” he says. “slow. let me feel how tight that little cunt is.”
you start to move—tentative at first, hips circling, lifting only an inch or two before sinking back down—and naoya watches every second: your trembling thighs, your tits, the way your face twists with pleasure.
you slowly increase the pace and ride him harder, faster while he cups your breasts, thumbs flicking the swollen peaks once, twice, making them jiggle harder in his hands. then, without warning, he delivers a light slap to the underside of one—sharp enough to sting sweetly.
“keep going,” he rasps. another slap—this one to the other breast—lighter but deliberate, watching the way it jiggles and flushes under his palm. “look at these tits bouncing while you ride me. so fucking pretty.”
the sting blooms into heat; your cunt clenches hard around him in response. you whimper and pick up the pace just a fraction more, rolling your hips deeper, grinding down until your clit drags against his pelvis with every full drop. he slapped your tits again, then squeezed, then slapped once more—each sharp crack of his palm sending heat straight to your core.
naoya’s breathing turns harsher, chest rising and falling fast despite the fever. one hand stays on your tits while the other grips your hip now, helping you take him harder, faster. the wet slap of skin on skin fills the small room, mixing with your soft cries and his groans.
“fuck—take it,” he mutters, slapping the side of one breast again, watching it bounce and redden. “ride me like you mean it. milk me with that tight little cunt.”
you do—hips rolling faster now, thighs burning, cunt dragging around his thickness as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter. your tits bounce with every descent—slapped, squeezed, tormented until they’re flushed and sensitive and aching in the best way.
naoya’s control frays. his hands leave your breasts to grip your waist, holding you down as he grinds up into you. despite the fever burning through him—skin slick with sweat, breaths coming too fast and shallow—his hips snap up with sudden, brutal force. he drives into you hard, deep, relentless—each upward thrust slamming in with a wet smack that echoes in the small room. the thickness of him stretches you wider on every stroke, the head battering against your cervix until your vision whites out at the edges.
a loud moan rips out of your throat, before you can clamp a hand over your mouth. fast, punishing, hips pistoning up from beneath you even as his body trembles with exhaustion and heat. every thrust forces another cry from you.
“quiet,” he growls through gritted teeth. “they’ll hear you—fuck—they’ll all hear how good my cock feels in you.”
you try. you really try. your free hand flies to your mouth, biting down on your knuckles, but another hard upward slam punches a muffled scream past your fingers anyway.
“can’t—can’t stop—” you gasp between moans, voice cracking. “too—too fast—naoya—” but he doesn’t slow down.
if anything he fucks up harder; bury him to the hilt over and over. your walls flutter and spasm around his thickness, clenching so hard he hisses through his teeth.
“let them hear,” he rasps. “let the whole fucking estate know who’s ruining this tight little cunt. who’s making you scream like this.”
another loud cry tears from your throat as he slams up deep, holding you down on him for a long second so you feel every throbbing inch buried inside. your thighs shake violently around his waist; slick drips down his shaft, coating his balls, soaking into the futon beneath him.
and you’re gone. cock drunk, mind melted, body nothing but a trembling vessel for him now. the last coherent thought you had shattered somewhere between the next brutal thrust and the way he held you pinned, forcing you to feel every thick, throbbing inch stretch and claim you. now there’s only heat, only fullness, only the relentless drag of him inside you as he keeps fucking up into your limp body.
you can’t fight it. can’t even try.
your arms hang useless and your head falls forward, hair sticking to your damp forehead, then back as another deep slam punches a moan from your throat. echoing off the thin walls like you don’t care who hears anymore—because you don’t. you’re too far gone to care.
“gonna—fuck—gonna come—”
you feel him everywhere. feel his cum everywhere when he comes. the first thick pulse hits deep—hot, heavy, flooding your core in a sudden rush. you feel it bloom inside: warm spurts coating your walls, painting every inch, filling the tight space until there’s nowhere left for it to go. another pulse follows—then another—each one throbbing against your sensitive inner walls, stretching you further.
feel his head press against your cervix with every spurt of his release until you can feel the excess already leaking out: slow, sticky trails seeping around his shaft where he’s still buried inside you, dripping down your inner thighs in warm strands.
and naoya doesn’t stop. even after he’s come, he keeps going. hips snapping up, using your slick, oversensitive cunt like it’s his personal fucktoy. your walls flutter weakly around him—too exhausted to clench properly—but still so wet, so open, so perfectly ruined for him.
“look at you,” he mutters. one hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise; the other slides up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back so he can see your face—eyes glassy, mouth slack, drool slipping from the corner of your lips. “fucked dumb already. just a pretty little doll for me to use.”
he exhales roughly through his nose.
then he moves.
strong hands grip your waist and flip you, dropping you face-down onto the futon. your cheek presses into the damp fabric; breasts flatten beneath you; ass lifts instinctively as he manhandles your hips up just enough. he doesn’t give you time to brace.
he drives back in—hard, deep, brutal—one long, punishing thrust that buries him to the hilt again. the thick length forces its way through your already cum-stuffed cunt; the pressure is obscene. his earlier release gets pushed out around his shaft in a sudden, messy gush. it leaks out in spurts, splattering wetly against your inner thighs, dripping down onto the floor in fat, sticky drops.
but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t slow. just keeps fucking into you like he’s trying to carve himself deeper, like he wants to fuck his release right back inside until there’s no room left for anything else.
naoya’s mind fractures in the haze between thrusts—fever thoughts cutting through the lust.
an illegitimate child.
the words surface unbidden, the way they always do when his body betrays him with want instead of control. a brat with his blood and your softness. no name, no clan standing, just another stain the elders would use to sharpen their knives against him. scandal. weakness. proof he couldn’t keep his cock in his pants around a servant girl.
unfortunate.
dangerous.
he should stop. should pull out. should spill on your back, your stomach, anywhere but deep inside where it could take root.
but he doesn’t.
he can’t.
not when your cunt is feeling so good around him—greedy, slick, milking every drop he’s already given you like it’s starving for more. not when the wet squelch of his cock plunging back into the mess he’s made is the most perfect sound he’s ever heard. not when your body trembles beneath him—limp, cock-drunk, ass raised just enough for him to drive deeper—and every sob that spills from your swollen lips is a plea he can’t ignore.
fuck the risk.
fuck the consequences.
right now the only thing that matters is the heat of you wrapped around him, the way your walls spasm every time he bottoms out, the obscene splash of his cum being forced out only to be fucked right back in with the next deep thrust.
he wants to keep filling you.
keep marking you.
keep claiming every inch until there’s no part of you that doesn’t drip with him.
SUMMARY: being naobito zenin's wife is not quite as horrible as you expect, considering the man wants nothing to do with you. except, there's one small issue: his sons are assholes, and his youngest is the worst of them all.
WARNINGS: cheating technically (altho naobito don’t want anything to do with you anyway), stepson!naoya, semi-public, fingering, naoya is his own warning & he has a filthy mouth, very controversial age gap w her and naobito LOL, naoya calls her ‘okaasan’ mockingly & then also tries to get her to call him nii-chan LOLL, a bit dubcon in the beginning, zenin typical misogyny (WC: 3.1k)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: this is not going to be the last we see of stepson naoya i fear .......... KAIHDFUIASHDFUSADUHFSDUFH this boy drives me insane
Being Zenin Naobito’s second wife is easier than you expect.
He wants nothing to do with you for the most part. You’d been upset with your father for selling you off to a man who was nearly twice his age, and part of a clan that tends to treat women as servants at best and objects at worst. You’d braced yourself for a life of cruelty and abuse, counting down the days until the old man croaked before you even met him once, but instead, you are met with absence.
Naobito doesn’t seek you out often. You have separate bedrooms in the same wing of the estate, but he rarely crosses the threshold of yours. The first night, you sit awake long after the servants leave for the night, back straight, listening for footsteps that never come. The next morning, his servants wake you for tea and bring you to his quarters, where he is already seated by the open shoji, morning light cutting clean lines across the tatami. He doesn’t look at you for a long while, reading through a stack of papers, so you kneel where indicated, proper distance, proper angle, eyes lowered.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
It almost catches you off guard. You answer carefully, “Yes, Zenin-sama. Thank you.”
He hums, neither pleased nor displeased, still not looking at you. “Good.”
And that is all, and that is how it stays. Some mornings you are summoned, some mornings you are not. When you are, he asks you something small. Did you sleep well? Are the attendants sufficient? Do you need warmer clothes for the winter? You answer, he nods, and the conversation dissolves. For the most part, Naobito pretends you don’t exist, and you prefer it this way, until you start to realize his indifference is beginning to cause problems.
He does not visit your bedroom at night—not once, and everyone knows it. The servants know, the elders know, the whole clan knows, but most importantly, your father knows. Letters begin arriving before the first frost fully settles, written in his stiff, formal hand. Polite inquiries at first about whether you’ve adjusted well, and if the clan is treating you properly, and if the clan head has expressed satisfaction.
You know what he’s really asking: Are you pregnant yet?
Your father did not sell you off simply to place you in a prestigious clan. He sold you to secure blood—to tie his lineage to the Zenins permanently. A grandson with the Zenin name and your clan’s blood would have cemented alliances and ensured influence over Jujutsu society for decades, but Naobito makes no move toward that outcome, and the longer he doesn’t, the louder the silence becomes.
Eventually, the rest of the clan starts to whisper.
“Too young to understand the weight of this household.”
“Younger than all of his sons.”
“A child in silk playing wife of the clan head.”
You try not to let yourself be bothered. You’re not a child, you’re an adult, and you have spent years learning everything you possibly could about the Zenin clan in preparation for an eventual marriage into the main branch. Learning is not the same as living, but you have been quick to adapt to their everyday life. And yet, it’s still not enough for them—your hands are too smooth, your face too unlined, you have not learned to carry yourself with the practiced balance of demurity and authority the way the rest of the women of the clan have learned through years and years of experience.
You think that if Naobito had taken you to bed immediately, if rumors of pregnancy had begun circulating within the first month, your youth would have been framed as fertility or strategy, at the very least. Then, maybe, there wouldn’t be so much doubt. Instead, you remain untouched, and untouched means unnecessary.
Unnecessary means can be annulled.
The clan begins testing you in quieter ways, trying to find reasons to bring this sham of a marriage to an end, so the Zenins are not tied to a lesser clan through a useless girl. An aunt questions your knowledge of clan history during a meal, voice sweet as poison. A cousin asks about your cursed technique with faintly mocking curiosity. An elder’s wife comments on your “inexperience” with a veiled jab. It infuriates you, but all you can do is smile and let it slide off your shoulders, because anything else would be a display of weakness that you can’t afford to show in front of these hyenas.
His sons are the worst. Eight of them—even the youngest is almost five years older than you are. They make no effort to hide their disdain.
The eldest barely acknowledges you at all, offering the bare minimum of courtesy required by etiquette. He bows shallowly and addresses you formally when necessary, never lingering around too long.
The middle sons are more blatant—they test you the same way the elders do. One asks for tea and critiques the temperature, another corrects your tone and phrasing in front of clan elders, voice mild but eyes bright with anticipation. They ask you questions they already know the answers to, questions that you shouldn’t know the answers to, waiting for you to slip up, but you don’t. You kneel properly, answer evenly, and when corrected, you thank them, even if the words taste bitter on your tongue. You’re only able to take joy in the fact that it infuriates them that they can't seem to force you into making a mistake.
It’s the youngest who is the issue. Naoya. Golden-eyed and sharp-mouthed, all pride and casual cruelty. He looks at you the same way one looks at a new toy, grinning easily, standing far closer than propriety demands. It makes you livid—he’s the only one of the eight who manages to get under your skin—and you think he knows it from the way his eyes glitter every time he approaches you.
“Good morning, okaasan,” he says lightly, tilting his head in a mockery of filial respect. He and his brothers never get along, but two of them snort at his words now. Clearly, they’re only united when it comes to their disdain for you.
“Good morning, Naoya-kun,” you answer with a thin smile, inclining your head just the right amount. If he’s going to drop the formality, you can as well without it being considered improper. His gaze flickers briefly with irritation, but it smooths out too quickly into that lazy, infuriating smile.
He steps closer, reaching out to trace the inside of your underlayer, knuckle brushing against your bare collarbone. Your breath hitches, eyes widening slightly as your gaze snaps up to his face. It’s an intimate gesture, wildly improper, but there’s nowhere for you to back away. His finger slides lower, lower, dangerously close to skimming the swell of your breast.
“You’re wearing it too high,” he finally says, gaze flicking up to meet yours. “It makes ya look younger. You’ll never be taken seriously if ya present yourself like a child… Or is that the point? Should be more careful who ya let around ya, okaasan. Not everyone wants what's best for you like I do, y’know?”
You don’t answer, trying not to swallow the lump that suddenly forms in your throat as you look up at him. Your gaze shifts over to your attendants, who stand a short distance away, heads bowed just a little too deeply. One avoids your gaze entirely, and the other shifts her weight, nervous. You look back at Naoya, and his lips curve up into a satisfied smile when he realizes you understood what he was getting at. He steps away, finally putting proper distance between the two of you
“Adjust your collar,” he adds casually over his shoulder as he walks away. “You’re a wife, not a daughter.”
After that, he becomes relentless.
He calls from the training yard, “Okaasan, will ya watch me train today?” when he sees you passing by on the engawa, eyes lidded, lip curling up into a smug smile when he sees the way your gaze drifts down to his bare torso as he lifts his shirt to wipe the sweat from his brow. You continue on to where you were going without letting your attention linger too long, and if you find yourself exceptionally frustrated that night—well, that’s no one’s business but your own.
When his father is in earshot, he asks, “Am I gonna have a younger brother soon, okaasan? I’m so bored of being the youngest, y’know?” He ignores the side-eye that Naobito casts in his direction, raising his eyebrows at you as he waits for a response. You don’t give him one—you know better than to speak when in your husband’s presence. If there’s something for you to say, then he will say it for you. He does not say anything, which only serves to worsen your standing in the clan. Naoya knows this from the way his lips curl up into a smug smirk.
“Okaasan, does the old man visit ya often?” he asks you now, standing much too close to you. You can feel his chest brushing your back, his fingers grazing your hips as he leans in. His lips press against your ear, and you shiver slightly when he purposely lets his breath drag hot and slow against the shell of it. “Y’must get so lonely, okaasan. I can keep ya company, if ya want.”
Your eyes widen, gaze flicking around to make sure that no one can see the two of you, but you’d gone out to the garden to watch the sunset alone. This stretch of the garden is deliberately secluded, bordered by high stone walls and thick clusters of camellia. At this hour, the servants have withdrawn to prepare the evening meal, and the training yard is distant enough that not even the sound of sparring carries. You are alone—sans Naoya—and you know that it is intentional.
Naoya hums lightly, undeterred by your silence. He lowers his face, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck before he inhales deeply. “Y’smell different today,” he murmurs. “Rose?”
“This is inappropriate,” you say stiffly, but your breath catches when he presses his lips against your pulse point, tongue dragging across it as though trying to lap up the oil you’re wearing. “Naoya—”
He exhales through his nose, huffing out a quiet laugh. “Inappropriate,” he echoes, and your lips part in shock when he kisses slowly up your neck. “Okaasan, you’re lonely. Everyone knows it. The old man don’t touch ya. I’m just tryna help.”
Naoya’s mouth drags across your skin, wet, open kisses that set your skin ablaze. Your head feels dizzy, and you’re not sure if you’re breathing properly, suddenly very aware of how shallow each inhale is—you’ve never been touched like this before. Every brush of his mouth is unfamiliar and overwhelming. The warmth of it, the pressure against your skin, the way his tongue drags against you and his teeth graze your skin. Your knees feel unsteady beneath you.
You should push him away.
You know how this ends if you’re caught in the garden with someone other than your husband like this—with Naobito’s youngest son, nonetheless. The marriage will be annulled, you will be shamed, cast out from Jujutsu society, and disinherited by your father for humiliating the clan and insulting the Zenins.
You don’t.
“You’re wasted,” he murmurs. “All dressed up, all quiet, all proper. And he ain’t even look at ya. Y’know what I would do if I got ya as my wife?”
You exhale, lashes fluttering when you feel his palm slide from your hip to flatten against your abdomen, pulling your back flush to his chest. You feel something hard pressing against your ass, and Naoya lets out a low moan into your skin, and your breath catches when he drags his palm down your body, slipping his fingers into your kimono. You need to stop this, you think desperately, but your head falls back against his shoulder, eyes wide, heart racing as his fingers slide against your panties, hips instinctively rocking against him.
“Lookit ya,” he breathes out. “Fuckin’ drenched, and I ain’t even barely touch ya. It’s fucked up, him takin’ ya all for himself when the old fuck ain’t even know what to do with ya anymore. When’s the last time y’got yourself off, okaasan? Bet you’re so pent up. Lemme help ya. I’ll make ya feel real good.”
“Don’t—don’t call me that,” you spit out, flustered, hand dropping down to wrap around his wrist, but you don’t yank his hand away the way you should. You feel Naoya smile crudely against your skin, his other arm coming up to snake around your chest, holding you close to him. You’re letting this go way too far. “Naoya, we—”
“You’re right,” he agrees, kissing up your neck, and you bite down hard when he rolls your earlobe between his teeth, hand groping at your chest, thumb rolling over your clothed nipple. “Betcha hate when I call ya that. You’re young enough to be my little sister. Hah, bet you’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Callin’ me nii-chan instead of me callin’ ya okaasan.”
“What?” you gasp, head all foggy, not even fully sure what he’s rambling about anymore with his hands and lips all over your body. This is so dangerous, you think, tears stinging at your eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to push him away or even tell him to stop. It’s like your body has a mind of its own, hips rocking against his hand, head lolled back against his shoulder. Your tongue feels heavy as you force out, “We—we can’t do this. Naoya, you need to—”
“Quit whinin’,” he mutters, and you’re barely able to bite back a pitched noise when he slips his fingers beneath your panties, dragging them between your wet folds. Your heart is pounding, and your ears are ringing—your whole body prickles as heat curdles low in your stomach. “We both know I’m only given’ ya what ya want. See the way ya be lookin’ at me when ya think no one’s payin’ attention. How many nights have ya gone to bed with your hand between your thighs, princess?”
None, you want to snap, just to be spiteful, even if it is a lie, but your breath hitches into something small and helpless when he stops moving his fingers. You rock your hips instead, desperate for friction, and he huffs out a laugh against your skin, dragging his tongue up the curve of your neck before sucking at the underside of your jaw.
“See?” he murmurs. “You’re the one movin’, okaasan.”
Tears blur your vision, breath ragged, shame and desire twisting together until you can’t separate them. This is wrong, you think desperately, this is ruin. If anyone sees, if anyone hears… Your father’s face flashes through your mind, the elders, the servants, your husband—Naoya’s father. You can’t afford this, you can’t, and yet, your hips rock again, and you can barely bite back a whine when the tip of his finger presses against your cunt, circling your hole but not pushing in.
“He ain’t ever gonna touch ya like this,” he continues, nipping at your pulse. “He ain’t even look at ya, but I do. I look at ya. Every day. He don’t know how good he got it. If ya were my wife, I’d have you spread open and stuffed full of cock every night. This pretty little head of yours ain’t have to worry ‘bout anything but keepin’ your cunt wet and ready for me.”
He sinks two fingers into you, and you choke over a relieved sob—that awful, humiliating relief of being wanted so openly it leaves no room for doubt. God, you’ve been craving this for months. All the time you spent dreading having to share your bed with his father, bracing yourself for duty and obligation—you hadn’t realized how much worse neglect would feel like. The ache between your legs that your fingers could never ease, the emptiness of not being wanted by the man who calls himself your husband, and the mortification of everyone knowing. When Naoya moves inside you now, the relief is so intense that it almost feels like pain for a split second.
“That’s it.” You hear him coo, hand sliding up to cover your mouth, muffling the lewd sounds that spill from your lips as he fucks his fingers deep inside of you, thumb circling your clit as his fingers plunge in and out of you. “C’mon, okaasan, sing for me.”
Your thighs are shaking so badly that you can’t even hold yourself up—one of his legs slides between yours to keep you standing, weight heavy in his arms. You can’t breathe, you can’t even think. This is so messed up, it’s so—
Your eyes roll back when Naoya’s fingers drag against that spongy spot deep inside you, body tensing before you cum hard on his fingers with a muffled whine of his name. There are tears streaming down your cheeks, a prickly sensation spreading through your limbs. Your lungs burn, shallow breaths hardly reaching them, and your nails drag weakly against Naoya’s wrist, desperate for leverage.
You feel him laughing against your neck as he slows the thrusts of his fingers, letting you ride out your high. It takes you a moment to regain the strength to stand without him holding you up, heartbeat slowing, and the reality of what you’ve just done slowly begins to hit you.
Did you just—
“Y’know,” he says slowly, circling until he stands in front of you again, forcing you to face him. The smile on his lips is smug, and the look in his eyes is crude as his gaze drags over your body. He lifts his hand to tilt your head up, making you look him in the eye, and he swipes the two fingers he had deep inside of you against your bottom lip. “If you’re worried about being annulled… there are ways to fix that.”
Your lips part as you stare up at him.
What the hell did you just do?
He winks at you. “Make sure to fix yourself up before ya leave, okaasan. Wouldn’t want anyone to start askin’ questions,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away, lifting his fingers to his mouth to suck your cum off of them lewdly. “I’ll come visit ya later tonight.”
content: 18+, scotty doesn't know, cheating trope, lots and lots of car sex.
sukuna ryomen hates a lot of things.
he hates when his job sticks him on dishwashing duty because they’re short-staffed, so much so that he’s made a habit of walking out the second it happens, apron tossed onto the counter, jaw set tight as he refuses to do anything else until someone else gets shoved into the back.
he hates mornings that start too early and end too late, especially the ones where his mom makes him walk yuji to the bus stop, insisting he’s too young to go alone even though sukuna was doing it in second grade and yuji is already in fucking middle school.
he hates teachers who talk down to him when he doesn’t turn assignments in on time, the way they insist on provoking him instead of speaking to him like he’s a fucking human, and how the moment he finally snaps and raises his voice, they send him straight to the principal’s office like the outcome was decided before he ever opened his mouth.
he hates the house he grew up in, too. the thin walls, the creaking floors, the way his mom apologizes for things that were never her fault.
he hates his stepdad’s voice when it gets sharp, hates the neighbors who keep bringing bedbugs back into the building, hates watching garbage bags full of their already-limited belongings get hauled to the curb like loss is routine.
but there is nothing in this entire world that sukuna has hated more, across all eighteen years of his life, than satoru gojo.
sukuna hates everything about satoru gojo.
he hates his too-bright white hair, hates his stupid loafers and pastel polos, hates the way he wears sunglasses indoors like he’s some kind of celebrity dodging paparazzi instead of a high school student like everyone else, hates the expensive car his dad bought him the second he turned sixteen, hates the performative niceness he puts on whenever he’s talking to someone with less money than him, and he especially fucking hates the way gojo assumes ownership over every room he walks into, appointing himself leader without asking, talking over people like their opinions are optional, and treating loyalty like something he’s automatically owed.
he’s particularly hated satoru ever since seventh grade, ever since the day he “accidentally” stepped on the new shoes sukuna got after winter break, a gift his mother had paid for by working nearly every night, scraping together money while his stepdad contributed absolutely nothing, as usual.
sukuna still remembers the way satoru’s mouth had curved into mock surprise, the lazy little “oops” that didn’t mean shit at all, the way his foot lingered just long enough to grind the sole into the pavement.
something in sukuna snapped.
he saw red and lunged before anyone could pull him back, fists swinging, breath burning in his chest, and in the chaos of the fight he heard the truth spill out of satoru’s mouth, words sharp and careless and cruel.
he remembers the way he sneered, the way satoru laughed and said he should be grateful for his “goodwill outfits,” the way he talked about sukuna like he was charity instead of a person, like poverty was a punchline instead of a fact of life.
sukuna hates that memory most of all.
he hates how the fight ended with a bloody nose and nothing else, and how satoru’s parents still insisted on pressing charges anyway, dragging sukuna and his mother through nearly a year of court proceedings over something that happened between two middle schoolers.
he hates remembering his mom renting dress clothes they couldn’t afford just to sit in a courtroom and look respectable, hates the humiliation of it, hates how easily satoru’s family wielded money and lawyers and threats.
he hates that the charges were dropped near the end, brushed off with a comment about having a “change of heart,” like the damage hadn’t already been done, like sukuna wasn’t already marked by it.
some things never leave you; satoru gojo, for example, never did.
so yes, sukuna hates everything about satoru gojo, with one singular exception; a minute detail about him that refuses to be entirely unbearable, something that might even qualify as satoru’s most redeeming quality if sukuna were ever inclined to admit it.
you.
you, and your hair that always seems to smell like the expensive, floral shampoo his mother could never justify buying.
you, and your hands that are always stained with blue ink from the way you grip your pens too tight during shifts.
you, and the way you look in that stiff, polyester waitress uniform, making a five-dollar apron look like something satoru would buy on a whim at a boutique.
sukuna hates almost everything, but he has never been able to find the energy to hate you.
he still remembers the day of your interview. he had been leaning against the back door, watching through the grime-streaked window as you sat at a booth with the manager. he could see the way you fidgeted with your hands under the table, your fingers twisting together in a nervous braid while you tried to look brave.
yuki had stepped out for a cigarette break, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling as she watched you through the glass.
"look at her," yuki had snickered, tapping ash onto the pavement. "princess won't last a day. she'll cry the first time a trucker sends back his eggs for being too runny."
sukuna didn't even look at her. he just kept his eyes on the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "maybe you're just pissed because she’s actually got a soul left to crush," he’d muttered, his voice a low, jagged scrape. "unlike you, who's been bitter since the nineties."
he’d ignored the middle finger she threw his way, already focusing back on you.
even before you knew he worked in the kitchen, he would watch you from the kitchen pass during your first two weeks. you were far too soft-spoken for a place as loud and greasy as this diner.
his jaw would tighten every time he saw a customer start to snap about a cold side of fries or a late refill. the second they would raise their voice, your teeth would find your lower lip, gnawing at the skin until it’s raw and pink. it made him want to vault over the counter and shove the dish sprayer down their throat, but you always handled it with that quiet, frantic dignity of yours.
you prided yourself on being the fastest at counting change, your fingers flying over the register as you murmured the totals under your breath, a small, private victory in a day full of manual labor.
it had been like this since long before the diner, though.
he remembered ninth grade math—the year he spent more time in the principal’s office than in a desk. after the two-week suspension from yet another fight, he had come back expecting to be failing every unit. instead, he found a stack of neat, organized notes slipped into his locker, written in your loopy, careful handwriting. you hadn’t said a word to him about it. you just kept your head down and let him pass the class.
on the slow shifts, when the lunch rush died down and the only sound was the hum of the industrial fridge, you played games with him. you slipped discarded receipts through the kitchen pass—the little window that separated his world of steam and grime from yours—with a single 'o' marked in the center. you always insisted on being 'x,' and he always let you, his large, scarred hand moving the pen with a gentleness he didn't use for anything else.
he’d even had a crush on you in eighth grade, a secret, burning thing that made his chest ache.
he had spent weeks staring at the back of your head, thinking you were the prettiest girl in the entire school. he would have asked you to the formal dance, too, if he’d had anything to wear besides a hand-me-down flannel and jeans with holes in the knees. he had stayed home instead, imagining you there, probably dancing with some faceless boy who deserved you.
he had assumed you were still that girl—the one who didn't talk to guys, the one who lived in her own quiet world. he thought you were untouched by the loud, arrogant boys of their town.
he believed that until two months ago, when he walked out for his break and saw a sporty, silver BMW idling at the curb; watched you climb out of the passenger seat, and for a second, he saw satoru gojo’s obnoxious, grinning face behind the wheel.
the air had left sukuna’s lungs in a rush of pure, cold venom— surely you couldn’t be entertaining that asshole.
it was confirmed an hour later as you were reaching up to tie your hair back, the collar of your uniform shifting just enough to reveal it—a dark, unmistakable red mark blooming just under the curve of your jaw. a hickey. a brand.
satoru gojo didn't just have the money, the cars, and the easy life. he had you, too. and he probably didn't even know how lucky he was.
sukuna had expected it to be a once or twice thing, one of those hookups satoru was infamous for. satoru was equally as reckless with the way he ran through women as he was with his cars, leaving a trail of broken hearts and dented fenders in his wake without ever looking back.
he figured you would be another name on a long, meaningless list, a temporary distraction before satoru got bored and moved on to the next bright, shiny thing. but satoru gojo, for all the things he was, was seemingly not an idiot, because he didn’t let you go.
hell, the asshole even went and made you his girlfriend.
you never talked about satoru at work. you kept your personal life locked away, shielded by that soft-spoken nature of yours, never offering up details about where you went after your shifts or who you spent your weekends with.
sukuna wouldn’t have even known you were in a relationship if it weren’t for the familiar, irritating sound of satoru's tires squealing in the distance every time he dropped you off. the screech of expensive rubber on asphalt became a trigger for the bile that rose in sukuna’s throat.
the only other times he saw you together were brief glimpses in the school hallway. he’d see satoru, his tall, lean frame looming over you, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back as he walked you to class. satoru would be laughing, head tilted back, while you looked up at him with that quiet, attentive expression that sukuna used to think was reserved for your math notes.
sukuna couldn’t believe it—there was no way someone like you would be with someone like satoru gojo. satoru was everything you weren't: loud, arrogant, and shallow.
he lived for the day he would see that silver BMW stop coming around, for the moment satoru would inevitably screw up. but as the weeks turned into months, the tires kept squealing, and the hand stayed on your back.
and every time sukuna saw a new mark on your neck, sukuna’s hatred for gojo grew into something sharper, something more dangerous. it was a slow-burning poison, one he had to swallow every time he watched you walk back into the kitchen to grab a tray, looking far too innocent for the reality of who was touching you.
…
it was a tuesday, the kind of dead afternoon where the air in the diner felt heavy and unmoving, thick with the smell of old coffee and fryer oil, the only sound the slow, rhythmic thrum of the ceiling fan overhead. the lunch rush had come and gone, leaving behind sticky tables, half-wiped counters, and a quiet that made everything feel suspended, like time itself had decided to take a smoke break.
sukuna was in the kitchen, leaning his shoulder against the stainless steel counter by the pass, arms crossed tight as he stared down at a crumpled math packet that looked like it had survived a small war. the pages were bent, corners torn, pencil smudges ground into the paper from where he’d erased too hard. his jaw was set, eyes narrowed, like the worksheet had personally insulted him.
“you’re going to burn a hole through that paper if you keep glaring at it,” you murmured, your voice carrying easily through the open window of the pass, soft and calm, a sharp contrast to the way his thoughts were grinding.
you’d appeared on the other side without him noticing, wiping down a stray mustard bottle with a rag, movements methodical and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world.
sukuna let out a jagged huff of air and shoved the packet closer to the edge of the counter, the paper scraping against steel.
“it’s garbage,” he snapped. “kamo is a bitch. she marked the whole back page wrong because i didn’t ‘show the work’ the way she wanted. i got the right answers. what the fuck does it matter how i got there?”
you leaned in, resting your elbows on the counter, eyes scanning the mess of equations. the corner of your mouth twitched, and before you could stop it, a small, unintended snicker slipped out.
“sukuna,” you said gently, amusement threading through your tone, “you skipped like four steps on every problem. she probably thinks you used a photo-math app.”
“i don’t need an app to do basic calculus,” he growled, but the bite didn’t land the way it usually did. something about the sound of your laugh sanded down the edge of his anger. “but if i don’t pass the final, i’m not walking at graduation, and my mom is gonna lose her mind.”
you chewed on your lower lip, gaze flicking from the paper back up to his face, eyes warm in a way that made his chest feel tight.
“i could help you,” you said after a beat. “if you want. i still have my old binders from last year. we could go over the steps kamo is so obsessed with.”
he stilled.
for a second, the diner faded out completely. all sukuna could see was you, standing there in your uniform, sleeves rolled up, fingers faintly stained blue from ink. he searched your face for something ugly, for pity or condescension, for that look people sometimes got when they thought they were doing him a favor.
there was nothing. just your usual steady gaze, open and sincere.
“seriously?” he asked.
“yeah.” you shrugged, like it was obvious, like helping him didn’t even register as a big deal. a small, genuine smile tugged at your mouth. “why not? i’m already doing the work anyway. are you free sunday afternoon? i’ve got community service on saturday mornings, so sunday is better.”
something twisted in his chest, dry and aching. of course you had weekly community service. he pictured you shelving books at a library or walking dogs at a shelter, patient and kind, doing good quietly without needing anyone to notice. the image made his throat feel tight.
he cleared it, eyes dropping to your hands, to the faint smudges of ink on your fingers.
“sunday,” he repeated.
then, before he could stop himself, before he could talk his way out of it, the thought that had been rotting in his brain for months slipped free.
“you sure your boyfriend’s not gonna be mad?”
the words hung there, heavy. it was the first time he’d ever acknowledged satoru out loud, the name pressing into the space between you like a bruise.
your expression shifted, genuine surprise flashing across your face as your eyebrows lifted. your hands went still on the counter, rag forgotten. for a moment, you looked like you’d completely forgotten satoru existed in this little bubble of stainless steel and fluorescent light.
“how did you…” you started, then trailed off, glancing away for half a second, then back at him, your voice quieter when you spoke again. “well. i’m sure i don’t have to tell him it’s you.”
something dark and triumphant sparked in sukuna’s gut. he nodded slowly, fingers tracing the edge of the kitchen pass.
he knew exactly why you wouldn’t tell him. satoru hated sukuna with a deep, inherited kind of fury, the sort that came from a rich boy who once realized money couldn’t solve everything. satoru would lose his mind if he knew you were spending hours alone with the one person he couldn’t buy off.
“fine,” sukuna said, voice low.
he hesitated, posture stiffening as his mind flashed with the image of his house. peeling wallpaper. the lingering smell of grease. the cramped living room where privacy didn’t exist. embarrassment crawled up his spine.
“can we…” he paused, jaw tightening. “do it at your place?”
you blinked, a little taken aback, then nodded easily, like the answer had never been in doubt.
“yeah, that’s fine. i have a golden retriever, though. are you okay with dogs?”
that dry ache settled in his chest again.
of course you had a golden retriever. a dog that was probably as well-behaved and soft as its owner.
"fine," he repeated, already imagining the pet hair he'd have to lint-roll off his only decent hoodie. "sunday. your house. just text me the address."
"i will," you said, already reaching for a receipt to scribble it down. as you handed it through the pass, your fingers brushed his—just a ghost of a touch—and sukuna felt the spark of it all the way up his arm. "see you then, sukuna."
…
sukuna’s pickup looked wrong the second he pulled up to the curb.
the rusted red body sat low and uneven, paint chipped down to bare metal in places, a jagged scar against the smooth, clean line of your neighborhood. the lawns were trimmed. the sidewalks uncracked. driveways held cars that looked washed on purpose. he shut the engine off and let it rattle itself into silence, hands lingering on the steering wheel as the weight of every dent and creak settled in his chest.
your house was bigger than his; that much was obvious. but somehow, it wasn’t loud about it.
there were no iron gates, no dramatic columns, no looming sense of ownership over the block. it looked lived-in, warm, the kind of place where the lights stayed on because someone was always home, where the walls probably remembered laughter instead of shouting.
he barely had time to brace himself before the door opened.
you stood there in sweats and an oversized hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands, glasses slipping a little down your nose. your hair was pulled back in a messy tie that looked accidental and perfect at the same time. your face was bare, no gloss, no mascara, nothing to soften or sharpen what was already there.
his breath caught.
you didn’t look like the girl from the diner or the classroom. you looked softer somehow, real in a way that knocked the wind out of him. he might have stood there staring like an idiot if something large and golden hadn’t slammed into his legs a second later.
your dog barreled into him with unfiltered enthusiasm, tail wagging like it might take flight.
“sorry!” you laughed, grabbing the collar and hauling the dog back with practiced ease. “he’s a lot.”
“it’s fine,” sukuna grunted, steadying himself, heart pounding harder than it ever had in a fight.
you stepped aside to let him in, and the house smelled clean, faintly sweet, like laundry detergent and something baking earlier in the day. family photos lined the hallway walls, mismatched frames, years layered on top of each other.
birthdays. holidays. a younger version of you missing a few teeth, smiling into a camera like the world was kind.
you caught him looking and smiled, a little sheepish.
“my sister has a girl scout meeting today,” you said as you led him upstairs. “they’re hosting, so it’s gonna get… girl scout loud.”
he huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.
when you opened your bedroom door, something in him went tight and still. the room felt private in a way that made his chest ache.
fairy lights draped softly over the headboard, glowing low even in the afternoon light. polaroids were pinned to the walls, you with friends, arms thrown over shoulders, faces flushed and happy. everything was neat without feeling staged, warm without trying too hard.
then he saw them: two photos of satoru taped neatly above the vanity.
just two, but enough to punch the air out of his lungs.
satoru’s arm around your shoulders in one, grin wide and careless. satoru kissing your cheek in the other, your head tipped back in laughter.
sukuna’s jaw clenched before he could stop it. he wondered how many times gojo had stood where he was standing now, how many times he’d stretched out on that bed, expensive clothes wrinkling your sheets, loud presence filling a space that felt like it should’ve stayed quiet.
the thought made heat crawl up his spine.
“you can sit at the desk,” you said, pulling him out of it. “i’ll be right back. i’m just gonna grab a chair from my sister’s room.”
he nodded, dropping his bag down a little harder than necessary, eyes flicking back to the photos once more before he forced himself to look away.
the hours blurred.
without a manager hovering or customers snapping their fingers, you were different. looser. sharper. you explained things slowly, patiently, never talking down to him, never sighing when he asked the same question twice.
you leaned over the desk when you pointed at equations, shoulder brushing his, and every time you smiled, it felt deliberate even when it wasn’t.
at school, sukuna was the guy who took a minimum of two "bathroom breaks" just to escape the boredom of math, but with you, the three hours passed in what felt like minutes. you were a natural at tutoring—patient, encouraging, and surprisingly funny. you were witty and sharp, and he found himself leaning into the desk, hanging on every word.
he couldn't help but stare whenever you smiled. it became a game to him; how he started dropping corny joke after corny joke, half-insulting the textbook and half-mocking his own mistakes just to hear you laugh. when you finally checked the time, you both jumped.
"oh my god," you whispered, eyes wide. "we're twenty minutes over. i didn't even realize."
sukuna looked at the clock, then back at you. for the first time in his life, he didn't want to leave a math lesson.
…
the study sessions became the secret architecture of sukuna’s weeks, the only part of his existence that didn't feel like a grit-toothed endurance test. the routine set in with a domesticity that felt dangerous: the rusted red truck parked two blocks over to avoid the neighbors' gossip, the golden retriever waiting at the door, and the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom.
he started bringing you little things—a specific soda he’d noticed you sipping at the diner, or a bag of the expensive jerky he’d swiped from the stockroom because he remembered you saying you skipped lunch. it was his way of paying rent for the space he was taking up in your life, even if he’d never admit it.
but soon, once a week wasn't enough to satisfy the hunger that had started to grow in the pit of his stomach. he started inventing reasons to see you—half-baked excuses about a pop quiz or a formula he "just couldn't get"—and you, ever the "good" girl, always found a way to squeeze him in.
you’d meet him in the cramped break room at the diner, sitting on milk crates while the smell of old grease hung in the air, or you’d slip into the passenger seat of his truck for thirty minutes before your shift started.
he relished in the secrecy of it. he loved that he was a hidden line in your daily schedule, a secret debt you were paying in time that rightfully belonged to satoru. he loved knowing that while gojo was likely taking you to five-star dinners or beach houses, you were sitting in a rusted-out truck with him, sharing a lukewarm soda and talking about trigonometry.
he even started bringing yuji along once he realized how much you adored him after the day he’d been forced to bring yuji along because his mom had to pull a double shift. he had been braced for your judgment, certain you’d see the loud, energetic middle-schooler as another burden of his messy life. instead, you had beamed, sitting on the floor of the diner’s back office with yuji and teaching him card tricks.
sukuna had watched from the doorway, chest tight, realized that you didn't just tolerate his world—you fit into it. and after that, he’d watch, both baffled and secretly softened, as you helped his little brother with his own homework or laughed at yuji’s ramblings about middle school drama.
using yuji as a shield was low, even for him, but it worked. it gave him a reason to see you that had nothing to do with math and everything to do with the way you looked when you were being kind.
he started to learn the small things satoru likely never noticed, details that didn’t announce themselves and therefore never asked to be claimed. he learned that you took your coffee with too much sugar, stirred until the spoon clinked against the mug and left faint rings on the surface. he learned the way you hummed under your breath when you were thinking hard, a quiet, unconscious sound that slipped out when you didn’t realize you were doing it. he learned how your eyes traced the scars on his knuckles without flinching, lingering with a kind of careful curiosity that felt closer to reverence than judgment.
somewhere along the way, the tutoring stopped feeling like it had its own purpose. it became an excuse, a shape you both agreed to step into, a reason to sit too close and let silences stretch. the air between you thickened until it felt almost tangible, heavy with something unspoken and electric, charged enough to make his skin prickle and itch, like he was standing too near a live wire and choosing not to move. it became obvious that others had noticed too, like during friday’s double shift, when the diner air hung heavy with the smell of burnt coffee and floor cleaner.
the manager had already barked at you twice to "stop flirting" through the kitchen pass. sukuna had been mid-sentence, complaining about a physics lab, when the man’s voice boomed from the office, telling you both that if he wanted someone to stand around and look pretty, he’d hire a mannequin.
you’d jumped, your face instantly hot as you scurried off to refill a napkin dispenser, but the damage was done.
later, while you were in the back stocking the heavy gallon jugs of ranch, yuki leaned against the industrial fridge, blowing a bubble with her gum that popped with a sharp crack. she leaned in, her eyes trailing down to the high collar of your uniform.
"so," yuki started, her voice a low drawl. "was it the grease monkey who gave you that mark on your neck? honestly, i didn't think he had it in him to be that... marking."
sukuna had been right there, hauling a crate of potatoes into the walk-in. he stopped dead, his fingers digging into the plastic, his jaw set so tight his teeth ached.
"no," he grunted, the word sounding like a threat. "wasn't me."
yuki blinked, her eyebrows shooting up as she looked between his bitter, dark expression and your wide-eyed silence. "huh," she muttered, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her face. "who would’ve thought. i guess i owe choso twenty bucks. he bet me you were finally getting some from the help."
she sauntered off, leaving a vacuum of heavy, suffocating silence in her wake. sukuna didn't look at you. he just stared at the crate of potatoes like he wanted to crush every single one of them.
it was the reminder he didn't need: satoru’s mark, satoru’s girl, satoru’s world.
it was moments like that where the illusion—the false bubble the two of you had created in the quiet of your bedroom or the privacy of his truck—was popped by the ever-persistent reminder of your boyfriend. it was a nagging, physical weight in sukuna’s chest. no matter how you looked at him, no matter how much he was sure that you felt the same pull he did, he began to convince himself you’d never actually give in.
that wasn't the type of person you were. you were the girl who did the right thing, and to sukuna, it started to feel like a form of torture—you were so close he could smell your shampoo, yet always just out of reach behind the wall of your own loyalty.
after too many nights spent shoulder to shoulder, it began to wear on him. he’d sit there while you traced the ink on his arms, your touch light as a feather as you asked absentmindedly which ones hurt, which ones had meaning, and which ones were just there. you’d linger on the jagged lines, your eyes soft, and he’d have to grit his teeth to keep from grabbing your hand and demanding you choose.
then the shift would end, and the illusion would shatter. he’d watch you walk out to that familiar silver bmw idling out front, the headlights cutting through the dark like a spotlight on his own failure. he didn’t like feeling used. he didn’t like being the "distraction" or the rough-around-the-edges break you took from the expensive, polished world of satoru gojo. leaving your house half-hard and incredibly frustrated was becoming a routine he was starting to loathe.
so, he slowly gave up.
he went back to being the old sukuna—the one who didn't care, the one who was too busy to be bothered. the study sessions that used to happen three or four times a week were strictly reserved for sunday afternoons now, and even those were hit or miss. he’d spend the afternoon sleeping off a double shift instead, sending a dismissive sorry forgot text three hours late without a hint of a real apology.
at the diner, the kitchen pass became a wall again. conversations were no longer soft or lingering; they were reserved for business, sharp and short. he stopped dropping the corny jokes. he stopped leaning against the counter to watch you count change.
he could tell you noticed. through the window, he’d see you trying to catch his gaze, your eyebrows furrowing in that concerned, quiet way of yours.
you’d hover near the pass a second too long, looking as if you were waiting for him to say something—anything—while you gnawed on your lip. it was the look of someone who had lost a comfort they didn't realize they were addicted to, and sukuna, bitter and tired of being second best, just kept his head down and scrubbed the dishes until his knuckles were raw.
the day you’d finally confronted him, it was late, the kind of hour where the diner lights hummed too loud and every sound felt amplified by exhaustion. the overhead fluorescents cast everything in a sickly yellow, reflecting off stainless steel and scuffed tile. the air was thick with floor wax and old grease, the kind of smell that never really left no matter how many times they mopped.
you found him in dry storage.
the room was narrow and cramped, shelves packed tight with towers of paper napkins, boxes of plastic cutlery, industrial-sized cans of tomatoes stacked three high. there was barely space to stand without brushing something. sukuna was leaning back against one of the shelves, clipboard in hand, shoulders tight, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle ticking in his cheek. he looked like he was holding himself together by force alone.
“are you avoiding me?”
your voice came out quieter than you meant it to, swallowed by the walls and the hum of the building. still, it landed like a shove.
sukuna didn’t look up. he flipped a page on the clipboard with unnecessary force, paper snapping under his fingers.
“i’m working,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, like it scraped on the way out.
you swallowed and stepped further inside. the door swung shut behind you with a soft, final thud, sealing the two of you in. the sound made your stomach tighten.
“you haven’t looked at me in three days, sukuna,” you said. your hands curled at your sides, nails biting into your palms. “you didn’t show up sunday. you didn’t even text me back.” you hesitated, then pushed on, heart pounding. “if i did something to upset you, just say it.”
that finally got his attention.
he lifted his head slowly. his expression didn’t look angry. it looked flat, bored in a way that stung far worse. one dark eyebrow arched, his gaze sliding over you with deliberate detachment, like he was inspecting something already decided.
“excuse me?” he asked, voice edged with mock confusion. “upset? i work in the kitchen, and you’re a waitress. we’re at work. what is there to be upset about?”
your chest tightened.
“don’t do that,” you whispered. your pulse thudded in your ears, loud enough to drown out the hum of the lights. “we were fine last week.” you took another step toward him, shoes squeaking faintly against the floor. “we were—”
“we were what?”
he turned fully then, dropping the clipboard onto a crate with a loud, echoing clatter. he leaned back against the shelving, crossing his arms over his broad chest, the movement pulling the fabric of his hoodie tight. his eyes were dark, unreadable, fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath catch.
“studying?” he continued, voice sharp. “is that what you call it?”
you flinched despite yourself.
“you know it’s more than that.” the words came out steadier than you felt.
“i know it’s a waste of my time,” sukuna shot back. he dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching at the ends like he wanted to rip something out. there was a jagged edge to his laugh, humorless and brittle. “i’m not interested in being the guy you come to when you’re bored of being with your boyfriend. go find satoru. i’m sure he’s got a shiny new car or some bullshit to show you.”
“it’s not like that,” you said, barely louder than a breath. you stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat coming off him, the tension coiled tight in his frame. “i just… it’s not that easy to change everything.”
“it’s actually real easy.” his voice dropped, flattening into something dangerous. he stepped forward, closing the distance until you had to tilt your head back to look at him. the space felt charged, claustrophobic, every breath shared.
“you either want to be with him, or you want to be here,” he said, his face inches from yours, his eyes darting with a jagged sort of loathing toward the collar of your uniform. "i’m done watching you walk in here every other day with a fresh mark on your neck like you're his property." he let out a sharp, breathy sound that was nowhere near a laugh. "i’m not sitting in that truck anymore just to be the guy who cleans up the mess satoru leaves behind. i'm not your therapist, and i'm definitely not his runner-up."
“you think i don’t want to be here?” you shot back, your voice cracking with anger and something close to panic. “you think i’m not thinking about you the whole time i’m with him?”
sukuna let out a short, harsh laugh, shaking his head like he’d expected nothing else.
“then do something about it,” he said. “or go back to your ‘perfect’ boyfriend and leave me out of it.”
he turned away with a scoff, angling back toward the crates. it was a dismissal so final it felt like a door had been slammed in your face, leaving you standing in the cold draft of his exit.
the part of you that had always been good—the girl who was careful, who followed rules and kept the peace—knew you were supposed to walk away.
you were supposed to go back out front, pick up a damp rag, and wipe down counters until the feeling in your chest went numb. you were supposed to pretend your hands weren’t shaking and accept that sukuna was right. you had a boyfriend. you had no business being upset with him for refusing to be your secret anymore.
you stood there, your face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the cramped storage room and everything to do with the sheer, jagged anger bubbling up in your throat.
part of you was being unbelievable, you knew that. but wasn’t he, too? he was the one who had let the tension build for months; he was the one who had invited you into his space, only to throw it back in your face the second it became real.
and satoru… satoru wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t terrible either.
yes, he was loud, he was self-absorbed, and half the time you felt like an accessory to his life—a pretty girl to sit in the passenger seat of the car his father bought him—but he wasn't bad. he was kind to you in his own shallow way, even if he didn't truly see you, and you knew, deep down in the dark parts of your mind you tried to ignore, that sukuna was not better.
that half of sukuna’s interest in you was rooted in his pure, unadulterated disdain for satoru. it was in the way he looked at the silver of his BMW, the way he sneered at satoru’s name like it was a slur. part of this was a game to him—a way to win a war that had started long before you ever entered the picture.
you were a trophy. a prize to be stolen.
but as you watched the back of his hoodie, the way his shoulders were bunched with tension, you realized you didn't care about being a prize.
if he was using you to be selfish, why couldn’t you be selfish, too?
why did you have to be the only one who played by the rules while everyone else took what they wanted?
the frustration of the secrets, the stolen looks, and the heat that had been building since ninth grade finally snapped the last thread of your restraint.
you reached out, your fist bunching into the thick, dark fabric of his hoodie, and yanked him back toward you with a strength you didn't know you had. sukuna stumbled back, his eyes widening in a flash of genuine shock. you didn't give him time to recover. you stood on your tiptoes, your fingers white-knuckled in his clothes, and crashed your mouth against his.
sukuna went rigid. for a heartbeat, he was as still as a statue, his hands hovering in the air as the sheer, desperate pressure of your lips against his registered. then, a low, guttural sound broke from the back of his throat—a groan that sounded like a surrender. his hands came up, his large palms sliding down to your waist and hauling you flush against him until there wasn't a breath of air left between you.
t was as if he was trying to kiss the memory of satoru out of your system, trying to overwrite every touch, every laugh, and every brand that arrogant bastard had ever left on you. he wanted to taste the part of you that didn't belong to high-school royalty, the part that was messy and dark and belonged only to him.
his tongue slid against yours, demanding and possessive, and when you made a small, muffled sound of surrender against his lips, sukuna knew.
he backed you up, his boots heavy on the linoleum, until your spine hit the steel shelving with a sharp clatter of tomato cans. he didn't care. he pinned you there, his body a solid, burning weight against yours.
one hand moved from your waist to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the curve of your throat—the place where those marks always sat. he kissed you like he was starving, like he was trying to swallow your very breath.
the world outside the storage room—the hum of the diner, the clink of silverware, satoru’s waiting car—ceased to exist. there was only the rough texture of his tongue, the heat of his skin, and the frantic, syncopated rhythm of two hearts beating in a space they weren't supposed to share.
you kissed him back with a feverish, uncharacteristic hunger, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders, your mind finally quiet for the first time in months. you were breathless, air becoming a luxury neither of you could afford. when he finally pulled back, just an inch, the silence of the room was filled with the sound of your heavy, ragged breathing.
your lips were swollen, stained a deep, kiss-bitten red, and your cheeks were flushed with a heat that made your skin tingle. sukuna’s eyes were dark, roaming over your face with a predatory, satisfied intensity. he looked at your mouth, then up at your eyes, a slow, jagged smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip. "so," he rasped, his voice a low, triumphant vibration. "you still think it’s 'not that easy'?"
…
when you left, sukuna watched the storage room door swing shut, the faint click of the latch sounding like a starter pistol in the ringing silence. he leaned back against the steel shelving, his chest still heaving, the metallic taste of you and the faint tang of your lip gloss lingering on his tongue.
he’d seen the way you scrambled to fix your hair, the frantic way you’d tried to smooth out the wrinkles in your uniform with trembling hands, and that look in your eyes—wide, dark, and utterly shattered by guilt.
he was sure he’d won. he’d felt the way you came apart under his mouth, the way you’d nearly climbed him like a tree just to get closer.
he walked back to the kitchen with a predatory swagger, convinced that by tomorrow morning, satoru gojo and his stupid ass silver BMW would be a memory and you’d be standing at his locker, finally done with the charade.
but nothing in sukuna’s life had ever been that easy.
the next morning at school was a slow-motion car crash. he was leaning against the lockers, eyes narrowed as he scanned the crowd, waiting for the moment you’d walk in alone. instead, the double doors swung open and there you were—tucked firmly under satoru’s arm. gojo was laughing, probably some loud, obnoxious story about his weekend, his hand splayed possessively over the small of your back.
your eyes met sukuna’s for one brief, agonizing second; your pupils blown wide, a flash of pure terror crossing your face before you schooled your expression into something blank and stone-cold. you looked at the floor, at your shoes, at anything but the boy who had had his hands up your shirt less than twelve hours ago.
the bile rose in his throat, hot and bitter. but then, three minutes into first period, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
can we talk? after school? back lot?
he spent the whole day imagining the rejection. he had his defense ready, his walls up and reinforced. when he saw you walking toward his rusted red truck in the far corner of the lot, looking frantic and checking over your shoulder every five seconds, he rolled down the window and let out a harsh, dry sound.
“let me guess—” he started, his voice dripping with the armor of his own spite. “it was a mistake. you were caught up in the moment. satoru is such a great guy and you just can’t—”
you didn't let him finish. you reached through the open window, grabbed the front of his shirt, and pulled him into a kiss that tasted like desperation and salt.
before he could even process the shift, you were opening the heavy truck door and climbing over the center console, ignoring the gear shift poking at your thigh as you scrambled into his lap.
you weren't talking. you weren't explaining. you were just there, your hands buried in his hair, your body trembling against his in the cramped cab.
sukuna didn't waste another second on words. his hands already under your skirt, his fingers hooked into the elastic of your underwear and pulling them aside with a brutal lack of patience, your "good girl" mask seemingly gone with the ring of the last bell.
the second his fingers slid into you—slick, hot, and already yielding—your head fell back against the headrest with a sharp, broken gasp. the sound was like discovering a goldmine. he watched your face as he worked two fingers deep inside you, his thumb grinding against you with a rhythmic, punishing pressure.
your hair was stuck to your forehead with sweat, your lips swollen and kiss-bitten, and you were making these soft, high-pitched whimpering sounds that made the blood roar in his ears.
you weren't just taking it; you were chasing it. you were grinding down on his hand, your eyes rolled back, all that middle-class poise and church-girl modesty melting away into a puddle on his truck seat, and when you finally came, it was violent—your body locking up, your fingers digging into his shoulders until his skin broke, your voice muffled against the crook of his neck as you sobbed out a quiet, wrecked moan.
and then, just like that, the bubble popped. you sat up, your face pale and your breath hitching. you used the rearview mirror to fix your hair, tucking it behind your ears until you looked like the girl in the satoru gojo photos again. you got out of his truck without a word, the silence in the cab suddenly heavy and suffocating as you straightened your skirt with trembling hands. you were already starting to walk away, your head down and your pace hurried, before you abruptly turned back and tapped on his window.
sukuna rolled it down, his expression a jagged mess of confusion and lingering heat. his brain was still foggy, thick with the echoes of your moans and the way you’d just come apart in his lap.
he looked at you, waiting for the apology, the "never again," the shattering of the glass—but instead, you just bit your lip, looking at him through your lashes.
"i'll see you sunday?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, as sukuna, ever the fucking dumbass, just sat there.
his dick was still tenting his pants, his fingers were still damp with the slick, salt-sweet taste of you, and his pulse was still thundering in his ears. he should have said no, he should have told you to go to hell. instead, he just nodded, a slow, numb movement of his head.
"yeah," he rasped. "sunday."
he watched as you turned and ran off, disappearing toward the other side of the lot to meet with your boyfriend, leaving him alone in the truck with the scent of you on his skin and the taste of his own stupidity in his mouth.
he supposed it was better to have some of you than none of you?
it didn't matter what you did with satoru gojo after that. because every sunday, like clockwork, the same script played out. satoru still believed the "church" excuse you’d fed him months ago—the pure, sweet irony of it making sukuna laugh out loud sometimes.
while satoru pictured you kneeling in a pew, eyes closed in pious prayer, you were actually kneeling on the floor of sukuna’s truck. he’d shoved the passenger seat all the way back, creating a cramped, dark sanctuary where the only light came from the dim glow of the dashboard.
you were good—terrifyingly good. it wasn't the tentative, shy way he’d imagined a girl like you would handle him; it was hungry and deliberate, sukuna watching you through heavy, hooded lids, his head lolling back against the headrest as your mouth worked over him. the sounds were wet and rhythmic, a soft, slick suction that echoed in the quiet cab. he could feel the heat of your throat, the way you didn't shy away even when he pulsed, and the sensation was so intense it felt like it was hitting him right in the pit of his stomach.
god, if this is how satoru is living, then maybe he really does have it all, sukuna thought, the realization hitting him with a jagged edge of envy. if this was what satoru woke up to, or what he went to sleep with, sukuna could almost understand why the bastard walked around like he owned the sun.
but then he’d look down at the way your fingers were buried in his thighs, the way you were looking up at him with those wide, teary eyes while his cock was buried deep in your throat, and the envy would turn into a sick, twisted pride.
he always tried to save face, gripping the armrest so hard the plastic creaked, biting back the raw grunts and groans that threatened to spill out. he didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much power you had over him, but when your tongue swirled around the head of his cock, his hips almost always bucked involuntarily, a low, guttural sound escaping his throat despite his best efforts.
it was filthy. it was perfect. you were filthy. you were perfect.
when he finally came, he would watch, mesmerized, as you took every drop, your waterline turning pink and teary from the depth of him, and when you would finally pulled away, your mouth slick and filled with his salt, a thin, silver string of spit still connecting your bottom lip to the crown of him, you looked wrecked—utterly debased and beautiful.
sukuna couldn’t help but stare at you, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. he was a fucking goner.
he took you in the work parking lot with the engine still idling, in the back of the school lot under the shadow of the bleachers, and once—the riskiest, most delicious time—right outside your own house in the middle of the night. satoru had been away at some leadership conference, and sukuna had pinned you against the side of his truck, the metal cold against your back while he was hot and heavy between your legs.
he watched you try to keep your moans down, your eyes darting toward your parents' darkened windows, and he felt a sick, triumphant thrill.
satoru might have the car, the expensive watches, and the official title, but sukuna had the sounds you only made in the dark. he had the way you shuddered when he whispered filthy things in your ear. he had the truth of you.
satoru didn't know. and sukuna was going to make sure it stayed that way for as long as he could keep his hands on you.
he relished every moment he bumped into the smug bastard in the hallways. satoru would look at him with that characteristic, lofty amusement, his eyes hidden behind those designer shades as if sukuna were nothing more than a stain on the floor he was forced to walk over.
gojo would offer a lazy, two-finger wave or a condescending pat on the shoulder if they were close enough, acting like he had everything over sukuna—completely and utterly clueless that it was his girlfriend being fucked senseless by the very guy he thought so little of.
there was one specific afternoon at the diner that sukuna replayed in his head like a favorite movie. satoru had swung by to drop off a textbook you’d forgotten in his car, looking entirely too polished in a white button-down that probably cost more than sukuna’s truck.
sukuna was leaning against the kitchen pass, his arms crossed, a smudge of grease on his cheek and his eyes narrowed. satoru spotted him through the window, and that familiar, annoying twinkle of amusement lit up his eyes.
"still back there, ryomen?" satoru drawled, leaning against the counter and flashing a grin that was way too bright for a greasy diner. "man, i don't know how you do it. the smell of old fries and desperation would've killed me by now. it’s a good thing someone like you is around to do the heavy lifting, though. keeps the world clean for the rest of us, right?"
you were standing right there, your hand hovering over the textbook satoru had just set down. your face went pale, your fingers twitching.
sukuna didn't even blink. he just let out a low, dry chuckle, his gaze shifting from satoru’s face to yours—lingering just a second too long on your mouth.
"yeah, satoru. i'm real good at cleaning up," sukuna replied, his voice like velvet over gravel. "it's funny, though. you'd be surprised how much dirt people manage to hide even when they look 'clean' on the outside. but don't worry—i make sure to get into all the spots you seem to miss."
satoru just laughed, completely missing the subtext, his ego too big to even imagine a world where he was the punchline. "good man. keep up the hard work."
but you didn't miss it.
sukuna saw the exact moment the words hit you, your entire body freezing, shoulders going rigid as you stared at the counter. you knew exactly which "spots" he was talking about. you knew the way his hands felt when they were buried in you, the way his voice sounded when he told you to forget satoru's name.
satoru patted the counter one last time and walked out, the bell above the door chiming with a cheerful ring that felt like a joke.
sukuna just stayed there, watching you through the glass. he watched the way you finally exhaled, a shaky, trembling breath, before you tucked the book under your arm and hurried toward the back.
satoru didn't know—but you sure as hell did, and that was so much better.
…
the windows of the van were completely opaque, slick with condensation that blurred the world outside into a dark, grey nothingness. you were pressed face-first against the cool glass, your knees digging deep into the cracked seat as sukuna loomed behind you.
his hands were clamped onto your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a bruising, possessive grip that anchored you as he drove into you with a steady, punishing rhythm.
"fuck, kuna… right there," you managed to choke out, your forehead thumping against the glass as a wave of heat rolled over you. your fingers were clawing at the headrest, your back arched, and every time he hit that specific, aching spot, your toes curled against the seat.
then, the sharp, upbeat ringtone of your phone pierced through the humid silence of the truck.
the sound was like a bucket of ice water. you froze, your muscles locking up around him as your eyes went wide, reflecting in the dark glass of the window. sukuna didn't stop, but he slowed down, his chest huffing against your back as he leaned over to look at the screen lighting up on the dashboard.
satoru's face was grinning back at him from the caller ID.
"shit," you hissed, reaching out with a trembling hand to grab the device.
sukuna let out a low, dark chuckle against the shell of your ear, his breath hot and smelling of mint. he didn't pull out. instead, he stayed buried deep inside you, his hands migrating from your waist to your hips to hold you still. you swiped the screen, your heart hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure satoru would hear it through the speaker.
"h-hey baby," you breathed, trying desperately to steady the ragged, heavy hitch of your lungs.
sukuna stayed perfectly still for a second, watching you with a predatory intensity. you couldn't hear satoru’s exact words, but the low, cheerful vibration of his voice hummed against your ear, sounding so oblivious and bright that it made your stomach flip with a fresh wave of guilt.
you went to respond, your mouth open to say mhm, but sukuna chose that exact moment to slowly, agonizingly sink back into you.
"m-mhm," you stuttered, your voice breaking as your internal walls fluttered and spasmed around him. a long, shaky exhale left your lips, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to fight the urge to moan.
sukuna was being relentless. he began to move again—not with the fast, driving force from before, but with a slow, grinding thrust that felt twice as deep. he was watching the back of your head, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he felt the way you were struggling.
you twisted your head back, shooting him a frantic, watery glare, but he just leaned down and grabbed your waist, pulling you back even harder against him. his other hand reached around, pressing flat against your lower stomach to feel the solid, rhythmic slide of himself moving inside you.
"you okay?" satoru’s voice crackled, sounding a little more focused now. "you sound out of breath."
"y-yeah," you gasped, your voice trembling as sukuna hit a shallow, sensitive angle. "i'm okay. my mom is... she's making me take nobara's bike out of s-storage so she can go with her—” you paused taking a deep, shuddering breath, “—her troupe. and the stuff is... um, it's heavy."
on the other end, satoru let out a light, airy chuckle. he said something else—something about seeing you later, something about how hard you always worked—while sukuna’s thumb began to work in circles against your hip bone, his rhythm picking up speed.
"okay, love you, bye!" you blurted out, the words tripping over each other in your rush to end the call.
you hit the end button and threw the phone onto the seat, spinning around as much as the cramped space would allow to curse him out. "sukuna, you fucking—"
your words were cut off by his mouth crashing against the side of your neck. he didn't let you finish, his hands hooking under your thighs to lift you up and pin you against the side of the vehicle as he drove into you with a renewed, frantic energy.
"shhhhh," he murmured against your skin, his voice a dark, vibrating command as you let out a string of soft, broken ahs against his shoulder. "he doesn't know, remember? keep it that way."
…
and that was how things would usually go—a cycle of high-stakes risk and jagged, heavy heat.
sometimes you’d show up with a fresh mark on your neck, a pale, fading hickey from satoru that acted like a red cape to a bull. sukuna wouldn't even say a word about it; he’d just stare at it with a dark, simmering possessiveness before pinning you down and kissing right over it, his teeth grazing your skin until his own brand had completely overwritten the other.
he fucked you harder on those days, his movements filled with a silent, vengeful energy that left you shaking for an hour afterward, your legs feeling like lead and your mind a complete, static-filled mess.
he relished in the way you’d have to fix your makeup in his cracked side-mirror, the way you’d have to scrub the scent of him off your skin before going home, and the way you still couldn't look him in the eye at the diner the next morning.
he loved that he was the secret that was slowly eroding your "good girl" foundation, the one thing in your life that satoru's money and family and lawyers could never touch.
you were his. even if the world didn't see it, even if you were still wearing satoru’s promise ring, even if you still sat in that silver BMW every single morning. sukuna had the parts of you that mattered. he had the truth.
and even after all that, satoru still didn’t know.
Naoya looks much younger when he sleeps, you note absently as you lounge in bed with him. You don’t often wake up before him—he’s always quick to rush off when he gets up, always before you do—but he was up late arguing with his father about something he refused to explain to you, so you get a rare chance to observe him this morning.
Your finger traces beneath his eye, down the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. He looks more innocent when his face isn’t twisted up into that ever-present look of disdain, or marred by the infuriating smug smiles he so frequently likes to toss at you. He’s pretty, you decide. He’s always very pretty—though he always gets hissy and corrects you with a handsome when you tell him this, because he’s ungrateful and doesn’t appreciate your compliments—but he’s extraordinarily prettier like this.
You think, not for the first time, that he is much more pleasant to be around when his mouth is shut.
As though he can sense your thoughts, he ruins the modicum of peace you have this morning by muttering, “The hell are you doing—” He interrupts himself with a yawn, gold eyes slivers as he gives you a brief half-assed glare before he lets them slide back shut. “—quit it, woman.”
You hum lightly, but pointedly do not quit it, trailing your finger along the lines of his jaw, down his throat, nail scratching along the curve of his clavicle. His body shivers lightly at that last one, and a sigh pulls from his lips, eyes still too heavy to open.
“Pissin’ me off,” he warns, voice thick with sleep, no real heat behind the words.
“You’re always pissed off,” you say, sliding back down so you can lie with him. You nudge your nose against his cheek, and he exhales, lashes fluttering to look at you. “Can’t I appreciate my husband?”
“Tch,” he clicks his tongue sleepily, pointedly turning his back to you. Childish, you think, almost fondly. Almost. “Y’never this sweet unless ya want something. What is it?”
“I don’t want anything,” you answer, shifting closer to him to slink your arm around his waist, brushing your lips against his shoulder blade before pressing your face into the nape of his neck. He smells like your shampoo—asshole, you told him not to use it. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”
You suppose it’s a testament to how tired he is, because he’ll usually bristle and tell you to stop cuddling him like he’s the woman. Now, he only exhales, one hand coming up to where yours is resting so he can entwine your fingers.
“Yeah? Did that old fuck Ogi croak overnight?” he asks, and you let out a huff of laughter, pressing your lips to his shoulder again. “‘m serious. Why ya acting like this? It’s creepin’ me out.”
“Did you know I hated you when we got married?” you ask after a moment, exhaling as you nudge your nose against the nape of his neck.
He snorts. “Ya think your little death glares were subtle or somethin’?” he asks. He adds, “I didn’t exactly like you either.”
You scoff lightly, but you’re smiling. “You had no reason not to like me. I was perfect. You, on the other hand, were an arrogant, entitled asshole.” You pause and then add, “Well, you still are.”
“Perfect,” he echoed with a sharp puff of air. “You were the most infuriating, stuck-up little—” he cuts himself off with another yawn, sighing as he presses his face into the pillow, “—thing I’d ever met. Always lookin’ at me like ya wanted to stab me. Talkin’ back. Didn’t know your place.”
You smile against his shoulder, fingers tightening around his where they’re laced together. “My place is wherever I want to be. Lucky for you, right now I want to be laid up right here in your arms. Aren’t you so lucky?”
“Hn.” He shifts, adjusting so your chest presses more firmly to his back. “You’re trouble. Swear I ain’t ever met a woman who acts so much like a man. Y’tricked me too—actin’ all sweet during the wedding ceremony. Got my hopes up. Thought ya were actually gonna be a good wife.”
You let out a small laugh. “I’m a great wife,” you disagree with a smile, and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Don’t act like you’re innocent,” you hum, tightening your arm around him. “You made it your mission to antagonize me as much as possible.”
“Were fun to rile up,” he admits, voice muffled against the pillow. “Face would get all twisted up. Thought you might actually try to kill me one day.”
Your lips curl up as you press a kiss just beneath his ear, listening to him let out a soft sigh. “I did try. I would put poison in your tea every morning.”
His back shakes as he laughs. “Yeah? What changed?”
“Nothing,” you say honestly, nuzzling your face back into his back. “Sometimes I still put poison in your tea, but it’s nonlethal now.”
He snorts and says without heat, “Crazy bitch.” He means it fondly. You know because his thumb brushes your knuckles, slow and absent, because he doesn’t pull away, because he lets you stay curled around him like this. You like him when he’s like this, you decide, too sleepy to be petty and annoying, content to just rest in your arms. You wonder if you should start dosing him with low grade sedatives instead, keep him drowsy and in bed with you, nowhere to go.
“Takes one to marry one,” you murmur, pressing another lazy kiss into the warm skin of his shoulder.
“Tch,” he huffs, but it’s weak. Sleep tugs at his voice again, dragging out the edge of it. You press your forehead between his shoulderblades. The sun has climbed higher now, warming the room, and he sighs, long and deep, dozing back off again. You let your own eyes droop shut again, taking advantage of Naoya’s rare inclination to sleep in.
“Oi,” he says after a moment, voice slipping back toward sleep. “Ya still hate me?”
“Hm,” you draw out, pretending to take some time to think about it, smiling when you feel him bristle in your arms. “No.”
“... Like me?” he asks, quieter.
You smile softly, kissing the place where his shoulder meets his neck. “Don’t push it.”
THIS IS LITERALLY JUST AN APOLOGY FOR THE END OF MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION DFUHASIUFDHASHUDF I'm not usually a fluff writer so I hope you guys enjoy this little thing
Warnings: NSFW 🔞, non-consensual voyeurism, professor/student, cum eating (kinda), age gap (gojo is 28 reader is 22)
“Go!” Nobara pushes you towards Professor Gojo, where he’s chatting and undoubtedly bothering Professor Nanami, making you stumble over your feet awkwardly in front of the two.
The two men halt their talk and glance down at you, Gojo’s piercing blue eyes basically glowing.
“Hello,” Nanami greets you, allowing the silent question to linger in the air about what you need help with, whether you have a question, or why you’ve approached two professors.
You swallow hard, sneaking a glance over your shoulder at Nobara and Yuji, who are laughing and giving you enthusiastic thumbs-up, while Megumi simply sighs.
“Something wrong?” Gojo questions as you turn back to them, a playful tint to his tone as always.
There’s a rumor going around the school about Gojo Satoru. Being the most popular professor on campus, it's no surprise he’s got a few rumors floating around but this one in particular has become quite popular among the students.
Asking Gojo about it face to face seemed funny at the time— you, Nobara , and Yuji had been in stitches over the thought, even though Megumi couldn’t find the humor in it. And since you lost the bet, you’re the one stuck confronting him. You can’t prove Yuji and Nobara didn’t rig the bet knowing you have a crush on Gojo but you’re pretty sure they did because they’re giggling like school girls a few feet away.
As you stand before your tall, imposing professor and the weight of what you’re about to do sinks in— you realize you must’ve been out of your mind to think this was ever a good idea.
“No,” you shake your head and hold your hands behind your back stiffly.
“So my adored student just wanted to come say hi?” with a smile, he tilts his head slightly, leaning down just enough to bring his towering frame closer to your level, “how nice!”
“I have work to do,” Nanami sighs at Gojo before turning to you, “if you have any questions you know where to find me but please, keep it essential.”
Since Nanami knows Gojo is one of your professors as well, he figures whatever you have to say can be said to him. It’s clear Nanami takes any chance to escape Gojo’s antics and he’s using you to do so now so you nod at him with a polite smile before he leaves.
Gojo hums in a question, in a sing song tone, urging you to speak.
“I was just wondering-,” you press your lips together and let out a muffled huff in an attempted concealed laugh, “what size pants you wear.”
“Huh?” he draws out, tilting his head a bit more as his face contorts in playful confusion.
“Is one of my esteemed students gonna buy me a gift?” he coos as he stands straight once again and rests his hands on his hips, coming to the conclusion that you’re asking so you can buy him a pair of pants.
You press your lips together briefly and shrug noncommittally.
“I’m usually a size medium,” he says with his natural smile.
You hum, a laugh brimming on the surface as you hear the mumble of Yuji and Nobara snickering a few feet away.
“Are they.. too tight?” you question with hardly concealed amusement, making his brows twitch in slight confusion.
“Tight?” he repeats, growing lost on what you’re really asking as his gaze flickers down at his pants briefly.
“They seem a bit tight,” you blurt out, a giggle escaping as you bolt back to your friends, not giving Gojo a chance to respond.
He’s left standing there, blinking in confusion and checking the back and front of his pants like he’s worried there’s some kind of a stain somewhere. You crash into Nobara and Yuji, both of them bursting into giggles as they fast-walk alongside you, asking you to piece together what just happened since they only caught parts of it. Meanwhile, Megumi trails behind with a bored look, eyes half-lidded as if this is just another typical day for him.
The mischief you, Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi got up to deflated as soon as you got home. Alone in your dorm, you’d found yourself groaning, face in your hands, cheeks burning as you replayed what you’d immaturely said to the most popular, attractive professor in your college. Cursing yourself under your breath, the thrill of the moment now felt more like embarrassment.
The next day in Gojo’s class, it’s a little uncomfortable for you, but with over fifty students filling the room, you figure it’ll be fine.
Gojo taught his class with the same playful energy as always, but when his gaze lingered on you for just a moment mid-lecture, you sank awkwardly into your seat, that familiar heat rising to your cheeks.
After class, when you tried to slip away within the crowd of students, he stopped you in your tracks. You gave him a polite, slightly relieved smile when all he did was ask if you could deliver a stack of papers to Professor Geto on your way out. You figured he must have forgotten about your little encounter or just brushed it off as a harmless joke from some silly students.
Lunchtime on campus, even in college, still has its cliques. Some tables are for the smarter students, others for the athletes, with groups shifting from one table to another but always sticking to their usual crowd. But two of the circular tables never change: the ones ‘reserved’ for the professors. Even when none of them are there, those tables stay empty, like a silent understanding that they belong to them alone.
“You’re saying nothing happened? He didn’t even ask you what you were talking about?” Yuji questions you in his natural loud manner with a mouth full of his sandwich from across the table.
“What do you mean?” Nobara scoffs a laugh, “She pussied out and didn’t even say what she was supposed to say.”
You huff and drop your bag down beside you to rest your forearms atop the table, elbows brushing against Nobara’s and Megumi’s.
“Well, he kinda-” you steal a quick glance over your shoulder at the professors' table, where Professor Gojo and a few other male professors are chatting over lunch, before cringing and quickly turning your attention back to your friends, “-gave me a look in class.”
Nobara perks up at this as Yuji shoves more of his sandwich into his mouth, even though Megumi likes to feign disinterest with his head in his book, you can tell he’s tuning into the conversation as well.
“A look? What does that mean? Like a ‘look- look?’” Nobara questions with amusement and two jumps to her brows, jabbing your arm with her elbow.
You snicker at the insinuation while Yuji seems lost and Megumi simply cringes a bit.
Before you can respond, Yuji tilts his head and swallows a huge mouthful painfully before chewing it properly and speaking quickly.
“Huh? What’s a ‘look- look’?” he asks innocently, assuming it must be a sort of ‘girl’ thing.
“How stupid are you?” Nobara insults him in her natural insulting way which never seems to bother him, “Context clues?”
“Come on, tell me!” Yuji whines before turning to Megumi, “What’s a look look?”
“Don’t ask me, idiot,” Megumi says in a monotone before he politely takes a bite of his chip.
“It’s that look Megumi gives you after a long day,” Nobara teases dramatically, “You know, the one where he’s just longing to push you against the wall and whisper sweet nothings into your ear while he—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Megumi warns, looking up from his book to send Nobara a glare that she simply brushes off with a snicker.
“Wait, Gojo gave you that kind of look?” Yuji asks with his mouth in a literal ‘o,’ showing off all of the mush inside. Yuji either knows that Nobara is trying to tease him but just doesn’t mind, or he’s very ignorant.
You shake your head immediately with a playful eye roll and a smile that conveys you’re used to your friends’ behavior, “No, he definitely did not give me that look.”
“Then what?” Nobara prods, less enthusiastic now but still interested as she snacks on her lunch.
“It was more like,” you sigh and squint at the ceiling as you attempt to think of what to call it, “a -she-looks-familiar—is-she-the-weird-girl-who-said-something-about-my-pants-being-too-tight- look.”
Megumi snickers at you quietly without even looking up from his book as Yuji simply continues ravishing his sandwich.
“Ah,” Nobara snorts and pats your shoulder awkwardly, “that’s rough buddy.”
“Eh—i’m sure he doesn’t care,” Yuji dismisses, small bits of lettuce flying out of his mouth, “Professor Gojo is cool.”
“He probably thinks I’m a weirdo,” you rub your hands down your face with a breathy laugh.
You’re not overly worried; more of a lighthearted concern than a serious one. You’re aware you’re likely not so special as to be seen as anything in Gojo Satoru’s world, much less a weirdo. Gojo has many students and probably doesn’t remember most of them. Still, part of you’d like to think you stand out since he often asks you to help him with tasks, like delivering things to other professors or grabbing items for him after class. It’s only natural as a young adult to want to feel a little special with as sexy as a professor as Gojo is.
“Well, look at it this way,” Nobara says with a shrug, “at least now he’s thinking about you, even if he’s thinking you’re a freak who’s obsessed with his pants.”
“Yeah!” Yuji calls out enthusiastically, “He’s probably like, ‘what color panties does my weird student have on today?’”
Yuji laughs at his own joke but it’s silent otherwise as you all blink at him for a painfully silent moment —even Megumi.
“Dude,” nobara deadpans with a grimace, “you’re a perv.”
Yuji’s gaze flickers at all three of you as his face contorts in offense, “What? i was joking!”
You snort and Megumi grimaces at him before turning back to his book.
“Anyways,” Nobara brushes Yuji’s transgressions off, “this is a good opportunity for you! Get into his pants and confirm or deny the rumors.”
“Huh?” Yuji shouts at Nobara with a mouthful, “You’re the perv! Did you hear what you just said?”
You huff and shake your head before standing as Nobara flicks Yuji’s forehead harshly, “I’m gonna go get lunch, be back.”
As you reach to pay for your usual at one of the cafes surrounding the cafeteria tables with some crinkled up bills in hand, a sleek black mastercard suddenly appears in front of you.
“Oh, oh! —Throw in one of those cookies too,” a familiar voice sings like a child with a sweet tooth before they swipe their heavy, luxury card.
Your gaze travels up the long fingers, and your eyes widen for a moment before you quickly try to mask your surprise when you meet the familiar sight of white hair and that charming smile aimed at the blushing lunch lady.
“Professor Goj— you didn’t need to do that,” you let out an awkward laugh as you grab your packaged food and Gojo snatches one of the cookies from the display.
“Don’t be silly! come on,” he coos, giving your head a quick pat before slinging an arm over your shoulders and guiding you forward without much choice otherwise. You find yourself stumbling to keep up, his long legs striding effortlessly while your shorter steps scramble to match his pace.
Your face betrays a blend of fluster and slight panic as you avoid the gaze of the many students watching and whispering. Fortunately, not all of them are focused on you— some watch discreetly while others remain absorbed in their own conversations.
“This is my free hour-” you say nervously, attempting to politely express your desire to join your friends for lunch rather than follow him to whatever teaching-related errand he likely has in mind, “uh—where are we going—”
“You’re gonna eat anyways so— eat with us,” Gojo chirps as you approach a table of familiar, intimidating professors in their suits, jackets casually removed. They had been quietly enjoying their lunches, but now they glance up at you, curiosity evident in their expressions. Your heart sinks a little.
“O-Oh, um—” you stutter nervously, your gaze darting to the side where your friends are staring at you with their jaws dropped.
“Let the poor girl sit with her friends, Satoru,” Professor Geto shakes his head softly, clearly accustomed to Gojo’s antics and unpredictability.
Everyone knows that Professor Geto and Gojo are close, with rumors of their friendship going back to high school. The way they interact only adds weight to the speculation since they’re often seen chatting or sitting in on each others lectures.
You glance up at Gojo, still weighing your shoulders down with his long arm, and give him a questioning look, silently asking if you can follow Geto’s suggestion.
“Aww,” Gojo pouts theatrically as he gazes down at you, “you’re gonna hurt your favorite professors feelings!”
He’s making it silently clear in a playful way that you’d have to find a clever reason to escape this situation to even have a chance. It’s as if he’s abusing the knowledge that it’d be too awkward for a young student to try to deny the lunch request at this point since your professor already payed for your food.
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish and before you can respond, he answers for you. With much amusement.
“Sit,” Gojo chuckles and nudges you toward the open seat.
You lower yourself into it hesitantly, while Gojo practically bounces into the chair beside you, already unwrapping his cookie. Despite your best effort to press your legs together and ‘keep your hands to yourself,’ your knees still brush against Gojo’s manspread thigh on one side and Geto’s on the other. Every bit of your stiff body language shows your discomfort, as though you’re instinctively trying to make yourself smaller, hoping to disappear into a hole in the ground.
As you settle into your seat, you glance at your friends and catch Nobara gesturing at you with urgency, her expression screaming, ‘What are you doing?’ In quick response, you give a panicked shrug that conveys, ‘I don’t fucking know,’ before redirecting your focus to the professors.
Professor Nanami sighs, clearly disappointed by Gojo’s antics in bringing a student into this setting. He adjusts his tie and turns his attention to you.
“Hello again,” Nanami greets you with polite formality, treating you like just another student—which you are—the absurdity of your presence at this table is impossible to ignore. It’s not about rules per-say; professors just simply don’t sit with students, you assume it’s more due to needing time to themselves and a break from taking on that professor persona than anything else.
“Uh— hi,” you greet back, slowly setting your food down in front of you as Gojo takes a big bite of his sugar cookie.
Professor Geto hums your name with his signature soft smile, “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Oh- it’s nice to see you too, professor,” you smile awkwardly with a brief short nod.
A moment of silence passes— an awkward moment in your eyes— because what the fuck is supposed to happen now? A brief professional greeting and chat about an incoming assignment is the only type of conversation that transpires between student and professor. Another unspoken rule— but apparently those are out of the window now.
Geto isn’t too surprised since it’s difficult to phase him but its definitely a bit different to have a student at the table, whereas Nanami’s irritation is directed at Gojo like usual, while Gojo remains blissfully cheerful and nonchalant. The unreadable Gojo is usually everything hot and admirable, but now it’s just making you nervous.
“Relax,” Gojo sings dramatically, almost making you flinch. He nods down at your food, “Eat, eat. We’re all friends here.”
You blink down at your food, then glance up at the professors, bewildered. How can you eat when it feels like the entire lunchroom is buzzing about you? The unspoken barrier between teachers and students looms heavy, putting why these interactions are rare on a pedestal for the whole of student body to witness.
You can hear Nanami sigh before he resumes eating, clearly judging Gojo’s inappropriate comment suggesting that a student and a professor could be friends.
“We don’t bite,” Gojo urges you playfully like you’re a scared stray kitty and he’s an experienced house cat as he leans down closer to your level, nudging your leg with his, “Go on.”
Geto lets out a soft huff in amusement before shaking his head gently and taking a swig of his coffee.
You let out a soft, nervous chuckle before hesitantly starting to eat, trying to block out the way the chatter of the students suddenly grows louder the moment you take your first bite. It’s as if you taking a bite solidifies the fact that you’re actually eating lunch with the professors.
Gojo says your name slowly, like he’s recalling something as you eat, “You wrote that paper on the idea that humans would be able to teleport if we had the right equation, didn’t you?”
Your brows raise in surprise and you quickly swallow your bite as you glance up at him beside you. Half of you expected him to not even read the papers his students submit since he has so many, much less remember your name from it. But the thought is accompanied by the irritatingly flustered one that thinks Gojo is an amazing professor, of course he knows all of his students.
“Oh— yeah that’s me,” you chuckle nervously with a small smile and nod.
“Very interesting,” he compliments with his charming smile, “I love students who think outside the box.”
You can’t stop the warmth creeping into your cheeks at his praise; he’s so charming it’s almost painful.
“That does sound interesting,” Professor Geto hums and chuckles a bit, “We don’t get fun topics like that in history much, do we?”
You huff softly, some tension dissolving because of the way they’re speaking so naturally to you, clearly attempting to make you more comfortable.
“I love history, actually,” you timidly express with a small smile towards the professor, causing him to smile back softly.
“Oh, really? that’s good to hear,” Geto expresses sweetly.
“Pft,” Gojo playfully teases, “Physics is much more fun than history.”
Professor Nanami, who’s a calculus professor, simply sighs and doesn’t interject on the topic. If he did care enough to say something, he’d probably say school isn’t meant to be ‘fun,’ but to improve on one’s learning.
“Physics is just over analyzing things that dont need it,” Professor Geto dismisses mockingly, setting down his coffee cup and giving it a slight push to emphasize his point. “Like pushing and pulling— it doesn’t really need an explanation.”
You glance back and forth between the two playfully bickering, finding it amusing to see your professors acting so lighthearted together up close. They seem so human, like normal adult men rather than the big intimidating professors the school has built them up to be.
“At least we’re living in the future, history is just the study of what’s already happened,” Gojo banters back, “boring— been there done that.”
Professor Geto rolls his eyes lightheartedly before continuing to sip his coffee.
“Right, my new favorite little student?” Gojo sings as he nudges your side with his elbow, making you jerk a bit.
“Oh- I don’t know,” you laugh nervously, still flickering back and forth from the two. Are you even allowed to say anything else?
“Don’t bring a student into your foolish nonsense,” Nanami intervenes, making Gojo ‘boo’ at him.
“No no, I wanna know too,” Geto huffs with a soft smile, ignoring Nanami, “history or physics?”
“You wont get in trouble~ C’mon, choose,” Gojo taunts with a smile.
You gulp as you eye the both of them awaiting your answer, anxious to be put on the spot and for both attractive professors to have their eyes solely on you.
“Sorry,” you say with a slight cringe at Geto, “physics is just so engaging— not that i don’t love history too though.”
“Ahh,” Gojo calls out boisterously, “looks like I win.”
Geto acts as if he’s been shot in the chest, though not very dramatically. “And here I thought you loved my class.”
“I do!” you claim with a small smile as Gojo wraps his hard arm around your shoulder and forces your head to rest slightly on his chest as if taking you under his wing.
“It’s okay,” Gojo says to you in a teasing whisper though he’s looking at Geto, “you can tell him his class sucks, he’ll only take it partially up the ass.”
“Language,” Nanami monotones with his tired eyes focused on his salad.
“Oops!” Gojo tuts as he briefly squeezes your shoulder with his hand that’s so large, his finger tips graze the side of your chest, “we’re all adults here, right?”
After a moment of silence where you’re confused as to why they haven’t continued their conversation, your curious gaze flicks from the two professors eyeing you and then back to Gojo again before growing flustered. They’re waiting for you.
“Oh— um— yeah, I’m twenty two,” you explain with an internal cringe that you made them wait for an answer.
“See?” Gojo hums as he moves to rest his forearms back on the table, “A little cursing won’t send her to the corner to think on her actions or anything.”
Nanami simply rolls his eyes.
Geto snickers, clearly amused by how his two friends treat you as though you're some naive young woman, despite being only six years younger than him and Gojo, and even closer in age to Nanami.
“Definitely won’t,” Geto adds on with a soft genuine smile, despite the way he’s obviously joining in on gojo’s teasing, “You do curse, right?”
You blink at him and let out a playful, hesitant huff, half-expecting them to laugh it off as a rhetorical joke, because that’s a question an older cousin taunts their younger relative with, not one you genuinely inquire an adult student with. But they actually seem serious—aside from the barely hidden amusement they're clearly enjoying.
You clear your throat as you wring out your fingers in your lap.
“Uh— yes,” you answer slightly humiliated to be forced to say that aloud to the older men who know damn well already that you curse— since you were fourteen in fact.
“Naughty,” Gojo teasingly points at you as if reprimanding you, “So then, what’s your favorite one?”
“My favorite,” you pause with a confused twitch to your brow, though you’re already aware of what he’s asking, “curse word?”
He hums with a smile and nods, egging you on.
“Um— I guess,” you clear your throat as the tips of your ears heat up, “fuck.”
You’re aware it’s not taboo to curse in front of them since you’re all adults, but it still feels a bit wrong because of their status— as though you’ll get in trouble or something.
Gojo lets out a bubbly laugh as Geto chuckles airily.
“That’s a good one,” Gojo speaks through giggles, “my favorite too.”
You awkwardly extend your arms and clasp your hands together, then squeeze your thighs around your hands, a harsh heat rising to your face as you chew on your inner cheek with a smile that feels mandatory.
You glance at your friends, who are still watching you intently, bickering among themselves about what you might be discussing and how Gojo seems to be laughing, before turning your attention back to your professors.
“Anyways,” Gojo sings, crinkling up his cookie wrapper, brushing his tongue against his teeth behind his closed lips like he’s swiping for crumbs. He moves to face you with one ankle lazily resting over his knee, “We ate together, you love my class, and now I know your favorite curse word. I’d say that means we’re officially friends, wouldn’t you?”
“Uh-” your brows twitch slightly, unsure of what he’s getting at, “I suppose.”
“Good!” he sings cheerfully, “Then that means you can help me out with something, riight?”
You glance at the other professors who eye Gojo, unsure of what he’s saying.
“Like what?” you question curiously, expecting some kind of paperwork help again.
“What was that thing that you said to me the other day?” he asks, but it seems as though this isn’t the answer to your question of what he wants from you yet, more of a preface to what he’ll say next.
You choke on your spit briefly before uttering a respectful ‘excuse me’ and wiping your mouth with a handkerchief Professor Nanami politely offers you as heat burns in your cheeks and ears.
“W-What did I say? I didn’t say anything to you the other day,” you ramble as you clench the handkerchief in your lap, hoping for the inevitable to leave and never return.
“Oh, you remember!” Gojo says with a giggle, genuinely believing your claim but urging to refresh your memory, “something about my pants?”
At this, Nanami’s dissatisfied expression towards the situation and generally at Gojo turns into a slightly cocked brow, directed at you. Geto’s curiosity seems to be piqued as well, quietly sipping on his coffee as his gaze lands on you.
“Oh,” you gulp and attempt to hold a poker face, “I—uh— don’t really remember.”
“Either way,” Gojo waves you off casually, “it feels like my students are acting off lately and since we’re such good friends now, I thought you’d be able to tell me what your peers are up to.”
Gojo’s words make you realize that your encounter with him wasn’t the only one he’s had like it recently; the rumor has become quite popular, and you’re honestly surprised none of the professors seem to know about it.
“Is this about that rumor?” Geto questions gojo curiously, making your brows perk up.
“What rumor?” Gojo repeats with interest, leaning into the table towards his black haired counterpart.
Geto and Gojo turn towards you comically simultaneously and even Nanami’s eyes are on you, waiting for you to elaborate. They obviously don’t know specifics, you really hope they don’t know general details either.
Just as you’re about to respond, your mouth closes abruptly when a loud voice rings out across the cafeteria, piercing through the chatter and ensuring that everyone within earshot can hear it.
It’s a male student attempting to imitate what he believes are a woman’s moans, dramatically enunciating his performance with a semi coherent sentence that leaves his lips in an exaggerated tone.
“Fuck~ how big is it, Professor Gojo?” is what comes out of the devious male students mouth in a shout, a clearly mischievous grin on his face. He doesn’t stay long, quickly sprinting off with his friends. Their laughter echos behind them as they make their exit.
A few days after the humiliating lunch with your favorite professors, you approach the door of Professor Gojo’s classroom with intention to play the role of messenger once again and return a stack of files that Professor Geto requested of you.
But as your fingers graze the cracked door door, ready to swing it open, your face drains of blood as your hand hesitates at the sight you see: Professor Gojo in his desk chair, jerking himself off with his brows pinched and lips slightly parted.
His infamous cock— the one that's been on everyone’s mind lately— stands proudly amidst his unbuttoned slacks and a tuft of white hair, a layer of moisture highlighting its pink hue. His large hand strokes it slowly and knowingly, coaxing clear, milky fluid to weep from the tip as if he’s purposefully teasing himself.
Your wide eyes follow another bead of pre-cum dribble out, swiftly gathered by his thumb to provide extra lubrication for his disastrous length. You can't help but gawk, fully aware now that the infamous rumor is undeniably true.
Satoru Gojo’s dick is huge.
You almost act appropriately, preparing to back away and return the files to Geto with some half-assed excuse— but when a throaty groan escapes his lips as his hips stutter upward into his hand, you pause. You never stood a chance.
Metaphorical drool leaks from your lips as you abandon all morals and watch through the crack of the door as your professor gets himself off in the empty classroom he teaches in—teaches you in.
After a few frustrating strokes with his shirt getting in the way, he pulls it over his head and tosses it aside, showing off his sculpted body as his abs and bicep clenches and releases with every desperate hump into his hand.
The first time he speaks makes you jump, guilty conscience immediately assuming you’re caught— but when you hear what he whines out, your eyes swirl in a trance as your insides push out a drool of slick to pool into your panties.
“Yeah? If you want it then touch it— better yet let me open you up?”
It’s as if he’s drifting into a daydream, moaning out words to deepen his immersion in his own internal fantasy. You find it all too familiar— when the sensation of holding your bladder for too long, the pressure teasing sensitive spots, lures you to imagine that pressure as a lengthy cock pushing against your walls in a vivid dream, or when you’re all alone and grind against a surface you know you shouldn’t, imagining it to be someone’s face. He’s daydreaming.
His words are steeped in a fantasy of breaking someone in, his fist tightening around the tip as he delivers short, forceful thrusts, never going beyond the upper middle of his cock— like he’s trying to force his way into a tight cunt that he can’t seem to penetrate.
“O-Oh! There we go,” he hisses, finally pushing past that first metaphorical ring of muscle that isn’t fucking there and jerking his tight fist all the way down to the base where his white fluff is, “Wasn’t so— ngh— bad was it? gon’ move now.”
How polite. He’s notifying his imaginary partner before thrusting inside them.
He keeps his fist wrapped firmly around the underside of his tip, rhythmically thrusting all the way up into his unmoving hand like he’s actually thrusting balls deep into pussy and you swear you can feel it. His jaw is clenched tightly, a conflicted expression etched on his face as his eyes shut tightly and his head tilts back, as if he’s desperately trying to control the pace, fighting the urge to cum too quickly.
“Aww,” he coos through humps, sending shivers down your spine. The sound is strained as he fights to suppress a whine, his tone trembling with every movement, “Don’t cry baby—f-fuck— it’ll feel real good in a second.”
Your knees grow weak as you chew on your bottom lip, lidded, glazed eyes glued on his trembling, vulnerable body. You expected the outgoing, dominant Professor Gojo to remain silent and maturely stoic in the throes of pleasure, but it’s a happy surprise that here he is— a quivering, whiny mess, embarrassingly lost in the fantasy of fucking a crying virgin? - who seems to be sobbing at the sheer size of him.
His virgin fantasy would be amusing if the sight wasn’t so fucking hot, making it difficult to focus on anything other than the way his clothed thigh muscles and exposed abdomen tenses and relaxes with every jut into his fist.
Then as he repeatedly murmurs "Harder? Sure you can handle that?" in a breathless cadence, he seems unable to resist the urge to finally allow his fist to aid his hips, thrusting against his helping hand in a desperate pursuit of that mounting desire.
“I’m sorry— I’m sorry—fuck!” he suddenly moans, the sound louder than anything he’s made thus far, and maybe if you weren’t heart-eyed at the sight of ropes of cum splurting from his tip, you would have glanced around the hallway to ensure no one was witnessing this— or witnessing you witnessing this.
As the realization hits you that he’s apologizing because he’s creaming inside his fantasy virgin girl, you can’t help but let out a soft, deep satisfied breath as one thigh rubs against the other in deep need for friction.
His shaft twitches as cum travels through it, making it seem as though you’re able to see the anatomy of it all, how the muscles in his cock contract and twitch rhythmically to propel milky semen to shoot out and splatter against his clenched, glistening abdomen and hand, some even landing on his black slacks.
You salivate watching as he whines through it, like he can’t handle the high of it, like he’s a victim to his own self induced orgasm. But when the short moment subsides, and you watch as he sighs deeply in satisfaction before tucking his still- hard dick back into his slacks, you gulp and straighten up. The cloudy skies begin to clear into reality.
You turn toward the exit, Professor Gojo’s door you were just peeking through idle to your right. Just as you’re about to speed walk all the way to your dorm to shamelessly rub yourself into next week, you briefly clench your eyes shut and let out a soft exhale, mentally cursing yourself for succumbing to the urge to see what would happen if you entered his classroom. It’s true hormones can sometimes control the brain before logic has the chance to move in.
Before you realize it, you’re pushing open his door, surprisingly successfully concealing your amusement as you watch him jump slightly and clear his throat at the sight of you. He quickly straightens his shirt and leans the front of his hips against his desk, hands resting atop it lazily.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say contorting your face into an innocent student who genuinely feels bad for disturbing their professor, “did I interrupt? I should have knocked, I can come back—”
“Huh? Oh—no, no, of course not,” he nervously huffs, his natural playful nature tinted. He glances at the clock on the wall before flickering back at you, “It’s late, what’s up?”
“Professor Geto wanted me to give these to you,” you smile respectfully as you set the pile of files onto the desk, eyes lingering on the white stain of leftover cum on his slacks. Your nervous heart is beating out of your throat, you’re almost afraid he can see the beat of it through your chest. You have no idea what you’re doing.
“Ah— I see, thank you.” he lifts the first file, feigning interest at the front of the one beneath it, which reveals nothing but a name. his gaze then flicks up to meet yours that’s trained elsewhere, and you quickly look away from the stain, warmth creeping into your cheeks as you realize he noticed your wandering attention.
By the look on his face, it’s clear he doesn’t know exactly what made you flustered; he simply recognizes that he’s caught you off guard, his expression neutral yet attentive.
“It’s no big deal,” you dismiss, hands intertwined behind your back as you rock back on your heels and glance around the room like you’re observing it even though you’ve been in this classroom more than fifty times by now.
His eyes dart down to his pants where your gaze had lingered curiously, and they widen in realization. He clears his throat and hastily shifts the pile of files to conceal his front where the cum stain is, a hint of fluster crossing his features.
“Is there anything else I can help with?” he questions, making you hum in thought.
“Actually— yeah,” you nod, making his head tilt in slight curiosity.
“Can you break me i—” you can hear his breath catch as his body stiffens, his ears perking up at your familiar words, making the corner of your lips twitch smugly and undetectably, “—I mean, can you break in my grade a little for this semester? I just really need those credits, maybe there’s some extra work I can help with?”
He blinks for a moment and then shakes his head to dispel his thoughts, laughing lightheartedly at himself for clearly mishearing you.
“Right— uh— extra credit you said?” he repeats, face contorting in one that’s trying desperately to focus on his Professor persona. It’s obvious he has that afterglow relaxation on his features, it’s beautiful. He’s clearly fighting the need to lay down and sleep while also handling the situation at hand.
“Yeah.” You nod and clear your throat, unable to meet his eyes for what you’re about to say next.
“Um,” you swallow your nerves, “A-Actually, can I talk to you, Professor Gojo?”
He hums in query, soft, like he recognizes that timid tone in your voice that he sees in many of his quieter students and triggers his older male instinct to protect. “Of course, what’s up?”
“Honestly, I’ve been struggling,” you frown, making his brows twitch in sympathy, “It’s been such a big work load lately, so big it’s hard to cope with. It’s so hard to fit into my schedule that I can’t help but cry trying to fit it all in.”
You quite literally almost laugh out loud and reprimand yourself all the same. You’re just unable to pass the opportunity to use some of the colorful word choice he’d said with his cock in his hand, knowing he can’t say anything about it. That he’ll be second guessing it and himself for hearing it in your words.
Gojo swallows hard, his jaw briefly tightening as a charged silence stretches between you. His intense gaze locks onto you while you look down at your feet, a genuine expression of stress tugging at your face. It looks like you’re stressed about homework, but really you’re out of your mind nervous acting on the dripping consciousness between your legs to taunt your professor.
When he doesn’t speak, you lift your eyes to him, curiosity prompting you to see what’s keeping him quiet. Your gaze seems to pull him from his trance, and he blinks, startled back to the moment.
“I- um- I’m really,” he sighs, licking his lips briefly, “sorry it’s been so hard for you, sweet girl.”
You can’t help but let your eyes flutter shut at the pet name, a rush of warmth flooding through you as you inhale sharply. It’s like the afterglow chemicals that are releasing in his brain after a recent orgasm is making him sweeter. Instantly, you cover your eyes, pretending to fight back tears, determined to cover your reaction.
“I-It’s okay,” you murmur as you keep your face in your hands, making him sigh and walk around his desk to stand in front of you and lean back against it.
He reaches out and affectionately pats your head, prompting you to peek out from behind your hands and look up at him. Slowly, you lower your hands to your sides, concealing the excitement bubbling inside you at his petting by discreetly gripping the material of your pants.
“We can figure out how to get you some easy extra credit so it’s a bit smoother for you, okay?” he consoles, sympathy for his struggling student evident in his tone but it’s tinged with a deep raspy whisper.
“You should be having fun in college, going to parties and having fun with your friends, not crying over assignments.”
You nod in agreement, more aware of his prolonged touch against the top of your head and closeness of your bodies than whatever he’s saying about school.
“You’re right,” you sigh, as if suddenly embarrassed of yourself, “I’ve never even been to my first college party or had the chance to find my first boyfriend.”
No seriously, what the fuck are you doing? Insinuating that you’re a virgin? Like his little jerk off fantasy? You swallow your nerves.
He takes a deep breath, exhaling just as fully as he clenches his teeth, causing rhythmic dimples to appear and vanish in his jaw before he finally pulls his hand away from your head. Even now, your professor is unreadable— upholding that intimidating reputation.
“That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he briefly scratches at the back of his neck before shoving his hands into his pockets as if to keep himself in check, “Your.. firsts should be special.”
You can’t help but let a smile grow on your face before nodding with eyes peering up at him. You can’t help but wonder how special he’d make your first, if he’d treat you with such aggressively selfish abandon like his fist or if he’d take initiative as your older, more mature and wise counterpart to make it soft and nice for you.
“Well anyways, i’ll make sure to have a hand ready whenever you have a job for me,” you say, making him cough on his spit.
He quickly clears his throat to regain composure and you bite back a laugh with clenched a jaw. If you smile now, you’ll surely make him suspicious. You’ve dropped too many references to his jerk off sesh to act anywhere outside of a regular student.
“Right,” he nods with pinched brows, as if conflicted, “I’ll make sure to look for some assignments for you.”
“Thank you,” you smile, gaze flickering down at his pants once again, face suddenly growing serious making gojo follow your eyes, “Oh no, you have a stain on your pants.”
“Oh,” Gojo holds his hands out with a nervous chuckle as you sink down to your (unbeknownst to him, trembling) knees in front of him, “It’s no big deal, it’s fine. Just got some— uh— mayonnaise on it from my sandwich.”
“Oh man— these had to be more than a couple hundred dollars,” you glance up at him, brows raised, surprised by how unbothered he seems about ruining his expensive pants.
Gojo gulps and shakes his head with shaky breaths, “I’ll just buy more— it’s really nothing you need to worry about.”
Fuck, you’re really skating on thin ice now. But you can’t come all this way and not get a taste. You don’t even care how creepy that makes you. The thought of being the only student to taste Professor Gojo’s cum is too alluring.
“I don’t mind, I actually have a little trick that’s been passed down in my family,” you explain with a twitchy, anxious smile, “it seems silly but— um— it really works!— mayo you said?”
“Yeah, mayo. But, seriously—” Gojo cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening in shock, freezing with hands hovering in the air, as if unsure of where to settle them as you press your lips to the stain and start sucking on it. He can feel you even lap your tongue at it skillfully as your eyes flutter shut in concentration while occasionally tilting your head to find a better angle as if this were completely ordinary.
Your pussy pulses desperately as the bitter—but smooth like butter— taste fills your salivating mouth.
His eyes flick between the classroom door and you, your mouth pressed against his upper thigh— terrifyingly close to where his hard, throbbing dick is getting even harder with every suck of your pretty little mouth on his cum stain.
His thighs are so warm and you can feel his defined muscle behind the tailored slacks. You’re dizzy, like you’re in uncharted territory and can’t believe he’s letting you do this.
As if being slightly brought back to earth when the thought arises that someone could walk in, Gojo tangles his hand into your hair and gently nudges you to stop with a very soft, “ah— ah no no no, wait,” despite the way he can’t help but roll his eyes back softly. And even though the tug on your hair lacks any real conviction, you still do what he asks and pull back, licking your lips as you gaze up at him.
Before he can even say anything, you gesture at the stain with a smile and he glances down to see that it’s now non existent, you sucked it all out, the thought making his dick pulse out a glob of pre into his boxers.
“All gone,” you smile up at him, acting unaware of his broad, lanky hand still tangled in your hair in hopes he’ll keep it there, “See? nice trick, right?”
He gulps as you stand, making him take his hand back awkwardly and shove them both into his pockets in attempt to cover his protruding dick. He can’t help but be thankful for that silly rumor going around about him now that he’s popping a very obvious boner, hoping that rumor is aiding to make it seem like maybe he’s just that big naturally while soft instead of being terribly hard right now.
“Right— uh— thank you,” he nods, pursing his lips briefly as he grapples with what just happened. Thanking you for sucking his cum out of his slacks without knowledge of what you actually just ingested causes guilt to flicker in him but not as much as it sends blood to his cock.
You nod and smack your lips briefly with a laugh. You just can’t resist saying, “Weird tasting mayo.”
He almost chokes on air at your words, making the apples of his cheeks flush pink, “O-Oh, yeah I get the—um— vegan.. kind.”
you hum with a sweet smile, “It’s actually pretty tasty.”
And now he actually does choke on air, making him cough and curl into himself as he tries to catch his breath.
“Professor? You okay?” you ask as you lay a comforting hand onto his rippling, lean back, unable to push away the amused smile on your expression now that he can’t see your face as he’s huddled over.
He finally catches his breath and exhales deeply before gulping and standing straight once again.
“Yeah- yes,” he clears his throat, “You should probably get back to your dorm, it’s late. I’m sure you have class early.”
You glance back at the clock and then nod with a smile.
“Wow— it is late, sorry. Thanks again for being so willing to give me extra credit, i’ll see you in class tomorrow.”
“No need to apologize,” he smiles idly in that neutral way he always does, gaining composure. To anyone else, Gojo has barely ebbed out of his usual behavior this entire conversation, but you know better. “Be safe!”
You nod with a flutter in your chest as you approach the exit. You pull the door open with a shaky hand full of adrenaline and holding it wide, you glance back at him over your shoulder, your expression almost shy.
“You’re definitely my favorite professor,” you compliment before turning back to the door.
He lets out a chuckle that doesn’t sound so genuine, prompting you to press your lips together in stifled amusement as you walk through the door. You can't help but relish the thought that he has no idea you've been teasing him all along, even despite your trembling nerves, believing himself to be the perv when, in reality, you've been subtly planting ideas in his mind since the moment you stepped into the room.
“Have a good da— night,” he calls back, stuttering over his words, fully aware that you’ve already slipped out the door and likely out of earshot.
Frustration and embarrassment he hasn’t felt since his highschool days washes over him as he drags his hands down his face, muttering at himself, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He quickly winces at the realization that his hand likely still has remnants of cum on it and he snaps it away from his face with a grimace before gathering his things to go home. Maybe he’ll call Nanami to confess his sins, not that he’s a priest, but he would undoubtedly have an earful to say about it. It feels like he deserves some kind of punishment for allowing a student to unknowingly taste his cum.
You can’t help but clasp your hands over your beaming smile in disbelief and adrenaline as you pace out of the hallway, practically bursting to call nobara and share every detail of what just happened.
———
Reposted from old account and added a lil more, kiss kiss
SUMMARY: one way or the other, the two of you always find your way back to each other. you think that it was always going to end this way, and you think that you wouldn't have had it any other way—you and him, from the beginning to the very end.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. canon compliant (MCD). i took some liberty with 1) zenin clan relationships and 2) cursed spiritenergy lore for reader’s technique. naoya is his own warning—he’s gonna give you a lot of whiplash. heavily implied abuse (naobito->naoya). toxic relationship (i stress, toxic relationship, the codependency is really highlighted in this part). misogyny (obviously). liberal use of bitch (naoya to reader). GRIEVING (reader goes through all five stages of grief and honestly has a whole mental break after naoya's death, identity crisis/full loss of purpose/suicidal thoughts & makes a decision at the end that's purposely left up to interpretation). as always with my fics, reader has personality & background. I think I’m missing some warnings, pls tell me if you catch anything I missed, there are a lot LOL
AUTHOR’S NOTE: AHHHHHHHHHHH THE LAST PART IS HERE ..... I hope you guys are excited, I rlly think I did this chapter justice (if I didn't, lie to me and say I did). I don't want to go too in depth here because I have a lot of notes at the end and most of what I want to say is a spoiler. SO ALL I HAVE TO SAY IS ENJOY!!!! all comments and reblogs always appreciated. And here is a post I made about reader’s cursed technique—it’s described in the fic as well, but if you’re interested to read!
SEE: MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION series masterlist
2018 | READER, AGE 25; NAOYA, AGE 27
“So, um, one of my students has become Sukuna’s vessel,” Satoru says casually to you one day over the phone. You blink once, looking down at your phone, then back up at the wall. Naoya gives you a questioning look from where he’s lounging on your couch. “I already made sure the higher-ups can’t execute him just yet, but I’m sure they're going to call a meeting with all of the big sorcerer families about it soon. I thought you should hear it from me first. Anyway—”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Satoru,” you hiss furiously. “What the hell do you mean one of your students is the vessel for the King of Curses?”
Naoya’s eyes widen slightly across the room, and he puts his phone down before pushing himself to his feet, making his way over to you. He leans in so that his ear is against the back of your phone, trying to eavesdrop on what Satoru is saying to you. You scowl at him, pressing your hand against his face and pushing him away, much to his distinct displeasure.
“Well, I mean, I guess vessel is kind of a harsh word. They’re more like cohabiting the same body,” Satoru corrects, and like he can hear the disbelief just in the small puff of air you let out, he sighs. He continues, more seriously, “He ate one of Sukuna’s fingers to protect his friends and Megumi—which, before you yell at me, I agree, was extremely stupid, but it was also extremely brave.” He talks so casually that you can almost forget he’s talking about an ancient calamity wearing a teenager as a hoodie. “Mostly brave. I think I’m leaning more brave than stupid.”
“Satoru,” you say through gritted teeth. You exhale, trying to quell the panic that’s steadily rising in your chest as the weight of what he said to you starts to settle in. You knew something wasn’t right—knew it. You’ve had a bad feeling since the incident at the end of last year, but this— “Just, who is this boy?”
“The kid’s name is Itadori Yuji, fifteen years old. Physically gifted, absurd inclination for cursed energy, moral compass that’ll probably get him killed if I don’t interfere,” Satoru tells you. “The higher-ups want him dead. Immediately. Public execution wrapped up in a neat little bow, so no one has to think twice about it.”
“And what do you want?” you ask quietly, leaning against the wall and rubbing your hand against your face, suddenly very, very tired.
“To keep him alive,” Satoru replies simply. “Long enough to eat all twenty fingers.”
Which means Satoru probably has at least one of the twenty hidden away somewhere no one could ever hope to find. He wouldn’t push for an alternative that still ended in the boy’s execution. You exhale, gaze shifting up to the ceiling.
“You’re putting a lot on this kid, Satoru,” you say quietly.
“I know, but what am I supposed to do? Let the old bastards murder him?” Satoru asks quietly, sounding a bit tired himself. “Anyway, that’s why I’m gonna be staying right next to him. Like a very handsome, overpowered babysitter.”
You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “You’re an idiot,” you say. “I’ll come to the school to meet him before I attend the meeting.” You can see the smug smile on his face without even hearing him say anything. “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.”
“Oh, I know,” he replies easily, “but you are agreeing to look. Still a win.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow. Unannounced. Don’t tell them.”
“Please do—the kids love surprises. Builds character.”
“And if I decide this is a terrible idea, Satory? That the risk is too high?”
There’s a long pause on the other end. “Then you’ll say it to my face, and I’ll listen. Well, I’ll probably end up ignoring you, but I’ll listen at first, at least.”
You roll your eyes. “How generous.”
“I try,” Satoru answers, and you hang up the phone, turning to Naoya, who’s still disgruntled by the way you shoved him away.
“What the hell was that?” Naoya asks, and you stare at your phone a second longer than necessary before letting your arm drop to your side. “Hello?”
You let out a long exhale through your nose. “That,” you say slowly, already dreading the oncoming headache, “was Satoru informing me that the King of Curses is currently squatting inside a fifteen-year-old, and the higher-ups are going to be dragging us all to a meeting about it.”
Naoya stares at you. “And you’re… going to meet the vessel, instead of just letting it die?” he asks, voice a low drawl. “You know, I know you’re a woman, but you can’t seriously be this soft-hearted. We’re talking about Sukuna, the King of Curses, y’know?”
You give him a sharp look. “Watch it.”
“What?” he scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not wrong. This ain’t some stray he found bleeding on the street. It’s the King of Curses wearing some kid like a skin.”
“I’m not arguing with you right now, Naoya,” you say flatly, shaking your head and turning away. “You—”
“There’s no argument at all. You’re not fuckin’ going to go talk to this kid, end of story,” Naoya says so firmly that it makes your eye twitch. “I’m serious.”
“You don’t get to order me around, Naoya,” you remind him, voice low. “Don’t piss me off right now, I already have a headache.”
“There’s no point,” he says dismissively, lips pinched. “You know damn well the clans ain’t gonna protect him. The moment Satoru-kun isn’t looking, they’re gonna push for an execution anyway. You’re gonna go there and talk to this thing, and it’s gonna be wearing the face of a kid, and you’re gonna get attached, and then you’re gonna be all upset when it’s inevitably killed. And I ain’t fuckin’ dealing with it, not when you knew better and went anyway.”
“It’s not your call to make.”
“No, but it’s going to be my fucking problem when this turns out exactly how we both know it’s going to.”
You scoff, looking away. “Fuck off,” you tell him. “You’d rather I sign off on the execution of a kid barely through junior high without even making an informed decision?”
“Yeah,” Naoya answers immediately, no hesitation. “That’s exactly what I’d rather.”
The two of you stare at each other for a long moment, and Naoya’s expression is tight in a way that you haven’t seen in a while, with frustration and irritation. He really doesn’t want you to see this kid, you realize, exhaling through your nose.
“I’ve seen curses wear human faces before,” Naoya continues through gritted teeth, and your gaze shifts to the side because you know exactly what he’s talking about, even if he doesn’t know you know. “They cry and beg and pretend, but it always ends the same. You know this. This ain’t fuckin’ you. You’re not this stupid—you’ve never let sentiment get in the way of making the right call like this before. You know I’m right. Don’t go see this kid.”
You tell him quietly. “It’s not your call to make, Naoya.”
Naoya lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Whatever. Go then. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when the kid is axed, yeah?”
————————
You meet Itadori Yuji the next day, alongside his two classmates: Nobara Kugisaki and Fushiguro Megumi. You’ve met Megumi plenty of times before through Satoru, but you can tell the boy is on edge this time, because you’re not here as someone who is friends with Satoru—you’re here as someone who will have a say in whether his friend lives or dies. His jaw is tight as you make your way over to the small group, and he greets you properly with an incline of his head, but you can see his fists are tight at his side. Nobara watches you like a hawk next to him, scrutinizing you with narrowed eyes and downturned lips.
Itadori Yuji is nothing like you expect. He’s painfully ordinary at first glance—just a boy, broad-shouldered, tall for age, athletic. You don’t immediately sense Sukuna’s presence within him; only when you really focus do you feel the pressure of him beneath the surface, a predator lying in wait, amused by the illusion of normalcy. Yuji doesn’t look angry or sad or frustrated, like you expect. He looks too alive, too present, grinning easily as if he hasn’t already been condemned by people who have never bothered to learn his name. The contrast is nauseating. A boy who smells of sweat and summer air, housing something that treats blood as an art form, and a world that simply does not care to distinguish them as different.
Your headache returns with a vengeance.
(“Introduce yourself,” you say, arms folded over your chest as you stare at the boy.
Yuji straightens, pressing his fist to his chest. “My name is Itadori Yuji. I like karaoke and watching TV, and all kinds of food, but my favorite is noodles. And rice bowls. I hate science—and before you ask, my hair is naturally this color.”)
He is just a boy.
They are just children.
(“Why the hell are you dating him?” Kugisaki demands, jutting her thumb in Satoru’s direction. Your eyes widen, partially at the audacity, and partially at the sheer idea. Also, because Naoya would have a fit if he knew Satoru’s students thought you were his girlfriend. “He sucks. You could do better. I hate seeing a woman waste her time.”
Your brain short-circuits for a half second, lips parting, but no words leave them. You lift your hands and wave them in front of you. “I—no—we are not—”
Satoru, naturally, chooses that moment to lean in, grin widening to an infuriating degree. “Wow,” he says, delighted. “Is that how it looks? Because I’m not against the rumor mill, per se—”
You drive your elbow back without looking; it lands solidly in his ribs. You repeat, “We are not dating, and Satoru should not be encouraging any rumors, because he knows I’ll be dealing with a very unhappy dog when I go back to Kyoto.”
Kugisaki tilts her head to the side suspiciously, and Megumi presses his face in his hands.
Yuji, on the other hand, lights up. “Oh! So you’re not dating Gojo-sensei?” he asks. “That’s good, I was worried for a second.”
“Why,” Satoru asks, wounded, “is everyone acting like that would be a tragedy?”
“Because it would be,” Kugisaki and Megumi say in perfect unison.
Satoru gapes, and Yuji laughs, easy and unburdened, and the sound catches you off guard. A normal kid, you think again—he sounds like a normal kid. A kid who should be arguing about movies or food, not facing a death sentence.
“So, who’s the unhappy dog?” Kugisaki asks with a grin, leaning forward. “You are dating someone then?”
“If you think I’m bad,” Satoru cuts in again with a snort, “you should see the guy she actually puts up with. Real charmer. Big personality. Loves tradition a little too much. Megumi-chan has met him, actually. Tell them about Zenin Naoya later, would you? Then maybe you’ll all stop acting like I’m the worst catch.”
Kugisaki and Yuji immediately start hounding Megumi for information, and your smile starts to drop once their attention is off you. You feel Satoru’s gaze heavy on you, even behind the blindfold, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.)
They are just children.
He is just a boy.
The thought follows you as you leave, as you let Satoru keep talking, as Kugisaki’s voice fades into the background and Megumi’s wary attention lifts from your back. Yuji calls after you, shouting goodbye when he realizes you’re leaving, and there’s an ache in your chest that you can’t push away.
He is just a boy.
They are just children.
When the higher-ups call for a meeting with representatives from all of the major clans, Naobito sends Naoya to attend in his place. It’s on purpose, you bet, because although the man has stopped with the open meddling and trying to ruin your relationship with his son, he’ll still take any chance to drive a wedge between the two of you. When the higher-ups ask to hear opinions from the sorcerer families, the Zenins—Naoya—is the first to speak, expression bored, voice a low drawl:
Just kill it and be done with it. This shouldn’t even be a conversation. You’re wasting my time.
The meeting goes exactly how you and Satoru expect it to go. You stay silent for most of it, letting Satoru do the dirty work of essentially telling the rest of Jujutsu society to fuck off and try him, if they think they can take him in a fight. Still, you make your position clear, because although your eyes are closed and you’re leaning back against the wall, silent, face turned down, you’re still standing next to Satoru, and not Naoya.
Naoya doesn’t come back to your estate after the meeting. You don’t really expect him to, because he scoffs at you and raises his chin as he leaves the room, hardly sparing you more than a glance. Satoru grimaces and makes a comment about a lover’s spat, but you only roll your eyes and keep your gaze lowered, a heavy feeling in your heart because—
Because Naoya is right.
You know how this is going to end, but you went ahead and did this anyway. You’ve lived long enough in this world to understand its patterns, to recognize when fate has already chosen its shape and is simply waiting for everyone else to catch up. Children who carry curses do not get happy endings, not in a society built on blood and duty—you don’t need Naoya to tell you this. And you think, maybe, if it were anyone other than Satoru who asked you to meet him, to see the boy walking up the thirteen steps to the gallows before the knot is tied, you would’ve turned your back and let it happen, because why the hell would you put yourself through that?
But it wasn’t anyone else; it was Satoru, who stood before the higher-ups and argued on your behalf, similarly to how he does for Yuji now. Satoru, who didn’t let you sink when you lost Naoya for three years after the engagement fell apart ten years ago. Satoru, who stayed with you in the aftermath of you losing your family, forcibly kept you afloat when Naoya was sent away, and you were trying to drown. Satoru knows just how awful this world is, and he still chooses to defy it anyway—and you know he doesn’t expect anyone to stand with him, not even you, not really, but you also know what it costs him to stand alone in rooms like that, and how are you supposed to do that when he’s only ever stood at your side when you needed it?
You think that’s what pisses off Naoya the most.
You don’t mean for it to come across that way—that you’re choosing Satoru over him, because you’re not. When it comes down to it, it is Naoya, who you will always come home to. Naoya, who you always seek out. Naoya, who you see a future with and cannot see a future without. Naoya, who you need if you want to keep walking forward in this shitty world.
It is Naoya—it’s always Naoya, it has always been Naoya and it always will be him—and you think he knows that, deep down, but he is terribly prone to anger and jealousy, so he doesn’t take this slight well.
He doesn’t avoid you for too long. By the time Saturday comes along, he finally decides to answer your messages, quite crudely telling you to come over because “he’s sick of fucking his own fist.” You don’t dignify his text with a response, but you do make your way to the Zenin estate. You don’t apologize, and he doesn’t either—you don’t need to, you both understand what the other doesn’t say the moment your eyes meet.
(“Y’know you’re makin’ a mistake,” he murmurs, one arm draped around you as you settle into his lap. For all of his vulgarity, the only thing he seems intent on doing once you arrive at the Zenin estate is keeping you close, so you sink into him, eyes sliding shut as you rest your head against his shoulder. “Y’don’t need me tellin’ ya this.”
“I know,” you reply quietly. “So don’t.”
Naoya exhales hard through his nose, fingers tightening on your hip. “Whatever,” he mutters. “I don’t even know why I try, ya stubborn bitch. You piss me off so bad.” You smile, ghosting your lips against his jaw, down his neck. He clicks his tongue sharply, disapproving, even as he tilts his head to the side to give you better access. “Actin’ like a cockwhore when I’m pissed at ya as if it’s gonna change anything. I’m not in the mood. So fuckin’ irritating, don’t know why I put up with this shit.”
“You’re hard.”
“Shut the hell up!”)
Itadori Yuji dies, and despite Naoya’s insistence about how you better not come to him crying when he inevitably does, he lets you spend the night tucked under his arm, and doesn’t gloat or make any snide comments about how he told you this was going to happen. You don’t mourn, and you don’t cry—not really—you only knew him for a few weeks, the several Fridays you came down to Tokyo to train the new first years. But he was kind, and he was only a boy, and Satoru cared about him, so there’s a heaviness in your chest that you can’t easily push away.
Then he resurrects, and Naoya loses his mind. You think it’s less because he wanted the kid dead, and more because death would’ve ended it. Death would’ve been final, a wound that could scar over. He was there for you when you thought it was done, even though he told you he wouldn’t be, and now, it’s going to happen all over again.
And then, as though things can’t get worse, hell breaks loose at the Kyoto Sister School Goodwill event when a curtain drops over Tokyo High, and special grade spirit and a bunch of curse users attack the students.
You don’t like it—you don’t like any of it, and as the days pass, and Halloween approaches, the pit in your stomach only seems to get deeper.
————————
“You been actin’ weird for almost a month,” Naoya murmurs, and your eyes slide shut as he presses his lips to yours again, a long, lingering kiss that makes your chest warm. “What’s up your ass, hm?”
“It never fails to astound me how eloquent you are, Naoya,” you sigh, lashes fluttering as he rolls your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down slightly at the veiled insult. When he pulls back, you lean up to kiss him again, humming into his mouth when one arm slides beneath your back to pull your body closer to him. “I just have a bad feeling, that’s all.”
“Still?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, pulling back slightly to look at you. “How many times do I gotta tell you we’re gonna be fine? You’re gonna give yourself grays—what’s it you said back then? How ya don’t want me graying for our wedding portrait? Well—”
Naoya lets out an oof when you use your leg as leverage to flip the two of you over. He looks far too smug, leaning up on his elbows as he stares up at you, gaze dragging down your body. He lifts his hand to trail his fingers from your jaw to your neck, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts, down your abdomen, before they linger on your pelvis.
“Like seein’ ya all marked up like this,” he says, too satisfied with himself. “I should take a picture, make it my background on my phone.”
“No,” you say, before his gaze can even flick over to where his phone is lying haphazardly on the tatami mats a few feet away. He scowls. “You leave your phone around too much. You really want to chance Ogi getting a glimpse of it?”
He frowns at the thought. “Old fuck. Can’t get his wife to spread her legs for him anymore, probably’d get off to seeing ya,” he mutters disdainfully. Then he compromises, “I’ll make it my home screen, not lock screen.”
“Everyone and their mother knows your passcode is your birthday, Naoya,” you say dryly, leaning down to ghost your lips against his before he can get annoyed. He lets out a pleased hum against your lips, hands settling on your waist, thumbs pressing into your sides as you swipe your tongue against his bottom lip. He lets out a low groan when you suck it gently into your mouth, grip tightening on your body.
“Yeah? You go snoopin’ through my phone when I leave it around, ya crazy bitch?” he asks, lip curling up into a too-satisfied smile. Leave it to him to get smug instead of offended at the idea of you snooping through his shit.
You hum in agreement, dragging open-mouthed kisses down his throat, relishing in the way his breath hitches. “Installed a tracking app too. Your Reddit posts are riveting, by the way,” you tell him, smiling against his skin as he immediately tenses. “‘Is it normal to want my girl t—’”
You yelp when you feel him shove his hand over your mouth, effectively shutting you up. He flips the two of you over so that he’s hovering on top of you, face flushed and ears burning. He mutters, “Shut the hell up,” before moving his hand away, hardly looking you in the eye.
“It is, by the way,” you add, because you can’t help yourself. “We can try it, if you—”
“Enough,” he complains.
You laugh loudly, genuinely, despite the terrible feeling that’s been haunting you for months, because it’s always easy to laugh with Naoya. Your hand flies to your mouth to smother your giggles, but you only set yourself off into another fit when you see that Naoya is half-hiding his face in one of his hands. Your vision swims with tears, coughing as you try to calm yourself down.
By the time you settle down, Naoya is looking at you with an unusually mellow expression, gold eyes tracing your face, lips curved up only faintly. You blink up at him and ask, “What is it?”
“I got ya something,” he tells you after a moment, throat bobbing, gaze flicking somewhere off to the side.
“Oh yeah? You keep buying me things unprompted. I feel so special,” you tease, but you’re curious when you see his nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. “What did you get me?”
His brows furrow as he reaches beneath his futon for something he must’ve hidden there. He talks as he rifles around.
“My family don’t really do shit like this,” he starts to say. “I mean, y’know how engagements go. But I know you and your brother spent a couple years in the west, and part of your mom’s family was from out there, too. And ya kept putting on those shitty western romcoms that always ended with one of those gaudy proposals, and I don’t know if that was your way of trying to clue me in or what—” Your brows furrow in confusion, not sure what he’s going on about, but you don’t interrupt because he seems to be on some sort of practiced spiel. “—and I ain’t gonna do somethin’ gaudy and embarrassing like that, but I don’t mind the idea of you walkin’ around with somethin’ on your finger so people know you’re taken.”
Oh, you think, lips parting as you start to realize where his ramblings are going. You hardly breathe as you stare up at him, when you see in his hand a glittering ring. Not overly garish, but pretty enough that it would catch a person’s eye easily. Something you could wear on missions without having to worry about it getting in the way, something very… you.
“So, you want it or not?” Naoya asks brusquely, still hardly looking at you. “It cost a pretty fuckin’ penny, so if ya don’t want it, I’m returning it.”
You snort, but your eyes are a bit misty. “You’re an idiot,” you murmur fondly. “Of course I want it.”
Naoya exhales through his nose, tension easing from his shoulders, and he reaches for your left hand, thumb grazing over your knuckles before he slides the ring onto your fourth finger. He stares down at it for a moment, and you stare up at him, watching the way his lips tighten and his throat bobs.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he scoffs after a moment—obligatory.
“I would never,” you say with an easy smile, and then you lift your hands to cradle his face between your palms.
His lashes flutter shut as he leans into your touch, and you let out a soft puff of air. You want to say something, but you can’t find the words to articulate how you feel right now, and you think he understands from the way his eyes slide back open to meet yours.
So instead, you lean up and press your lips against his again, and again, and again, until his body is flush against yours, hips slotted between your thighs, and arms wrapped tight around your body.
Being with him like this—in his arms, his bed, a new weight resting on your finger and a familiar one pressed on top of you, it’s easy to believe him when he says the two of you will be fine.
————————
OCTOBER 31, 2018
At 7:00 PM on Halloween, a curtain with a four-hundred-meter radius is cast over Shibuya. You are at your clan’s estate in Kyoto when it happens, and Naoya is in Hokkaido meeting with the higher-ups on his father’s behalf. You and Naobito go to Tokyo together when Tokyo High calls for reinforcements, and there is a sick feeling in your stomach the whole trip there. Naobito offers you sake to settle your nerves, and you almost throw it in his face, because neither of you should be drinking when you have no idea what’s happening in Shibuya.
You call Satoru before he goes into the curtain, and even though he tells you not to bother coming because he’ll have it handled before the two of you even get to the city, you can’t push away the way your stomach churns.
(“Just be careful, Satoru. Don’t let your guard down.”
“Who are you even talking to right now?”)
It doesn’t take long for news to reach Hokkaido. You’re sure that the higher-ups were made aware the moment that the curtain dropped, but Naoya, clearly, was not prioritized, because by the time he’s been told what’s happening, you’re already outside the barrier with Shoko.
(“Do not go anywhere near that barrier,” Naoya says before you’ve even brought your phone to your ears.
You stare at the barrier a few feet in front of you. “It’s a little too late for that.”
Shoko stands at your side, cigarette a nub between her fingers before she flicks it off to the side. She tells you, “I’m going to head back to the expressway. You fine on your own?”
“On your own?” Naoya hisses furiously. “Where is my father? Isn’t he in Shibuya too? Why aren’t you with him?”
You give Shoko a dirty look, but she only winks at you before waving lazily over her shoulder. You exhale, leaning against the wall behind you. “Your father is leading a different team. They’ve already gone in. The Kyoto students are meeting me here, and then we’re going into the veil. The transfigured humans have started butchering civilians, and Satoru hasn’t been in contact, I—”
“You think I give a damn about any of them?” Naoya asks with a scoff. “You only just came back from mandatory leave after what happened in Kyoto last year. You’re not cleared for this. You have no business throwing yourself into another disaster.”
Your eye twitches. “I’m cleared enough, and I’m already here.”
You hear Naoya let out a sharp breath on the opposite line, riddled with something caught between panic and fear that he’s probably desperately trying to suppress. You can see the way his lips are probably pinched, eyes teeming with frustration as he rubs at his lower face. “If you go in there—” he starts to say and cuts himself off. “If something happens to you—”
You can’t deal with this right now.
“I gotta go, Naoya,” you say when you see the Kyoto second and third year students round the corner—well, all of them except Todo Aoi, apparently. Your lips curve into a slight frown. Why does that boy always have to be so difficult?
“Don’t you dare fuckin’ hang up on me—”
“How about you go be a proper house husband, take the next flight back, so you can have dinner and a bath ready for me after I finish killing all the big, bad curses, yeah?”
“This isn’t a fucking joke—”
You hang up as the kids come to a stop in front of you. You greet pleasantly, “Mai-chan,” and then less pleasantly, “Kamo.” You don’t remember the rest of their names, so you ask instead, “Where’s Utahime?”
“She stopped at the expressway to speak to Yaga-san. She’ll be joining as soon as she’s able to,” Noritoshi explains. “We’re prepared to do what we can in the meantime.”
“Alright,” you tell them. Then tell them the same thing you told the Tokyo second years at Kyoto last year: “I’m not going to be babysitting you. Stick together, and stay in this general area if you can. If you get in trouble, run. We’re sorcerers, not heroes.”
You look down at your phone as Naoya calls you again, exhaling before you decline the call and shove your phone into your pocket, stepping into the veil.)
You don’t plan to use your technique the way you did in Kyoto when you enter the veil, because you can’t risk being put out of commission again. The Kyoto students dart off to engage the transfigured humans attacking civilians in the streets, and you’re left staring at the chaos alone. Screams are coming from every direction, the wet cracks of bodies breaking, and the scent of blood is so thick that it makes you nauseous—Satoru would never let it get to this point, not if he were here.
Something happened to him. You know it.
The thought feels sacrilegious almost because Satoru is Satoru. Gojo Satoru, the strongest, self-proclaimed honored one—he’s the last person you would ever expect to get caught up in a bad situation like this. He wouldn’t get himself hurt, or worse, k—you don’t even finish that thought. But you know Satoru, and he’s not some omnipotent god, he’s just a man, and this was clearly a trap for him if what you heard about all of the civilians saying his name and asking for him was true, so if something tricked him—
You send yourself into a spiral, and to put your nerves at ease, you tell yourself that you will only activate your maximum technique for a second, just enough to orient and pinpoint him, just to make sure he’s okay, and to stop you from spooking yourself. You anchor yourself in the center of the street, and you lift your right hand, pointer finger brushing your forehead and thumb resting on your lip, and the world detonates.
Cursed energy floods your senses all at once, a violent, blinding surge that makes you stagger as Shibuya peels itself open for you. The streets, buildings, and underground flatten into a board all around you, every square is occupied by something—you’ve never felt so much cursed energy in one place before. Your skull is screaming before you even fully extend your technique.
This isn’t a battlefield so much as it is a slaughterhouse, and you know where the most serious threats are, and you know where civilians are clustering, but you don’t know where Satoru is.
You don’t know where Satoru is.
Your nose starts bleeding before five minutes have passed, desperately searching even though you know you should’ve pinpointed him by now—he has always been a landmark in chaos, so overwhelming that it’s impossible to miss. But you can’t, he’s not here, and—and you can feel something faint, something familiar coming from the direction of Shibuya Station, but it can’t be him, it’s too weak, too still, too contained, not Satoru as you know him.
Something happened to him. You don’t—
(A hand on your shoulder draws you out of your technique. Kamo Noritoshi stands above you, lips curved down into a frown; you brush off his hand immediately. You didn’t even realize that you’d dropped to your knees. You wipe away the blood on your face and stand.
His lips part, then press together, and then he asks, “Should we bring you to Shoko-san?”
“No,” you say. “I’m going in further. To Shibuya Station. You’ll be okay watching over them?”
You think that there’s some irony that you’re here, standing with a Kamo of all people, as the world falls into chaos around you, and the smile that curls to your lips is bitter as you shake your head. Noritoshi falters slightly when he sees your reaction. He’s a child, you remind yourself—the sin of the parents is not the sin of the child, so all you say is, “You too,” before you make your way to the center of the veil.)
————————
Shibuya is hell.
Hell doesn’t even do it justice, really. Bodies are everywhere, too many, everywhere you look, twisted in ways that make your stomach churn. You wonder, absently, if this is what your estate looked like before the Zenins got there to clean up, if this is what you would’ve seen of your father, brothers, and the rest of your clan if you’d arrived before them. Civilians lie where they fell, some half melted into the ground, others collapsed in clusters like they tried to shield each other and failed. Sorcerers are scattered among them, bloodied uniforms unmistakable even when their bodies are broken past recognition.
You try not to look too long.
You can’t look too long.
You don’t stop to help. Sometimes, you divert just long enough to pull someone out of a curse’s path, to kill a transfigured human before it finishes tearing someone apart, to shove a screaming civilian toward an escape route that may or may not still exist, but you don’t stop. Because you are selfish, and if you had to choose between innocent civilians and the people you love, you would choose the people you love every time.
So, you leave countless people to die as you run toward Shibuya Station.
By the time you get there, your limbs feel heavy, and there is bile in the back of your throat. You wonder how many screams have silenced since you passed by, how many people died so that you could selfishly figure out what happened to Satoru.
The putrid scent of burnt flesh floods your nostrils before you can figure out where it’s coming from, and you almost don’t even recognize Naobito when you turn a corner and see a charred corpse on the ground. He’s burned so badly that for a second, your brain refuses to name what you’re looking at as a person, let alone someone you’ve known for twenty years. His clothes are fused into charred flesh, and his arm is missing—somehow, he is still breathing.
You think that you should leave him there.
You stare down at him. His eyes are open, glassy and unfocused, and you don’t know if he’s seeing you, if he knows what’s going on, or if his body just hasn’t realized it’s finished yet. His mouth moves slightly, a wet, broken sound escaping him that might be a breath or might be a word.
You could do it. You could just walk away.
You remember the way Naoya would stiffen as a kid whenever Naobito’s voice carried through the estate. You remember the bruises and the wounds that would litter his body whenever he came out of the disciplinary pit. You remember how he would mock you when he was drunk, and you were a child, and you had to stand there and smile through it or risk bringing shame to your father. You remember how he humiliated you by trying to arrange for Naoya to marry another woman right in front of you.
You need to find whatever that familiar energy was, anyway.
You need to figure out what happened to Satoru.
You should just go.
But he is also the man who stepped in when your family was wiped out, and you know that it wasn’t out of kindness, but he opened his doors anyway. He made sure you could fill your father’s shoes without drowning in the politics of a world and future you were never prepared for. He is—probably—the only reason why you’ve made it this far after the massacre. What type of karma would await you if you walk away from him now after everything he did for you?
Fuck.
Your jaw tightens, bile burning in the back of your throat.
Fuck.
“Fuck you, you old bastard,” you say through your teeth, and you crouch despite yourself.
Your hands hover for a second before you force them to move, assessing injuries you already know are catastrophic. The burns are too extensive, and his cursed energy is unstable. He should not be alive, and you don’t know if saving him is possible, but you’re not even sure you want to anyway.
Either way, you can’t bring yourself to walk away.
Frustrated, you look back in the direction of where you thought you felt something familiar, and your chest tightens as you look back down at Naobito. You don’t have fucking time for him—you don’t know what’s happening, don’t know what the situation is. Maki and Kugisaki are supposed to be with him, too, but you don’t see either of them anywhere.
Fuck.
“I hope this fucking hurts.”
————————
Satoru is gone.
The King of Curses was unleashed.
Shibuya is a crater, and anyone left in the city is likely dead.
You sit at the expressway, back to the wall, as people rush around you, trying to do whatever they can to save whoever they can. Megumi, Kugisaki, and Maki are here too, evidently having been brought before you arrived with Naobito. Megumi is unconscious, but alive. Maki is bandaged and burned almost as badly as Naobito, but she’s breathing, if only barely. Shoko thinks that she’ll pull through—she’s always been stronger and more stubborn than everyone else around her, you think fondly. Kugisaki, on the other hand—well, you don’t know what happened to her, and Shoko isn’t sure if she’s going to make it. She wasn’t breathing when she was brought to her.
Satoru is sealed. Satoru is gone. Satoru is—
You bury your face in your hands.
Fuck.
“Is it true, girl?” Naobito rasps from next to you. He is dying—there’s nothing more that Shoko can do for him—but he is not dying fast enough for your liking. “Is Gojo Satoru incapacitated? Sealed away?”
You almost bare your teeth at him, because what right does he have to ask about Satoru? What right does he have to say his name in that tone? What right does he have to sound so dismissive over what happened to him? How dare he? How dare he? Rage eats away at grief as you glare at him.
“Don’t look at me like that, girl. Answer the question.”
Fuck.
Your eyes slide shut as you will yourself the patience not to expedite the man’s imminent death. You mutter, “Fuck off. Why’s it taking you so long to die?”
Naobito barks out a harsh laugh that he certainly shouldn’t have the strength to let out. You roll your eyes. “Almost there, girl,” he tells you, voice rough as he stares up at the ceiling. He’s sprawled beside you on the concrete, chest hitching unevenly, breath rattling, burned to the bone, and he still finds the energy to sneer. “Bet you’re thrilled, aren’t you? I’ll finally be out of your way.”
You don’t answer him, staring down at the concrete, jaw tight, listening to the wet, broken sound of his breathing.
Satoru is gone.
Satoru, who you’ve known for fifteen years, since the two of you were stupid kids lounging in the inner courtyard of the Zenin estate. Satoru, who handed you back your future at fifteen when your father was going to marry you off to the next best suitor. Satoru, who grabbed your hand and dragged you along with him during the three years you and Naoya weren’t speaking, refusing to let you drown. Satoru, who collected an exorbitant amount of Tamagotchi and would light up whenever you brought him a new one. Satoru, who let you be yourself when so many people around you wanted to change. Satoru, who found you safe enough to actually be himself with you—not the strongest, not Gojo, just Satoru.
Satoru is gone. Satoru is—
Naobito keeps speaking, and you just want him to stop.
“No more old man meddling. No more obstacles. Must feel like freedom, hm?” His lips twitch. “You and my son can ruin each other freely, at last.” Naobito chuckles, though it turns into a cough halfway through. He sighs. “I suppose you’ve won. I’ll be dead soon enough.”
“Can’t you die silently?” you ask through gritted teeth.
All of his stupid Tamagotchi are going to die, you realize numbly. He has so many of them, how the hell are you supposed to take care of all of them? You want to cry. Satoru is—
“Hope you’ll be enough for him now,” he adds, letting out a long, scratchy exhale. “He’s going to need someone.”
“What does that mean?” you ask, stomach dropping as you finally force yourself to look at him. Naobito’s eyes flick sideways, just barely, toward the mat where Megumi is still unconscious. “Why are you looking at Megumi-chan? What are you talking about?”
“Gojo Satoru is incapacitated,” Naobito says, wetting his lips as his eyes begin to droop again. “The contract I made with that wayward nephew of mine will be upheld. Toji’s boy will become the twenty-seventh Zenin clan head. Funny how things work out, right?”
What?
Your ears are ringing, lips parted as you stare at Naobito, half in disbelief, half in shock. You’re almost waiting for him to laugh, to tell you it’s some sick joke, another drunken rambling, a cruelty meant to provoke reaction before he laughs and waves it away. But his eyes are slipping, lids heavy, breath uneven and shallow. There’s no room left in him for theatrics.
“What? How—How could you do that to him?” you breathe out, staring at the man as though he’ll answer, even though he’s slipped back into oblivion. “How could you—he’s spent his whole life—he’s—he’ll never—”
You think you’re having a panic attack.
You haven’t had one in years—not since the aftermath of losing your clan—but everything starts to hit you all at once, and you can’t seem to breathe. Satoru is gone, one of his kids is dead, Satoru is gone, another will have his death sentence reinstated soon, Satoru is gone, and Naoya—you’re going to lose Naoya, too.
You’re going to fucking lose Naoya.
You know it. You know it. You know it the same way you’ve known something bad was coming for months—you feel it in your bones, in your heart, in your soul. You’re going to lose him. You lost Satoru, and you’re going to lose Naoya. You press your hands into your eyes hard, desperately trying to calm yourself down as your breath comes too quickly and too shallow. Naoya—he’s centered everything, his entire existence, around being the next clan head. You’ve known this for years, you’ve known it since the moment you met him—it was the first understanding you ever came to about him, how everything began and now it’s how everything will end.
Because losing it—losing it—it’ll destroy him. It’ll destroy everything. It will hollow him out, leave nothing behind besides rage and denial. He’ll destroy himself, and he’ll destroy you; he’ll drag the entire Zenin clan, the whole world, down with him if that’s what it takes to prove that this was a mistake, to take back what’s rightfully his. He’s sacrificed too much for anything else. This will destroy him.
You’re going to lose him, you think again, you’re really going to fucking lose him.
Naobito is a cunt—hope you’ll be enough for him, he said, but you’ll never be enough for him, not after losing this. He knows that, you know that. Naoya will never wake up one day and decide it’s okay. He’ll never decide a life with you is enough to make up for what was taken from him. He will never look at you and say, I choose this instead—and if he isn’t able to get back what he was promised, he’ll die trying. He’ll spiral. He’ll find someone to blame. He’ll try to claw the title back through sheer force of will, and when that fails, he’ll turn to violence without hesitation, without mercy. And if he cannot take it back, he will die trying. There is no world where Naoya will survive having something like this taken from him; no future with you will change that. There is no coming back from this.
And Megumi—you can’t just sit back and let Naoya go after Megumi. Not one of Satoru’s kids, especially not now that Satoru is gone. You doubt he even knows—he hates this part of the Jujutsu world, hates the Zenin name. He would never want this anyway, but Naoya will see him as a thief, as the reason why everything was ripped away from him, as proof that everything he worked for was for nothing. He will kill him to take back what’s rightfully his. You know Naoya well enough to know this much.
And if you try to stop him, he will never forgive you for getting in his way.
Naoya will never choose you over his birthright. You’ve known it for a long, long time, but you thought you were past ever needing to worry about this. You just can’t compete with a loss like this.
Holy fuck, you think. You squeeze your eyes shut harder, vision flashing white. You taste bile in your throat. You’re going to throw up. Fuck you, you think again, cursing Naobito. You should’ve just left him to die there to rot. Only he would use his last few moments of strength to get one final cruelty in. You lost Satoru, and now you’re going to lose Naoya.
How the hell are you supposed to go back to Kyoto and look Naoya in the eye after this?
What the hell are you supposed to do?
————————
Tokyo is all but destroyed following the events of Halloween. You return to Kyoto the next morning with a dying Naobito, having to spend hours explaining to Ogi, Jinichi, and the Zenin clan elders exactly what happened in Shibuya. You don’t even have the energy to give them attitude about how they have no right ordering you around, dully explaining that Satoru has been sealed, the King of Curses was unleashed in the city, and what wasn’t annihilated during the incident is being destroyed by the millions of cursed spirits that “Geto Suguru” apparently unleashed onto the city.
Luckily, you manage to get away from the Zenin estate before Naoya returns from Hokkaido.
Unluckily, he decides to come right to you when he realizes you aren’t there.
(“What the hell? I figured you’d be waiting back at the estate. What happened?” Naoya demands as he enters your office. You can’t even lift your gaze to look at him. Naobito’s words echo through your head. You should tell him. He should know before he finds out at the will-reading. You should—Naoya gets fed up with you staring down at your desk, stepping around it to stand next to where you’re sitting, grabbing your chin between his fingers, and forcing you to look at him. “What happened? Those asshole wouldn’t tell me shit when I asked.”
“Your father is dying,” you tell him after a moment instead. “Doesn’t have more than a day or two left in him.”
“Good riddance,” Naoya scoffs, leaning on your desk, but his expression is all twisted as he looks away from you to the ground. He adds quietly, “It’s about fuckin’ time anyway.”
“You should probably be back at the estate,” you tell him after a moment, voice too rough for your liking. Naoya’s gaze snaps over to you, narrowed and suspicious. “You should be there when it happens, you’ll have to—”
“The hell? Are you sending me away?” Naoya asks, offended. “My father's dying, and you’re sending me away?”
“Don’t act like you care about Naobito,” you mutter spitefully.
“I don't give a damn about him, but it’s the principle!" Naoya snaps, glaring at you. “What’s up your ass, huh?”
You should tell him.
He should hear it from you—not at the will reading, not from a stranger, not in front of Ogi and Jinichi and whoever else is there to listen. Your gaze lifts to look up at him again, lips parting, and you watch as his brows furrow, studying your face when he realizes something is wrong. Just as you’re about to force it out: it’s not going to be you, Naoya, your father screwed you over.
Naoya bristles when his phone starts buzzing. He looks down at it, scowling, and you lose your bravado.
You lost Satoru, and you’re going to lose Naoya.
Maybe you’re wrong; you try to rationalize it because you cannot lose them both. There’s no world where you survive losing them both in one fell swoop. Maybe Naobito only said this to you so you would say something to him. He knows as well as you do that Naoya would lose his mind after hearing this, and maybe he wanted to try to put one last rift between the two of you before he croaked. He’s spiteful enough to use the last of his energy for it.
Fuck.)
Naobito stubbornly clings to life following the Shibuya Incident. Naoya is busy at the Zenin estate during that time, and you’re busy at yours, dealing with the fallout. Satoru is gone, and Jujutsu Headquarters has turned against him. The notice they sent out—the one claiming that Satoru was an accomplice in the Shibuya Incident, forbidding anyone from trying to unseal him with the threat of criminal penalties—sits right on your desk, glaring at you every time you sit down to get some work done.
You consider killing the higher-ups.
You could do it, probably. They’re all old and slow—most of them haven’t seen combat in decades. You could do it. You should do it. What right do they have to turn on Satoru after everything he’s done? Satoru is why the curses have been held at bay for so long. Satoru is the one who protects everyone. And the moment something happens to him, everyone turns their back on him? It’s sickening. You think that they deserve to die. You think you should kill them.
But you don’t—if only because you’re scared to leave your estate when Naobito is still alive, because any day he could die and everything can go to shit.
A part of you is glad that Naoya is too busy to come over.
He’s been blowing up your phone, aggravated as he deals with his cousins and uncles and prepares for succession, and you only respond sporadically, short, clipped replies that say nothing of substance, and you think it probably pisses him off more. He tells you to come over, and you tell him that you can’t. He complains and calls you a bitch, and you can’t respond because you can’t bring yourself to act normally with him, not knowing what you know.
It keeps crossing your mind—that you should tell him, that he should hear it from you, that you shouldn’t let him be blindsided—but every time you start to work up the nerve, you end up talking yourself out of it.
What if you’re wrong? What if Naobito only said this to drive one last wedge between the two of you? What if, what if, what if—
That’s how it goes for the next several days until Zenin Naobito finally kicks the bucket.
(“Where is she?” you hear Naoya shout from outside of your clan’s estate. Your heart sinks. “Where the hell is she? Bring her out here now!”
You lost Satoru. You’re about to lose Naoya, too.
Your attendant, standing at the gates with a nervous expression on her face, looks back at you with wide eyes, and you wave her off, telling her to go inside quietly before you pull open the gate to come face-to-face with a raging Naoya. You don’t even get the chance to say something before his fingers are curled around your jacket, and your back is pressed against the wall.
“You knew,” he accuses, voice low and venomous as he glares at you, gold eyes sharp with fury, denial—worse, betrayal. “You fucking knew. That’s why you’ve been acting so weird the last few days. Ya fuckin’ knew my father lined up that snivveling brat Megumi.”
You don’t respond—you can’t. Your throat locks up, words piling uselessly behind your teeth as you stare at him. He’s shaking, not much, not enough that anyone else would notice, but you do. You always do. His grip on your shirt is too tight, his knuckles white, and his teeth grind together terribly.
The silence is answer enough.
Naoya’s breath stutters, half a laugh, half a scoff. You wonder if he was hoping you’d tell him he’s being stupid—of course, you didn’t know, of course, you would’ve told him. “You’re not even gonna fuckin’ deny it. You knew. You fuckin’ knew, and you let me go around thinking—”
“I didn’t know for sure,” you finally force out. You hate that your voice shakes. “He was half delirious when he said it, dying, I thought maybe—”
You’re going to lose Naoya.
“Bullshit,” Naoya roars, fist slamming into the wall by your head. You don’t flinch, but he stares at the hole he made, how close it was to your head, with a twisted expression before he forces himself away from you. “Fuckin’ bullshit. You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me? How are you gonna stand here and lie to my face even now?”
You and Naoya have never apologized to one another before. You always know without having to say a word, just with a single glance, and yet now, you let out a wavering breath, the words on the tip of your tongue, because this is it. You knew it. You knew what would happen when he found out, and it should’ve been from you. It should’ve—
“I didn’t know how to,” you tell him, reaching out to grab his wrist. He tries to break free and turn away from you, but you tug him toward you. “How the fuck was I supposed to say, ‘Hey, Naoya, everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid just got handed to someone who doesn’t even want it?’ I tried, I didn’t—”
“I don’t care,” he interrupts, ripping his wrist from your hand. “I don’t fuckin’ care how you were supposed to say it. You should’ve just told me. You let me plan. You let me talk about what I was gonna do once it was official. You let me think—” His voice breaks, just barely, and he swallows hard before forcing it back into something harsh and cutting. “You let me think this was finally it. You should’ve told me. Not them, not at some fuckin’ will-reading where that loser Ogi and Jinichi could see me standing there like an idiot.”
You’re going to lose Naoya.
“I’m sorry,” you breathe out, reaching for him again, but he takes a step away, shaking his head. “Naoya—
“You have no idea what he put me through for this,” he breathes out. “You have no—”
His voice cuts off, and he steps away with another laugh, pressing his hand over his mouth as he tries to calm himself down.
“I do—”
“No, you don’t,” he interrupts, voice loud, echoing through your ears. Your eyes slide shut. “You don’t, because if ya did, you wouldn’t be here lookin’ at me like that—like I already fuckin’ lost.”
“Naoya—” you say, voice wavering, and his expression shifts, tightening, something wounded crossing his eyes, flashing hot and fast behind the anger.
You’re going to lose Naoya.
“So that’s it, huh,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t give a damn. Just expect me to accept it.”
“That’s not—”
“You really think I’m just gonna take it?” he continues over you, voice rising. “That I’m gonna roll over and let that brat walk in and take what’s mine?”
“Naoya, just—”
“I earned it,” he spits. “Every bruise, every time I stood there and let him humiliate me. Every fuckin’ thing he ever did to me, I took it because this was the end of it. This was the point. It was supposed to end with me there, all of ‘em having to admit that it’s me, it’s only ever been me, and you—you let them do it again. You let ‘em line me up and strip it away like I was a fuckin’ joke. Same shit, different room. Same looks, same whispers, and you knew. You knew it was coming and let me walk into it anyway, let ‘em blindside me like this.”
You’re going to lose Naoya.
You feel sick. “That’s not fair,” you breathe out.
“Isn’t it?” he fires back. “You know what it felt like? Standin’ there while Ogi and Jinichi looked at me like they finally got what they wanted, waitin’ years to see me brought down a peg.” His voice cracks, just for a second. He laughs and looks away. “Nah. Nah, it ain’t ending like this.”
He turns to leave without another word, not even a spare glance in your direction.
You chase after him. “Where are you going?”
“To Tokyo,” he spits, not even looking back at you. Your heart sinks.
“Why?” you demand. “Naoya, don’t walk away from me.”
“To kill Fushiguro Megumi and Itadori Yuji,” Naoya answers, finally looking at you over his shoulder, like he wants to see your reaction.
The words knock the air out of you. “What?” You knew this was what would happen. You knew it. “Naoya, you can’t—”
“Can’t?” he cuts in, incredulous. “You’ll find that I absolutely can. You gonna get in my way now? Is that how this goes? First, you keep it from me, let me walk into it blind, and now you’re gonna play hero and stop me?”
“They’re kids, Naoya,” you say desperately. “Megumi-chan doesn’t even want this. He—”
“I don’t give a fuck about what he wants,” Naoya shouts. “I give a fuck about what’s mine. So, are you gonna help me take it back, or are you gonna get in my way?”
You stare at him. You don’t answer—can’t answer. You don’t need to.
He sees everything in your face anyway.
He lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head, but this one is strained, too forced. “Whatever,” he whispers. “I don’t fuckin’ need ya.”
He turns to leave again. You don’t follow this time.
“Naoya,” you call desperately.
“I never would’ve fuckin’ done this to you,” he tells you quietly as he leaves. “Never.”)
————————
You go to Tokyo anyway, despite your cousins' many protests.
You don’t know what you plan to do there, because you know there’s no talking him down from this, and if you try to stop him by force, then you’ll make things even worse. The two of you have never had an argument like this before—even a couple of years ago, that argument about labels and what the two of you were, it wasn’t this, wasn’t involving Naoya’s inheritance, the one thing he’ll always choose over you, and you don’t know what this means for the two of you. Don’t know if there’s any coming back from this.
You can’t lose him. Not him, too. Never him.
It’s not particularly hard to track him down, considering he has his phone with him, but he flits around the city like a goddamn hummingbird, trying to track down Megumi and Yuji. You eventually decide against following him, fed up with always getting somewhere after he’s already gone. A part of you wonders if he’s figured out that you’re following him, but you don’t think he has, partially because he’s probably too tunnel-visioned on finding the two boys to even notice he’s being trailed, but mostly because you guarantee that he would’ve stopped and told you to fuck off by now.
You’re sitting in a run-down, half-destroyed convenience store, sipping at a soda as you watch Naoya dart around the city. He never stays in one place for longer than a minute or two, and you find yourself gnawing at the inside of your cheek, because he’s been at this all day, no breaks, running himself ragged on rage and adrenaline. You exhale as his location blinks, vanishes, then reappears somewhere else entirely—closer to you this time, he’s in the Ginza area now.
You pause when you realize he’s stopped moving a mile and a half away. A minute passes, then two, then three, five, and you’re on your feet, moving in his direction. It takes you less than five minutes to get there, cutting through alleyways and half-collapsed buildings. You kill a lingering curse that lunges at you from around a corner, splitting it cleanly before it’s even registered what happened. You don’t slow down, gaze flicking down to your phone as you reach his general area, trying to pinpoint where exactly he is. You don’t see him in plain view, so—
The tunnel?
You drop down at the entrance without hesitation, boots skidding slightly as you land. You move fast, slipping through rubble as you make your way deeper into the dimly lit tunnel. There’s blood everywhere, you realize, unnerved—drenching the floor, staining the walls, what the hell happened?
“Sorry, but I can’t understand how you never loved your brothers,” an unfamiliar voice says from farther down the tunnel, and you break into a run.
You turn a bend, and Naoya is sprawled against concrete, blood pooling beneath him, breath shallow and ragged, barely holding himself up on his hands and knees. Your lips part in shock, a lump forming in your throat. A black-haired man is standing in front of him, left hand extended, posture relaxed. He hears you approach from the right, head snapping to the side, gaze sharpening as he tries to figure out whether or not you’re friend or foe. Naoya’s attention follows his, landing on you, and his eyes widen slightly when he recognizes you standing there.
“Blood manipulation,” Naoya forces out when he sees you, warning you just as the man seems to decide you’re an enemy, the attack he’d been building up for Naoya shooting in your direction instead.
Shit, you think, activating your technique in the nick of time so you can figure out where to dodge to. Whoever this guy is, he’s faster than you, on you before you even fully finish dodging his first attack, but luckily, you’re used to sparring with Naoya, who is much faster than he is. He comes from your left—low, at your abdomen, it would be an easy dodge right, cutting around him and driving your fist into the side of his neck. Too easy, almost. Your lashes flutter, cursed energy flaring outward as you activate your technique, trying to figure out what his play is. You watch as the blood from the floor spikes upward, piercing through the right side of your body.
You dodge right like he expects you to, so he doesn’t realize that you’ve figured out what he’s doing, and instead of going for a blow, you grab his left hand before he can finish the hand signs, twisting his wrist painfully, bringing your leg up to drive your foot into his forearm. You aren’t able to break it, because he’s more durable than you expect, but he does let out a hiss of pain, expression flashing with frustration as he realizes what happened. You put your other foot into his open side, sending him backward into the wall.
“Damn,” you say. “That would’ve been a good play.”
The black-haired man stands back up, grimacing, tilting his head to the side as he looks over you. “You read ahead,” he realizes, frowning. “That is your cursed technique?”
“Love me a man with a brain. Most people don’t figure it out so quick,” you say with an easy smile, gaze flicking over to Naoya. You need to get to him. “You should just save us both the trouble and give up already. You won’t be able to beat me. I know what moves you’re gonna make before you even know them. It’s checkmate.”
“I cannot,” the man says firmly. “I will not allow you two to go after my little brother.”
“Your little brother?” you ask dryly, tilting your head to the side. “He someone special, or something?”
“My brother, Itadori Yuji,” he confirms, and your eyes widen.
“You’re Yuji-chan’s brother?” you ask, smiling slightly, gaze flicking over him with renewed interest as your hands fall to your sides. “He didn’t tell me he had an older brother.”
The man blinks, brows furrowing in suspicion, lips curved down. “You are familiar with him?”
“Yeah. He’s one of Satoru’s brats. Annoying, loud, too kind for his own good. I used to come down to Tokyo on Fridays to train them,” you say easily, and the man seems to relax slightly when he realizes you are on good terms with Yuji. “You know—”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hear Naoya spit from a few feet away, drawing your attention from the man in front of you. “You—”
Naoya gags suddenly, and your attention snaps to the side when you see how his eyes bulge, blood flying from his mouth as he convulses, coughing hard enough that his hands slip out from under him. He collapses forward with a choked, broken sound, and you instinctively move to rush over to him, but freeze when the man in front of you tenses as though to stop you.
He watches you for a long moment, eyes dark and assessing. Then his gaze flicks over to Naoya again—bloodied and shaking, glaring up at both of you with unrepentant hatred.
“You are protecting him,” he says.
“I am,” you reply, jaw tight.
“Yet, you claim to know my brother,” he adds. “You speak of him fondly. Said you trained him.”
“I do, and I did.”
“This man came after my brother.”
“It’s complicated,” you say through gritted teeth. Your lashes flutter, gaze drawing back over to Naoya, who’s struggling to breathe properly, shoulders hitching as another wet cough wracks his body. Your chest tightens—you need to get him to Shoko, or—
Your gaze shifts to the side when you hear the splashing of footsteps from the left. The black-haired man whirls around, but before he even registers that someone is there, he’s crumpled on the ground. Your eyes flick up, and you only give yourself half a second to register that it’s Okkotsu Yuta standing there before you’re rushing over to Naoya.
You’re at his side in an instant, dropping to your knees in the blood, hands hovering uselessly for a heartbeat before you force them to move. He’s pale, lips tinged wrong, breath coming in short, uneven pulls that make your stomach twist.
“Naoya,” you breathe out, trying to help him up so he’s not lying face down in the blood. Blood slicks his chin and cheeks, smearing warm and sticky across your fingers as you tilt his head just enough so that your eyes meet his, his lashes flutter. He gags again, blood dribbling out of his mouth, weaker, and he takes in a wet, rattling breath that makes panic spike hard and fast in your chest. He tries to pull away from you, but ends up collapsing into you, face buried in the crook of your neck. “Easy. Don’t fight me right now. We can fight later.”
“Shouldn’t be here,” he still manages to force out, you feel blood dribbling down your neck to your collarbone. “Fuckin’ bitch, you always—”
“Senpai,” Yuta says, making his way over to the two of you. You look up, arms tightening slightly around Naoya, even though you’ve known Yuta for two years—the boy isn’t a threat, not to you, but you tense anyway with Naoya as weak as he is. He looks over the two of you with a concerned expression—it twists slightly on Naoya, because you’re sure Maki has told him all about her clan, but softens again when it lands on you. “Do you want me to heal him? My reversed cursed technique can heal other people, too.”
“Yes,” you say, lashes fluttering in relief. You weren’t sure how you were even going to get him to Shoko. Yuta crouches down in front of the two of you, hand extended, and you can feel Naoya bristling, but you pinch his side hard before he can make a snide comment. “Thank you, Yuta-chan.”
“Of course,” he says simply, giving you a kind smile as Naoya’s breathing begins to ease again. “Anything for you, senpai. Would… you and Zenin-san be willing to inform the higher-ups of Itadori-kun’s death, please?”
You stare up at him, confused for a moment, and then your eyes drift back to where Yuta had walked over to you from, and your lips part in shock when you see Yuji limp on the ground next to his brother. Your gaze snaps back to Yuta, eyes wide, heart thudding in your chest. You breathe out, “Yuta-ch—”
Yuta’s gaze flicks down to the ground, away from you. He glances at Naoya, as though making sure he’s still too preoccupied with regaining his bearings after being healed. “Senpai, please,” he insists, voice quiet, just for you. “The higher-ups need to believe that Itadori-kun is dead.”
Believe? Your gaze flicks between Yuta and Yuji, calculating, and then your eyes narrow on Yuta again. There’s a strained expression on his face, like he wants you to understand something he can’t say. Did he not kill Yuji? You can’t imagine that Yuta would kill one of Satoru’s other students; he’s always been too kind, too protective of the people he loves and the people whom the people he loves love. There’s something else going on here, but you can’t press, not with Naoya listening.
“I see,” you say quietly.
Naoya shifts weakly against you, still in a haze, trying to push himself into a sitting position. “The fuck are you two whisperin’ about—”
“You have to report Yuji-chan’s death to the higher-ups,” you tell him, and Naoya’s brows are furrowed. You look back up at Yuta. “We’ll handle it all, Yuta-chan. Don’t worry.”
Yuta exhales, shoulders easing just a fraction. “Thank you, senpai.”
You tighten your hold on Naoya as Yuta turns away, already moving to retrieve Yuji and his brother, disappearing down the tunnel quickly. Naoya finally manages to pull away from you, slumping against the wall beside you.
“Why’d ya come?” Naoya asks you quietly, voice bitter. “To stop me?”
“I don’t know,” you reply honestly, shoulder pressed to his, staring down at your lap. “Maybe. I just—I don’t know, Naoya. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.”
Naoya exhales through his nose, looking away. “It doesn’t matter now,” he mutters. “Quit apologizing. It makes me wanna throw up. It’s done. I gotta go be messenger bird for that Okkotsu brat ‘cause of you now anyway.”
Your lips part to say something, but you’re not sure what you want to say. Naoya turns to look at you, gaze meeting yours, and you hate how dull the golds of his eyes are. You ask after a moment, “Are we going to be okay?”
He lets out a puff of air, gaze flicking down to your hand, and he reaches out for it, thumb brushing over the ring on your fourth finger. His fingers tighten around yours briefly before he lets go. “We’ll always be okay. How many times do I gotta tell you that, hm? You’re gettin’ slow in your old age, ain’t ya?”
You knock your shoulder against his with a huff of laughter. “Asshole.”
He pushes himself up to his feet, grimacing, hand dropping down to his abdomen. You stand with him, watching him carefully. He tells you, “I’ll get goin’ up to headquarters. You should head back to the estate. Stay away from all this shit, alright? It’s bad news.”
“Will you—” you start to ask, throat tightening, “—come back to mine when you’re done? Don’t go back after the kids, or back to the Zenin estate, come to me. We’ll get you what’s yours back. We’ll figure everything out together, okay? Like we always have.”
Naoya sighs, staring down at the ground instead of you. “We’ll see,” he replies before turning away to leave.
A terrible, terrible feeling settles in your gut. You call after him, “Naoya,” and he pauses, glancing at you over his shoulder. “I have a really bad feeling, okay?”
He gives you a wry smile. “Not this shit again,” he says. “You’re startin’ to sound like the girl who cried wolf, y’know?”
“Girl who cried—I’ve been right every time, Naoya,” you snap. “So, just—just come over, okay? Let’s wait for all this to settle down.”
He lets out a huff. You can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a scoff, but he turns back around briefly, reaching out to slide his hand around the back of your head to pull you close to him. Your hands instinctively come up to grab his kimono, eyes fluttering shut when he presses his lips against your forehead, uncharacteristically tender.
“You’re getting yourself worked up over nothing,” he dismisses, to your frustration. “Relax. Everything always works out for us, doesn’t it? There ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I’m gonna get back what’s mine, we’ll wait out all the bullshit happening, and then we’ll get married in the spring, and you’re gonna be my wife.” He gives you an easy smile and adds, “A proper one, maybe, considering how much you’ve started fussing over me.”
As a last-ditch effort to get him to drop all of this, you say quietly, “We don’t have to wait.”
“Hm?” he asks you, stilling slightly against you.
“We don’t have to wait until spring, or until things settle down. We can just—we can do it. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you get back from headquarters,” you rush out. “We don’t need to wait.”
“You’re the one who wanted to wait for the cherry blossoms,” he accuses, but his throat bobs. “Why—”
“I don’t care about the cherry blossoms,” your voice rises slightly. “Naoya, just come back to mine, and we’ll do it, alright? You’ve wanted it for years, haven’t you? Let’s just do it. No more waiting.”
Naoya exhales. “You’re messed up,” he mutters, “gettin’ all hysterical and sayin’ all this shit.” Your eyes slide shut in frustration as he steps back. “Let me handle everything I need to handle, and then we’ll talk about this. Properly.”
You want to scream at him. Every instinct you have is clawing at you, begging him not to walk away right now. Something bad is coming, worse than the incident on Halloween, worse than what happened at the Goodwill Event, worse than learning Yuji became Sukuna’s vessel—you know it, you know it.
If you let him walk away right now, you’ll never—
“Go home,” he tells you. “I’ll be fine. I’ll get shit handled, and then I’ll come to you, okay? Don’t I always come back to ya?”
You scoff and look away, closing your eyes when he takes a step closer to brush his lips against your temple. If you fight with him about this now, he’ll only dig his heels in more. You know him. There’s no winning this, not when you’re up against him taking back what he lost.
Please, you think desperately. Let me be wrong, just this once.
“Okay,” you finally say, and the word tastes like poison on your tongue. “Fine.”
“Relax,” he tells you, looking over his shoulder one last time with an easy smile. “Everything’ll be fine. I’ll see ya soon.”
————————
You wait, and you wait, and you wait.
Naoya does not come.
————————
NOVEMBER 12, 2018
You feel it the moment Naoya dies.
“My lady,” one of your attendants says, knocking briefly before stepping into your office. You stare down at your phone, at your last unanswered text message, waiting for Naoya to respond. It’s been three days since he came back from headquarters, and he is hardly answering your texts. When he does, it’s to bitch about Jinichi or Ogi, or to tell you to quit worrying so much because it’s giving him a headache. Every day that passes, you feel worse. “My lady!”
Your gaze snaps up from your phone: You’re seriously pissing me off, you texted him furiously, when he blandly responded to your request to know what’s going on with a nothing. You let out a soft breath when you see the concerned expression on the woman’s face. You lock your phone and give her your full attention.
“Sorry,” you say quietly. “What is it?”
Irrationally, you hope she’s here to tell you Naoya is waiting for you at the gate, even though you know that if he were here, he wouldn’t have waited to be announced. Your heart sinks—you don’t even know how there’s anywhere left for it to go, it’s been at your feet since you parted ways with him in Tokyo.
“Your uncle is looking for you. He’s in the inner courtyard,” she tells you, inclining her head respectfully as she speaks.
You exhale, shoulders slumping, disappointed even though you knew it wouldn’t be him. You push yourself to your feet, shoving your phone in your pocket before you make your way out of your office toward where your uncle is waiting for you, your attendant following behind dutifully.
You turn your head to the side to look at her as you ask, “Is it raining again today?”
“No, my lady,” she tells you. “It’s actually very nice out today. Warm, clear skies.”
“That’s good,” you say, quietly. “I’m sick of the rain.”
You push open the doors leading to the inner courtyard, raising your eyebrows when you see your uncle and your three older cousins waiting for you out there. Two of them are sitting on a rock, tossing pebbles at one another childishly, and the other is standing with your uncle, talking quietly. You hadn’t even realized they were all back at the estate since you’ve been in your office working for days.
You say dryly, “Why does this feel like an ambush?”
“It kind of is,” one of them tells you with an easy smile, hopping down from the rock, barely dodging a pebble, only for another to smack him in the temple. “You’ve been holed up in there for too long. Come spar with us. You’re gonna get rusty if you keep hiding in there.”
“I’m not hiding,” you reply automatically. “I’ve been working. I’m busy.”
Your oldest cousin snorts. “You’ve been brooding. You’re bringing the vibe of the whole estate down with all the storm clouds floating above your head.”
You roll your eyes before you give him a flat look, but your gaze flicks up to the sky. You thought you’d enjoy coming outside since you don’t have to deal with the ever-present rain that’s been coming down over Kyoto for almost a week now, but it feels all wrong. Clear skies should be comforting, but instead, they make the pit in your stomach churn.
This is all wrong, you think desperately. Everything is wrong.
You itch to pull your phone out of your pocket to see if Naoya responded, but you think that your cousins really will stage an intervention if they catch you looking at it again. You let out another heavy breath, shoulders slumping, because you don’t think they’ll let up until you give them what they want.
“Whatever,” you mutter. “Don’t start crying when I beat the shit out of you.”
You shrug off your jacket and make your way to the center of the inner courtyard, not even bothering to go over to the training grounds. You point at your oldest cousin, who immediately complains because sparring apparently wasn’t even his idea, but he steps forward to meet you, rolling his shoulders.
“Go on,” you say. The words come out flat, even though you mean for them to be taunting. “I’ll give you the first—”
The world shakes.
You barely steady yourself, eyes widening, and one of your cousins topples right off the rock he was still sitting on. You think, for a second, that it’s an earthquake—another foreboding omen—but you hesitate when you see your uncle staring behind you, eyes wide. You whip around, following his line of vision. For a second, you fear the worst: that maybe another cursed spirit got through the barrier around your estate, and you pull out your tanto knife, bracing yourself for a fight.
Instead, you find something much, much worse.
“Is that… Chojuro’s technique?” you breathe out, staring at the massive stone arms touching the distant sky. Miles to the west—the same direction as the Zenin estate. Something is… “That’s Chojuro’s technique. Why would he…”
Your uncle tells your cousin to get the car. You hear him vaguely as he snaps at him to get moving when he doesn’t immediately move, but he sounds like he’s underwater, distant, not a few feet away from you. Your ears are muffled and ringing. You blink twice, trying to understand what you’re looking at, because why would Chojuro use his technique like that? Why would—why is Jinichi using his technique? Your lips part when you see fists raining down from the sky above Chojuro’s stone arms, lungs burning, because you are not breathing.
What is happening at the Zenin estate? Something—something is—
You are running. You don’t even register that your legs are moving, or that you’re using your cursed energy to propel yourself forward—over the estate wall, through trees, you’re running. You won’t wait for the car; there’s no time. It’ll take half an hour to get there, the roads are windy and gravelly, and the fastest way is just straight through the forest. And you need to get there, because something—
Something is seriously wrong.
You distantly hear your uncle and cousins following, clearly not wanting you to rush off onto your own into a potentially dangerous situation—one of them calls for you, tells you to wait, not to be rash, but you ignore him. You knew something was up, you knew something bad was going to happen, and you knew—
There’s a sharp pain in your chest. You stumble, nearly tripping over a root that you missed as you gasp for air, hand flying to your heart, fingers digging into your shirt as if you can hold your heart in place by sheer force. You force yourself to keep moving forward, breath coming shallow, panicked pulls. You feel entirely destabilized, just for a split second, and the sensation is nauseating—like vertigo, like your soul slipping half a step out of alignment within your body, and not properly slipping back into place. You swallow hard, and you keep running, ignoring the calls of your name.
You get another couple of steps before a sharp pulse spears through your chest, worse this time. You choke on a breath, vision blurring at the edges, and you know—you know—with a clarity so vicious it borders on cruelty that something has happened to Naoya.
The world tilts violently, and you have to skid to a stop, boots dragging through the dirt as you brace yourself against a tree trunk, bark biting into your palm.
Keep moving, you tell yourself, biting back bile. It’s fear—stress. You’ve been wound up for days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and now that something is actually happening, you’re spiraling. Naoya is fine. Naoya isn’t stupid. He’s one of the strongest sorcerers you’ve ever met—you don’t know anyone who can actually take him in a fight besides you and Satoru, and Satoru is—
You can’t think about that right now. Just keep moving.
You break into a run again, teeth clenched, cursed energy flaring hard enough that the ground cracks beneath your feet. Branches tear at your sleeves as you barrel through the forest, ignoring the sharp sting where bark scrapes skin, ignoring the way your lungs burn, ignoring the empty ache in your chest that suddenly will not go away. Naoya is—he’s annoying, and reckless, an asshole, but he’s never been weak, and he’s too fucking stubborn to—
Cursed energy? A cursed spirit? Coming straight at you?
You skid to a stop again, heels digging into the dirt as you sense something coming your way, bracing yourself for impact. It’s fast, too fast—you shout at your cousins and your uncle to stay back, activating your technique. You watch as the trees collapse inward from the rush of cursed energy coming in your direction, dirt flying, it slams into you and blood flies, and you won’t be able to move in time, it’s too fast, even seeing it happen, you won’t be able to get out of the way, and then—
The path you’re tracing dissolves, the straight line toward you snaps sideways, jerking violently to the southwest, away from you, before you can even catch sight of what it was.
What the hell?
You dart forward into the clearing where it should’ve emerged. The trees lie torn open in front of you, trunks slit through, bark shredded, several uprooted entirely from the force of the speed at which the cursed spirit was moving. The ground is gouged deep where it pivoted, carved straight toward the direction you were coming from until it abruptly veers, path cutting hard to the southwest, unnaturally sharp, like it slammed on a break and wrenched itself sideways at the last possible second. The trees there are obliterated, reduced to splinters and debris scattered in a wide arc. The air still thrums with residual cursed energy, dense enough that it prickles your skin.
Your pulse roars in your ears as you stare in the direction it turned, the destruction left in its wake as it cuts through the forest.
“What the hell was that?” one of your cousins demands, catching up to you finally. “It came from the direction of the Zenin estate. Should we go after it?”
It would’ve killed you, you think. Why the hell would it veer off like that? Why—
Your uncle says your name, voice rough. You shake your head, casting one last lingering look off in the direction it fled, and you say, “No. Our priority is the estate.” You don’t wait for any of them to respond before you’re moving again, pushing all lingering thoughts of the cursed spirit from your mind—Naoya is your priority. You need to get to the Zenin estate, you need to make sure that he’s—
That he’s okay.
Because he has to be—he promised. He promised you that everything would be okay, and you cannot lose Naoya. You’ve lost everything—your father, your brothers, Satoru, you can’t lose Naoya too. You won’t survive losing him and Satoru both. You won’t survive losing him. You run until your lungs burn and your legs feel like they’re filled with lead, until the forest thins and the world opens up in a way that makes your stomach drop.
The Zenin estate is in ruins.
You smell death before you see it.
You come to a stop so suddenly that one of your cousins almost slams right into your back.
“What the fuck?” he breathes out, staring at the destruction with the same horrified expression that must be on your face. “What the hell did this? How—”
You don’t think your brain fully makes sense of what you’re seeing.
For a second, you are not twenty-five, and you are not at the Zenin estate. You are twenty again, standing in the wreckage of your estate in the immediate aftermath of the massacre. Except this time, the Zenins did not arrive before you, and there is no one here to put together the bodies and place sheets over them, no one to lie to you about how bad it really is. They are not Zenin men butchered before you, but your father, your brothers, your clan.
Your cousin gags next to you, having the same visceral reaction that you are.
“We need—” you try to say. You blink once. Twice. You swallow bile, and you take in a deep breath. This is—this isn’t your clan, this isn’t your estate, this is the Zenins, and this is on you to handle this time. Just as Naobito did for you back then. “Cover the bodies, and—” You see a corpse with no head, but you would recognize Jinichi’s body anywhere. “—try to put them back together. For funerary rites. We—”
Naoya, your breath catches, losing your train of thought mid-sentence, tongue darting out to wet your lips. You taste the iron in the air, the copper-sweet tang of blood so thick it coats the back of your throat. Focus. Focus. You need to—you need to find Naoya. If he’s not out here, then he’s probably hurt, and you need to find him.
What could’ve done this?
You force yourself forward, forgetting you were even giving orders out, feet dragging against the leveled stone as you look for Naoya. The inner courtyard has been demolished, the garden is gone, and there are bodies as far as the eye can see. Most of the buildings are in shambles—roof shingles litter the ground, crunching underfoot with every step you take, and the immaculate symmetry the Zenins prized has been reduced to rubble. Walls that once stood straight and oppressive are split open, beams snapped clean through like matchsticks. Limbs stick out from splintered wood, and the stream that cuts through the estate runs red.
“Naoya,” you call.
You wonder, briefly, how a place that caused you so much stress and anxiety as a child could look so fucking small now. Just like anywhere else in the world—stone and wood and cooling corpses.
Just buildings. Just men.
A part of you that you bury beneath muted panic and disgust is almost satisfied.
“Naoya,” you repeat, louder this time.
Your gaze flicks over to where the main building used to stand, the engawa where you first met Naotaka. You remember his fingers brushing your cheek, the way he tilted up your head, how you could only stand there and hope that Naoya noticed. To the training grounds, where you would watch Naoya spar with his cousins and uncles, longing to join them, only to be dragged off to lessons in tea ceremony or homemaking. To the garden—what’s left of it—where you and Naoya would disappear to when you were sick of being watched and judged and insulted, treated like an object or livestock rather than a human.
“Naoya!”
This wasn’t a cursed spirit, you realize, as your gaze drags over a familiar corpse—one of Naoya’s older brothers, Naohiro, who has had his throat slashed cleanly. A blade, not claws. Jinichi’s headless corpse. Execution, not slaughter. All of the destruction and no residuals of cursed energy besides the Zenins themselves, all of the precise wounds on their bodies instead of carnage. Sorcerer killer, not curse.
But if it wasn’t a curse, then what was that thing that fled from the estate? Why did it turn away the way it did?
“Naoya!”
Your feet have brought you to one of the few buildings that are still standing, and your gaze drops to the step leading up to the engawa. There is blood dripping down it, smeared on the wood, like someone had dragged themselves into the building as they bled out. You blink once, gaze lingering on it for a moment before you step around it, following the bloody trail down the hall. You see handprints on the screens, a familiar shape, a familiar size—you blink again, eyes tracing along the hall, down to where one of the sliding doors has fallen inward.
You blink a third time. This time, your heart is in your throat as you say quietly, “Naoya?”
Your body doesn’t cooperate at first when you try to move forward. Your feet are rooted to the ground. The empty feeling in your chest, the one that hit you while you were running to the estate, returns with a vengeance. You are filled with dread in a way that’s hard to articulate—your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and your limbs are prickling, there is a pit in your stomach, wide and gaping.
You don’t want to go near that room.
You’ve known the truth since you were in the forest—since before that even, for days, since you parted ways with him in that tunnel. You’ve known, but you let him leave anyway. You let yourself believe that you were wrong, let yourself believe in his promise always to come back to you. You know what is waiting for you at that sliding door.
“Naoya?” you call anyway, soft. Your legs feel clunky and awkward as you force yourself step after step. The tip of your foot catches on wood, and you stumble. Five steps. Four. Three. Two. “Nao…”
You don’t recognize it as him at first. Can’t recognize it as him—crumpled on the ground, bloody, still. That’s not Naoya. Not your Naoya. You stand in front of the room, and you breathe. In, out, in, out, in—
“Naoya,” you say again like he’ll answer. “Get up. What are you doing?”
You don’t cross the threshold into the room.
You notice, distantly, that the back of the room is destroyed, leading out of the building; the wall surrounding the estate is split and crumbling, as if something had fled from this room, out of the estate, to the east, where you had come from.
Your gaze flits down to the woman half-slumped on Naoya’s back, her hand still loosely curled around the knife in his back. Ogi’s wife, you recognize her after a second, Maki and Mai’s mother. Why is she here? You haven’t seen any other women killed, you realize, staring down at her. Only men—the Kukuru, the Hei—but her throat is slit, one still hand pressed to the wound as though trying to stop the bleeding, even in death. Someone sought her out specifically.
But why would someone go after her? Who would go after her?
You finally step into the room. Another step. A third. A fourth. You blink, and you’re bending down without really knowing what you’re doing. You numbly drag Maki and Mai’s mother off of Naoya, numbly lay her down on the far side of the room, numbly grab a nearby tablecloth to set it over her cooling corpse to give her a modicum of decency, numb, numb, numb.
You return to Naoya’s side, standing over him for a moment. He is not sprawled the way he usually is, not careless or arrogant or loose. He is folded in on himself, one arm pinned beneath his body, face pressed into the floor, the other stretched uselessly forward, reaching for something. Not your Naoya. His face is turned slightly toward you, lashes long against his cheeks, mouth parted just enough that you can see red staining his teeth, pooling from the corner of his mouth. One eye is half-open, unfocused, gold dulled to something lifeless and wrong, the other hidden against the floor.
Your next breath is deeper, more ragged.
Your knees hit the tatami with a dull thud you barely register, and your hand hovers above him, shaking badly enough that you curl it into a fist just to steady it. You touch his shoulder first, tentative, and then you jostle him—just once—like it’s Sunday morning, and you’re bored because he’s sleeping in and you have nothing to do. The fabric beneath your palm is soaked through.
(“The fuck is the matter with you,?” he mutters, sleepy and aggravated, toppling you right over the side of your bed. You hit the ground with an ungraceful yelp, scowling. “Let me sleep, ya irritating bitch.”)
He doesn’t budge. When you let go of his shoulder, his body slides back to how it was, limp on the ground. Your cheeks are wet. Your lungs are burning.
“Naoya,” you repeat. “Naoya.”
You’re more frantic now as your hand slides to his neck, fingers trembling as you place them to his pulse point, where you’ve rested them countless times before without thinking, as though there’s still a chance you might find it thrumming beneath your touch. His skin is still warm, how you’ve always known it to be, and your heartbeat thuds terribly in your ears.
(“What’re ya doin’?” he asks with a yawn, shooting you a frown, and you tilt your head to the side curiously, unsure what he’s talking about.
He’s only been back from Tohoku for two weeks, your clan has only been dead for four months—you still don’t sleep well, so you tend to stay up and read while he sleeps in bed next to you. He looks pointedly down at your hand, where your fingers rest over his pulse, and you draw your hand back, a bit surprised with yourself. You hadn’t even noticed you’d reached out to touch him. Immediately, you’re unsettled, fingers twitching to press against the steady thrum, proof that there is someone left in this world you still have to count on.
He rolls his eyes and reaches out for your wrist, placing your fingers back to where they were. You are at ease again instantly. His lashes flutter shut as he starts to doze back off. “Go the hell to sleep, don’t want to deal with you bitchin’ in the morning that you’re tired.”)
Nothing.
Your chest tightens so hard that it hurts to breathe. You try again, pressing harder, as if pressure might fix this, like his heart might remember how to beat if you convince it that you’re here with him. Your own pulse thunders, frantic and mocking.
Nothing.
You gag, hand flying to your mouth as you retch over air, turning away from him. Fuck, you gasp—nothing comes up, you’ve hardly eaten in days because you’ve been so wound with anxiety. You double over, palms against the wood, still slick with his blood, and a sound crawls up your chest, small and broken. You choke it down hard, biting the inside of your cheek until you taste blood just to keep it contained. You squeeze your eyes shut, forehead dropping until it nearly touches the tatami, breath coming in sharp, uneven pulls that scrape your throat raw.
This isn’t happening.
Not him—not him too. Your mind is crashing. Please, you think over and over and over again, please, anyone but him. You don’t know who you’re begging, what you’re begging, nothing has ever listened, but you beg still.
“This isn’t fucking funny,” you rasp, angry suddenly. “This isn’t fucking funny, Naoya. This isn’t—”
Your voice breaks. You force your eyes back open. Your cheeks are wet. Your vision swims as you turn back to him, crawling the short distance on numb legs. You reach for him again, hesitant, like your body has learned something your mind is still rejecting. Your hands move to his jaw and shoulder, gently turning him so that he’s on his back, half in your lap, and you can’t bite back the wounded noise that builds in your chest, slipping from your lips when see that the right side of his face is shattered, eye swollen shut beneath blood and ruin, jaw broken, cheek caved in.
“Oh,” you finally whisper, thoughts coming to an abrupt halt, anger draining in an instant. It comes out small and stupid, but you don’t know what else to say. You brush his hair back from his forehead, avoiding the ruined side of his face, and then you slide your hand down to his cheek, thumb pressing slightly beneath his good eye, it is gold and dull and so lifeless and so wrong. “Oh, I—”
Your lashes flutter as you sink into the floor, into his blood. You pull him closer now, hand drifting down to his chest, palm flattening there instinctively, like you’ve done a hundred times when he’s pinned you beneath him, smug and irritating and alive. Your breath comes apart again, a strangled sound that you can’t swallow back, and then you’re crying in earnest, silent and wrecked, tears dropping onto his face, onto his collar, into blood that’s already drying.
Naoya is—
“Liar,” you sob, “you fucking liar. You promised me. You promised—”
Someone else is crying too—wailing, really, a terrible, wounded, broken sound that makes your ears bleed. You wonder if your cousins happened upon a survivor. You want to tell whoever it is to shut the fuck up. Irrationally, you think that they have no right to cry when you’ve just lost half of yourself.
It’s only when your cousin comes flying down the hall, panicked, looking for you, skidding to a stop in front of the broken sliding door that you realize it is you who is wailing.
You don’t lift your head to look at him, forehead dropping to Naoya’s shoulder—he’s cooler than he was a few moments ago. Your arms tighten around him, clinging to him desperately. You’re shaking violently now, sobs tearing out of you in harsh, broken sounds you don’t recognize as your own. Your throat burns. Your chest feels like it’s splitting open with every breath you drag in. You’ve never cried like this before—never—you’ve always just kept moving forward when bad things happened.
You got used to it, that’s what you did. That’s what you always did because you could never afford to stop moving; you shoved it all deep down so it could never resurface. Forward is survival. Forward is the only option. When everything around you kept changing, you moved forward and refused to let it make you stumble. When your clan died, you moved forward so that others could mourn. When the world demanded more of you than it had any right to, you moved forward because everyone else was relying on you to hold everything together. You locked away the grief, shouldered the weight, and you kept walking because there was no other option.
But you can’t move now.
There is nowhere to go. No direction that doesn’t feel wrong. No step forward that doesn’t feel like a betrayal to what’s lying cold and heavy in your arms. There is no tomorrow where Naoya doesn’t take up space in your life, doesn’t irritate you, doesn’t argue with you, doesn’t come back, no matter how badly everything goes wrong. There is no future without him. There is no world where you keep moving forward after half of your soul has been torn away.
Your cousin reaches out to touch your shoulder, and you slap his hand away hard. You breathe. In and out. Naoya’s skin is cold. In and out. The blood is drying. In and out. You can’t fucking do this. You can’t—
Focus on something else.
“We need to report this to the higher-ups,” you hear yourself say, breathing out shakily, lifting your head to stare blankly at the opposite side of the room, the splintered wood and the crumbling wall, the trees that have been barreled down by something large and fast. You can’t feel Naoya’s cursed energy—not even any residue. “I want you to listen to me very carefully.”
Your cousin says your name, quiet and wary, like he’s afraid speaking might set you off again. You don’t look at him. Naoya is—your gaze shifts over to Maki and Mai’s mother, onto the white cloth you draped over her. You can’t feel any of Naoya’s cursed energy. Not even residue. Naoya is—your fingers press against the cool hilt of the kitchen knife in his back. A kitchen knife, not a cursed tool, driven in by a non-sorcerer, with no cursed energy. There is no residue even around the wound to his face—sheer strength caved it in, no technique, no cursed energy. Naoya is—your gaze flicks over to the back of the room, the demolished walls, the path carved through the forest in the direction of your clan’s estate.
If he was not killed with jujutsu, then—
“A cursed spirit did this,” you say after a moment, voice empty to your own ears. Before your cousin can protest, you continue. “Report to the higher-ups that a cursed spirit did this. An unregistered special grade wiped out the Zenin clan, and I will be the one to hunt it down and exorcise it.”
He says your name louder this time, panicked. “You can’t—and that’s—there’s no way that cursed spirit was the one that did all of this. There’s no cursed energy residue anywhere, I mean, if I didn’t know any better—”
“Shut up,” you snap, voice sharp, because you know.
You know that cursed spirit wasn’t the one who did this. The person who did this used a cursed tool because they have no access to cursed energy, otherwise there would be more residue than just the Hei and the Kukuru. The person who did this did not mindlessly slaughter everyone; there are no children amongst the dead, only one woman, so they specifically targeted the Hei and the Kukuru. The person who did this specifically sought out Maki and Mai’s mother, indicaitng a personal vendetta.
There is only one person who fits that description.
(“I thought maybe you would understand,” Maki once said quietly, when she came to you about her desire to leave the Zenins and become a sorcerer, her dreams of one day returning as clan head. “And help me, maybe.”)
And you do—you do fucking understand. You bite back another sob that threatens to rip from you. You do. You understand what it means to grow up inside a cage that calls itself tradition; you were born luckier than most with an extraordinary technique and brothers who defied tradition, but you tasted what could’ve been every Sunday at the Zenin estate for ten fucking years. To be watched and weighed and assessed—perfect smile, perfect poise, perfect temperament, perfect, perfect, perfect. One misstep, and you’re cast aside and replaced, because you were born a woman and not a man. You don’t know what drove her to these lengths, but you understand. The Zenin clan has always been the epitome of everything wrong with Jujutsu society. You’ve known that from a very young age.
(The nail that sticks out gets hammered down. Polite, elegant, submissive. A woman must always watch that she does not overstep her husband. She must be beautiful and obedient. Public image is the most important quality of a woman, as it determines what rank of man would be willing to marry her. Once her image is soiled, she becomes worthless to her family. No man wants to marry a tainted or otherwise undesirable woman.)
And you just—you can’t turn her over to the higher-ups. Not a girl you’ve known since she was ten years old. A girl who would sneak away from her duties to watch you spar with Naoya, wide-eyed and wondrous at the sight of a female sorcerer. A girl who idolized you—looking up to you as a woman meant to become a Zenin-perfect wife for their prodigal son, and instead shattered the shackles, entering the ranks of the very men who tried to keep her down, first as a sorcerer, a grade that has traditionally only ever been given to Zenin men nonetheless, and then as a clan head.
You can’t do it.
This is just your fate, you realize—every loss you’ve ever experienced, you’ve never been able to avenge a single one because you’re too fucking weak. No closure, no revenge, just an aching, gaping hole where love once kept you warm.
You lean down to brush your lips against the crown of Naoya’s head.
His skin is cold.
(“I would’ve killed whatever did it,” he told you, “and everyone involved. Happy now? Are ya gonna let me fuckin’ sleep or d’ya have more dumb questions?”)
I’m sorry, you tell him, teeth grinding together. I’m sorry. I know you never would’ve done this to me.
Fuck, you almost choke over another sob, but you catch yourself before you can. You understand, you really do, you know the Zenins are awful, you know they’re everything wrong with traditional society, but you just—you hate that he had to go with it.
He’s just another Zenin to everyone else—the worst of them, even. The face of the clan, the heir, the embodiment of the Zenin name and the one who benefited most from this corrupted system, the loudest reminder of everything the Zenins valued and everything they cast aside. He wasn’t the man who argued with you over nothing, who stole your skincare and hair products, no matter how many times you told him to quit it, who promised you a future that you desperately needed if you wanted to keep moving forward. He was never the boy who grew up bruised and angry and desperate to prove he was worth something in a world that loved him only conditionally. He wasn’t just a Zenin to you. He was Naoya. Your Naoya. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who you don’t know how to live without.
You want him back.
You want him back so bad that it makes you sick.
“I’m telling you what happened, and that is what you’re going to report to the higher-ups,” you finally say, pushing everything down for just a little longer. “A special grade cursed spirit massacred the Zenin clan, and I will be the one to hunt and exorcise it. Are we clear?”
“… Yeah,” your cousin finally says, voice quiet. “We’re clear, but—you’re not actually going to… go after that thing, are you?”
Your arms tighten around Naoya slightly. His skin is cold. His body is limp. Your lashes flutter slightly before you look back in the direction where the cursed spirit fled to, and your heart is heavy because you know. No one in the world knows Naoya like you do, and you know for a fact that if he was not killed with jujutsu, then he is spiteful and angry enough to come back, and if he has come back, then you have to be the one to exorcise the curse born from him so that he can rest.
You exhale, laying his body down, head in your lap. You cradle his face carefully between your hands, one palm cupping the unbroken side of his jaw, thumb brushing lightly beneath his good eye; the other hovers uselessly for a moment before you carefully settle it on the opposite cheek, fingers grazing the ruined skin. Your gaze slips away, back to the familiar line of his mouth, the arch of his brow, the face you know, the one that still looks like him if you don’t stare too hard.
You sigh softly as you lean down, pressing your lips against his forehead, gentle in the way the two of you so rarely were with one another. His skin is cold. His lashes don’t flutter at your touch. He does not give you a mocking smile or make a snide comment about how you’re getting sentimental with old age. A tear splashes against his cheek. You trail your lips down the slope of his nose, then lower still, to brush your mouth against his. His lips are cold too. They taste of blood and salt and a future that was taken away. Habit makes you pause, makes you expect the way his lips curve up into yours, makes you wait for the familiar pressure of his lips moving against yours and the way his hand slips around the back of your head.
“You’re so dramatic,” he would tell you, far too smug. “Lookit ya—cryin’ for me like this. I’d say it’s almost cute, but you’re an ugly crier.”
“Fuck you, asshole,” you would snap back.
Nothing happens.
Your breath shudders, tears rolling over your cheeks more steadily now. You linger a second longer than you should. Just long enough to memorize the feel of him one last time, and then you pull back, just enough.
You tell him quietly, “I would’ve chosen you. Every time. Even knowing how it ends.”
Your thumbs brush once more along his jaw, and then you look away. You ease back slowly, carefully laying him down against the ground, and then you rise to your feet, looking back out in the direction the cursed spirit fled to.
“I want him buried at our estate,” you tell your cousin quietly. “Not here. There’s nothing left for him here.”
Your cousin says your name quietly, and you look at him over your shoulder with a small smile.
“Relax,” you say. “Everything will be fine. I’ll see you soon.”
————————
You are six, and he is eight, and you have just met.
You have no idea how your life will change.
(You track the cursed spirit all the way down to the Kagoshima prefecture.
You stare up at the black curtain that has dropped over the area, and you think it’s deeply ironic that it fled here of all places. You exhale, eyes sliding shut as you turn your head away. You wonder what it means—does it remember what this place meant to you and him? That this is the place where you reunited so many years ago? Or is it just a coincidence?
You don’t know what to think, because if it remembers and it was drawn here, then it must have some semblance of Naoya’s consciousness, and you don’t know how to kill something that has Naoya’s consciousness, even if only a modicum of it.
You press your hands to your face, tired. You’ve been moving nonstop since you left the Zenin estate, haven't let yourself stop for a minute. If you stop, you will crash, and if you crash, you will never be able to come back from it, and you can’t let this thing born of Naoya’s cursed energy roam freely. Your chest aches, and you have to force yourself even to keep breathing—in, out, in, out.
He never makes anything easy for you, even now.
Only a little more, you tell yourself, then you can rest.)
You are seven, and he is nine, and you watch how he tenses when his father’s voice carries through the halls of the estate, slurred and loud. Something strange twists up your chest, and when he catches you frowning at him, he snaps at you to look away. You tell him that you don’t want to go to the kitchen anymore, you want to go to the garden, and he calls you annoying, but the two of you turn around and go in the opposite direction of where his father is floundering around drunk.
You never bring it up, and neither does he. Some understandings don’t need words, especially between the two of you—that’s how it’s always been, even as children.
(“Hi! I’m a Kogane! Inside this barrier, a lethal contest called the Culling Game has begun! Step inside, and you too become a player! Are you willing to enter?”
You stare at the floating shikigami, lips curved down, gaze flicking between it and the veil behind it. You ask, “What is the Culling Game?”
“A lethal contest,” the Kogane replies to your annoyance. “Would you like to consult the rules?”
You don’t have time for this, you think bitterly, glancing at the barrier again. “Sure. Tell me the rules.”
The Shikigami appears closer to you, its body shifting to reveal some sort of screen.
You inhale sharply before leaning in, eyes skimming across the rules of this Culling Game: awaken cursed technique… declare participation… technique removal… score points by ending the lives of other people, sorcerers worth five points, non-sorcerers worth one… new rule at one hundred points… score remains the same for nineteen days, subject to technique removal… access to information about other players. Your gaze lingers on that last one.
“I’m looking for someone,” you say after a moment. “Can you tell me if this person is in the Culling Game?”
“I cannot!” Your eye twitches. “You are not a player yet!”
You press your tongue to the back of your teeth, teeming with frustration. You look back at the barrier. The cursed spirit is in there. You know it is. You could try to use your maximum technique to confirm it, but you don’t know how this barrier will affect your technique if you use it from the outside, and you can’t risk draining yourself so quickly.
It’s in there.
You know it.
“Alright,” you say. “I’ll become a player. Let me in.”)
You are eight, and he is ten, and you remind him—mutually assured destruction—when he threatens to tell your father how awful you are. He scowls, sulks, kicks the back of your knees when you turn away, and you launch yourself at him without thinking, fists tangling in his hair as the two of you go down in the dirt, flattening a bed of flowers beneath you.
You’ll deny it later, but you’re laughing—helpless, breathless laughter that you cannot contain, the kind that only ever happens when the two of you are alone. You shove his face into the soil, and he grabs a fistful to smear across your mouth, trying to get you off of him. He’s laughing too, and he will deny it just as fiercely as you will, because the moment the two of you step out of the garden and back under the assessing gaze of his family, everything will have to return to how it should be, because you are not friends, cannot be friends, he is a boy, the Zenin heir, and you are just a girl.
(“Five points rewarded!” the kogane chirps next to where you’re crouched on the ground, hovering around your head like an irritating fly. You try to swat at it, but it only disappears and reappears on the opposite side of your head. “Five points rewarded!”
“I know,” you say. “Be quiet.”
You can’t track down the cursed spirit. It’s in here—you know it is. As soon as you entered the barrier, you consulted the Kogane’s list of players and activated your maximum technique to pinpoint where it might be, casting your cursed energy thinly across the whole arena. There are hundreds of cursed energy signatures—well, two less now—but only one that you are intimately familiar with. You hate how similar it is. Not him—not quite—but close enough that it makes your chest seize when you first recognize it in the arena. An echo warped by death and hatred, but him in a way that’s impossible to deny.
A few hours ago, it was lingering in the same area as that abandoned building the two of you were sent to a few years ago to exorcise that special grade curse. You hate that too, because you hate what it means—that it might remember, might be drawn there because it vaguely recalls Naoya’s history with you, or, at the very least, knows enough to know it was an important place.
By the time you got there, it was gone—halfway across Kagoshima, moving quickly in the opposite direction—leaving you to deal with two sorcerers who had clearly sensed its presence and were looking to score some points for themselves. And you hate the idea of something born of Naoya’s cursed energy being hunted and exorcised by some garbage sorcerers, so when they turn their attention on you, you don’t hesitate.
You flip Naoya’s tanto knife casually in your hand, wiping the blood off on your sleeve, staring down at the engraving along its hilt. You run your thumb over the ridges before sighing, rising to your feet, and lifting your right hand, pointer finger brushing your forehead, thumb brushing your lip.
Time to try again.)
You are nine, and he is eleven, and you hate his brothers. You hate how they look down on him, you hate how they treat him, and you hate the way they make him feel uncomfortable. You tell yourself that it’s because they have no right to do so since they are weaker than him, but that doesn’t explain why you are frustrated to tears when you can only stand and watch as they needle him into something small and unrecognizable. It also doesn’t explain the glee you feel when Naotaka’s expression shifts in surprise when you take Naoya’s side after finally being given the opportunity to speak—they want him alone and vulnerable, you realize, more prone to making mistakes.
You decide—out of spite, of course—that you will make sure he never is, even if you do hate him. The two of you are enemies, but you’re attached to him as his betrothed, so if he loses standing, then so do you. But it was never spite, and it was never hatred; he was never your enemy, no matter how much you insisted otherwise. He was always just yours, and you would be damned before you let his useless brothers—or anyone—hurt him the way they were trying.
He is eleven, and you are nine, and Naoya falls in love with you for the first, but certainly not the last, time. You do not know this—you will never know this—but he does, and it is this that he thinks of when he is trying to claw his way back to the estate, trying to get to his phone, get to you before it’s too late. He has loved you for longer than he’s ever been willing to admit, he has loved you through years of distance and terrible fights, he has loved you since you were an annoying girl who didn’t know her place and he was a bratty boy who thought himself better than everyone. He has always loved you, he thinks as the knife plunges through his back, always, always, always, but always was not long enough—not for him.
(You think the cursed spirit is hiding from you. Every time you track it down to where it should be lurking, it disappears halfway across the city. It’s like an awful game of cat and mouse, and you realize that if that cursed spirit retained Naoya’s technique, you’ll never catch up to it while it’s playing with you like this. You can’t keep using your technique to track it down either—every time you use it, it puts more strain on your body, and there are too many sorcerers in this arena to put yourself at risk like that.
You also don’t know what that means about the cursed spirit, either. You don’t think it’s actively avoiding all sorcerers, because you’ve stumbled upon areas it was in after it left and found the corpses it left behind. It specifically seems to be avoiding you, and it’s eating you alive.
Could the cursed spirit have really retained Naoya’s consciousness? It came here to Kagoshima and went specifically to the building where the two of you reunited, and it seems to be actively avoiding you and no one else. Is it just primal instincts? Lingering remnants of Naoya influencing it to go where places that he might’ve gone, warning it that you might be a danger to it because of your technique? Or is it something else?
You don’t have time to think about it.
“Kogane,” you bark, waiting for it to manifest. “How many points do I have?”
“Twenty-five points!” the Kogane tells you.
“If I kill a player with more than five points, will I obtain their points?” you ask.
“You will not!”
Your lip curls up in frustration, looking out over the city from the rooftop you’re perched on. You can’t sustain your technique long enough to hunt it down without killing yourself, so the only option left is to try to get a rule implemented that allows you to track down other players.
Which means you have to start hunting.
How tiresome, you think. Why does he always have to make things so difficult for you?)
You are ten, and he is twelve, and you miss him. For the first time in four years, Sunday comes and goes without an invitation to the Zenin estate. Your father is angry at you, and your brothers find it all too funny, but there is a lump in your throat that you can’t explain, and an inexplicable emptiness in your chest where there should only be happiness, because you hate going to the Zenin estate. You convince yourself that you are only annoyed that this is all falling on you when it wasn’t your fault.
You are lying—you are always lying. You wonder now why you lied to yourself so much back then, and you wonder, maybe, if the two of you might’ve had more time together if you didn’t.
He is twelve, and you are ten, and Naoya hurts in a way that’s hard to explain—he is embarrassed, he is frustrated, and he is in pain from many nights in the disciplinary pit, because it is his fault that you’ve gone to Gojo Satoru. More than that, he is inexplicably sad, and he cannot bring himself to walk anywhere near the garden anymore, and he refuses to try to understand why that is.
He is twelve, and you are ten, and Naoya thinks for the first time that he might love you. It is a fleeting thought, but he’s unsure what else the tightness in his chest might be when you stand in his bedroom after sneaking out of your clan’s estate, hiking fifteen miles through the forest to get to the Zenin estate, just so you can stand in front of him and ask him if the two of you are still engaged.
He is twelve, and you are ten, and Naoya realizes you are the first, and only, person who has ever wanted him—chosen him—without him having to prove he earned it first.
(“Five points rewarded! Five points rewarded! You are now at fifty-five points!”
“Wait, wait, wait!” the sorcerer gasps as he scrambles away from you, nails scraping against the concrete, leaving bloody tracks. You stare down at him, head tilted to the side, waiting for him to speak. “I only just came back, I don’t want to die again, I—”
“Again?” you ask, brows furrowing. “What are you talking about?”
The man’s eyes widen, and yours narrow.
Does it have something to do with this Culling Game? Came back? Die again? Is the Culling Game bringing people back to life? Irrationally, hope begins to bloom in your chest—could you bring Naoya back? If a cursed spirit born of his energy is darting around the arena, is there a way you could bring him back as he was? You shouldn’t get your hopes up—you shouldn’t, you know that—but you want him back so bad that it makes you physically ill.
“I’ll explain, if you promise not to kill me,” the sorcerer nods, eyes wide and searching as he stares up at you.
You don’t have the time or energy to play these games.
“Sure,” you agree. “Explain.”
The man swallows hard, hands shaking as he props himself up on one elbow, blood slicking the concrete beneath him. “I’m—” he pants, eyes darting like you might change your mind any second. “I’m not from this era. Not originally. I died hundreds of years ago.” Your heart thuds in your ears. “The—the one who started this, he made contracts with us before we died. Our souls were preserved and sealed into cursed objects, and when this game began, we were incarnated into modern bodies.”
Contracts before death. Souls preserved. The words ring through your head painfully loud. You knew this was going to be the case—there is no bringing someone back from the dead, not really—but you are still flooded with such a bitter feeling that it makes you sick. Why do these people get a second chance? And why does their second chance come at the cost of so much to you? Satoru, Naoya—everything that’s happened the past two weeks, is it really all to bring back some dead sorcerers? Why? Why? You don’t understand. You don’t fucking understand. What did they do to deserve a second chance? Why did they take Satoru and Naoya? You miss them, you miss him, you miss him so bad that you can’t breathe, that—
“So, you’re telling me that this all began because a bunch of washed up sorcerers who couldn’t survive in their eras think they have some right to the modern one?” you ask, lips trembling. Rage, grief, indignation at the sheer unfairness of it all. Fuck, you think furiously, what the fuck? “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“We—it’s not like that,” he disagrees. “We were strong in our era, and—”
“Five points rewarded!”
You stare down at the sorcerer as blood pools around his head, seeping from his cut throat.
“Kogane. Show me the information of all of the reincarnated sorcerers in this arena.”)
You are eleven, and he is thirteen, and you learn that he can’t hold your gaze when he tells a lie. You learn a lot of things about him that year—the way his eyes shift the moment he goes from feeling angry to cornered, the difference in how he holds himself when he’s in a good mood versus a bad mood, how when he thinks people aren’t looking, his shoulders slump a little, uncertainty slipping into the curve of his lips as he observes the men around him, trying to figure out how he should act—but this is your favorite, even as silly as it is. You don’t use it against him, not usually at least. You keep it to yourself, something small and private that belongs only to you.
Once, you ask him, do you think I’m pretty, Nao-chan? and he snaps at you, tells you to stop calling him that stupid nickname, and then calls you hideous. His gaze flits away as he says it, and you find yourself smiling, which only makes him even more annoyed, but there is a skip in your step as you follow him to the garden.
(You miss him.
You choke on air as something warm and wet splatters across your face. Your vision is blurry, and there is a terrible ache in your chest that won’t go away. Not now, you tell yourself again, not now, you can’t crash now.
“Five points rewarded! You are now at seventy points!”
Your eyes slide shut as you force away the tears that suddenly prick at your eyes. You can see the sun breaching the horizon, and you are angry, you are grieving, because how dare the dawn always insist on coming when your world ends. How dare it be warm, how dare it be bright, how dare it pretend that anything is still moving forward when you are standing in knee-deep blood that isn’t his. The corpse at your feet twitches once before going still, eyes glassy and unfocused, mouth slack.
For a second, you blink, and you are back at the Zenin estate, and it is Naoya at your feet, his blood on your blade, his death on your hands. Bile burns the back of your throat, and you stumble away before you double to your hands and knees and hurl the small meal your cousins forced you to eat before you left.
How long has it been? You’re not sure. Everything bleeds together. You haven’t slept at all. It feels like an eternity since you held Naoya in your arms, and it feels like five seconds ago, all the same.
You miss him.
You miss him.
You just want him back.)
You are twelve, and he is fourteen, and he acts strange around you in a way that’s hard to articulate. It makes you angry, and even now, you’re not sure why it did, because he was being good to you. You suppose even as a kid, you hated the idea of things changing.
You don’t know that he covers for you whenever you slip up in front of the wrong people. You don’t know that he scoffs at his uncles when they mention off-handedly that you might not be fit to be a Zenin wife. You don’t know that whenever you’re not paying attention, he catches himself staring at you, a tight feeling in his chest that he smothers deep beneath pride and derision.
You don’t know a lot of things, and you will never know a lot of things. Maybe in the next life things will be different.
(Distantly, you understand that they do not deserve to die.
You are angry and grieving, and you cannot avenge Naoya the way you should, so you are unleashing your rage onto these sorcerers, who made the mistake of making a contract with the wrong person. They are not the ones who took him from you. They are not the ones who shattered your future and left you standing in the ruins with blood on your hands and nothing left to hold onto.
You cut them down all the same anyway.
“Five points rewarded! You are now at eighty-five points.”)
You are thirteen, and he is fifteen, and he is angry at you all the time now. You don’t understand why he’s angry because you only told him that he should do what you both want, and get his father to end the engagement. Now you know that was something he never wanted—I always wanted you, he tells you in the rain years later, even back when we were kids—and you realize that he had been under the mistaken belief that you had begun to want him back. But—
But he had no right to be angry, you think with tears in your eyes—he should’ve said something sooner. Then maybe—then maybe you wouldn’t have lost three years, then maybe you might be married, then maybe, then maybe, then maybe.
(Maybe you can bind it to you in the same way Orimoto Rika was bound to Okkotsu Yuta.
The thought bounces in your head, taunting, dangerous, entirely irrational, but you cannot push it away. If this cursed spirit has partially retained Naoya’s consciousness… If it understands enough to know who you are, if it understands enough to know the importance of Kagoshima and that abandoned building, then perhaps, it has retained enough of Naoya for you to cling to it. For you to convince yourself that he’s not gone.
The thought is reckless, you know that. And you know how dangerous it is. You have seen what that kind of attachment does. You know the cost. Orimoto Rika was not saved by love, she was damned by it, twisted into something monstrous because a boy couldn’t bear to let her go.
And yet.
If there is even a fragment of him left in it—if there is something there that remembers your voice, then maybe you can give it a shape that isn’t hatred incarnate. Maybe you can keep it from hurting anyone else. Maybe you can keep it from becoming something that would have disgusted him if he were alive to see it. Maybe you can keep him.
You would carry him with you always. You would feel him everywhere. You would never be alone again. You would not have to suffer to live through a world without him.
Maybe.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.)
You are fourteen, and he is sixteen, and you find yourself staring at him all too often—at the way his shoulders have started to broaden, at how his voice drops when he’s annoyed, at the sharpness of his profile when he watches you from the corner of his eye to see if you’re looking. You tell yourself that it’s nothing, that you’re only noticing the changes because you’ve known him forever, but your chest does something uncomfortable when he catches you looking and tosses you a smug smirk and a wink instead of getting mad.
You start to look away first, eyes wide and face hot, heart beating way too fast for no reason you’re willing to name, and he starts to watch you when you aren’t paying attention, gaze soft and lingering, and a tightness in his chest that he has long stopped denying—to himself, at least. You wish you had stopped denying it sooner, too.
(You trick yourself into thinking that you have already forgotten his face.
It is ridiculous, because it has not even been two days and you have known him your entire life, but you are exhausted, running on fumes and grief, and you haven’t slept because you are scared to see him waiting for you in your dreams, angry and accusing, demanding to know why you won’t avenge him. When your lashes flutter, and you cannot immediately picture his face before you found him that morning on the floor, without the blood and gore, partially caved in, you double over and throw up again, even though there is nothing left in you to give anymore.
You heave and sob, clutching at your chest, your mouth, nails digging into the palm of your hands so deep that blood drips between your knuckles to the concrete. Why can’t you picture him? Why can you only see him like that? Why do you see the golds of his eyes dull and lifeless, instead of dancing with amusement? Why is his expression slack and empty, instead of smug and infuriating?
Naoya, you sob, forehead pressed against the cold concrete—you miss him, you want him back, there is no place for you in this world anymore, not without him.)
You are fifteen, and he is seventeen, and you have lost him for the first, but not the last time. You don’t know at the time that it is only temporary, and you don’t know why it feels like the end of the world. You cannot explain to your brothers why you’re crying when they come to find you the first Sunday after the engagement is called off.
He is yours, you understand now that you knew it even back then. There’s no future for you without him in it, and that is why the end of your engagement—the most permanent type of loss in your innocent, childish mind—felt so wrong. You just couldn’t—wouldn’t—put it into words. He is yours, he is yours. He has always been yours, and you have always been his. The two of you are bonded in a way that no one can ever understand, and there is no world where you can lose him and move on with your life.
(“You are now at one hundred points! Do you want to spend them to add a new rule to the Culling Game?”
“Yes. I want to add an extension to Rule Nine. I want the real-time locations of all players to be disclosed, not just what colonies they’re a part of.”
“This is acceptable! The rule will be announced to all players immediately!”
You stare at the ground, heart thudding in your ears. You press your hands against your thighs, eyes sliding shut. It’s time now, you realize—you can go after the cursed spirit without having to use your technique. It will have to run out of cursed energy eventually, will have to stop running, and you will just keep hunting it down until it does. You don’t have to worry about frying your own brain with your technique now that you can just track it through the Kogane.
It’s time.
And yet—
“How many more reincarnated sorcerers are in this arena?” you ask the Kogane tightly.
“There are fifteen reincarnated sorcerers currently in the Sakurajima Colony!”
“Show me the location of the closest one.”)
You are sixteen, and he is eighteen now. Today is his birthday, and you are lying in bed alone, staring at your phone and a message that doesn’t go through: Happy birthday, asshole. Wanna go do something? Your throat swells with frustration as you look at it for a moment before you throw your phone at the wall, bitter and angry and lonely. You think, maybe, that you should take it as a sign, and you call up Satoru to see if he wants to go to a movie instead.
You tell yourself it’s fine, that you’ll get used to his absence in your life, but it was as impossible then as it is now.
He is eighteen, and you are sixteen, and it is his birthday. He sits in the garden alone, watching the naked branches of the cherry blossoms sway back and forth in the wind. His father comes looking for him, drunk, and he laughs as he slaps Naoya on the shoulder. Nearly dying because of that girl, only for her to run off with the Gojo boy. Stupid boy, this is what you get for attaching yourself to a woman. I hope you’ve learned your lesson. Naoya’s lips tighten into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and he wonders why he is never enough as is.
(It’s your fault.
“Five points rewarded!”
It’s your fault that he is dead.
“Five points rewarded!”
You knew this was going to happen. You knew something bad was coming. You knew that if he walked away from you in that tunnel, you would never see him again, and you let him walk away anyway. It’s your fault.
“Five points rewarded!”)
You are seventeen, and he is nineteen, and it’s been almost two years, but you still don’t go a day without him crossing your mind. Satoru tries to keep you distracted with training, and missions, and even helping you get promoted to Special Grade One as a slap in the face to the Zenin, whose men were traditionally the only ones allowed to bear that title, but your mind always goes back to him.
Everything always goes back to him.
He is nineteen, and you are seventeen, and all he ever hears about is you and Satoru. He has always vowed to keep far away from alcohol, having grown up with his father the way he did, but when whispers reach him about how it seems likely that you and Satoru will be married within the year, he cracks open a bottle of sake and drowns himself in his sorrows. He types up long, hateful, accusatory messages, blaming you for screwing everything up when things were good, for giving him hope when you always intended on turning your back on him, for convincing him that there was someone out there who wanted him for him and not his technique or his title, but he never sends them.
The line between love and hatred had always been terribly thin for the two of you, from the day you met him to the day you lost him, but he knows that this is real, deep-seated hatred. He can feel it in his blood, his bones, his soul. He has been humiliated so many times before, but never like this, never by you. He never wants to see you again, he decides, and he thinks he hates most of all that he knows he’s only lying to himself.
I wouldn’t have done this to you, he almost sends while drunk one night. I never would’ve fucking done this to you.
(“Next.”
“There are no more reincarnated sorcerers currently in the Sakurajima Colony!” the Kogane chirps.
“None?” you exhale, throat swelling immediately. If there are none left, then… “But—”
“That is correct! There are none left!”
Fuck, you think, letting out a shaky breath. What the hell are you supposed to do now?)
You are eighteen, and he is twenty, and for the first time in three years, you can breathe. You laugh freely, and it startles you how easily it comes, how natural it feels to be standing at his side again after so long apart. You fall into sync as though no time has passed at all, and you realize, distantly, that the tightness you’ve carried for years has vanished. You had been pushing through each passing day with Satoru at your side, dragging you along with him, but there was an inexplicable emptiness in you that could never be filled. You understand now that living—really living—only feels possible with him at your side.
(You are putting off what needs to be done.
You stumble off to a nearby convenience store, grabbing a bottle of liquor before curling up in the corner of the store. You try not to drink too much when you’re around Naoya, so it feels wrong having the bottle in your hands like this, the ring he gave you pressed against its neck, but Naoya is gone. Naoya is gone. Naoya is gone. The thought rings through your head over and over again. Naoya is gone, and you are alone. Naoya is gone, and he is a liar. Naoya is gone, and you could have stopped him. Naoya is gone, and it’s because of you.
You throw the bottle at the wall, and you scream.)
You are nineteen, and he is twenty-one, and everything is okay again.
It is enough. He is enough.
As long as you have him, it will always be enough.
(You wonder if you’ll be able to do it—exorcise a cursed spirit born of Naoya’s energy.
You lie in the middle of a roundabout at a park near a primary school, staring up at the sky. You flip Naoya’s tanto knife into the air above you, watching it spin and spin and spin until it begins to drop back down toward you. You catch the hilt as the tip grazes between your eyes.
It’s not Naoya, not really, you know that, no matter how much that thought of trying to bind it to you lingers. It wouldn’t be him. Not your Naoya. It wouldn’t laugh the way he did. It wouldn’t argue with you over nothing. It wouldn’t sulk when you won. It wouldn’t curl around you in its sleep and then get embarassed in the morning. It wouldn’t kiss you, wouldn’t hold you, wouldn’t smile smugly against your neck when you shiver.
It wouldn’t be him.
It wouldn’t be enough.)
You are twenty, and he is twenty-two, and you have lost everything, but never him, and that will always be enough for you to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even as the world tries to take more than it has any right to.
(You felt it the moment he died, you realize later.
In the forest, before you noticed the cursed spirit coming toward you. You stumbled, and your hand flew to your chest, an empty feeling spreading through you. You convinced yourself that it was nothing, just you spiraling from fear and stress after days of being wound up, but that must have been it. That was the moment he died, that was when the knife was plunged into his back, when he couldn’t muster enough cursed energy to protect himself.
He didn’t leave quietly—he never did anything quietly, you think, almost fondly. He tore a piece of you loose and dragged it with him, because the two of you had been too intertwined for any ending to be clean. This was always going to happen one way or another. There is no world where he dies, and you can just…
Your eyes slide shut.
Not yet—you can’t fall apart yet.)
You are twenty-one, and he is twenty-three, and you think that you’re losing him again. You’re choking on air as you leave the Zenin estate, desperately trying to hold yourself together. You cannot let yourself fall apart, not yet, but then he comes running, and he wants you, he’s always wanted you, he tells you, voice ragged, desperate for you to believe him. He is yours, and you are his—you have always been each other’s, and looking at him in front of you now, you wonder why you waited so long to admit this to one another.
He is twenty-three, and you are twenty-one, and he knows that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you. He does, but not as long as he had hoped for.
(You blame him.
He should’ve just come with you.
He should’ve listened to you.
He should’ve trusted you.
He should’ve, he should’ve, he should’ve.
“Five points rewarded!”)
You are twenty-two, and he is twenty-four, and things are easy, and you are happy.
You wish that this would last forever.
(You hate him.
A thick, purple substance splatters across your cheek as you kill a cursed spirit.
“Five points rewarded!”
You hate him.
You pull your knife out of another’s throat.
“Five points rewarded!”
You hate him.)
You are twenty-three, and he is twenty-five, and you are balanced on the edge of a life that almost makes sense, one hand in his as he pulls you forward and the other still brushing the past, loosened at last, finally starting to let go.
(“I don’t know how you did it,” you gasp to someone who isn’t listening, teeth grinding together. You press your fists to your eyes, fighting another sob. You want to scream again, but you can barely breathe. “I don’t know how you did it, Satoru. I’ll never be able to move on from this. You were right. It really is the most fucked up curse of all.”)
You are twenty-four, and he is twenty-six, and he wants to marry you, and you think that you want to marry him too. You have never liked the idea of you two being defined by words, so you test him, poking at his boundaries, trying to see just how far he’ll go to woo you into marriage. You learn quickly that there are no lengths he wouldn’t go to for you, no unreasonable request he wouldn’t fulfill, no pride he wouldn’t swallow if it meant keeping you happy. It is unwavering—he is unwavering—so when he brings you to watch the sunrise by the cherry blossoms, and he finally asks you what he’s been hinting at for months, you say yes without hesitation, and you never second-guess yourself once.
He is twenty-six, and you are twenty-four, and he almost lost you. He hides the fear behind anger, as he always tends to do, but he never forgets the way his stomach dropped when you hit the ground or how his fingers shook as he pulled you into his arms. He spits at you for being stupid and reckless, throws your own words right back in your face—you’re a sorcerer, not a hero—and makes cruel comments about how you’re not fit for combat just to get under your skin.
The two of you fight a lot during the month you’re bedridden, and Naoya only lets the anger drain to exhaustion when he’s sure you won’t see it. He sleeps curled around you like a guard dog, arm locked tight around your waist, breath shallow and uneven like he’s afraid that if he lets himself relax, you’ll disappear. When you stir, even just a little, his hold tightens instinctively, fingers pressing into your body. He wakes at every sound, every shift in your breathing, and you catch him more than once staring at you in the dark, eyes wide and unblinking, watching the rise and fall of your chest just to reassure himself that you’re still here.
He does not want to know a life without you, and luckily, he will never have to.
(“Show me the location of the cursed spirit created from the cursed energy of Zenin Naoya.”)
You are twenty-five, and he is twenty-seven, and he is dead. One day, you will be twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and he will still be twenty-seven, and you think that is not something that you can live with.
You are twenty-five, and he will always be twenty-seven, and you realize that there is no world where Naoya dies and you remain alive.
————————
NOVEMBER 14, 2018
It’s wearing his face.
It’s wearing his face.
Your breath is labored as you stare at the cursed spirit from across the street. You’d thought, maybe, that the sorcerers killed it—you weren’t sure whether to be relieved or furious, grateful or bloodthirsty. You’ve been battling yourself since you got to Kagoshima, because you don’t know if you’ll be able to kill something born of Naoya’s cursed energy, something that potentially retained fragments of his consciousness, but you also know that it can only be you. You won’t let some random sorcerer put it down like a rabid dog—it is not Naoya, and it’s certainly not Naoya enough, but it’s still—
It’s wearing his face.
It hasn’t noticed you yet, thrown into a blind rage by the sorcerers who are attacking it. You don’t recognize two of them—older men who don’t seem to belong to this era. You have half a mind to spit at the Kogane for lying to you and saying there were no other reincarnated sorcerers, but you realize that they probably entered the colony after your hunt, and you have more pressing issues right now anyway.
You do recognize the other two—Zenin Maki and Kamo Noritoshi.
How fucking ironic.
You watch Maki push herself to her feet after taking a blow from the cursed spirit. You can’t muster the anger you want to feel, not toward her, not toward Noritoshi, not toward the two reincarnated sorcerers, not even toward the thing wearing Naoya’s face—you are just tired. The exhaustion sinks into your bones, heavier than fear, heavier than rage. You are tired; you just want to rest.
It moves wrong. Too feral. Too loose. Naoya’s movements were always sharp and precise when he was fighting, even when he was furious. This thing thrashes, overcommits, howls without words. It’s disgusting, and it has no right to wear his face the way it is. This is not Naoya, not enough, not even nearly.
You step off the curb before you fully realize you’ve come to a decision. Asphalt crunches under your boots, and the cursed spirit falters just as it brings its hands up to use a hand sign, head snapping in your direction, gold eyes locking onto yours with something like confusion. Recognition, maybe. Its hands falter mid-motion, fingers twitching as though it forgot what it was doing. It makes you sick. This is not Naoya, and it should not look at you like Naoya would.
“Yo,” you say, voice bland, empty to even your own ears. “I’ve been looking for you, asshole. Why do you keep running from me, hm?”
It doesn’t respond to you. It blinks once. Twice. The same way Naoya always would when he was trying not to have a visible reaction to something that caught him off guard. You hate it—that thing is not Naoya, and it should not be acting like Naoya would. The ring on your fourth finger weighs impossibly heavy. You are so tired.
Maki says your name, trying to get your attention, and you look at her over your shoulder. Whatever she sees in your face makes her falter. You say, “Stay out of this, Maki-chan. You and Kamo have done enough.”
Maki disagrees, shaking her head, “But—”
“Stay out of this,” you repeat, voice colder this time. “I won’t repeat myself again.” Maki’s nostrils flare as she inhales, preparing to disagree again, but Noritoshi grabs her arm, shaking his head. “Kogane, transfer all of my remaining points to Zenin Maki.”
“I cannot! There is no player called Zenin Maki participating in this game!”
Your eyes slide shut. You exhale and cast another dull look back at Noritoshi. “Kogane, transfer all of my remaining points to Kamo Noritoshi.”
How sick, you think. The words taste bitter on your tongue—giving everything you have left to a Kamo. How much more shame are you going to bring to the people you’ve lost?
The sins of the parent are not the sins of the child, you tell yourself again as the Kogane confirms the point transfer. You turn your attention back to the cursed spirit, and you hate that it’s still standing there. You hate that it’s frowning. You hate that its gaze is dragging between you and the other sorcerers like it's trying to understand what’s happening. Where did the rage go? The blind fury? The animal-like brutality? The hatred? The lust for vengeance? Why is it almost… docile right now? Why is it looking at you like this? Why is it looking at you like—
“I know you can speak,” you say. “Say something already.”
Its throat works once. Twice. When it finally speaks, the sound is wrong—rough and layered in a way that Naoya’s smooth timbre never was—but the cadence makes your stomach drop.
“... Took ya long enough.”
It shouldn’t sound like him. It doesn’t sound like him, but also—it does. It shouldn’t know how to give you that smug half-smile that drives you crazy, shouldn’t know how to drag the words out in the same way he always did when he was trying to piss you off. Your nails bite into your palms hard enough to hurt. You are so fucking tired.
“Hah?” you ask, swallowing down the lump that forms in your throat. “You were the one running from me like a little bitch. If anything, took you long enough to actually face me.”
You don’t even know why you’re indulging it in conversation. This is not Naoya. It does not matter if it’s wearing Naoya’s face. It does not matter if it has some strange mimicry of his voice. It does not matter that it has some of his mannerisms.
It is not Naoya. Not your Naoya.
But—
What if it really is Naoya enough?
No, it isn’t. It can’t be.
It tilts its head again, the same wrong imitation of a familiar gesture. Gold eyes flick over you, lingering in the same places Naoya’s would—your eyes, your lips, the wound on your left side. Its lips curl down at that last one.
“Still runnin’ around gettin’ yourself hurt,” it mutters, voice rough. “Thought I told you to stay away from all this shit. Lookit ya now, got yourself all hurt, all wound up. Was gonna come to you once I was ready. Shoulda just waited. Always so impatient.”
This is not Naoya.
This is a cursed spirit.
You hate that you're having to convince yourself of this. You shouldn't have given it the opportunity to talk. What were you thinking? Naoya told you this himself—curses that wear human faces lie and trick and beg and pretend. You grit your teeth, jaw aching from the effort to keep from reacting. You miss him. You want him back. But this isn’t him. It’s not him. It’ll never be enough. Not the way he was.
“Come to me?” you ask with a scoff, as though your heart isn’t in your throat, “And what did you expect, huh? That I would just accept some cheap imitation of Naoya with open arms? You’re not him. You’re just some half-baked cursed spirit wearing his face. Quit pretending you know me. Quit pretending to be him. You’re gonna make me hurl.”
You just want to rest. Why does he have to put you through this? Why couldn’t he just—
“... Pretend?” it echoes, and there’s something strange in its voice. You ignore it. “You think I’m fuckin’ pretending? It’s me. You know it’s me. You know it, y’fuckin’ bitch. Don’t stand there acting like you don’t recognize me. Are you serious right now?”
You don’t answer it this time. You keep Naoya’s tanto knife strapped to your forearm, hidden beneath your sleeve, and you pull out your own instead, leaning back on your heels before turning your attention back up to it. Naoya’s face stares back at you, something close to confusion slipping onto it when you pull out the knife—it’s not him, you know it’s not him, but how—how are you supposed to kill something that wears his face? When his face will be the one that twists in pain, shock, anger when you sink the knife in? How are you supposed to do that?
You’re so fucking tired. You’re so tired. You’re so tired.
You’ll have to use your technique, you force yourself to push down all of your treacherous thoughts. You only have to keep pushing a little more, then you can rest. With your technique activated, you’ll be able to see its movements without having to actually see it at all. All you’ll have to do is follow its cursed energy paths. You exhale through your nose deeply, lifting your hand up, and you watch as its eyes widen, and its face twists—fury, disbelief, worse, betrayal—as it realizes what exactly you’re here for.
“You traitor bitch,” it shrieks at you. It doesn’t sound like Naoya this time, not at all. Too inhuman, twisted with rage and hatred. Naoya has been angry with you millions of times before, but he’s never sounded like this, never so hateful. “I came back for you! I came back for you! And you’re going to side with them? You’re choosing them?! I’m gonna kill you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you—”
Your lips curl up into a small smile as your eyes slide shut. His rage lights up the paths ahead of you in jagged, violent arcs, fast and amateurish, all force and no restraint. Not Naoya. Your Naoya was never so sloppy.
You tell him quietly, “Not if I kill you first.”
He lunges, and you are already moving.
The first strike tears through the space where your head was going to be a breath ago. You pivot on your heel, slipping inside the gap your technique showed you, blade flashing up in a clean strike that cuts through its arm. It makes a noise as the blade clips it, more surprised than angry or wounded, as though it didn’t actually expect you to try to hurt it. You can picture the wide-eyed, betrayed expression Naoya would direct toward you, and it makes your stomach churn.
Focus.
You slip past the next blow just as easily, feet moving on instinct, body remembering a rhythm that you learned a long, long time ago. It’s not Naoya, not really, but it favors its left side, the same way Naoya always used to, and it strikes with its right hand first, just like he would. You can almost imagine that the two of you are back at your estate, sparring in the training grounds while your brothers watched, can almost imagine laughing as you dodge another quick blow, gaze catching his as you toss a smile at his scowl, can almost imagine that this is all just for fun, that you’ll end this sprawled on the ground, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing the way you always do. You have to swallow back the lump that forms in your throat, ducking under a swing and driving your blade into its side.
The cursed spirit is faster than Naoya was, and you can hear it laughing as it moves away, a shrill sound that scrapes at your ears. “Lookit me!” it demands, voice pitching high and low all at once. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, refusing. “I said, look at me! I’m stronger than I ever was—I’m better! Don’t get tired, don’t bleed, don’t need anyone, not even you, not even you!”
You pivot before the next strike even exists, something hot and wet tracks down your cheeks—you don’t know if it’s blood or tears, and you don’t want to know. Every second this fight drags on, the cursed spirit gets faster and faster, and you have to compensate by pushing your technique further, three steps to five, five to seven, seven to ten—you’ve never pushed past ten, and your head is pounding as you force yourself to.
“Why won’t you fucking look at me?” it snarls, furious, swinging again, wild and overextended, desperate for you to look at it—really look—like it’s waiting for praise, recognition, for you to tell it that it’s enough for you. Naoya would do this too, would linger around and wait for you to acknowledge him, but he was never so open about it. “Look at me, y’fucking bitch. I don’t need you! I never did, I never needed you, fucking look at me!”
You need to get it to stop moving—to cut off the stacks of Projection Sorcery before it ramps up the speed to something you can’t physically react to in time. It doesn’t matter how far you see ahead if it keeps accelerating beyond what your body can handle. You grit your teeth as it flees again, backing away to pick up momentum, and you watch a path start to form behind you, cutting through buildings, tearing up the street, and your jaw tightens. You drop down right as it speeds past the stop sign at the end of the street, grabbing a fistful of crushed asphalt and swinging it upward, flinging it into where his face will be in a few moments.
“Fuck—” it gasps, and you can’t help the way your eyes flutter open as it stumbles back, getting caught in one of its own frames for a split second. Shock flickers across its face before rage swallows it whole. “Cheap fuckin’ trick.”
“Same trick,” you correct quietly. “Naoya never would’ve fallen for it.”
You hesitate for a second too long, gaze lingering on its face—Naoya’s face, his stolen face—and suddenly you’re looking up at the sky, vision white for half a heartbeat. Pain blooms along your spine, and before you can roll away, a familiar shadow looms over you
“Knew I’d get ya back where ya belong,” it says with an ugly sneer. “Always preferred you like this—flat on your fuckin’ back, spread out, lookin’ up at me with that helpless look in your eyes.”
It bends over you, grabbing your face between its fingers, and you glare up at it hatefully. Its skin is cold. You blink, and for a second, the face above you is half-caved in, blood and gore, and you’re back in the Zenin estate, holding him in your arms, begging the world not to take him from you too.
Focus, you think, and you pray that the wetness on your cheeks is blood and not tears.
You grab the wrist of the hand holding your face as leverage, and you reach up, grabbing a fistful of its hair to yank it down to the ground with you. If you can keep it on the floor, it can’t dart around and regain momentum. It hits the pavement hard with a hiss of surprise, bodies colliding in an ugly sprawl. The impact rattles your teeth, and it snarls, flailing, trying to kick free, cursed energy spiking in erratic bursts as it tries to use Projection Sorcery to get off the ground, but you refuse to let go, pushing its face into the muddy asphalt like the two of you are eight and ten again, rolling around in the garden.
“Get off!” it shrieks, clawing at you, trying to buck you off, and you jab your knee hard into its side. It lets out a sharp and startled yelp, and for a split second, you remember the way he would let out obnoxious squeaks when the two of you were children and you got a good hit in, face flaming red as you make fun of him. You almost let a laugh slip out, but catch yourself. You think you are crying. “Get off!”
You can’t kill it with your bare hands, you know that, but your hands find its throat anyway. Your fingers tighten around it, nails digging in as if you can choke the rage out of it. Its blood isn’t even red—murky purple, disgusting beneath your nails. Not Naoya, not your Naoya. You shut your eyes again, you can’t look at it. It thrashes beneath you, clawing at your arms, dragging red lines through your biceps, but you stay there, knees planted around its waist, grip on its neck tightening, tears and blood alike spilling over your cheeks in hot, uncontrollable streams.
“Why—” you choke out, voice breaking as your grip tightens. “Why couldn’t you have just come over? Why couldn’t you have just listened? Just this once?”
“Get off!” it continues to shriek. You think that it could probably force you off if it really wanted to, but it doesn’t. It claws and screams and tries to roll you off of it to get the upperhand, and you wonder if whatever is left of Naoya in there has fallen back into memory, just like you: knees in the dirt, hands everywhere, neither of you willing to give an inch, breathless and furious and laughing despite yourselves, limbs tangled in the garden mud because neither of you ever knew how to stop. It’s all the same—nothing’s ever changed. You think it was always going to end this way, one way or another. “Get off, get off, get off!”
“Shut up!” you scream, the sound tearing out of you raw and ugly. You hold his throat tighter and shake furiously. “Shut up! Tell me why! Tell me why you had to run off like that! Why did you have to be so fucking stupid? Why did you have to leave? You were always enough for me, why wasn’t I ever enough for you, you fucking asshole?”
The cursed spirit bucks beneath you again, rage flaring, but there’s something else there too now—confusion, fury tangled with something like pain. It spits again, “I was gonna fix it. I was gonna come back. I did come back. I always fuckin’ come back, don’t I? I’m here—with you. I did it. I fuckin’ did it,” You can’t look at it, eyes still squeezed tight, “and I’m stronger now, faster, can’t you see? Why won’t you look at me? Look at me! Just fuckin’ look at me! Fuck!”
You do, finally, and Naoya stares up at you, gold eyes wild and unfocused, too bright, too sharp, burning with something that is not life. The face is his and it isn’t all at once. For a second—just a split second—you see it: the boy who kicked dirt at your ankles, the man who always came back to you, the idiot who loved you so fiercely that it curdled into something ugly when he didn’t know how to deal with it. Your chest aches, a shuddering breath spilling from your lips, and then—
Then it’s gone, swallowed by something feral and wrong.
It knocks you off of it in your moment of hesitation, and your back hits the asphalt hard, pain jolting up your spine as the breath punches out of your lungs. You skid across the street, shirt tearing, skin burning, ears ringing. You’re in so much pain, you are so tired, and you push yourself back up to your feet anyway. It’s gone already, back to using its technique, trying to pick up speed again. Your head feels heavy and tired as you lift your hand back to activate yours, brain throbbing as his path becomes visible again.
You won't be able to keep outmaneuvering it, you realize. You're running out of energy. Everything hurts. You are tired—so tired. You need to end this—you're the only one who can end this, because you won't let Naoya—this thing born of his energy—die by anyone else's hands, not again. You owe him that much, since you didn't properly avenge him.
You see it all before it happens—before you even come to the decision yourself—you see the angle of its approach, the way it comes at you head-on, the moment it expects you to dodge. It always expects you to dodge, so did Naoya, because you always do.
Except this time, you don’t—can’t—don’t. You don’t know for sure. Don’t know if it matters. Don’t care if it matters. You are tired—physically, mentally, and your limbs won’t cooperate with you either way. You need to end this, need to get close enough to reach the cursed spirit's core.
Its hand spears toward your chest, powered by its cursed energy—Naoya’s warped cursed energy—and pain detonates through you, blinding. The impact knocks the air from your lungs in a broken gasp as its hand drives clean through muscle and bone. Warmth floods your chest, and your knees almost buckle.
It freezes, like it’s unsure what just happened.
“What—” it breathes out. “You—why didn’t you—”
You grab its wrist for leverage and force yourself forward, deeper on its arm, before you sling your arms around its shoulders, a twisted mimicry of a hug. You flatten your palm against its upper back, right over the stab wound that killed your Naoya. Your face drops into the crook of its neck, and you say softly, “It’s here, isn’t it? The core?”
It doesn’t seem to register what you said. “Why didn’t you dodge?” it demands again. “Why didn’t you dodge, y’bitch? Why didn’t you dodge?!”
You exhale, blood bubbling at your lips, and you free Naoya’s tanto knife from where it’s hidden beneath your sleeve, and you muster all that’s left of your cursed energy to infuse it into the blade before you drive it into him.
It gasps—raw and startled and terribly familiar—the blade sinks in with sickening ease, plunging right into the cursed spirit’s core. It goes rigid in your arms, the hand buried in your chest trembles once, before it pulls it out, but it doesn’t push you away like you expect. Its breath tears out in a sound that is too close to your name, and it staggers, leaning into you, and for a moment, you’re pressed together in some grotesque parody of an embrace—blood slicking your clothes, face, hands, pooling beneath the two of you and staining the asphalt.
“Can’t believe the most romantic thing we’re ever gonna do is die together,” you murmur hoarsely, choking on what you think is a laugh. All of the anger and grief that has been plaguing you for days shifts into something closer to acceptance, eyes sliding shut briefly. This was always how it was going to happen, you think again—you and him dying together like this. One way or another, you always find your way back to each other, even now, even for this. Especially for this. You think, maybe, you wouldn’t have had it any other way. “Asshole, we could’ve gotten married if you weren’t so fucking stubborn.”
“You’re the fuckin’ stubborn one,” he rasps, and like you, all of the rage and malice that caused him to be reborn drains away into something far more human, forehead dropping against your shoulder. “Makin’ me wait for years, then finally agreein’ and wanting to wait even longer for the damn cherry blossoms.”
“All seems so dumb now,” you sigh, propping your chin on his shoulder, gaze lifting to the clear skies. “Could’ve had so much more time together.”
“I woulda waited longer,” he tells you quietly. “However long it took.”
Your knees finally buckle, and he eases you down to the ground before collapsing next to you. His body is disappearing slowly, the lower half first, creeping upward—a cursed spirit, not your Naoya, you remind yourself, but you don’t have it in you to keep making the distinction anymore. Naoya enough, just for a little bit. He’s so fucking stubborn, you think, almost fondly. Even as a cursed spirit, he’s clinging on to his form when most would’ve dissolved the moment the blade pierced its core.
“Let me go first this time, okay?” you breathe out, head dropping to rest on his shoulder, vision blurring a bit at the edges. You think you feel him reach for your hand, but your limbs are numb, and you don’t have the strength to look down and check. “It’s only fair.”
“Talkin’ about fairness when ya stabbed me in the back,” he mutters. “Y’got some nerve, y’know that?”
You laugh at that, blood bubbling slightly at your lips, eyes sliding shut. He laughs too. You can feel his shoulders shaking beneath your head
There’s a pause, and then you feel pressure on your fingers. You’re right, you realize, he is holding your hand, fingers entwined with yours, thumb brushing over the ring on your fourth finger. You try to squeeze, but the movement is small and clumsy, everything you have left.
After a moment, he tells you quietly, “I’m sorry. I thought—I didn’t—”
“Quit apologizing,” you mutter. “You’re gonna make me sick. I’m already dying, don’t make it more painful.”
He lets out a huff of air—a laugh, you think—and then asks, “Are we… okay?”
You smile, faint and tired, mind starting to slip. “Idiot, we’ll always be okay.”
“Next time, let’s not fuck around so much, yeah?” he exhales, long and shaky. “Let’s do it right.”
“Yeah, that… that sounds really nice.”
————————
NOVEMBER 25TH, 2018
Satoru asks about you a few days after he’s unsealed.
(“If she’s not here, then…” Maki grimaces and looks away at his words. Satoru lets out a sigh, an unreadable expression crossing his face as he stares ahead. “How did it happen?”
“It didn’t have to happen,” Maki replies, jaw tight and lips pinched. “If she had just let Kamo-kun and I handle Naoya—”
Satoru’s eyes widen. “Naoya killed her?” he asks, voice riddled with shock. “I was only sealed for three weeks, right?”
“Naoya came back as a cursed spirit after he died,” Maki says after a moment, and something close to understanding flashes through Satoru’s eyes as soon as he hears it, already having figured out where this is going. “She insisted on exorcising him herself. Wouldn’t accept help. She—I think she purposely—”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” Satoru lets out a huff of air, gaze solemn as he turns it up toward the sky. “She was always stubborn as hell. Man, she picked the worst possible time to pull something like this, didn’t she? Her technique would’ve been game-changing for this fight.”
“You don’t sound surprised,” Maki murmurs quietly. “I know you two were really close, sensei. You should know, it was—”
He lifts a hand, stopping her without looking at her. “Don’t. I don’t need the details.” His gaze drops back down to the ground. “She made her choice, and I won’t disrespect her by pretending I don’t understand it.” He tosses Maki an easy, familiar smile, mask slipping back into place. “I did warn her. Guess I get to tell her ‘I told you so’ one day. C’mon. Let’s get back to work. No rest for the wicked, right?”)
————————
I actually contemplated so many different endings for this fic, but I feel as though this one was the most fitting for them. If you’re curious, my two big options were: 1) what I’m going to do for the alternate ending, where the Naoya still got caught up in the Zenin Massacre but he was alive when she got there, he was in a coma for a few months before he wakes up again, and 2) Naoya goes to her instead of going back to the Zenin estate. This was my initial idea for the ending, he would go to her, they would end up showing up to help for the Shinjuku showdown arc, and then they would die during the Sukuna fight instead. But then I figured if I was going to kill them anyway, I think it would be best leaving it for canon, and then I got the lovely idea of her having to exorcise curse!naoya and I just had to go with it.
I think the part I struggled most with this part of the fic was balancing her dislike of the Zenins. I think its pretty apparent through the first three parts of the fic that she really does not like the Zenins as a whole (lends to the huge part of our girl being a major hypocrite). She was miserable being there as a kid, even when she started looking forward to seeing Naoya, because they treated her so poorly compared to how she was treated at her own clan's estate. I think I probably could have done a better job of displaying that back in part 1, because it mostly came off in implications (the interactions with Naotaka, how she was always very tense when people other than naoya were around, etc) but I was just more focused on her developing relationship with Naoya. Even when she returns at 19 at Naoya's invite, they literally isolate her and pretend she's not there, AND EVEN AFTER HER CLAN IS KILLED AND SHE BCOMES CLAN HEAD, they are very cold to her. She HATED the Zenins, and that's partially why she couldn't hold what Maki did against her, even without knowing Mai's death was the immediate cause of the massacre. But I was struggling very hard with balancing that & her reasoning as to why she couldn't bring herself to go after Maki when Naoya is literally her whole world, but eventually I just decided that it just would not feel right of her to do that because 1) she literally watched Maki grow up idolizing her as being everything the Zenins hated and THRIVING while being it, and 2) she's still a kid, one of Satoru's kids, one of HER kids really, because she was the one who helped her by talking to Satoru, and I just could not see her going for revenge with all of that taken into consideration alongside how she feels about the Zenins.
I also think it added on to her complicated treatment of Noritoshi and how she felt as if she never got revenge and dishonored her family. Like every time she's lost someone, she's never been able to properly avenge them, and it just adds into the tragedy of it all.
So dfjhusuhfasfd I wasn’t actually sure how to go about handling vengeful cursed spirit Naoya. I think it was pretty obvious in the manga that he retained A LOT of his previous personality whe he was reborn as a curse, and I wasn’t sure how far to extend it with our girl. Hatred/resentment is easy to retain when being reborn as a curse since its a negative emotion, but we see with Rika that love is twisted into something awful, so I thought it would be more fitting if it was partially displayed in resentment toward his dependency on her + his insatiable need for validation from her. So he retained most of his love for her, but it was seriously twisted + he was more aggressive/erratic as a curse. I lowkey probably screwed up a lot of cursed spirit lore with this HDFAIUFHSD especially that ending bit, but I don’t care because it fits the narrative I was trying to create. Their last conversation at the end was meant to reflect the conversation Rika had with Yuta after the curse was severed.
Also probably screwed up the rest of the culling games by having her introduce a rule of her own, I don't even really know if the kogane would allow that rule, but you already know what I'm going to say: don't care since it builds the narrative I was trying to create KDAFHAIUHDFUASUHDF
Also to get one thing straight before I have people in my inbox annoyed: curse!naoya would have curb stomped her if he was actually taking it seriously. She can use her technique to read into future actions, so she would’ve lasted longer than most, but he eventually just would’ve been going too fast that it wouldn’t have mattered she could see ahead, because she just physically wouldn’t be able to react fast enough. That’s partially why she chose to just take the blow at the end, but I purposely left her reasonings up to interpretation so you could decide for yourself if she 1) let him kill her, 2) was too exhausted to keep fighting, or 3) did it for strategic purposes. Either way, curse!naoya was not taking the fight as seriously, because when he was reborn as a curse, it was partially in attachment to her, so he didn't want to intentionally hurt her, just like rika wouldn't want to intentially hurt yuta, even if it was very aggressive/angry at her. That’s also why it was so shocked at the end when she didn’t dodge.
I also think it’s so funny and we’re going to see this in the alternate ending I’m going to write, but I genuinely think if she’d been around for the Shinjuku showdown, things would’ve gone very differently SDKFJSIHFSUDFH I do need to reread it soon, and I have gojo mention it at the end, but her being able to trace paths however far ahead would have been game changing for the sole reason that she would’ve seen Sukuna’s world slash before it killed gojo when everyone assumed he won. All this to say, I’m a bit excited for the alternate ending because we’re going to get a cute (almost) everyone lives au
I can’t think of anything else but thank you guys so much for reading my fic and being so kind to me. I love you all it’s been so fun sharing this all with everyone. MWAH MWAH
I don't know what to say for myself, this was written in one afternoon because I think Naoya would have a crazy breeding kink and even bigger pregnancy kink and would never shut his dirty mouth. This is pretty dirty, not proofread. MDNI. Enjoy you dirty deprived things. I'll see you in hell.
Warnings: P in V sex, pregnancy sex, pregnancy kink, breeding kink, toxic relationships, lactation, milk drinking, misogynist meets misandrist, dirty talk, filth tbh, oral sex, fingering, kitchen sex, semi public sex.
Banner by @cafekitsune
You hadn’t married Naoya Zenin because he was a good man.
You married him because he was useful. Power, protection, silk-lined rooms where nothing ever went unanswered. Granted, he never let you want for anything, not jewels, not gowns nor money, not blood when someone crossed you. He was a misogynistic curse wrapped in pedigree and arrogance, and you’d recognized the breed immediately.
And instead of flinching, you bit back.
Somehow, that had fascinated him.
You were everything Naoya claimed women shouldn't be: sharp-tongued, willful, unyielding. You didn’t soften him—God, no—but you redirected the worst of him, aimed it outward like a blade you kept polished. You hated men with the same fervor he hated women, and in that mutual disdain you found rhythm. He never knew if you’d kiss him or cut him with a sentence, and the uncertainty left him drunk on you. Really, it was a blessing to the rest of the world you had found each other.
Marriage hadn’t dulled it. If anything, it sharpened the edges.
Now there was a ring on your finger, a Zenin name stitched into your spine, and a child growing heavy beneath your ribs—an irony that wasn't wasted on either of you. Naoya was intoxicated by it. By you. By the fact that you’d chosen him not out of obedience, but appetite.
Which was why the last time you saw your favorite fish-shaped soy sauce dispenser, it was hurling toward his head with lethal precision as servants scurried out of the room.
“You absolute fuck,” you hissed, one hand cradling your swollen belly. “Tell me again how my cravings are ‘excessive’ when you’re the one who ate my entire stash of pickled plums?”
Naoya barely dodged, the ceramic fish shattering against the kitchen wall. Soy sauce splattered like ink. His smirk didn’t waver.
“Pregnancy suits you,” he said mildly, stepping over the wreckage toward you. “Your aim’s gotten sharper.”
His fingers brushed your hip, lingering where your dress strained against new curves—possessive, unapologetic. You swatted his hand away, even as heat crept up your neck.
“Don’t,” you snapped. “I’m still pissed.”
The words lacked conviction. He heard it immediately.
Naoya laughed, low and pleased, crowding you back against the counter. His palm settled warm and familiar over your belly, where something small kicked in response—already restless, already stubborn.
The kitchen smelled like soy sauce and the ginger tea you’d been nursing all morning. Naoya leaned in, inhaling near your temple like your irritation was something he could savor.
“I’ll buy you more plums,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear. “And those seaweed crackers you threw at the cashier yesterday.”
You scoffed, even as you let him stay close.
God help anyone who thought this marriage was a mistake.
"You’re missing the point," you muttered, but your fingers were already twisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His body was solid against yours, familiar and grounding, even when the world tilted with hormones and cravings. You bit his lower lip—half punishment, half plea—and he groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up to cradle your face.
His thigh pressed between yours, and you arched into him with a gasp, the counter’s edge digging into your back. "Someone’s eager," he teased, nipping at your jaw. "You sure it's just cravings driving you wild? Or are you horny again?"
You hooked a leg around his hip, relishing the way his breath hitched. "Shut up and kiss me properly." The words dissolved into a moan as his mouth crashed against yours, hungry and claiming. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your pulse spike. The baby kicked again, a sharp flutter beneath his palm, and Naoya broke away with a laugh that was more growl than amusement. "Feisty little thing. Takes after you."
The grocery bags rustled violently as you shoved them off the counter with your elbow. Glass jars clattered to the floor— a servant could worry about that later. Right now, Naoya’s teeth on your collarbone and his hands squeezing your thighs were the only things that mattered. You raked your nails down his back, grinning when he cursed into your skin.
His fingers found the hem of your dress, hiking it up just as the front door creaked open. "Oh, my apologies —" a servant's voice cut through the heated moment before retreating with frantic footsteps. You froze, lips swollen and chest heaving, while Naoya's smirk returned tenfold. "Seems like we're scandalizing the staff again," he murmured against your throat, not bothering to stop his hands from roaming.
"You're insufferable," you gasped, but the way your hips rolled against his thigh betrayed your words. Naoya's mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing the sensitive swell of your milk heavy breast where your dress had slipped. A needy whine escaped you — damn hormones, damn him for knowing exactly how to unravel you.
The servant's retreating footsteps still echoed down the hall when Naoya abruptly lifted you onto the counter, his hands were already under your dress, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your panties. "You were saying?" he taunted, mouth hovering just above yours, close enough to taste your uneven breaths.
A shudder ran through you as his thumb circled your clit—slow, deliberate strokes that made your thighs tremble. "Asshole," you choked out, gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave crescent marks through his shirt. The cool air from the broken kitchen window ghosted over your damp skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly.
Naoya’s chuckle was dark, pleased. "Liar." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as his fingers slid lower, teasing your entrance. "You love it." The stretch burned just enough to make you arch, your nails scraping down his back as he worked you open with torturous patience. The counter dug into your thighs, the edge biting, but the pain only sharpened the pleasure coiling tighter inside you.
His thumb circled your clit faster, his other hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Look at you," he murmured, voice rough. "Soaked just from this. Imagine how hard you’ll cum on my cock." The crude promise sent a shiver through you, your thighs clamping around his wrist instinctively.
You barely had time to gasp before his fingers plunged deeper, curling just right to make your back arch off the counter as he stepped closer, crowding you against the cabinets. "Naoya—" His name tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your shoulder, the sharp sting mingling with the relentless press of his fingers. The baby kicked violently, as if protesting the sudden spike in your pulse, but all you could focus on was the coil of pleasure tightening mercilessly low in your belly.
The front door slammed shut somewhere in the house—finally, privacy—and Naoya took full advantage, ripping your panties aside with a careless tug. The fabric snapped, but his mouth was already between your thighs, tongue laving a hot stripe up your slit before sealing over your clit. You cried out, fingers fisting in his hair as he sucked and lapped relentlessly.
"You taste even sweeter pregnant," he growled against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your core. His tongue delved deeper, curling just the way you liked, and your thighs trembled around his head. The baby kicked again, a sharp jab near your ribs, but the discomfort melted under the onslaught of pleasure. Naoya’s fingers dug into your ass, tilting you harder against his mouth, and you sobbed, overstimulated and desperate.
His chuckle was dark, muffled against your soaked folds. "Could get addicted to this—round belly, your tits heavy thanks to me," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your reaction as his fingers replaced his tongue. "Wanna keep you like this forever. Full of me." The crude promise sent heat flaring across your skin, his thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. He smirked, pressing closer. "Already thinking about the next one, aren’t you? I can feel how tight you clench around my fingers"
You gasped as his free hand palmed your swollen stomach possessively. "Gonna breed you until this house overflows with our brats," he growled, lips brushing your inner thigh. His teeth grazed sensitive skin—not hard enough to mark, but enough to make your hips jerk. "Watch you waddle around all soft and fucked-out, belly round with another kid before the first even walks." The image shouldn’t have sent liquid heat pooling between your thighs, but your body betrayed you, clenching around his thrusting fingers.
Naoya laughed—a low, filthy sound—when you moaned. "Knew you’d love that," he murmured, dragging his tongue along your folds again just to feel you shudder. "Imagine it—your tits leaking while I fuck another baby into you." His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling in time with the sinful words. "Gonna keep you full of me until you forget what it feels like to be empty."
You whimpered, thighs quivering around his head as his tongue delved deeper, lapping up every drop. The counter dug into your back, but the pain was distant, drowned out by the heat coiling tighter in your belly. "Naoya—" His name cracked in your throat as his teeth grazed your clit, the sharp sting making your hips jerk. "Fuck—yes—"
"Already so close," he murmured against your soaked folds, lips brushing your swollen skin with each word. "Just from my mouth. Pathetic." His fingers curled inside you, pressing against that sweet spot that made your vision blur. "Gonna keep you like this—always wet, always full." His thumb circled your clit faster, matching the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. "Next time I knock you up, it’ll be twins."
The vulgar promise tipped you over the edge. Your back arched off the counter as pleasure crashed through you, sharp and consuming. Naoya didn't let up, his tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit until your thighs clamped around his head, trapping him there as you trembled through the aftershocks.
When you finally sagged against the cabinets, breathless and boneless, he rose with a self-satisfied smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Messy," he taunted, licking his lips deliberately. The sight of his damp chin, the way his pupils were blown wide with lust—it coiled the heat low in your belly again despite your exhaustion.
The kitchen was in shambles: shattered ceramics, spilled groceries. Naoya didn't seem to care, stepping over the wreckage to cage you against the counter again. His erection pressed insistently against your thigh, and you rolled your hips instinctively, drawing a ragged groan from him. "Greedy," he accused, nipping at your jaw. "Thought I just wore you out."
You hooked your fingers in his belt, tugging impatiently. "Don't flatter yourself." The retort lost its edge when he ground against you, the friction drawing a moan from your throat. His hands slid under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your legs wrapped around his waist. The counter's edge dug into your back, but the discomfort was secondary to the heat of his body, the way his breath hitched when you raked your nails down his chest. He lifted you fully onto the counter. With one hand, he unbuckled his belt, your breath hitched as he freed himself, thick and flushed, pressing against your slick entrance. "Still pissed about the plums?" he taunted, dragging his tip through your folds, slow and maddening.
You grabbed his jaw, forcing his gaze to yours. "Stop teasing," you snarled, nails biting into his skin. "Fuck me good, Naoya." The demand ripped from your throat, raw and needy. Naoya's smirk vanished, replaced by something feral. He gripped your thighs, yanking you to the very edge of the counter, and slammed into you with a groan. The stretch burned—he was relentless, no gentleness left—and you arched into it, nails scraping down his back.
Naoya's thrusts knocked more groceries off the counter—a bag of rice split open, grains scattering across the tiles. "Fuck," he growled, one hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back. "Taking me so deep." His thumb pressed against your swollen stomach.
His mouth crashed onto yours, swallowing your moans before trailing lower, teeth scraping down your throat. When his lips closed around one taut nipple, you gasped, back arching off the counter. He sucked hard, tongue circling the sensitive peak until milk beaded at the tip. The sensation was electric—too much and not enough—your hips jerking against his with every pull of his mouth. "Fuck," you whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair.
Naoya groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight to your core. He drank greedily, one hand kneading your other breast as he worked you with his mouth. The sweet ache of relief mixed with the filthy pleasure of his tongue lapping at your leaking nipple. "So fucking sweet," he growled, switching sides without breaking rhythm. Your milk glistened on his chin when he pulled back, pupils blown wide.
You gasped when he twisted your nipple between his fingers, sending another trickle down your flushed skin. Naoya caught it with his tongue, dragging the flat of it up your chest in a slow, deliberate stroke that made your thighs tremble. The baby kicked violently beneath his palm—a sharp protest—but he only smirked and pressed down harder. "Little shit's jealous," he murmured before sealing his lips over your nipple again.
The suction pulled a ragged moan from your throat. Your hips jerked against his, desperate for friction, but Naoya kept his thrusts slow and deep, denying you the pace you craved. Every drag of his cock inside you burned just right, stretching you full in a way that made your toes curl. "Naoya—" His name shattered into a whine when he bit down lightly on your nipple.
"Where's that smart mouth gone?" he snarled, tilting your body to watch himself slide in and out of you, slick and obscene. "So fucking greedy—taking me like you’re not already full." His thumb pressed against your clit in rough circles, the pressure just shy of painful.
"Tell me what you need babygirl." His hips rolled, grinding deeper, the head of his cock pressing against that spot inside that made your vision flicker. The stretch was unbearable—perfect. You clawed at his shoulders, nails biting through his ruined shirt.
"Need you to—ah—fuck me stupid, make me cum." you gasped, arching when his thumb found your clit again. The rough pad circled mercilessly, dragging you closer to the edge with every stroke. Naoya laughed, low and dark, his breath hot against your ear. "Already halfway there, sweetheart." His teeth scraped your earlobe, the sting sharpening the pleasure coiling tighter in your belly.
"You gonna cum on my cock like this?" he murmured, lips brushing your throat as his hips snapped forward, driving deeper. "All swollen with my kid, tits leaking?" The filthy words sent a shudder through you, your walls fluttering around him. Naoya groaned, his grip tightening on your hips. "Fuck—squeezing me like you don’t wanna let go. Greedy little thing."
His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and you arched off the counter with a cry. .
"Come on, sweetheart," Naoya growled against your throat, his breath scalding. "Let go for me." His fingers dug into your hips, guiding your movements as he fucked up into you with relentless precision. Every snap of his hips sent shockwaves through your oversensitive body, the friction of his cock dragging against your inner walls just right. Your thighs trembled around him, toes curling against the small of his back as pleasure coiled tighter, unbearable.
His thumb pressed harder against your clit, circling in tight, filthy strokes that matched the rhythm of his thrusts. "That's it," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Gonna milk my cock just like this when I fill you up again." The vulgar promise tipped you over the edge—your back arched off the counter as white-hot ecstasy ripped through you, your nails scoring deep red lines down his shoulders. Naoya didn't relent, fucking you through your orgasm with brutal efficiency, his groan rough against your skin as your walls clenched around him.
"Fuck—keep squeezing me like that," he growled, hips stuttering. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips leaving bruises as he chased his own release. You whimpered, oversensitive and pliant beneath him, but he didn't slow—just dragged his tongue up your throat and bit down hard on your pulse point. The sharp pain mingled with the aftershocks, drawing another broken cry from your lips as he pistoned into you with reckless abandon.
His rhythm faltered when your nails raked down his back, his breath hitching against your damp skin. "Gonna fill you up so deep—" His voice cracked as he bottomed out inside you, his cock twitching as hot spurts of cum flooded your cunt. You gasped at the sudden warmth, your body still fluttering weakly around him, milking every last drop. Naoya groaned, forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged against your lips.
Naoya's hands trembled slightly where they gripped your hips, his usual composure shattered. You smirked, dragging a lazy finger through the mess on his collarbone. "Tired already?" you teased, voice husky.
He bared his teeth in something between a grin and a snarl, nipping at your swollen bottom lip. "Keep talking and I'll bend you over the dining table next."
SUMMARY: you are six years old when you’re betrothed to zenin naoya. you don’t believe in love at first sight, but he has proved to you that hatred at first sight does indeed exist. you have ten years to get out of this arrangement—the clock is ticking.
WARNINGS: fem!reader. canon compliant (MCD accordingly, not in this part tho). i took some liberty with 1) zenin clan relationships and 2) cursed energy lore for reader’s technique. naoya is his own warning—he’s gonna give you a lot of whiplash. heavily implied abuse (naobito->naoya). toxic relationship (i stress, toxic relationship). misogyny (obviously). moments of misandry from reader. reader & naoya are quick to turn to violence when they’re kids 💀 they fight a lot. liberal use of bitch (naoya to reader). asshole 4 asshole (naoya sucks, so does reader—the crux of their relationship is that they’re both so intolerable they can only tolerate each other). as always with my fics, reader has personality & background. I think I’m missing some warnings, pls tell me if you catch anything I missed, there are a lot LOL
AUTHOR’S NOTE: guys get this man AWAY FROM ME!!!!!! This is gonna be a 3 part fic: this first part is set from ages 6-15, part 2 will be ages 18-20, part 3 will be 21 to canon. Sighs so heavily ………… I hope you all enjoy, I did have a lot of fun writing this, they were quite fun to write for me. I took some liberties with Naoya’s childhood because as we know, the Zenin’s suck, and even being their golden boy, I highly doubt he was totally exempt from all of it when abuse is so engrained into the clan the way it is. Anyway, I unfortunately doubt this mini series will be the last of my fics for him, because I do want to explore a dynamic where reader meets him when he’s older, because it would be MUCH different. almost everything about their dynamics/relationship is the way it is BECAUSE they met when they were so young, and I’d like to explore a more “canonically accurate” naoya (not to say this one isn’t, but it’s obviously very different circumstances). Here is a post I made about reader’s cursed technique—it’s described in the fic as well, but if you’re interested to read!
SEE: MUTUALLY ASSURED DESTRUCTION series masterlist
1999 | READER, AGE 6; NAOYA, AGE 8
The first time you meet Zenin Naoya, you are six years old, and you’ve just returned from the west with your older brother. You feel awkward and out of place, tugging at the silk sleeves of your kimono. It’s your first time back in Japan since your brother whisked you away two years ago to visit your late mother’s side of the family, and you spent the entire car ride over to the Zenin estate listening to the two of them argue with each other. Your father warns you to be on your best behavior, because this is your clan’s only chance to climb up the impossible ladder of jujutsu society, and you just nod, because you don’t want him to turn his ire onto you next.
Smile, he tells you. The Zenins are traditional. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to, and don’t embarrass us.
Naoya arrives late, flanked by adults who are all stiff and stern, and you can’t imagine marrying into a family so cold. Your father has impossible expectations and insatiable ambition, but he isn’t like this, and your time in the west with your brother has left you with high hopes for a future you were never meant to have. Your father has to pinch your upper arm to stop you from fidgeting because all of your instincts scream at you to run from these people. This is not a family you will be happy with. You turn a baleful look up to him, but he ignores it.
Naoya is smaller than you expected for the Zenin clan’s prodigy, sharp-faced and sharp-eyed, but he’s already wearing that look people get when they are certain the world will bend around them. You instantly know you won’t like him. When he sees you, his gaze flicks over you like you’re hardly worth his attention, and you find yourself bristling. You remember what your father told you, and how hard he worked to get this meeting, so you push away the irritation and put on your best smile.
The adults leave the two of you in the tea room to get acquainted while they discuss the potential arrangement, and you stand in silence for a long time, observing one another, each waiting for the other to make the first move. After what feels like an eternity, he finally tilts his head slightly and says scornfully:
“You’re plainer than I expected.”
You punch him in the face.
You don’t register the pain that spreads through your hand when your knuckles meet his teeth; as soon as you’re in motion, you know that you’ve made a mistake, but it’s too late to stop. The dull thump of knuckles against bone sounds like an explosion to your ears, and all of the air in your lungs whooshes right out. Naoya’s skin blooms red, lip bleeding as he stumbles back a step. His hand flies to his face, eyes widening, and for a heartbeat, the world freezes.
He stares at you, and you stare at him, and the only sound in the room is the ticking of a grandfather clock and your blood roaring in your ears.
Smile, be quiet, don’t embarrass us—the rules were simple, and you’ve broken them all. You punched the youngest son of the Zenin clan head in the face. You’ve ruined everything. You’ve been home for less than a week, and you’ve destroyed all your father has been working on for years. He’ll have to grovel if he doesn’t want to be ostracized by jujutsu society, and even that might not be enough for a transgression of this level. Your hands tremble now, and the sting in your knuckles becomes unbearable.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Then, to your horror, he laughs.
It’s quick and startled, like the sound escaped him before he could stop it. He presses his fingers to his mouth, eyes bright, more alive than they were a moment ago, but you can see the fury thinly veiled behind confusion, like he can’t decide whether he wants to be intrigued or angry.
“You hit me,” he says, voice riddled with disbelief. “You just punched me in the face.”
You don’t respond—can’t. You don’t know what expression is on your face, but Naoya doesn’t seem to like it. His expression twists, bemusement still warring with rage.
“Girls aren’t supposed to do that,” he tells you, as though you don’t already know.
“I don’t care,” you hiss before you can think better of it. You clutch your hand to your chest, feeling far too much like a cornered animal. You don’t know what to do. You punched him. You punched him in the face. What can you do? How can you fix this? The Zenins are the most influential clan in jujutsu society. All of your father’s work—
“Liar,” he accuses, and his smile is sharper now that he’s realized you’re scared, enjoying your discomfort, “if you didn’t care, your hand wouldn’t be shaking. You’re so screwed.”
Saying sorry isn’t going to work, you realize, because he only seems to be more thrilled by your fear—not that you want to apologize anyway.
“My hand is shaking because I’m trying to stop myself from punching you again,” you snap furiously—a lie, but you raise your fist threateningly, and Naoya’s eyes widen again.
He scowls at you, more irritated. “When my father finds out—”
“You’re going to tell your father you got hit by a girl?” you interrupt, raising your chin. It’s a desperate attempt to keep him quiet, but boys are prideful and stupid, so it might work. “If my brothers told my father they got hit by a girl, he would hit them twice as hard. I thought you were supposed to be the Zenin clan’s prodigy—the future clan head?”
Naoya is definitely angry now, you can tell from the way his lips twist and his hands fist at his sides. You wonder if he’s going to hit you back, so you lean back on your foot and raise both of your hands to defend yourself in the same way you learned to when your brothers drag you into their fights.
Before he can do anything, you hear footsteps from the corridor, signaling that the adults are returning to check on the two of you. Naoya gives you a vicious glare as he wipes the blood from his chin and straightens. You hide your bruised knuckles behind your back as you step forward to stand beside him just as the doors open.
Immediately, conversation dies at the sight of Naoya’s bruising cheek and bloody lip. Your brother has to physically turn away to hide the amused expression that instinctively spreads across his face, but your father looks aghast, throat bobbing as he swallows, lips parting over an apology. You swell with guilt, lashes lowering and lips trembling. One of the other Zenin men, not Naoya’s father, demands to know what happened. You should say something, you think, but—
“I fell,” Naoya says succinctly after a moment, voice cold and clipped. “The floorboards are uneven.”
Everyone looks at you. Your gaze drops to the ground, and the floorboards are definitely not uneven. You look at Naoya from the corner of your eye, and he’s already looking—glowering—at you, daring you to disagree with him. You’re sure that none of the adults are dumb enough to fall for that, not with the way you’re hiding your hand, but you double down on it anyway.
“He fell,” you confirm, nodding your head. “The floorboards are uneven.”
Zenin Naobito stares the two of you down, but Naoya only raises his chin, so you do too. He doesn’t want his father knowing that he let a girl get the better of him, and you don’t want anyone knowing that you punched a Zenin heir in the face, so you will show a united front in this regard.
Mutually assured destruction, if you will.
“Then I suppose we will have to get the floor redone. Can’t have my son tripping and falling over his own feet like a fool, can I?” Naobito says coldly after a moment. Naoya’s gaze drops to the ground, face twisting, but he doesn’t say anything in response. Naobito gives you the shivers—you don’t like the look in his eyes as his gaze slides over to examine you. “I take it that the two of you are getting along, then.”
Oh. Oh no.
How can you deny it without admitting something happened? Well, you don’t think you’re actually in the position to deny anything regardless, considering the Zenins are the more influential clan. He says the two of you, but he’s looking at Naoya for an answer, because it’s Naoya’s decision, not yours. You bite the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself not to look at him, waiting to see if he’ll say something, but you’re not sure what he would say that wouldn’t implicate something happened between the two of you. You only glance over when the silence stretches on too long, and you find hatred blazing in his eyes as he stares you down. You think he must see the same in yours, because his lip twitches into a sneer he has to put effort into hiding.
“Yes,” he says through his teeth. “She’s acceptable.”
Acceptable.
Your eye twitches.
You give Naobito a sweet smile and an incline of your head. “You raised a… charming son, Zenin-sama.”
Naobito lets out a noise that you think is either a scoff or a laugh. He must know that the two of you are lying through your teeth, but he says to your father anyway, “Alright then, let’s finalize this agreement and be done with it then.”
Dread pools in your stomach as your gaze drifts back over to Naoya, who stands stiff and straight-shouldered as the other members of his clan did when they first arrived. As soon as the adults are distracted with the logistics of the betrothal, he turns that lethal glare back onto you.
“I’m going to kill you,” he promises.
“Not if I kill you first,” you tell him.
You realize that some people in the world are just not meant to get along, and you and Zenin Naoya are definitely one of those pairs.
----------------
You see Naoya once a week after that.
Familiarity is good for discipline, and a future wife should learn early what she’s being folded into, is what Zenin Naobito had told your father when they were finalizing the details of this arrangement. You would visit the Zenin estate every Sunday from dawn until dusk to become acquainted with Naoya and understand what your duties will be once you marry into the family. In other words, the Zenin clan likes to test its investments before committing fully, and you are to be its greatest one, considering you’re betrothed to their future clan head.
Your father spends a full week putting you through torturous etiquette training in frantic preparation for the first visit after the mess that was introductions.
The nail that sticks out gets hammered down, he reminds you in the car on the way back to the estate, pinching your cheeks between his fingers. It’s not a threat so much as it is a warning. The Zenins will not tolerate disobedience from anyone, much less a woman. You must be on your best behavior when you are at their estate; the freedom you’re allowed at your clan’s estate will not be afforded to you there. When you cry to your father, asking why he would send you to them, of all people, he looks away and sends you to your lessons.
Your attendants drill reality into you: polite, elegant, submissive. A woman must always watch that she does not overstep her husband. She must be beautiful and obedient. Public image is the most important quality of a woman, as it determines what rank of man would be willing to marry her. Once her image is soiled, she becomes worthless to her family. No man wants to marry a tainted or otherwise undesirable woman. In simple words, this arrangement must go perfectly, or everyone will suffer for it, but no one more than you. Your image will be ruined, and you’ll lose any potential desirability in the eyes of the big three clans.
You hate it. A part of you would prefer if you were undesirable, but you don’t dare say that out loud, because you’re your father’s only daughter, and he’s counting on using you to forge an alliance with a more powerful clan. So, you sit through your lessons with gritted teeth and a twisted expression that you’re promptly trained out of and into a more pleasant smile instead.
By the time the first Sunday comes along, they’ve done everything they could to whip you into shape. You arrive at the Zenin estate with a subdued smile on your lips and rage swimming through your veins. Naoya waits for you at the gates with a smug smile, and when you step forward to walk with him to the gardens, he tells you smugly to walk three steps behind him. His father is watching from the engawa of the main building, and there are far too many other members of the clan around to get away with refusing without bringing shame to your family.
So you stare at him, hatred plain in your eyes, and you walk three steps behind him to the garden. You bide your time because he won’t have the eyes of his clan to shield him once the two of you are hidden within the hedges of the garden. He’s mid-comment about how maybe he’ll keep you as a wife since you’re learning your place when you drive your foot into the back of his knee, pressing the sharp edge of your hairpin to his pulse point. You tell him that the next time he says something so stupid to you, you’ll put it through his throat.
He doesn’t bring it up again after that.
Naoya sucks, you realize, but he’s quite easy to deal with. He only seems to care about two things: his pride and his title. You threaten both of those things by making him seem incompetent, so you’re able to negotiate a deal with him: you can act as you want when the two of you are in private, so long as in public, you play the role expected of you.
In front of the Zenins, you are quiet and demure. You walk three steps behind him, hands folded neatly in your sleeves, expression pleasant and unthreatening. You laugh when you’re supposed to, but never too loudly, you smile when expected, but never too brightly, and you never speak, unless directly addressed. You accept his presence at your side as though it’s an honor rather than a sentence.
You hate it. Every second is hell, and you spend your time at the Zenin estate cursing your father and desperately wanting to go home.
In private, you bare your teeth. Naoya learns quickly that you are not impressed by his name, his lineage, or his cursed technique. You roll your eyes when he boasts. You glare back when he scowls. You delight in needling him, asking him pointed questions about techniques he hasn’t mastered yet, and offering observations that cut far too close to insults. The two of you often end up brawling in the dirt whenever you’re alone, but you prefer that to playing the role expected of you.
He hates that. You’ve become used to tantrums about how you’re a “useless” excuse for a woman, and how it’s unfair that he’s stuck with you. More times than you can count, he threatens to tell your father and his about your “abhorrent” behavior.
(“Mutually assured destruction,” you tell him one day. “You ruin me, I ruin you. I’ll go to your father and tell him how incompetent you are. You let a girl bully you into keeping your mouth shut for over a year. How shameful is that?”
“I’m not incompetent,” he snaps at you instinctively, gold eyes flaring, “and my father won’t believe you.”
He sounds less sure when he says that. You smile sweetly and ask, “Should we find out?”
He remains silent. You win, as always.)
Sunday after Sunday, you learn how to exist beside one another. Most of your familiarization visits end with you fighting in the gardens and fumbling for excuses when Zenin Naobito casts a cold gaze over the two of you and asks what happened. You still consider it a win, because Naoya (mostly) stops acting like you’re beneath him, and starts treating you like a intolerable problem that refuses to go away instead.
By the time winter comes around, the two of you have settled into a comfortable truce. It’s not friendship or peace. You still can’t stand him, and he continues to insult you every chance he gets. The garden bears all of the evidence of your constant fights with scuffed earth, crumpled flower beds, and bent grass where one of you was knocked down and the other followed, fist raised. But it is stable, and stability feels like another victory. The two of you are enemies, yes, but you are also co-conspirators. Your relationship, if you can even call it that, is defined by the understanding that neither of you benefits from the other’s ruin, so over time, your united front created through the threat of mutual destruction begins to extend beyond just the deal you initially made with him.
You never mention the way his hands shake slightly when his father criticizes him too harshly, or how his shoulders tense when the man’s voice carries through the estate, even when the two of you are alone, and you have ample opportunity to use it against him. When he pushes himself too far with training, and his body refuses to cooperate with him when he tries to get back to his bedroom, you are the one who steers him out of sight and ensures no one sees the way his knees buckle or his breathing turns shallow. He fights you tooth and nail, but when you threaten to leave him for a brother or his father to find, he goes quiet quickly.
You see cracks in him the way he sees knives in you, and in return for him allowing you to keep your knives sharp without having to worry about bringing shame on your family, you ensure that the only person to ever see those cracks is you.
It’s not great, you understand that, but it will work until the two of you can figure out a way out of this mess without it backfiring on either of you.
----------------
2001 | READER, AGE 8; NAOYA, AGE 10
The more time you’re forced to spend with Naoya, the weirder he becomes.
You had been sure back when you first met him that the only thing he cares about is his pride and being the 27th clan head of the Zenins. Almost all of your encounters with him have supported that conclusion. He’s arrogant and cruel, convinced the entire world exists to bend to his every whim. He hyperfocuses on training in a way that borders on obsession, throwing himself at expectations with a ferocity that leaves little room for anything else. He measures his worth in milestones, and anything that doesn’t fit neatly into his framework for excellence irritates him—you included.
And yet, the longer you’re around him, the more the edges of that certainty start to blur.
The first time you notice it isn’t because of anything Naoya does—it’s the way the adults talk about him. They speak in low voices, heavy with both pride and irritation. They never speak when he’s around, but sometimes when you are, because you are a girl and therefore invisible to them. They praise him in the same breath they resent him, their words caught somewhere between admiration and unease, as though they can’t decide whether they’ve raised the perfect heir or a future problem. They call him gifted and difficult, brilliant and uncontrollable, a prodigy and a headache.
You start paying more attention after that. You notice how the rest of the children in the clan outright avoid him, scattering the moment he enters the room. You see how he tries to goad them into sparring, smiling when they refuse and grinning wider when they give in, pushing until he can prove again and again that he is better, stronger, untouchable. The only worthy heir. For a long time, you’d thought it was simple cruelty, and you still think a part of it is, but now you’re not too sure that’s all there is to it.
There’s something frantic about how he acts that you only start to notice after you overhear the adults talking about him that day. Something desperate in the way he needs to win, and how he refuses to be ignored, like he’s performing for an audience that never quite looks satisfied with his show. He is surrounded by people and yet is fundamentally alone, standing at the center of a clan that both elevates him and sharpens knives behind his back.
It becomes obvious once you start looking for it.
Naoya has no friends—only brothers who are rivals, servants who are afraid of him, and adults who can’t seem to decide his worth. There’s nothing in his life beyond his title as heir, and nothing that belongs to him outside of expectation and scrutiny. Whenever he thinks no one is looking, you notice him staring at people with an odd expression—servants whispering and giggling with one another in the shadows of the estate, and the other kids running wild when the adults aren’t watching. He always stays where he is, kicking at stones, scowling at nothing in particular, waiting for someone to notice him without being told to.
That’s usually you, whether you like it or not.
(“You don’t have any friends, don’t you?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder. Naoya startles, so lost in thought that he hadn’t even heard you approaching him from behind. You don’t really mean it as an insult, but Naoya clearly takes it as one anyway, head whirling around to glare at you.
“The hell?” he snaps. “What kind of stupid question is that? Why are you acting so familiar with me? We’re in the middle of the estate. Step back three steps.”
“No one’s paying attention,” you tell him, because it’s true. All of the adults are in meetings because of some conflict that took place between the Zenin and Gojo representatives at a meeting with the higher-ups. You drop down to sit next to him, knocking your shoulder against his. He gives you an aggravated look before his gaze sweeps around to double-check that no one is watching. When he decides the coast is clear, he looks out a puff of air and looks away from you petulantly. “I was just wondering. I never see you talking to anyone, unless you’re insulting them.”
Naoya scoffs. “I don’t need friends,” he says, raising his chin. “Friends are for weak people. I’m not weak.”
“Well, that’s subjective—you not being weak, I mean,” you say, because you can’t help yourself. His head immediately whips around to glare at you, and you give him a sweet smile. “Kidding. Anyway, that’s what people say when they don’t have any.”
“You’re really annoying,” he hisses. “Have some respect.”
“You say that a lot,” you reply. “It’s starting to lose its impact—not that it ever had any.”
He huffs and folds his arms, turning away from you as though he’s decided the conversation is over. After a few moments, he mutters quietly, “They’re all idiots anyway. I don’t need idiots around me.”
You decide against making a comment about how he’s the biggest idiot you’ve ever met.
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” you say, leaning back on your hands to look up at the dusk sky. You add, inexplicably, “I’m not an idiot.”
Naoya bares his teeth. “You’re the biggest idiot of them all.”
You regret not making the comment immediately.)
He sticks close to you in a way that doesn’t really make sense, considering how he insists that he can’t stand you. He insults you constantly—calls you annoying, and weak, and useless, and totally unfit to be a wife—but refuses to leave your side while you’re at the Zenin estate. He says it’s to keep up appearances, but even when no one is watching, when you tell him to leave you alone and go sit on the opposite side of the garden, far away from you, he’ll hover around you. He kicks at your ankles to get your attention when you’re busy staring up at the sky or whatever flowers are in bloom, and he’ll pull your hair when you purposely ignore him. He doesn’t seem content unless you’re focused on him, and he would rather have you angry at him than not looking at him at all.
He’s just weird, you determine when you realize you’re putting way too much thought into a boy that, if all goes well, you’re not even going to end up marrying. Zenin Naoya is not your problem, and you have more important things to worry about than his strange behavior. You understand much later that you were probably just as weird, because as much as he always sought you out, you always came back. You enjoyed telling him he was stupid and full of himself and that no one asked for his opinion, and you especially enjoyed how he lit up after you said it, like it was exactly the response he was hoping for, and the two of you would end up in the dirt with bruises and blood.
You become used to it. Used to him. His presence becomes familiar. Annoying, and intrusive, and loud, but also constant and predictable. He’s always there orbiting you like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself when you’re not paying attention to him, and you’re always there too, instinctively looking for him when you get to the Zenin estate, annoyed when he’s not there waiting for you and equally annoyed when he is.
Looking back, you think this was when you first began to consider him something like a friend. You suspect it was the same for Naoya, which might be why everything about him felt so strange to you then. Even so, the two of you remained stubbornly insistent on hating one another by principle, as though saying it often enough might make it true.
----------------
“Where’s Naoya?” you ask, looking around as soon as you step through the front gates of the estate. The Zenin estate still feels like a prison most Sundays, but you’ve become more comfortable there as you and Naoya settled into your truce. The poor servant sent to fetch you from the gates looks out of her depth, lowering her head instead of responding. “Why isn’t he out here to greet me?”
“Naoya-sama is in his room, my lady. He wasn’t feeling well today.”
“I see, I’ll go to him then. Thank you,” you say, and before she can disagree, because you’ve known Naoya long enough to know that this was his way of telling you not to bother him today, you head off in the direction of his room.
You have no interest in attending lessons with the other girls today. You’re sick of being lectured on duties and obligations and how a future Zenin wife is meant to behave. You’ve heard it all before—memorized it, recited it back, but the adults never seem satisfied with you. Just as Naoya is the heir, and he faces an ever-moving target of expectations, you are to be his wife and, therefore, the pinnacle of obedience and grace. You don’t have the patience to deal with it today, and Naoya is annoying for trying to force you to. You’d rather sit with him and get sick than deal with the rest of his shitty clan alone.
You make it to his room quickly, sliding open the door and stepping in without knocking. Your eyes widen in offense when you realize he’s clearly not sick, lying on his floor reading manga. You accuse, “Liar!”
Naoya jolts like he’s been caught doing something he isn’t supposed to be doing. He scrambles upright immediately, yanking the manga closer to his chest, face flushing red in a way you’ve never seen before.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he snaps. “This is my bedroom. Get out!”
“You said you were sick,” you fire back, hands on your hips, indignant. “You’re not sick. You’re reading. You’re ignoring me. You were going to make me go deal with those stupid lessons so you could read?”
“That don’t mean anything,” he argues, voice rising, gaze flitting to the side. “I could be sick. Ya don’t know that.”
“You’re on the floor with books,” you accuse. “You’re yelling.”
“They’re not books, they’re manga,” Naoya hisses, like you’ve personally offended him by getting it wrong. Then, he scowls and crosses his arms over his chest, looking away stubbornly. “Get out. You’re supposed to be learning your duties today, figuring out how to be a proper wife for me.”
“I don’t want to. I already know them. Be quiet. Be pretty. Don’t embarrass anyone,” you scowl.
“You forgot obedient,” he huffs petulantly.
“Only in public,” you say with a sharp smile, which earns you the faintest huff of a laugh before he catches himself and gives you a murderous glare again.
You step inside his room, shutting the door behind you before he can protest. You look around with open curiosity. You’ve been here before, but only at night when you’re getting him back to his quarters after he overworked himself at the training grounds, so you never really had the chance to snoop around. Clean tatami, folded bedding, and a messy stack of manga scattered across the floor. His room is pretty boring, you realize, disappointed. You lean down to pick one up, and Naoya launches himself at you like some sort of beast.
“What the—” you cry out as your back hits the ground, air whooshing from your lungs. “What is wrong with you?”
“Give that back!” he shouts, scrambling over you.
You hold it tighter to spite him. “No!”
“Give it to me!”
“Make me!”
He pulls your hair, and you kick his knee. He lets out a loud yelp, more surprised than hurt, and you take the opportunity to squirm away from him and dart over to the corner of the room. Naoya spins around, furious and flustered, cheeks red, hair sticking up at odd angles. For a second, he looks like he might actually cry, and you almost laugh, but then he scowls harder, leaning into his anger.
“I’m going to kill you,” he hisses.
“Try it,” you challenge, sitting cross-legged on the floor and flipping to the first page of the manga. You blink in recognition. “Oh! This is that new anime that just came out.”
Naoya pauses, and then he asks, a bit hesitantly, “Do you watch it?”
“No,” you reply, not catching the disappointed expression on his face as you shift to lie on your stomach, kicking your feet in the air as you flip to the next page. “I like shonen. I thought you would, too, actually. Isn’t this shojo?”
You look up, and Naoya stiffens like you’ve struck him, face bright red and eyes wide.
“It’s not—” he starts, and then looks away, crossing his arms again. “It’s not all shojo.”
You hum, unbothered, resting your chin in your hands as your eyes skim over the pages. “It kind of is.”
“Shut up,” he hisses.
“You like romance,” you sing. “Do you pretend to be the protagonist or one of the love interests?”
“Neither!” he shouts, face so red that you think he might explode. “The fights are good. And the art. And the plot isn’t stupid.”
“If you say so,” you agree, lips curling up into an amused smile. “I’ll decide that for myself.”
“No,” Naoya says angrily, making another grab for the manga, but you roll onto your back to avoid him, flipping to the next page. “Get out. You’re not even supposed to be in here. Why can’t you just be normal?” You pause, page half-turned and look up at him. Like he always does when you don’t act the way he wants or expects, he starts to have his meltdown about how you’re not acting the way you’re supposed to. “You’re always being weird. Sneaking around, reading my stuff, sitting like—like that—arguing with me, and fighting with me, and—”
“You’re annoying,” you tell him, turning your attention back down to the manga, ignoring the frustrated noise he lets out. “Sit down and read with me, or go tattle to your father like a baby. Stop whining.”
He gapes and starts to say, “You—”
“Be quiet, Naoya,” you say, brows furrowing as you flip to the next page. “Can’t you see I’m reading?”
You half expect him to storm out, but after a moment, he lets out a furious puff of air, stomps his foot, and moves back over to the manga he’d dropped in his wild attempt to take the manga from you earlier. He picks it up, flips it open with unnecessary force, and drops down beside you hard enough that the floor rattles. His shoulder presses against yours. You don’t move away.
“I hate you,” he spits.
You smile sweetly, “I hate you more.”
----------------
2002 | READER, AGE 9; NAOYA, AGE 11
You meet Naoya’s oldest brother for the first time when you’re waiting for him to finish training with his uncle. You learn later that he was away in Tokyo for three years—Zenin Naotaka, the eldest, introduces himself to you with a smile that makes your skin crawl. He reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear, and you want to slap his hand away, but your etiquette training serves you well, because all you do is lower your eyes to the ground and wait for him to move on.
Except, he doesn’t. He runs his thumb along your chin and tilts your face up. He asks you if you’re engaged to one of his brothers, and you barely hear yourself say yes over the sound of your own heart in your ears. You think he must know exactly who you’re engaged to, because there’s an amused gleam in his eyes as his gaze cuts over to where Naoya is distracted on the training grounds. You don’t know why you’re so on edge, but you feel distinctly uncomfortable, and everything in you screams not to do something to piss him off.
It’s silly, you think, because you’ve heard Naoya talk about his brothers and their cursed techniques—or lack thereof—so realistically, there shouldn’t be anything to worry about if things come down to it. Well, it would be bad for you generally because you don’t want to make a scene, but still…
“What the hell?” You’ve never been so grateful to hear Naoya’s obnoxiously loud voice. You take a step back and glance over your shoulder as Naoya storms over to the two of you. He grabs Naotaka’s wrist and rips it away from your face. “Keep your hands off my things.”
You don’t necessarily like being referred to as a thing or as his, but just this once, you keep your mouth shut. You decide you’ll kick him for it later. Naoya forces his way between the two of you—he moves too fast for your eyes to follow. You realize, after a moment, that it must be projection sorcery and find yourself a bit fascinated. This is the first time he’s used it in front of you.
“Hm? Relax, little brother,” Naotaka says with a languid smile and upturned eyes. He doesn’t look surprised by Naoya’s reaction—if anything, he seems pleased, like this was what he wanted. You squint slightly, watching as Naoya’s eyes flare with irritation at how Naotaka addresses him. “I was just getting to know her. You’re always so serious. She seems sweet, is she really your betrothed?”
Naoya doesn’t take the opportunity to make a snide comment about how you’re definitely not sweet, teeth grinding together as he glares at Naotaka.
“Stay away from her,” Naoya hisses, enraged. You blink in surprise. Naotaka looks entertained by his younger brother’s righteous fury. It’s not like you didn’t know that Naoya has a temper, it’s been quite clear from your first meeting with him, but this is different—it feels more personal. The anxiety you felt from being around Naotaka drains into mild curiosity, wondering exactly what the relationship is between Naoya and his older brothers. When you think about it, you realize that this is the first time you've seen him interact with any of them.
“I think she can speak for herself, can’t she?” Naotaka hums, gaze sliding over to you again. “Was I bothering you?”
Hm.
You’re not stupid. You were born into this life, and you’ve had years now of dealing with the Zenins to know how the minds of these boys work. This is some sort of test—for you, or for Naoya, maybe? Both of you? Are they testing to see if you’ll take the side of your future husband? If Naoya can control his future wife? The Zenins want their women docile and obedient, and while you’re neither of these and Naoya knows that, the two of you have been careful to present otherwise around people.
Will there be backlash on you for whatever your answer is? No, you realize. Whatever this is, its centered around Naoya. Naotaka is openly trying to get under his skin for whatever reason. They clearly don’t get along, so you’d be willing to bet that is an attempt to make Naoya look bad. Probably trying to make him look immature for flipping out over a non-issue if you say you’re not bothered.
So, do you want Naoya to look bad?
No, you decide. You still can’t stand Naoya, and he still can’t stand you, but the two of you have been in a united front with the threat of mutually assured destruction since your first meeting. There’s no reason for you to ruin that now.
“You were, Naotaka-san,” you confirm with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. You see Naoya blink and look back at you, an unreadable look in his eyes. “Naoya was only being a good betrothed. He could tell I was uncomfortable.”
Naotaka’s eyes widen slightly, as though he didn’t expect you to take Naoya’s side. You don’t think Naoya expected it either from the way he directs an owlish look at you. You don’t know why he’s so surprised. He knows what the deal is between the two of you. United front.
“Well,” Naotaka says after a moment, clearing his throat. “My apologies then. I came on too strong.”
“You did,” you say, eyes not leaving his until Naotaka bows his head slightly and turns away. Your gaze lingers on his back until he turns a corner, and you finally look over at Naoya, who is back to looking seriously bothered, face pinched in frustration and eyes teeming with annoyance. You bite back the snide comment on the tip of your tongue and place your hand on his bicep. “If you’re done training, walk me to the gardens.”
Naoya’s gaze lingers on you for a second, calculating and suspicious, but then he lets out a sharp puff of air. As soon as he gets moving, you drop your hand back to your side, linking them behind your back as you race to keep up with him. You realize he’s a lot more bothered than he’s letting on, because he doesn’t even snap at you to walk behind him.
“They always do this,” Naoya says through gritted teeth. “They’re always trying to make me look bad.”
“You don’t get along with your brothers?” you ask him curiously instead of making a snide comment about how you seriously can’t blame them for not liking him. It’s not like he makes it pleasant for anyone to be around him. Instantly, he glares at you, so you figure this must be a sensitive subject, but you raise your eyebrows anyway, beckoning him to answer.
“They’re useless,” Naoya finally tells you, voice clipped. “Weaklings. They’ve been jealous since the moment I was born with our father’s technique, so they try to make me look bad in other ways. It doesn’t work, obviously, and they’re too stupid to stop trying.”
“You should stop reacting to them,” you tell him, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “They’re clearly trying to get a reaction out of you. Just ignore them.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” you interrupt, side-eyeing him, ignoring his apocalyptic expression. “Seriously. If they’re useless and weaklings, then why even bother with them at all? You don’t need to prove anything to people who are weaker than you.”
Naoya blinks, then frowns, and then as though he catches himself considering your words, he scoffs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You roll your eyes.
“Sure,” you say simply as the two of you reach the gardens. “Was that projection sorcery you used before? To get between your brother and me?”
Naoya smiles smugly. “It was. Impressive, right?”
“Mm.”
“Hah?! What the hell does that mean?” Naoya demands furiously, crossing his arms over his chest. He glares at you childishly once you’re out of sight of the rest of the estate, hidden behind the hedges of the garden. The united front the two of you put on for the rest of his family crumbles in an instant. “You sound judgmental for someone who doesn’t even have a cursed technique. Know your place.”
You tilt your head to the side, squinting. “I have a cursed technique, and it’s better than yours.”
Naoya’s face reddens. “It is not.”
“Is too.”
“Is not.”
“I even bet I could beat you in a fight if it came down to it, but don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you like that,” you tell him with a pleased smile, enjoying the disbelief that crosses over his face. Just to needle him some more, you add, “My technique is way more useful than yours, too.”
“You’re a girl, you can’t beat me in a fight,” Naoya hisses. “I don’t care what your technique is.”
This again.
“What if Gojo Satoru were a girl? Would you be able to beat her in a fight?” you counter.
“That’s not—” he splutters. “He’s not a girl, so that doesn’t count anyway. A girl wouldn’t be born with the Six Eyes and Limitless. There’s a reason why he was born a boy.”
“Hm. If you say so,” you say simply, swinging around him with a teasing smile, hands locked behind your back. “I’d still beat you in a fight.”
Naoya’s lips curl up into a sneer, but his gold eyes are more curious now than annoyed. “I do say so,” he says spitefully. Then, like he can’t help himself, he asks, “What’s your cursed technique then? If you’re so proud of it?”
“Why would I tell you?”
“What?”
“I’m not telling you,” you sing, skipping away from him, down the path to the koi pond. “You’ll just have to believe me.”
“Well, I don’t believe you,” Naoya snaps, chasing after you, “so tell me what it is.”
You don’t answer, lips curled up into a small smile as you look at the blue birds that fly away as soon as the two of you approach.
“Hey! Don’t ignore me!”
----------------
2003 | READER, AGE 10; NAOYA, AGE 12
You meet Gojo Satoru for the first time when you’re ten years old.
You fall in love instantly.
He’s just too pretty, you think dreamily, bright in a way that almost feels unreal, all smiles and easy confidence. He’s everything that Naoya’s not. Before you know it, you’re chatting animatedly with him for hours at an event hosted by the Zenins, hopping from topic to topic without effort: the time you spent in the west, new anime, Digimon, anything the two of you can think of.
It feels strange, almost surreal, because the rest of the estate is wound tight with tension. Servants move faster and quieter than usual, heads bowed, footsteps hushed. Elders murmur to one another, voices low and urgent. The Gojos and Zenins have never needed much of an excuse to dislike one another, but after the clash at the meeting with the higher-ups, that old hostility has become much more volatile. This gathering was meant to be obligatory—an exchange of appearances, nothing more. No one truly expected the Gojo clan to show, least of all him.
Gojo Satoru arrives without ceremony or restraint, as though he hasn’t just walked into enemy territory. His presence sends the Zenins into a frenzy they’re desperate to conceal, smiles stretched too tight, movements too careful.
Your clan is suddenly pulled into mediation.
Your father sits rigidly between Zenin Naobito and the Gojo clan head, voice measured, posture perfect, every word weighed like it might tip the scales. Your brothers are off to the side, speaking with members of the Gojo main family, doing their best to look composed and capable. This is huge—you know it, it’s an opportunity of unfathomable magnitude balanced precariously on the edge of disaster.
You are also ten years old, and Gojo Satoru came straight up to you after arriving and asked, very, very seriously, if all Digimon and all Pokémon were put into an arena to fight to the death, which would win.
So, priorities.
You find yourself sitting with the boy in the inner courtyard. He talks to you like you’re a person, not a future wife or a political tool, just a person. When he first approaches you properly, you’re sitting on the engawa watching everything unfold, and he crouches down to your level, grinning, and asks your name like the answer genuinely matters to him.
Gojo Satoru is easy to talk to. He doesn’t expect you to act the way the Zenins want you to act, and when you slip into formality out of habit, he rolls his eyes and tells you to relax. Somewhere along the way, he admits he doesn’t really have anyone his age to talk to, and he wears it lightly, like a joke, even though it clearly isn’t one. He whittles down your defenses without even trying, until you’re talking to him as freely as you do with Naoya—only without the constant threat of mutually assured destruction hanging over every word.
He smiles openly and laughs loudly. He talks with his hands, with his whole body, leaning in too close when he gets excited and flopping back dramatically when he’s bored. He kicks his heels into the grass like this isn’t currently the most politically fraught estate in jujutsu society, like he didn’t just decide on a whim to show up to an event he was never really meant to attend. He complains about Zenin food, praises the sweets you sneak him when the elders aren’t looking, and declares that most adults are exhausting and wrong about almost everything.
You tell him he’s rude. He tells you he’s honest.
He doesn’t talk down to you or get angry, and when you correct him on something—some detail about a band he misnames or a Digimon evolution he gets wrong—he stops, stares at you for a second, and then laughs like it’s the best thing that’s happened to him all day. It makes your chest so warm and fuzzy that you can almost forget Naoya is lurking across the courtyard.
“Why the hell is that punk staring at me still?” Gojo Satoru demands as he sits cross-legged on the grass with you, much to the horror of his clan’s elders, who are watching the two of you from a distance. You try to keep a semblance of propriety because even if you are expected to keep him entertained, you know your actions tonight will reflect on both your father and the Zenins, so you have to be careful not to make too many waves. Your brows furrow at him, and he lolls his head to the side and nods his chin over to where Naoya is sitting tense on the steps leading up to the main hall, expression twisted as he watches the two of you carefully. He stiffens when Satoru nods in his direction, gaze flicking between the two of you. “That one.”
“That’s Naoya,” you tell him. “He’s going to be the 27th clan head of the Zenins. We’re betrothed.”
Satoru pauses.
“Oh,” he says, slowly turning his head back to you. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Yikes.”
You snort despite yourself, quickly hiding your smile behind his hand, and he grins wider like he’s won something. Across the courtyard, you see Naoya’s lips pinch together, brows furrowed. You wonder if he’s more irritated with you or with Satoru. Both, probably—you, since you get to sit there talking to the infamous Gojo heir when he’s expected to keep a distance because of clan rivalry, and Satoru, since even though the two of you can’t stand each other, Naoya still gets pissy whenever other people talk to you.
“The elders in my clan are trying to get me to marry, too,” he adds after a moment, stretching obnoxiously before he flops back on Zenin grass like it’s his god given right. You wonder if he walks around everywhere like this—like the world is his playground, his to sprawl about without consequence. You suppose it is, you realize after a moment, because there’s a reason why Zenin Naobito is drinking himself out of a liver instead of trying to kick him off the estate. If your birth had altered the balance of the entire world, you think you’d be just as insufferably unbothered by everything. “They tried to set me up with a girl from some minor clan last month. She bowed so low I thought she might actually disappear into the floor. Freaked me out.”
“Well, it is proper etiquette,” you say with a wave of your hand, because you were raised on the same rules, even if you never quite learned how to swallow this particular rule. “You’re supposed to bow to your elders and important people. More important they are, lower you bow. That’s the rules.”
Satoru tilts his head to the side, blue eyes glittering as he looks over you. “You didn’t bow.”
“Hm?”
“You didn’t bow,” he repeats. “When I walked in. That’s why I wanted to talk to you, y’know? I was curious. You’re the first person I’ve met who hasn’t bowed when they met me.”
“Well, I hate to break it to you, but in this one regard, you’re not special, Gojo-san,” you say, leaning back on your hands. You’ve taken everything your father and your attendants and the Zenin clan have thrown at you except for this one thing. You’ll incline your head, and sometimes slightly bend your shoulders, but that’s as far as you’ll go. It pisses your father off endlessly, but it makes your brother laugh, and then they fight, which you think is funny. “I don’t bow to anyone. Even Zenin-sama only gets a head nod.”
“He must hate that,” Satoru says with an obnoxiously loud laugh.
You find yourself smiling again. “You have no idea.”
He tosses you a wink. “I think I do.”
From the steps, Naoya shifts, an uncomfortable expression plain on his face. You can see it from here—the way his shoulders tense, how his lips curve down when Satoru laughs and rolls onto his side, chin propped in his palm as he looks at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the courtyard.
“Do you want to marry that little punk?” he asks you after a moment, tone suddenly quieter, serious in a way that makes you blink twice. You glance back at the steps without meaning to. Naoya is watching you both now without pretense, clearly only stopping himself from storming over to the two of you through force of will alone. “Well? Do you?”
“That’s not really a question I get to answer,” you say finally.
Satoru hums. “Not what I asked.”
It’s an honor. It’s for the clan. I’ll do my duty.
You know what you’re supposed to say. The words line up nearly in your mouth, but you can’t seem to force them out. You’ve come to terms with marrying Naoya. The more time that passes, the harder it’s going to be to get out of the arrangement; Naoya doesn’t seem inclined to say anything to his father, and you’re in no position to say anything at all. And you suppose it’s not awful—he’s terrible and annoying and you really can’t stand him, you despise acting like the ideal Zenin woman in public, and most of your visits to the estate end with you and Naoya fighting, but he can be fun to talk to when he’s not acting like a little shit.
“I’ll give you an out,” he says, not waiting for you to answer as he pushes himself to his feet, waving his hands in the air to get the attention of the elders lingering on the engawa. Your lips part in confusion, starting to scramble upright. You don’t like the expression on his face: bright and unapologetic, like he’s about to do something he knows he shouldn’t and is enjoying it immensely.
“Hey!” he calls, voice carrying far too well across the courtyard. Several heads snap in his direction immediately, and the murmuring dies. Naoya freezes on the steps, and even Naobito Zenin pauses in conversation with your father; the Gojo clan elders look like they’re bracing for the impact of whatever Satoru is about to say. He crosses his arms over his chest, posture loose and infuriatingly confident. “Since you guys want me to marry so bad, I figure I’ll save you all the trouble. If I get married, I’ll only marry her.” He juts his thumb back at you. Your eyes widen, blood rushing through your ears. “That’s it. Anyone else is a hard no. Don’t waste your time.”
Your stomach drops.
No waves, your father told you sternly before you went off with Satoru—no waves, and Satoru just launched a tidal wave.
Your father’s eyes widen as he glances over at your uncle, while Zenin Naobito straightens in his seat, eyes narrowing, attention snapping to you, a furious expression crossing his face. You don’t even want to look at Naoya, but your gaze drifts over to him anyway, and he looks like he’s been slapped. You usually like it when he gets all wide-eyed and red-faced, because it means you’re doing a good job at antagonizing him, but you find that you don’t like this expression. It reminds you too much of the one he wears whenever one of his brothers or his father succeeds in getting under his skin, and he’s trying hard not to let anyone know that.
“Are you insane?” you hiss at Satoru, but the white-haired boy only leans back toward you, grinning.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I said if. Hypothetical. I don’t wanna get married, but if you wanna use it as an out to get away from the Zenins, I wouldn’t mind if it’s you. At least you wouldn’t be sniveling and tripping over your feet to bow, right? We can just watch anime and play Digimon all the time.”
Your heart is pounding. “You just declared political war on the Zenins.”
And you dragged me to the center of it, you don’t say out loud.
“Eh,” he shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Me being born was essentially a declaration of war.”
The Gojo elders are already in damage-control mode, voices sharp and urgent as they try to salvage the situation.
“Satoru, that is highly inappropriate—”
“You don’t understand the implications—”
“She is already promised—”
“Boring! Not my problem!” Satoru sings flippantly. “Sounds like a you problem.”
You fall out of love with Gojo Satoru as quickly as you fall in love with him. Not only is he a menace, but he’s a menace who doesn’t think before he detonates things and walks away smiling, never having to deal with the consequences.
The courtyard feels smaller all of a sudden, like the air has been sucked out of it. As the Gojo elders surround the white haired boy who just upturned what little peace you had with your life, you find yourself seeking out Naoya again, gaze cutting across the Zenin estate, trying to spot the familiar head of black hair and gold eyes burning with fury.
You don’t find him anywhere.
----------------
Naoya doesn’t speak to you for months after the incident with Gojo Satoru, and it irritates you more than you care to admit. Not because you miss him—obviously not, why would you miss Naoya?—but because you seem to be in the doghouse with multiple people for something beyond your control.
Your father has been on you since your family left the Zenin estate, furious at you for indulging Gojo Satoru “too intimately,” or whatever the hell that means, and destroying the alliance with the Zenins. And even more furious at your brother for “not teaching you proper etiquette” when you were whisked off to the west, as if you haven’t been getting it drilled into you for years now. Worse, for coddling your “hopeless delusions,” which you suppose all four of them contribute to, with the way they train you and encourage your disobedient behavior because they find it funny.
Your estate has been at war—a cold war, but a war nonetheless—with you and your brothers on one side, and your father and the rest of the clan on the opposite side. It’s not an unfamiliar state of affairs. Everyone in your family has a volatile temper, and the estate is constantly splintering into temporary factions. But you’re rarely drawn into the middle of it, and when you are, you usually skulk out of the estate and find somewhere else to hide until things die down.
For the past two years, that somewhere else has been the Zenin estate, against all odds.
Naoya has become more bearable over the years, or maybe you’ve just grown accustomed to his bullshit, so you find it easy to head over there when you’re fed up with your family, forcing Naoya to endure your presence on whatever whim leads you there. The two of you just sit in the garden and antagonize one another, and it usually ends with one of you getting a split lip or shoved into the koi pond, but it’s enough to keep your mind off things. The visits gave you distance, space to breathe—an escape route you didn’t realize you relied on until it vanished.
You haven’t been summoned back since that day. Two months pass, then three. You don’t need anyone to spell it out for you to understand that whatever fallout came from Gojo Satoru’s mouth landed squarely on you, but your father is still quick to remind you anyway.
So, here you are now.
You stand before the towering gates of the Zenin estate, head held high and hands locked behind your back to keep them from betraying your nerves. Each second that passes tightens the knot in your stomach. You know, distantly, that this was probably a rash idea, and you’re sure that your father will be furious when he learns where you disappeared to, but…
But he crossed a line earlier.
For all of his blustering outrage and moral lectures, he’s evidently been in talks with the elders of the Gojo clan, trying to see if something might actually come from Gojo Satoru’s brash proclamation. Looking for leverage in chaos, treating your future as a bargaining chip he can slide across the table if it suits him. And you know this was always to be your role to play, you know it, but you just—
You’re tired. Frustrated.
Ever since returning to Kyoto, you’ve been nothing but a piece on a board, shuffled from strategy to strategy. No one wants you for you, only for what advantage you can be traded for. You always knew this was your fate; a part of you even understands your father’s anger. Your brothers were cruel, in a way, not just for showing you a life beyond the clan, but for letting you believe—just for a while—that things could be different. That you could be a sorcerer instead of a wife, that you have some say over your future. You’ll never say that out loud. Your father doesn’t deserve the validation, and your brothers were only trying to give you something precious before the iron shackles snapped shut again.
So, instead of spending another day getting insulted by your father and hounded by attendants, you stand outside the Zenin estate, irritation simmering hotter with every minute the gates remain closed. You wonder, unbidden, if the things your father spat in anger were true. That the Zenins discarded you the moment Gojo Satoru laid claim, their pride too brittle to tolerate even the implication that one of their possessions might be taken from them, so they cut you loose without ceremony to get ahead of the humiliation.
After what feels like an eternity, a servant peers out, eyes flicking over you in unmistakable surprise before her expression smooths into something politely distant. She hesitates, clearly unsure whether or not you’re wanted there.
“You weren’t summoned, my lady,” she says at last, voice quiet.
“I know,” you reply. “But I’m here.”
There’s a pause. You see her brows furrow, eyes uncertain as her gaze flicks over to you. She bows and steps aside after a few moments. “This way.”
The gates close behind you with a loud thud, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Inside, the Zenin estate looks exactly as it always has: immaculate paths, raked gravel, the distant garden that you and Naoya would disappear into during your visits. You peel off from the servant escorting you, ignoring the yelp of ‘wait!’ she lets out, but you’re already slipping into the closest building, walking quickly down familiar corridors, past sliding doors you’ve walked through dozens of times, past training halls where you’ve listened to Naoya boast and curse and sneer in equal measure.
You push open the sliding door and duck inside his room before any of the servants can catch you, because it’s certainly improper for you to be in his bedroom unsupervised, doubly so if you’re no longer engaged.
“Naoya—” you start to say, but you cut yourself off when you realize he’s standing in front of his mirror, teal shirt pulled to the side as he stares at the purple and green bruises that mottle his abdomen. “What happened?”
Naoya whips around instantly, gold eyes wide and lips parted. He lets his shirt fall back into place—too late. He freezes, and for a second, his features soften from the sharp edges you’re used to, uncertainty flooding his face instead. He stares at you like you’ve caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing, shoulders stiff, breath shallow. Then his expression hardens, lips curling up into a sneer.
“Get out,” he snaps immediately. “Who the hell let you in here? Why are you here? What the hell?”
“I asked first,” you counter, irritated by his attitude, but then you gnaw at your bottom lip, brows furrowing. “Naoya. Those bruises—”
“Don’t fucking pity me. I don’t need your pity,” he hisses, fists tight at his sides. He’s thinner than he was, looks like he’s drowning in the outfit that was tailored perfectly to his frame three months ago. His shoulders are tight, posture rigid—he’s in pain, you realize, and you’re instantly uncomfortable. You shouldn’t have come. “It’s none of your business. Get out.”
You don’t know how to deal with this. You’re used to bantering with Naoya, insulting him, getting insulted back. He jumps down your throat about things you “aren’t supposed to do” since you’re a girl, and you, in turn, either shove him to the ground or punch him in the face. You don’t care about each other; this is only an alliance of convenience—mutually assured destruction—so you don’t know how to comfort him, and you don’t think he would want you to even if you did. You think maybe you should just leave as he told you to, but your feet won’t cooperate.
“Is it because of me?” you ask quietly after a moment, gaze flicking down to his now-covered abdomen before drifting back up to his face.
“You’re so full of yourself,” Naoya sneers. “No one likes an arrogant woman. You should be more modest if you want men to like you.”
Your eye twitches. “How about you answer my question before I give you bruises to match on your face?”
“I’d like to see you try,” Naoya replies through gritted teeth, but when he takes a step toward you, he barely hides a grimace, having to shift his weight onto his opposite side. He says after a moment, voice strained, “That was humiliating. For me. For my father. My clan. And he did it in our own home. My father is livid. He’s going to remember it—I’m going to remember it.”
Your throat bobs as you swallow. You knew this. You knew that Gojo Satoru openly insulted and humiliated not just Naoya, but the entire Zenin clan with that single declaration, but it’s different hearing it out loud. Especially because you’re sure they think you have some involvement in it, that you prompted his words in some manner, when you didn’t. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand, jaw tightening as you stare at him, unsure what you should say in response.
“I didn’t ask him to do that,” you say after a moment, feeling the need to explain yourself for some reason. “I’m not unhappy with our arrangement.” Naoya’s eyes narrow as though he doesn’t believe you. You bristle, irritated. “I’m not. You’re unpleasant and annoying, and I can’t stand you most days, and it would definitely make us both happy if this arrangement fell apart, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to insult you publicly like that.”
Naoya scoffs. “Right—”
“I would just beat you up publicly instead of in private if that was the case,” you tell him, and he immediately directs a hateful look at you. “The united front, Naoya. Mutually assured destruction. I had nothing to do with what he said. I wouldn’t jeopardize our deal, even to get out of this arrangement.”
“You don’t beat me up,” he hisses, but he looks less aggravated by your words, clearly seeing the logic behind them. You hate stupid boys. You always have to spell everything out for them. This should’ve been obvious.
“Sure, I do,” you say, and then motion to his abdomen after a moment. “Not like that, though. What happened?”
Naoya hesitates, gaze flicking away stubbornly. You don’t think he’s going to answer, but he finally says, “My father made me spend the night in the disciplinary pit.” He pauses for a moment, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I should make you spend a night in the disciplinary pit. Maybe then ya won’t get so mouthy with me and’ll start acting like a proper woman.”
You force yourself not to react to the latter half of what he said, especially when he casts that thoughtful look over to you, as though actually considering it.
“What’s the disciplinary pit?” you ask instead.
Naoya closes off instantly. “Doesn’t matter. Mind your business. Why are you so nosy, huh? We’re not friends. When are you gonna start acting like a proper wife, huh? S’not cute anymore, acting like you’re a boy. Not that it ever was.”
“Why did he throw you in there?” you press, only finding a bit of amusement in the way he gives you an irritated, disbelieving look.
“The hell don’t you understand about minding your business?” he demands. “Mind your business. You know damn well why.”
Because of the Gojo incident? Your lips curve down into a frown—it was three months ago, would Naobito still really be disciplining Naoya for it now? You decide not to press again, because Naoya is becoming increasingly more incensed the longer the two of you stay on the topic. Instead, you shift uncomfortably on your feet.
“Are we still engaged?” you ask him quietly after a moment.
“You tell me,” he sneers, but there’s no heat behind the words, and something frighteningly close to insecurity flashing briefly through his eyes.
You hesitate, but then you nod, and Naoya exhales through his nose, gaze lowering for a second. You don’t recognize the emotion that crosses his face—relief, maybe, it’s gone before you can figure it out.
“Good,” he says stiffly after a moment. “Didn’t wanna deal with breaking the news to the old man otherwise. Would’ve made you do it.”
There’s a comment on the tip of your tongue about how that sounds right, how you expected nothing less from the Zenin heir than for him to hide behind the skirts of a girl, but you remember the bruises marring his skin and the pain on his face that he was desperately trying to hide, and you swallow them before you can let them loose.
Just this once, you tell yourself.
Silence stretches between you, thick and unfamiliar. You feel awkward. This isn’t how your conversations usually go. There’s no barbed back-and-forth, no childish threats or petty one-upmanship. You hate it.
“Wanna go to the gardens?” you ask instead.
He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. “God, you’re so annoying,” he mutters, but he makes his way over to you anyway, and this time, he holds his arm out to you, waiting for you to take it. “C’mon, the cherry blossoms are in bloom. Thought you were gonna miss ‘em since you’ve been avoiding me.”
You barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes. You’ve been avoiding him?
“I know,” you say instead of starting an argument, and then lie, “that’s the real reason I came.”
Naoya snorts. “‘course it is.”
----------------
2004 | READER, AGE 12; NAOYA, AGE 14
Naoya did not have a good relationship with his mother before she passed.
You find this out by accident, arriving early to the Zenin estate for an end-of-year dinner your clan was invited to. You think that you should’ve figured it out on your own. Naoya is a prodigy, the golden heir, praised from the moment he could walk and weaponized from the moment he could think. Women in this clan aren’t respected; his father never would’ve allowed his mother to have a hand in the parenting of his perfect heir, in fear of tainting him with a woman’s touch.
In the two years following the incident with Gojo Satoru, things between you and Naoya… changed. It didn’t soften exactly, but it seemed to dull at the edges, maybe. Before the incident, it hadn’t been unusual for arguments to end with bruises, split lips, and blood staining the dirt. The two of you had turned to violence easily in the privacy of the garden you would spend most of your visits hiding in—it was the most honest language either of you knew.
Now, things are more restrained. You still don’t like him, obviously, but you don’t think anyone truly likes Naoya, and he certainly doesn’t like you. He makes that abundantly clear from the way he constantly makes snide comments about how you’re the most unideal wife he could possibly have, bitter over the fact that the two of you are still trapped in this arrangement. But you don’t jump at each other’s throats anymore, so it’s a step up from how things used to be.
You’re halfway down a familiar corridor when you hear voices raised just enough to snag your attention. You slow without meaning to, nerves prickling. You don’t know what’s going on yet, but the scene still stops you dead in your tracks.
Naoya stands rigid near the engawa, while Naotaka lounges opposite him on a rock with a careless sprawl that almost looks deliberately disrespectful. It strikes you how much smaller Naoya looks like this, cornered even though he could easily leave; you don’t like the way it makes your stomach twist up. You realize quickly that you’re not supposed to see whatever is happening between the two brothers.
You only hear the tail end of whatever Naotaka said, but that’s enough:
“—wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for you. She could hardly stand to look at you.”
You still at the edge of the training grounds, eyes focusing on the two of them. Naoya stiffens, shoulders squared, chin lifted in that familiar way that usually reads as arrogance, but right now it doesn’t. His face is blank, eyes fixed somewhere just past Naotaka’s shoulder. Neither of them notices you. You don’t know if you should say something or leave.
You expect Naoya to say something back, a snide, derogatory comment that will cause Naotaka to fumble, but he stays silent instead, and it unsettles you. You’ve always wondered exactly what the relationship between Naoya and his older brothers was like; you knew it was unpleasant, but you figured it was because… well, Naoya is unpleasant. Not whatever is happening right now.
“She used to cry after watching you train,” Naotaka continues quietly, eyes curved as he smiles at Naoya. “Did you know that? You represented everything she hated about this family—proof that nothing was ever going to change. The irony of it killed her—spending her life trying to survive this place, hoping that things would be different one day, and in the end, gave birth to its perfect product.”
Naoya finally speaks after a moment, and his voice is much smaller than you expect it to sound. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “She was proud. Everyone is. Everyone except you, because—”
“Proud?” Naotaka barks out a laugh. “You can’t actually believe that, Naoya. She was disg—”
“Naoya,” you call, finally stepping out of the hall and into the training yard. Both of the Zenins stiffen and look your way. You don’t meet Naoya’s eyes, gaze flicking over to his older brother. “Oh, Naotaka-san, you’re here too. Good! Were you guys about to train together? I was hoping to watch.”
Your lips curl up into an innocent smile, hands locked behind your back. You’ve spent six years playing the part of the perfect, docile woman, so they have no reason to think there’s any nefarious, ulterior motive behind your question. The Kukuru, lingering on the outskirts of the training ground and trying to pretend they’re not eavesdropping on the conversation happening between the brothers, perk up at the prospect of a sparring match. Naotaka’s expression instantly shifts from the pleasure he was finding in making Naoya uncomfortable into something more unsure, as you knew it would. Naoya has made it clear that all of his brothers are useless when it comes to combat.
Naoya, on the other hand, who absolutely understands the nefarious, ulterior motive behind your question, brightens, lips curving into a smug smile. He turns toward you, composure snapping back into place. Whatever uncertainty that had crept into his voice a moment ago is gone, replaced with that familiar sharp gleam in his eyes. You like this more, you decide—you don’t like whatever it was on his face when Naotaka was talking.
“Oh?” he drawls, rolling his shoulders. “Ya want to watch? Sure, this’ll be fun. I’ll even put some effort in, since my pretty wife’s gonna be watching. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
Wife?!
You barely stop yourself from shooting him an appalled look when he calls you his wife. Smile a bit tighter, you reply, “Please do. I’d hate to be disappointed.”
That earns you a low laugh from Naoya. He steps into the middle of the yard, posture loose, radiating that casual arrogance you’ve become used to. Naotaka follows more reluctantly, rolling his wrists, eyes never leaving his younger brother.
“Don’t hold back,” Naoya adds, voice almost cheerful. “I know you’ve been dying to hit me.”
Naotaka braces himself on his back leg, and the fight is over before it even really starts. You blink, and Naotaka is on the ground, blood spilling from his mouth and nose, eyes wide. Naoya stands above him, a sneer on his face. He presses his foot against Naotaka’s cheek, smushing his face into the dirt, grinding his heel just enough to make a point.
“Well,” Naoya says mildly, looking down at his brother, “that was disappointing, but I expected nothing less from you.”
Naotaka coughs, blood and dirt mixing at the corner of his mouth. His hands twitch, fingers clawing uselessly at the ground, pride warring with pain. He finally manages to get out a hoarse, “Get off.”
Naoya leans down instead, lowering his face. “You talk a lot for trash. You’d think you’d have learned by now. Guess ya just can’t help stupidity, can ya?”
You make your way over to them, hands still clasped behind your back. Naoya straightens and steps back, gaze dragging up to your face. He preens and asks smugly, “Impressed?”
You’re close enough now that only Naoya and Naotaka will overhear what you’re about to say, and your back is to the Kukuru who have gathered. You let your smile drop as you side-eye Naoya.
“No,” you answer flatly, ignoring his scowl. Naotaka blinks at your tone, brows furrowing as he realizes he might’ve misjudged your relationship with Naoya. You glance down at him, lip curled up in distaste. You don’t know why his words bothered you so much. You don’t give a damn about Naoya, but you think Naotaka has some nerve talking down on someone he can’t even land a hit on in a fight. You consider dropping the subject, because there is an off-chance that Naotaka will go running to his father to tell him what happened, but you think even if he does, nothing will come from it. His father doesn’t respect him, and you trust that Naoya will have your back—and Naobito will take Naoya’s word over Naotaka’s, you know that much. So, you tell him, “I think men with no skill in combat should hang themselves and die. What use are you to the world?”
Naotaka stares at you, eyes wide, shock and humiliation flooding his face. Beside you, Naoya lets out a loud, startled laugh, throwing his head back, hand braced on his hip, shoulders shaking.
“See, even my wife-to-be agrees. I knew I picked well,” Naoya says with a sharp smile, eyes shining as he stares down at Naotaka. He misses the repulsive look you cast his way. “You’re worthless. So do us both a favor and never talk to me again. Or, better yet, die.”
Naotaka pushes himself up to his elbows, scoffing at you this time. “You know, when we met that day after I came back from Tokyo, I wasn’t sure how someone like him could be with someone like you. Thought he was tormenting you behind closed doors. To think I was worried. But I get it—you two are the same, aren’t you?”
“Don’t you have any shame?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. “You don’t fight well. You don’t command respect. Your own father barely acknowledges you unless you embarrass him, and instead of fixing any of that, you stand around gossiping about someone who could crush you without trying in the same breath you pretend to be above him. At least Naoya earns his reputation. When people look at him, it’s because they’re afraid he might actually do something, because he can. When they look at you, it’s because they’re wondering why the hell you’re still here.”
“You’re both disgusting,” he mutters, jaw tight as his gaze flits away, face red with humiliation. Naoya is staring at you—you can see it from the corner of your eye, but you can’t read the expression on his face. “Deserve each other.”
“And you’re forgettable,” you reply without hesitation. “That’s worse.”
Naotaka scoffs and starts to say, “You—”
Naoya interrupts. “You really don’t know when to quit it. Shut your mouth already, will you?”
Naoya reaches for you, hand curling around your wrist. He tugs you toward him, and then his hand slides to the middle of your back as he guides you away from the center of the yard. Naoya doesn’t do gentle, but you think this is the closest thing he knows to it, fingers pressing against your spine, not forceful or demanding, just there. Dare you say, almost comforting. The Kukuru look away. Someone moves to help Naotaka. The moment is over as quickly as it began.
You half-expect him to jump down your throat for what you said, for embarrassing him, or escalating things, or not acting like the Zenin perfect wife when the two of you were in public, as your deal demands. But he doesn’t. He keeps walking until the noise of the training ground dulls behind you and the weight of other eyes finally lifts.
He leans down, close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “Didn’t think you were the type to kick someone while they’re already down,” he says, amused.
You don’t have to look at him to see the sharp grin on his face.
You wipe it off him instantly.
“Didn’t think you were the type to take the words of such a lowlife to heart,” you counter, and Naoya stops dead in his tracks, hand falling from your back, limp to his side. You stop as well, turning around to look at him. There’s an unreadable expression on his face; you wonder if he was hoping you didn’t overhear anything that took place before you announced yourself. “You shouldn’t.”
Naoya stares at you for just a moment too long. Up close, without the performance and the audience, he expression looks almost… empty. The sharpness in his eyes drains in a way you’ve never seen before, and for a split second, he looks younger again. Smaller. The same way he did when Naotaka was prattling on about their mother.
He recovers quickly with a familiar scoff, gaze flitting to the side. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t give a shit about the opinions of trash.” Irritated now, he adds, “And you shouldn’t have spoken up like that in the first place. You’re gonna cause me problems if you keep running your mouth. You said you’d be obedient in public. I don’t need anyone defending me, ‘specially not you.”
“If that were true, you wouldn’t have hit him so hard, or so fast,” you tell him, ignoring the latter half of what he said, turning on your heel to continue making your way over to the gardens. He follows behind—testament to how bothered he really is, because there’s no world where he would willingly walk even half a step behind you, much less three. “He wanted to hurt you, and you let him.”
“What the hell would you know, huh?” he demands, reaching out to grab your wrist, stopping you mid-step. He forces you to turn to look at him. He’s not gentle anymore. “Answer me. What the hell would you know?”
“What would I know about someone trying to get reactions out of me and not letting them get what they want?” you drawl, tilting your head to the side, wondering if Naoya’s being serious right now. “Be real, Naoya. I’ve been dealing with it for the past six years—most of the time from you.”
“It’s not the same,” he tells you, voice quieter than you expect, looking away.
“It’s close enough,” you shrug. “Stop giving him what he wants. Knock out his teeth the next time he breathes in your direction. We’re engaged. It’s embarrassing for me as much as it is for you when you let him treat you like that.”
“Bitch,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind the insult, and his gaze flickers with something close to amusement. You roll your eyes, not falling for the bait.
“Call me a bitch again, and I’ll knock out your teeth.”
He looks at you again when he thinks you’re not paying attention, and you catch it, but only barely. The smugness is still there, but it’s off, like it’s not sitting right anymore. His gaze lingers, uneasy and assessing, as if something about you no longer fits the box he put you in years ago.
You don’t know what it means. You’re not sure he does either.
----------------
2005 | READER, AGE 13; NAOYA, AGE 15
Naoya becomes even stranger after that meeting, and it’s making you antsy. You don’t really know how to articulate what’s wrong with him, but something definitely is. When you try to explain it to one of your brothers, he only snorts at you and tells you that he’s too busy to bother with an “emotionally constipated teenager.”
It’s little things. Annoying things. Things that would be easy to dismiss if they didn’t keep happening, but they do keep happening, and it’s seriously knocking you off-kilter.
Naoya stops correcting you in public. Well, not entirely, but he used to pounce at every perceived slight and every misplaced word because he had a “reputation” to keep up, and now, he lets most of them pass without even a snide comment in your direction. His insults toward you never land in front of his family the way they used to, because he knew that was the only time you could never snap back with a retaliatory one. When tempers flare between the two of you, he leaves first—jaw tight, fists clenched—rather than letting things escalate the way they usually would.
It unsettles you more than the violence ever did. You’d almost prefer a busted lip and giving him a blackened eye than whatever is happening recently.
When you arrive early in the morning for a visit, and the air is cold, he tosses his outer robe over your shoulders without a comment, already walking away as if it meant nothing. When a servant pours you tea that’s gone lukewarm, Naoya clicks his tongue, takes the cup from your hands, and tells them to replace it with another. Once, you realized halfway through a conversation that he’d been standing beside you for several minutes, listening to you talk about a new show you started without interrupting, and it unsettled you so much that you lost track of what you were saying. He starts positioning himself differently, too. Always just half a step closer than necessary, in front of you only when an argument breaks out between his uncles or brothers.
He never acknowledges it afterward, and if you look at him too long, he sneers and asks what you’re staring at. One time, you made the mistake of thanking him, and he scoffed so loudly that a servant jumped in surprise halfway across the room. Then, he told you not to get the wrong idea before storming off.
Either way, it’s safe to say that things have been decidedly awkward, and you feel it more than ever sitting across from him in one of the smaller side rooms tucked away from the main corridors of the estate. Your father is talking to Zenin Naobito in the other room, and the two of you were told to sit here and wait until they come to a decision about… Well, you aren’t sure what they’re coming to a decision about, but it has you unnerved, because it can’t possibly be marriage, since Naoya only just turned fifteen, and you’re still thirteen. You want to ask Naoya if he knows what they’re talking about, but you can’t bring yourself to, because he’s just been so weird and unpredictable lately, and you don’t want to engage him if you don’t have to.
So, you sit across from him silently, knees tucked beneath you, hands folded carefully in your lap. Naoya leans back against the wall, head tipped back, legs spread out in front of him. You wonder, disdainfully, if he’s purposely trying to take up as much space as possible or if his obnoxious behavior just comes naturally to him as a Zenin. Probably the latter. He lets out an irritated sigh before bending one knee inward, draping his arm over it, fingers hanging idle, as if this is all terribly boring and beneath him.
It would almost be convincing, if not for the way his eyes keep flicking back to you.
After what feels like an eternity, you finally bring yourself to ask, “Do you know what this is about?”
“Do I look like my father’s keeper?” Naoya asks snidely without wasting a breath. You give him a dirty look, and he promptly rolls his eyes. “Probably has to do with Gojo Satoru’s genpuku ceremony. I don’t fuckin’ know.”
“What does that have anything to do with us?” you scoff, shifting to sit cross-legged when your knees start to ache. You’ve been stuck sitting here with him for almost two hours now, and you’re getting fed up.
Naoya casts you a droll look, and it takes everything in you not to break the six-month streak of no violence, because your hand twitches to punch the expression right off his face. He says, “Everything the Gojo clan does has to do with us. They’re probably considering moving up my genpuku ceremony now to make a point. Which means we’ll be getting married sooner.”
He says it so off-handedly that you almost misunderstand what it is he’s saying. You stare at him for a moment, and then you blink twice, lips parting in disbelief. “How can you say that so casually?” you hiss. “What are we supposed to do?”
Naoya shrugs lazily. “It was bound to happen. My ceremony was always going to happen sooner rather than later. My father wants me to reach Special Grade One before I turn seventeen.”
That’s not what you meant. You want to throttle him. You don’t want to marry him, and you know damn well he doesn’t want to marry you. He’s made that abundantly clear through the barrage of insults and reasons why you’re unfit to be anyone’s wife, much less his. So, why isn’t he seeing the problem with this? If his ceremony is moved up, the two of you will probably be married within a year of it, if not sooner.
“We need to do something,” you say, shaking your head. He tilts his head to the side and raises his eyebrows, like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You almost want to launch yourself at him, teeming with frustration. “Naoya, we need to tell them.”
“Tell ‘em what?” he asks, looking at you from the corner of his eye, brows furrowing.
Is he being purposely obtuse?
“What is wrong with you? That we don’t want to get married,” you hiss. You miss the way his expression shifts when you close your eyes and shake your head again, trying to quell the rising panic. “The longer this drags out, the worse it’ll be. Are we supposed to wait until our wedding day and then be like ‘Hey, you know, actually we can’t stand each other.’”
Naoya doesn’t answer for a moment too long, so you turn to give him a questioning look. The expression on his face gives you pause: his jaw is tight, and there’s an unreadable look in his eyes. Not angry, surprisingly, but more… well, you’re not even really sure. He blinks once like he’s confused, genuinely, and it throws you off more than any shout ever could. His mouth opens, then closes again, and he stares at you like he’s about to say something but thinks better of it.
The harsh scoff comes too late and too forced.
What the hell is happening?
“If ya wanna tell them, be my guest,” he snaps, angrier than you expected, “but you better keep me out of it—”
“What is your problem, asshole?” you demand, glaring at him. Your chest twists up, and you don’t know why. “How am I supposed to keep you out of it? You’re the only one that can say something—I’m in no position to. And you’re the issue.”
“I’m the issue?” Naoya echoes, seething. He rises to his feet, and you push yourself to yours. Here you go, six months of no violence down the drain. You suppose it was only a matter of time. Your hand curls into a fist, body tensing, but it never comes. Naoya steps away from you as though he catches himself, running his hand through his hair, and you want to scream at him to just fucking fight you, because you’ll understand that more than this. “You’re the damn issue. You don’t act like a woman. Not the way you’re supposed to. You don’t listen. You don’t keep your head down. You’re always arguing and snapping back like you think you’re my equal. It’s embarrassing.”
“I get it,” you reply loudly, voice inexplicably cracking over the words. “I know. You tell me all the time, Naoya. I’m loud and difficult, and I embarrass you. I hear it from you, from my family, from everyone. So, why are you losing your mind over me finally saying we should put an end to this?”
For a split second, Naoya looks thrown, like he doesn’t know the answer himself. His lips part to speak, but he seems unable to spit out any snide comments. After a long moment—too long—his face finally hardens again.
“You don’t get anything,” he finally seethes, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning his back toward you as he walks over to the sliding doors. “You never get anything, but you run around acting like you do. I don’t give a damn anymore. Do what you want. I’m sick of putting up with your shit. Good fuckin’ riddance if you manage to get them to agree to calling off the engagement.”
You stare at him as he leaves. Angry, you shout at his retreating back, “They told us to wait in here!”
He flips you off over his shoulder, not even deigning to look back or respond.
You sit back down, a heavy feeling in your chest. You can’t shake the feeling that you seriously messed up, and you don’t even know how.
(Your father tells you that you and Naoya will be married once he’s promoted to Special Grade One. You have at most two years left. Two years, and it’s done, and with every day that passes, the space to object shrinks.)
----------------
Naoya stops doing nice things after the argument that day.
He starts correcting you again, publicly, snapping at your words the moment they leave your mouth if they’re not Zenin perfect. His voice is cutting and loud enough to draw attention, and the timing is deliberate, always when others are listening, and you can’t afford to snap back. Arguments don’t really happen anymore at all, not because the two of you are on good terms, but because he never lingers long enough for them to start. He’s there just long enough to make a comment, to look at you like you’re a nuisance that he’s decided not to deal with, and then he’s gone again. You’re left bristling with words that have nowhere to go, and then you’re forced into lessons to prepare yourself for your duties as his wife since he refuses to spend time with you anymore.
The small things disappear completely. No robe when the mornings are cold. No interference when servants ignore you or rush past you. If tea is poured wrong, it stays wrong. If you’re talked over, you stay talked over. When you arrive, he doesn’t acknowledge you, eyes sliding past you like you aren’t there at all. If he’s nearby, he acts as though you aren’t, angling his shoulders away and directing his attention elsewhere, erasing himself from your immediate world.
You become used to it.
It’s better this way.
----------------
2007 | READER, AGE 14; NAOYA, AGE 16
You’ve spent most of your time this past year during your visits to the Zenin estate watching Naoya train with the Hei when you’re not forced into your lessons with the other women in the estate. He’s preparing for his promotion, and it’s easier to linger at the edges of the training grounds than it is to find somewhere to hide away alone. He’s started talking to you again over the last few months—a comment tossed over his shoulder when he passes you on the way to training, a curt acknowledgment when you’re in the same room, sometimes he asks if you’re leaving already when he catches you on your way out, sometimes he tells you not to sit near him because you’re in his way. Nothing that invites a response longer than a sentence.
Watching him train fills in the gaps. Makes you feel less awkward hanging around the estate when you’re expected to be there for your weekly visits and have no other obligations or duties to attend to. From the sidelines, it’s easier to exist around him without having to think too hard about how things have changed. Occasionally, he glances your way between rounds. Not long enough to mean anything, just enough to register that you’re still there. Once, when you lingered too close to the edge of the engawa while he was sparring with his uncle, he snapped at you to move back before you got hurt. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt, but you listen anyway, if only because you’re surprised at the emotion in his voice.
It’s while you’re watching him train that a terrible, terrible thought crosses your mind.
Naoya is… kind of attractive.
It’s so unprompted and alarming that you almost drop your fan, expression twisting in disgust as you stare at him. You immediately try to rationalize it. It’s proximity bias, obviously. You’ve been stuck seeing the same dumb face for years; of course, your brain has finally snapped. Like Stockholm syndrome, but worse, because there’s no way you would ever think shitty, insufferable Zenin Naoya is attractive.
Except—he really has changed. He’s grown taller. From gangly limbs and a narrow frame to broad shoulders and toned arms. His face has lost some of the childish softness that yours still has; the lines are sharper now, more defined, especially when he scowls. Which he does a lot. It’s all much easier to notice now while you’re watching him spar than it is in the brief moments you pass by each other across the estate.
He moves differently now, too. He’s faster—more sure of himself. There’s no hesitation behind his strikes. Projection sorcery carries him across the training yard in clean, decisive bursts, body snapping into place with perfect precision. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt, clinging to him in a way that makes you look away, and then, traitorously, look back.
You frown, unsettled, as he floors one of the Hei members with a brutal kick, barely sparing him a glance once he hits the ground. Everyone has been raving about how he’s going to be the youngest Special Grade One sorcerer that the Zenin clan has ever had. In two months, he’s going to submit his petition to the higher-ups, and then he’s going to go on his missions—which, in his humble words, he’s guaranteed to succeed on, so he’ll be Special Grade One before he even turns seventeen.
And you will be married to him within a year of the promotion.
You sigh, gaze dragging back up to his face. His lips curl up into a smug smile as he pushes his black hair out of his face, and you want to die because your stomach flips when he catches your gaze and winks at you before moving on to the next opponent.
What the fuck?
You’re not sure if you’re more confused by your reaction or the fact that he acknowledged you so casually at all. You stare at Naoya in abject horror, noticing things you’ve never noticed before against your will. His eyes narrow before he strikes, his smile sharpens when he realizes someone underestimated him, and he doesn’t bother hiding his disdain when he inevitably wins, because he knows he doesn’t have to.
You remind yourself how obnoxious he was before he started icing you out—he would tug on your hair when he felt like you’re not giving him your full attention as children, he forced you to listen to him as he droned on about legacy and his useless brothers and how the Zenin clan would fall apart without him. He complained constantly, picked fights with you for sport, and took a perverse amount of joy in reminding you—loudly—that you’re his future wife, and he would take serious pleasure in turning you into the perfect woman for him.
You know all of this, and it’s not enough to fix whatever is currently malfunctioning in your brain, because then—then you think about how he would give you his outer robe when it was cold, about how irritated he would get in your defense when the estates servants didn’t treat you with the proper respect, how he would listen to you ramble with few complaints. He wasn’t as insufferable last year, you realize. In fact, you might even go so far as to say he was decently good to you, and then everything went to shit because…
Well, you still don’t really understand why, you think belatedly.
He moves again—too fast for your eyes to follow properly—and you watch as he flashes forward, heel catching his opponent square in the ribs. There’s a sharp crack, a grunt of pain, and then Naoya is already past him, barely slowing as the man crumples to the ground. He doesn’t even look impressed, and you think that’s what gets you the most: not the strength, but the fact that he’s so fucking full of himself that he expects the world to bend to him and is never surprised when it does. You hate how smug he is all the damn time.
God, you can’t stand him.
Yet, you still can’t draw your eyes away.
“What the hell?” you whisper to yourself, trying to snap yourself out of whatever trance you’re in, as Naoya makes a derogatory comment to his uncle before he wipes the sweat from his brow and turns toward you. His gold eyes lock onto yours immediately.
“Enjoying the show?” he calls, an infuriating grin on his face as he makes his way over to you.
Is he actually talking to you?
You blink once, bewildered, and he raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at you. When did he get so tall? you think woefully. He towers over you now—a few months ago, the two of you were almost the same height.
You think of making a snide comment about whether or not he’s actually talking to you now, but you decide against it, snapping your fan shut. “You’re loud,” you say, hoping that he can’t see through the facade you instinctively throw up. “And sloppy. You could’ve finished that fight three strikes earlier.”
He steps closer, damp hair sticking to his forehead as he leans in. “If you’re gonna lie,” he tells you smugly, “you should try harder to make it believable.”
What is his problem? Why is he getting so close to you? He’s hardly spoken to you at all in the last year. You’re becoming increasingly more confused, and worse, flustered, because your heart is inexplicably racing the closer he gets to you.
You cross your arms over your chest. “You’re so full of yourself. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that modesty is attractive?”
“In women, maybe. Take your own advice, you arrogant hag,” Naoya counters, and you gape when he calls you a hag, staring at him in disbelief. “Tell me how impressive I was. I know ya think it from how long you were staring.”
You think the ground should open up and swallow you whole.
Instead, your lip curls up into a mocking smile. “Aw,” you croon. “The little prince wants to be praised. You did so good, Naoya. You’re so strong. So impressive.”
“Bitch,” he mutters scornfully, crossing his arms over his chest, but there’s something unmistakably pleased flickering in his eyes, happy with the shallow flattery. You almost roll your eyes. “At least try to sound sincere.”
“And let your head get even bigger? As if,” you snort, motioning for him to take your hand and help you to your feet. He raises his eyebrows and then pointedly yanks you up so hard that you crash into his chest. Eyes wide and caught off guard, you flail for a second as you try to catch yourself, hyper aware of how your face is pressed against his chest and how his hand dropped down to your lower back. After a long moment, you finally are able to spit out a flustered, “Asshole.”
You lift your head up to glare at him, but you falter when you find he’s already looking down at you, head tilted to the side, smug smile painted across his face.
“You’re much prettier when ya keep your mouth shut, you know? Women shouldn’t be saying such ugly things. Or anything at all, really,” he says lazily, gold eyes raking over your face. “It ruins the view.”
With the rest of the Hei distracted as they continue their drills, and the right half of your body out of line of sight, you drive your fist hard into Naoya’s side. He hardly budges, but he does scowl at you, grabbing your wrist to stop you from going in for another blow.
“Careful,” he warns, voice low, an edge to it now. “If anyone sees you swingin’ at me like that, they’ll think I’m going soft for you.”
“You are soft,” you say immediately, then try to punch him again when he lets go of your elbow. He grabs your arm again with a slight frown. “Just not where it counts.”
“You’re a violent little beast, you know that?” he snaps, fingers tightening around your wrist and splayed across your lower back. “You should be grateful it’s me you’re betrothed to. Any other man would’ve disciplined you by now. Ain’t I so generous? Say thank you.”
You sneer, the two of you falling back into routine banter so easily that it surprises you, like the last year of distance and tension didn’t take place at all. “Yes, thank you,” you agree, and his eyes widen slightly, a pleased smile curving at his lips. Then you add scornfully, “Thank you for proving, yet again, that you are insufferable to be around. I almost forgot.”
He clicks his tongue, annoyed, but he doesn’t let go right away. His grip is firm, possessive in a way that makes your skin crawl and your pulse jump all at once. You raise your chin stubbornly, and he squints at you.
“Tch,” he scoffs lightly. He finally lets go of your wrist and lets his hands drop back to his sides. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”
You rub your wrist as you step away—you can still feel the warmth of his fingers pressed against your skin. You shoot him an accusing glare. “I can’t believe you, of all people, just said that to me.”
He ignores your comment, stepping past you to the water basin, grabbing a towel, and slinging it around his neck.
“Honestly,” he says casually, and you know you’re not going to like whatever he’s about to say solely from the shit-eating grin on his face. You brace yourself for whatever it is, but even that’s not enough. “It’s about time you noticed anyway.”
You side-eye him, stomach dropping. “Noticed what, exactly?”
“Me, obviously.”
You instinctively scoff. “Trust me, I noticed you and your big head ages ago, Naoya.”
“You know what I mean,” he says with an easy smile. “I’ve always been like this. Strong. Talented. Better than everyone else here. It was only a matter of time.”
“Humble too,” you add sarcastically, voice strained. “Get over yourself. You’re not as impressive as you think you are.”
He steps past you, close enough that his shoulder purposely brushes yours, voice dropping for only you to hear. “Just try not to fall in love, yeah?” he tells you mockingly. “It’d be inconvenient.”
You whirl on him, furious, and you hate the way your heart kicks traitorously in your chest. “As if,” you hiss. “I’d rather swallow glass.”
He winks at you as he walks away, goading one of his uncles to step into the training yard to spar with him, and you turn your back on him, eyes wide and lips parted as you try to piece together what just happened.
Fuck.
----------------
Things go back to normal after that—mostly, at least. Naoya waits for you to arrive every Sunday morning, and on the mornings he’s busy, he has a servant bring you right to him, regardless of what he might be doing. He walks with you around the garden, listens to you complain about your brothers, lets you ramble about your favorite show with only the occasional snide remark. You’ve started arguing again, constantly bickering and insulting one another, but it still never escalates physically. You’ve even started forcing him to buy you things—or, well, force is harsh, you just remind him that since you’re engaged to him, it’s his duty, and he reacts exactly how you expect him to.
(“What? Why the hell should I buy you that? Get it yourself.”
“Hah?! ‘Cause you’re a man. Aren’t you supposed to buy your woman things? What’s wrong with you?”
“You’re not a woman. You’re a beast.”
The next time you show up at the Zenin estate for a visit, he throws a small box at your face without warning. You only barely manage to catch it before it hits the ground.
“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he snaps at you, already turning away. “It won’t happen again.”
It does.)
He’s touchier than he usually is, too, and it unnerves you. Even before the argument a year ago, when he was being good to you back then, he would only touch you to help you to your feet or lead you across the estate. Now, he’ll take any excuse to press his body against yours, or lean in far too close to be considered appropriate, or rest his hands on your shoulders while he stands behind you. When he wants to say something only for you to overhear, he’ll bend down so that his lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you think he gets a kick out of how it makes you jump every single time.
(“You’re so jumpy,” he remarks once, arms draped around your shoulders as he hangs over you. When you try to elbow him away, his arms tighten around you. “Relax.”
“You’re in my space,” you snap at him. “Screw off.”
“Your space, my space,” he says with an insufferable smile, ignoring the outraged expression you direct toward him. “Is it a crime now to touch my wife?”
“I’m not your wife, you asshole, quit it with that!”)
You become used to this, too.
You like it better this way, you think.
----------------
2008 | READER, AGE 15; NAOYA, AGE 17
Zenin Naoya faces failure for the first time when he’s seventeen years old, and the world ends.
Well, his world ends.
Yours keeps moving forward, indifferent to the fact that his has come to a sudden halt.
Naoya doesn’t make Special Grade One on his first petition. Not that anyone says it like that. The words are dressed up and softened, wrapped in excuses and timelines and reassurances meant to preserve the Zenin name. Soon. Next year. He had a subpar partner for his missions. But the result is the same, and everyone knows it. The failure of the Zenin clan’s prodigy will be the talk of jujutsu society until something more exciting comes around.
For the most part, you don’t really care. Naoya’s failures are his problem, and his not making Special Grade One means you get to put off your wedding an extra year. So, honestly, you’re kind of happy that he failed, not that you’ll say that to him—or maybe you will, depending on how annoying he decides to be.
Well, you don’t care until you actually get to the Zenin estate for your first visit after his failure. You’re bemused when no one is there to greet you, so you let yourself in.
You hear the commotion before you see it. It carries through the estate in uneven bursts—laughter too loud to be friendly, words slurred just enough to be unmistakable. The inner courtyard is crowded. Too crowded for a normal Sunday afternoon. Members of the clan linger at the edges, pretending not to watch what’s going down. Servants hover uselessly near the pillars, frozen in place, eyes carefully lowered, but openly eavesdropping on the loud conversation taking place between Zenin Naobito and his heir.
You pause at the opposite end of the courtyard, gaze hesitating on the wide and ugly smile on Naobito’s face before it drifts to where Naoya stands in front of him, straight-backed and silent, hands clenched at his side tightly. He wears a brittle expression that you’ve never seen before, and you can tell that he’s trying and failing to mask it with apathy.
“Well?” Naobito laughs, sloshing the bottle as he gestures vaguely in Naoya’s direction. “This is him. Our prodigy.” He snorts, and Naoya fights a cringe. You can’t tell if it’s rage or humiliation burning behind his eyes. Maybe both. “Special Grade One before seventeen, they said. A sure thing.”
One of Naoya’s brothers snorts, whispering quietly to the man at his side. You give them a dirty look, arms crossing over your chest as you stand there awkwardly. You can’t interfere in Zenin affairs, doesn’t matter how long you’ve been engaged to Naoya—this is clan business, and even if you were part of the clan, you’re still a woman.
Doesn’t stop your chest from tightening, and your body from twitching to move forward.
Naobito leans forward, squinting at him. “You know how embarrassing this is for me, boy?” he continues, voice rising. “For the clan? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Naoya doesn’t respond.
“Say something,” Naobito snaps, the smile dropping, “or did failure knock the tongue out of your mouth too?”
Silence. Naobito is making a spectacle out of Naoya—purposely humiliating him in front of the whole clan. The Zenin clan might make excuses in front of jujutsu society, but there’s no such mercy within the walls of the estate.
Naobito scoffs when Naoya still doesn’t speak. “Look at him,” he says to no one in particular. “All that talent and still not enough. Maybe I overestimated you.”
Naoya’s jaw tightens at that. His nails dig into his palms hard enough that you wonder if he’s drawing blood. You’ve always known that Zenin Naobito was an impossible man with impossible expectations and impossible cruelty—you’ve seen his ire directed at countless people, servants, his brother, his other sons, but never you and Naoya. Not like this. He’s always favored Naoya more than the others, more lenient to his whims because of his inherited technique, but clearly that favor shatters the moment Naoya screws up. You shouldn’t be surprised, and you aren’t really, but it does make your stomach turn.
“You think being strong is enough, boy?” Naobito goes on harshly, waving the bottle again. You wonder whether this is his first time talking to Naoya since the failed mission, or whether it has been a daily occurrence this past week. “Strength without results is useless, and useless men don’t become the Zenin clan head.”
You inhale sharply at the implication, and even Naoya’s brothers seem struck by that comment, exchanging calculating looks with one another. This is the first time Naobito has openly threatened Naoya’s position as heir. Naoya swallows thickly, and then he forces himself to bow stiffly, just enough to be considered proper, and that somehow makes it worse. Submission where you’ve only ever seen arrogance.
“I’ll do better,” he says at last, voice flat and controlled.
Naobito snorts harshly. “You’d better, or I’ll find someone else who can.”
The older man finally wanders off, bottle in hand, still spitting out derogatory comments under his breath, and the rest of the Zenins slowly begin to disperse. They keep looking at Naoya, whispering to one another, some are confused, some are scheming, many of them are pleased. Naoya is not well-liked amongst the Zenins, and for good reason, so they’re glad to see him openly humbled by his own father. They enjoy it—seeing him falter, having the proof that the arrogant heir isn’t so untouchable after all laid out in front of them. You can see the humiliation plain on Naoya’s face as he stares after Naobito.
What a vicious group of people, you think bitterly to yourself before you force yourself forward, making your way over to him. He doesn’t move an inch even as people walk all around him, blatantly whispering about him.
“What the hell are you doing?” you ask him as soon as the crowd mostly scatters and the two of you are alone. You keep your voice low enough that only he can overhear you, but you become more incensed the longer he doesn’t acknowledge you. He’s standing there, staring at his father’s back, letting people whisper. You find yourself inexplicably angry. This isn’t Naoya—not your Naoya. “Naoya.”
“What?” he demands through gritted teeth. He’s still not looking at you, still staring after his father. “Are you here to gloat now, too?”
“Gloat? Get over yourself,” you snap. His gaze finally shifts over to you, irritated. “What is there to gloat about? What’s the matter with you? Are you seriously just going to stand there and let them laugh at you like that? That was humiliating, and you just—you just stood there. You let it happen. You let them make a spectacle out of you.”
“What was I supposed to do?” he hisses. His voice cracks. Both of you ignore it. “Throw a tantrum? Prove him right?”
You don’t know the answer to that. You don’t know what he was supposed to do, but you know he shouldn’t have just stood there like a beaten dog. He shouldn’t have let all of those useless brothers of his make a joke out of him. That’s not—it’s not him. It shouldn’t be him. Can’t be him. That’s not Naoya.
Naoya sighs when he sees the expression on your face, gaze lowering. That pisses you off even more. He should get angry at you, he should snap back, or sneer, or say something cruel just to reassert himself. That’s the Naoya you know—not whoever this is.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he finally mutters, dragging his eyes away from the ground back up to you. There’s irritation there, but it’s dulled. “Ya don’t get it.”
“Then explain it to me,” you shoot back, glaring at a lingering brother of his as the two of you finally make your way back into the main building in the direction of his bedroom. “Right now, it looks like you’re letting a bunch of mediocre men and a drunkard tear you apart just because they finally got the chance.”
His jaw tightens again. You press on before he can say anything.
“They were waiting for this,” you continue, voice sharp with anger. “Your brothers, the servants—half of them could barely hide how happy they were. Like they’ve been dying to see you mess up.”
“You don’t think I don’t know that,” he snaps automatically, pushing open the sliding door to his room and guiding you inside it. He closes the door behind you, and you make your way over to the wall, sliding down it to sit cross-legged. He sits next to you, close enough that your shoulders press together and your thighs almost brush. Neither of you acknowledges it. He doesn't look at you as he says, “They don’t matter. None of them matter. They’re useless.”
“Then act like it,” you tell him, the fire draining now that the two of you are alone. “You’re better than them, Naoya. They’re weaker than you. Every single one of them. They have no right standing around, laughing at you like that.” Naoya doesn’t respond right away, so you look at him with a frown, and you catch an odd expression on his face—something between amusement and resignation. You demand, “What?”
He tilts his head back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Nothing,” he says after a moment. “It wasn’t my fault, you know? I was paired up with a fucking woman for my mission. I’m pretty sure the bitch purposely screwed me over.” He adds bitterly, “This is why they have no place in combat. They get emotional, and then everyone else pays for it.”
You turn your head to the side slowly to stare at him, irritation pricking at your chest. You’ve heard him say things like this before, but this time it comes out rushed and defensive, like he’s scrambling for something to shield himself with. He doesn’t look at you, and there’s a pensive frown on his face as his head falls forward, black hair hanging in his face. You scoff and roll your eyes, a loaded insult about the fire off the tip of your tongue, but you pause when you see red staining the white shirt he wears beneath his kimono.
“Are you hurt?” you ask him with a frown, shifting from where you’re sitting next to him to sit in front of him instead. He blinks once as you settle between his spread legs, and when you reach up to start unbuttoning the shirt, his hand darts up to grab your wrist before you can undo the first button. You give him an annoyed look. “What?”
“It’s nothing,” he says after a moment. “Just a scratch.”
“How did you get it?” you press.
“I just did.”
“How?”
“You’re being annoying,” he tells you, but there’s no heat in it, more deflection than insult. “It’s not serious.”
“Then let me look.”
Naoya lets out an aggravated sigh, eyes rolling upward in irritation, but he lets go of your wrist. You continue in your efforts to unbutton his shirt, sliding his kimono off his shoulders when it gets in the way. He sinks back into the wall, posture loosening despite the tension still in his shoulders. You part the fabric carefully, eyes widening slightly when you get a better look at the wound: half of his chest is bruised an ugly green and yellow color, and there’s a deep slash from his shoulder to his hip.
“The hell is the matter with you, Naoya?” you demand, giving him a dirty look as you rise to your feet and rifle through his stuff, looking for the bandages you know he keeps in his room. You find them after a few moments, along with a small wrapped box that you eye curiously, but he clears his throat before you can peek at it. You make your way back over to him, settling back down between his legs. You say snidely, “So much for just a scratch.”
From above you, you hear a soft scoff.
“You’re fussing,” he says, but his tone is different now—lighter, almost teasing. When you glance up, you catch a far too smug and self-satisfied expression on his face, lips curved up, and eyes lidded as he looks down at you. It aggravates you, but you find that you like it more than the empty, dull one he was previously donning.
“Don’t start.”
He hums, pleased, and naturally starts. “Ya know,” he says lazily, “you’re actin’ an awful lot like a proper wife right now. Maybe all hope isn’t lost. I’ll make a decent woman out of you yet.”
You jab your fingers into his wound, and Naoya chokes, giving you an accusing look.
“Oops,” you say. “Arm spasm.”
“Bitch,” he hisses.
“Douchebag.”
You tap his shoulder, signaling him to lean forward so you can wrap the bandages around his torso. Your lashes flutter as you slink your arms around him to do so—he’s so close that you can feel the heat emanating from his body, and his breath unsteady against your ear, clearly in more pain than he’s letting on.
“Did it happen on the mission?” you ask him quietly when the silence becomes too much.
Naoya pauses before he admits, “No.”
You tilt your head up, eyes meeting his gold ones. You don’t realize how close you are to him until his gaze flicks down to your lips briefly, and his breath catches as though his brain has stalled for half a second. The moment stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable, so you avert your attention back down to his wound, getting back to work. “Your father, then?”
Naoya doesn’t answer right away. You feel his thumb brush over your outer thigh absentmindedly, and you try to ignore it. “He recommended I stay in the discipline pit until I learned my lesson,” he finally says, a bitter edge to his tone. “Didn’t give me a time frame.” He lets out a humorless huff. “So he meant for me to stay in there until I couldn’t anymore.”
“How long?” you ask him quietly.
“Long enough,” he replies. Then adds with a scoff. “Not long enough for him. Nothing’s ever fuckin’ enough for him.”
You tie off the bandage and sit back on your heels, not moving from where you’ve settled between his legs. Your hands rest awkwardly on your lap, and your gaze lifts to meet his; he’s already looking at you, gold eyes lidded as he studies your face.
“You should—” you start to say, but falter, because you know what his reaction is going to be, and it’s going to sting, so you want to brace yourself for it. “You should train with me. Not the Hei.”
Naoya’s head drops forward slightly, eyebrows raised up in disbelief, an amused smirk curling onto his lips. “You?” he echoes, humor laced into the word. “I should train with you?”
You bristle slightly, teeth grinding together. “Yes.”
“And why, exactly, would I do that?” he asks you, amused, leaning back against the wall again, arms folding loosely over his chest. “You don’t actually think you’re on my level, do you? I know you like to think you’re tough, but you’re still just a woman, ya know? You only get away with how you act ‘cause I’m generous and I let you.”
Even bracing yourself, you find that the words hurt. You know Naoya better than anyone, and you know what he thinks about women as jujutsu sorcerers, but this is the first time he’s commented so directly on your capability.
“Women ain’t built for this,” he continues before you can get a word in. “You hesitate. You get emotional. You overthink. You break.” His mouth quirks up. “It’s not an insult, just reality.”
“Is that so?” you ask coolly, grateful that you sound less bothered than you actually are.
“It is,” he agrees, and then his face twitches in annoyance as he looks over you. “I thought you would’ve gotten rid of this stupid dream by now. You’re going to be my wife, not a sorcerer.”
You stare at him for a second too long, waiting for the familiar sneer to follow, or a joke that would make this easier to swallow. It doesn’t come. He just watches you, chin tipped up and expression hard, like he’s already decided this is settled.
“I can be both,” you say firmly after a moment.
He has the nerve to laugh at you, and then he shakes his head.
“Nah,” he disagrees. “Not my wife.”
“You can’t stop me, Naoya.”
He gives you a droll look. “Wanna bet?”
Your eyes narrow. “The Zenins aren’t the end-all of influence in jujutsu society. Especially after your little stint last week,” you say, driving the dagger in just to watch his expression flash in anger at the reminder of his failure. “My family has influence, and we have more friends than just your clan. I have more friends.”
Naoya realizes what you’re saying instantly, eyes dark. “You would go to Gojo Satoru to get around me,” he says, voice low and edged.
“Yeah,” you tell him without hesitation. “Yeah, I would.”
Naoya’s jaw tightens. He says, “You wouldn’t,” but there’s no humor in his tone now.
“I would,” you repeat, “and you know he’d do it. He hates your father, he hates your clan, he hates the traditionalism of jujutsu society, and he loves sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Naoya scoffs, but it’s thin. “You can’t possibly think he’d take you seriously.”
“I do, because unlike you, he doesn’t think women are a liability.”
“No,” he finally says, shaking his head as he sits up straight. “No. You’re not becoming a sorcerer.”
“What part of ‘you can’t stop me’ don’t you understand?” you demand, becoming a bit irritated. “Jesus, Naoya, I—”
“You’ll get yourself killed,” he interrupts, voice rising. He slams his fist down against the floor angrily. The two of you often get into screaming matches with one another before, but this feels different. It’s not just rage that has him like this. “You’re reckless, and naive, and you’re going to get yourself killed. I shoulda fuckin’ put you in your place years ago, since your father and brothers clearly aren’t. I’m not going to sit back and watch you die for pride. You’re not cut out for it, you’re not strong enough to be out there. You’re meant to stay home—stay safe.”
Your eye twitches, blood hot and vision tinting red. You bite down on your tongue until it bleeds to stop yourself from spitting a barrage of insults at him. “Then train with me,” you say instead, voice strained. Naoya lets out a frustrated sigh, running his hand through his hair. He looks at you like he wants to throttle you, and you raise your chin. “I’m serious. If you think I’m weak, then train with me yourself. You won’t stop me from doing what I want, so prepare me for it.”
“Ya won’t be able to keep up,” he finally mutters, but there’s no heat behind the words anymore. He sounds defeated. You know you’ve won.
“I’m the only one in the world who can,” you counter without hesitation, and then add belatedly, “except your father.”
He pauses and then tilts his head curiously, considering your words. His eyes narrow slightly on you. “Your technique—”
Your lips curl up into a smug smile. “Train with me, and you can finally find out what it is—while I kick your ass with it, of course. You’ll improve more against me than you ever will with the Hei.”
Naoya’s eyes flash at the challenge, then he leans forward. “How about this? You land a single hit on me, and I’ll step out of your way, let ya go play at sorcerer for as long as you want,” he says, lips curling up smugly. He reaches out to pinch your chin between his fingers, shifting even closer as he continues, “But if you can’t, you drop this, and learn to be what you’re actually meant to be.” His thumb presses lightly under your chin, forcing your face up just enough that you have no choice but to look at him. His smile sharpens, cruel and satisfied with himself. “A perfect, pretty little wife. Quiet, and obedient, and safe at home where you won’t embarrass me or get yourself killed.”
For once, Naoya’s terrible, terrible ego works in your favor.
Your lips curve up into a smile that’s twice as smug as his. “Deal.”
----------------
A natural counter to the Zenin’s Projection Sorcery, your father described the first time your technique manifested. You had no idea what projection sorcery was at the time, and you’d only heard of the Zenin clan in passing, so you were just gleeful that none of your older brothers could land a hit on you anymore. It was only once you started watching Naoya train, and finally convinced him to explain his cursed technique to you, that you realized what your father meant.
“What the fuck?”
You crouch down next to Naoya’s head as he lies on the training ground of your family’s estate, staring up at the clear skies above. His jaw is tight, irritation radiating off him in waves, but you can also see the confusion plain on his face. You almost laugh, but stop yourself before you can.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands, pride wounded, a mortified expression on his face as he tries to grasp what just happened. “How did you—what did you—what the fuck was that?”
“I win,” you say, pleased with yourself. “You can’t make it difficult for me to become a sorcerer.”
“What was that?” he asks furiously, pushing himself up onto his elbows and turning his head to glare at you. “You—you didn’t dodge, and you weren’t faster than me, it’s like—”
You lean in, smug. “Like I already knew what you were going to do before you did it?”
Naoya stares at you, expression twisted into something between fury and disbelief. For a moment, you think he might actually swing at you again just to make a point. Instead, he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head.
“That’s bullshit,” he says through his teeth. “No one can do that.”
“My cursed technique lets me trace the path someone’s cursed energy commits to before they actually take that path,” you explain to him, sitting cross-legged as he pushes himself into a sitting position, seriously disgruntled.
He says, aggravated, “Future sight. Your cursed technique is future sight. What sort of bullshit hack is that, huh? Cursed energy can’t do that.”
“Well, not exactly,” you say with a frown. You lean forward a little, waving your arms around. “We know that the better the sorcerer, the better they are at controlling cursed energy, so it’s hard to predict an attack until it’s executed.” Naoya gives you a droll look, patience clearly being tested as you explain cursed energy to him. “Just listen. But in the heat of battle, cursed energy flows in response to instinct, so there’s always a moment before someone acts, before they even decide what they’re going to do, where their cursed energy shifts first. Only traces of it, so only someone like Gojo-san with the Six Eyes would be able to see and make use of the information, but my technique latches onto those traces, so to speak, and I can path out someone’s movements accordingly through them. It’s not future sight exactly, but I can see what you and your cursed energy have already decided to do, even if you haven’t realized it yourself yet.” He squints at you, unconvinced. You continue, “It’s not perfect. If someone hesitates or panics, the path I’m tracing falls apart, but against a sorcerer or curse who trusts in their technique and their instincts… Well, it’s almost impossible to lie to your own cursed energy.”
Naoya rolls his eyes so obnoxiously that your eye twitches. “And against a cursed technique that relies on the user taking a predetermined path…”
You give him a lazy smile. “Yeah. Sucks for you. I’m like your worst nightmare.”
“You’ve been my worst nightmare since the day we met,” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “Fucking deceitful bitch. You tricked me.”
“Not my fault that you’re too full of yourself,” you say, knocking your shoulder against his. He immediately shoves you away, and you let out a noise of complaint as you go sprawling against the dirt. “You’re such a sore loser.”
“Fuck you. You should’ve mentioned your technique was a rip-off of the Six Eyes,” he snaps bitterly. Then he asks, “What’s it called anyway?”
“It’s not a rip-off,” you complain, half-tempted to throw dirt in his face. “Gojo-san can do a lot of things I can’t with his Six Eyes, but my technique can do some things he can’t with the Six Eyes, too.”
“Like what?” Naoya presses, and when you don’t answer him immediately, he scowls at you. “Hah?! Now you’re going to play coy?!”
You grin at him. “How about this? You land a single hit on me, and I’ll tell you.”
Naoya lets out a sharp, incredulous noise, caught between a laugh and a scoff. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Where did you learn to fight like that anyway? Your clan trains women to fight?”
You pause. “Well, not really,” you admit, “most of the other girls aren’t trained, but since I was born with a technique, my brothers insisted I learn to use it properly. My oldest brother is the one who really taught me how to fight. He’s really strong, you know? He’s not like your useless brothers. I bet he could beat you too, and his technique isn’t like mine. I want to be just like him when I get older.”
“So I got stuck with the only beast, couldn’t have even given me a proper woman” he says snidely, glaring at you. Then adds, “You can’t be like him. You’re a girl, and you’re going to be my wife. He’s going to be clan head.”
You glare at him. “Obviously I won’t be clan head, Naoya, I’m not dumb. I mean I’ll be a sorcerer like him. He’s saved so many people. That incident a couple years ago in Sendai—he was the one dispatched to handle it. Did you know that? I’ll be as strong as him—stronger. I’ll make him proud.”
Naoya doesn’t like the idea of it, clearly, but he grits his teeth and scoffs when he remembers the bet he made and lost. He rises to his feet and holds his hand out for you. You blink once, then take it, letting him haul you up. He doesn’t let go right away, fingers curling around yours as he looks down at you, gaze sharp and assessing, like he’s recalculating everything he thought he knew about you.
He finally says, “I’ll train you. Your form is sloppy—if ya didn’t have that bullshit hack, I would’ve had you flat on your back in half a second.” He raises his chin, daring you to say something, but you only roll your eyes. “Here. Not at my family’s estate. I don’t need them to see I’m training a girl.”
Your lips curl up into a satisfied smile.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps. “This doesn’t change anything. You’re still an infuriating bitch, and you’re gonna be a proper wife for me, one way or another.”
“Right,” you say sarcastically. Then you add, “Don’t go crying when you lose.”
He bares his teeth in a grin that’s all challenge. “I was just about to say the same to you.”
----------------
Three months after that, your betrothal to Naoya falls apart. Surprisingly, it’s not because of either of you. In fact, you and Naoya were doing good in those three months—really good.
Every Sunday, you went to the Zenin estate, and the two of you would wander the gardens, sprawl out in shaded rooms, and complain about family and obligations and everything in between. Naoya was insufferable in the way he’s always been, but his comments were less barbed, and his presence was much easier to be around. Comfortable, even. You found yourself laughing more often than not, and there was always an oddly bemused, but not unkind, expression directed toward you whenever he thought you weren’t looking.
Every Friday, Naoya came to your family’s estate, away from Zenin eyes and expectations, and the two of you sparred until you were exhausted enough to collapse in the dirt, barely able to move your limbs. Without an audience, Naoya was… Well, he was still an asshole, he was always an asshole, but he wasn’t as condescending, and you liked sparring with him. You still had the advantage with your ability—which he never failed to remind you was stupid and you don’t stand a chance without it—but none of your brothers could push you the way Naoya was able to. He was set on knocking the “smug smirk” off of your face—his words, not yours, which you found deeply ironic coming from him—so he trained like crazy, determined to find a flaw in your technique to exploit.
Three months of that made it easy to forget what the betrothal actually was: a political arrangement, something that existed entirely outside of the two of you. That’s why it’s so jarring when it falls apart. It came out of the blue—there was no fight, no scandal, no dramatic failure on either party’s side. The adults simply decide that the alliance is no longer useful.
You find out from your father first that the Zenin clan is withdrawing from the arrangement. There’s another alliance on the table—one that requires less negotiation and less compromise. You don’t even get the chance to see Naoya again once it falls through.
For the first time since you were ten, Sunday comes and goes without you setting foot onto Zenin property. When one of your brothers finds you crying in the gardens at your family estate, you can’t explain why. You never wanted this betrothal, and you can’t stand Naoya—so then, why is it that when you finally get what you wanted this whole time, it feels like something important has been taken from you?
hiii have u heard of gachiakuta? i think you’d like tamsy or at least be interested in him!!
pretty — tamsy caines
summary. tamsy caines finds that every inconvenient and unwanted interaction with you twists his useless heart tighter around the spindle of your own poisoned affections.
notes. i watched this show because of this ask and then i went ahead and read the whole manga. tried to capture tamsys inner evil twink persona here. it was either this thing i wrote on a whim or he chases you around with a mask and a knife. no idea how to write this punk.
warnings. tamsy being evil™, mentions of vomit, you’re referred to as “pretty,” you wear heels (very important to the plot), otherwise gender neutral reader, tamsy being 23 years old, literally just everything wrong with tamsy, near death experience, this guy sucks straight up, slight manga spoilers though i tried to keep them minimal and vague.
Tamsy Caines is obsessed with you.
Initially he dismisses the feeling. He’s all too familiar with obsession and its many ugly and invigorating forms. He’s obsessed with his hair, he’s obsessed with a certain shiny gold star from team Akuta, he’s obsessed with obtaining as many piercings as possible, he’s obsessed with the way you walk–
He glares at the radio clock on his bedside table. It’s that stupid host prattling on about the weather — and seriously, why can’t the stupid guy just play some real music?
In discovering his new found fascination, he grew resentful. He avoided you altogether for weeks, though not entirely. He had an agenda. If he just straight up didn’t talk to you, you’d notice. You’d call him out. You’d march right up to him and ask what you did wrong.
And then he’d feel bad–
Tamsy physically grimaces.
He dismisses it as simple attraction. You’re pretty, smart, you smile when he walks in the room. You’re tough, you speak your mind, you’re pretty, you’re super smart, you touched his hair once–
Tamsy almost vomits on the floor.
The first instance he knew something was wrong was when he eventually elected you as his future sacrifice of sorts. To toy around and tease that kid again because he was getting bored. He’s always so bored and impatient.
Pretty.
He’d maimed faces. Lots of faces. Pretty ones too. He’d never taken an issue with it.
It was after some party some of the Cleaners threw in the city where you’d stumbled into him back at HQ, half-wasted, with a weird sort of look on your face. You were pretty then, too. Granted, you looked a mess.
He likes messes. They’re always fun to clean up.
His eyes had immediately dragged down to your heels, and your legs, and then up from there to your chest. Inner turmoil aside, you’d mumbled some nonsense he barely picked up on before you attempted to move past him. You didn’t make it far before he watched you gracefully fall in the hallway. You’d be bruised in the morning, but you wouldn’t remember anything.
You leaned against the wall and sighed dramatically.
After a moment of debate, Tamsy exhaled through his nose. “How about you get to bed?”
“Ugh.” You had your head in your hands. “Why don’t you carry me?” Half assed, barely any effort. You weren’t trying to be inappropriate — because he made sure of that before attempting another offering.
“Alright.”
And he did. It was awkward. He didn’t so much carry you as he knelt down on the floor to remove your heels and help you to your feet. You had hooked an arm around his shoulders and gently hobbled all the way to the elevator.
You were mumbling the entire ride up to the fifth floor. Something about the weather, something about your shoes he was holding in his hands — Tamsy had no idea he had such an obsession with shoes until that very moment.
Something about your outfit, something about how you were cold, starving, something about how pretty his hair was–
What.
“Mm.” Your hand had reached upwards to touch at the butterfly clip holding the blond and blue apart. “Pretty.”
About ten minutes later he’d pin your hair back with that same clip in his hair to salvage whatever dignity you had left while you hurled in the bathroom. He’d left momentarily, mostly to drown out the sound of that, but also to go fetch you something to eat.
When he returned with a water bottle and a container of plain crackers, he’d put them aside to scrub at the remains of makeup, spit and snot covering your skin before you eventually passed out face down into your pillow.
Then, he’d picked up your heels and left.
Now, they sit beneath his bed, and when he feels extra sick and pathetic, he stares at them for hours.
Your shoes were the catalyst to something worse.
It was considered for a long time a simple crush. He’d grow out of it eventually. He’s got more important things to worry about. Your shoes, the hairclip you eventually returned, the one time you randomly gifted him a takeout box full of chow mein for no reason other than, “I bought too much. You can have it.”
And through his stomach his obsession grew.
Tamsy picks idly at his pink slippers and shoves the heels back under his bed.
The second time he had solidified this was indeed a problem was on a mission Boss man considered tougher than most. Akuta and Eager were enforced, as well as five Supporters, one of which was you. Delmon was loud and proud as usual, and it was particularly humid that day. Tamsy was desperately trying to hide his grimace beneath his mask the entire time.
And thank God he did, because if Delmon noticed he’d been staring at you the entire time, he’d never hear the end of it.
It was tough. A barrage of Trash Beasts and three lousy Raiders that put up a decent fight and managed to knock little Zanka out of the water, but overall, they all managed. It was at the end, when the cavern they’d crawled into ended up crumbling in on itself.
Tamsy came in handy here because the yarn he deftly wrapped around his distaff every morning with gritted teeth could hoist the Cleaners up easily. He spun it round and round every fucking morning imagining how beautiful the blue would look against your flesh. He was bored. He could’ve dropped someone.
He could’ve dropped you.
And he tried.
Follo slipped below you and, in a panic, grabbed onto your leg. You tried to reach for him, but it resulted in a tumble over the ledge. Follo managed to scrabble up and attempted to reach for you as the rocks fell and shook.
And then a rock fell past him and smashed into your fingers before he could wrap his hand around your arm.
“Tamsy!”
He looked down from the top.
Then, he held in a sigh and muscled his way down there after everyone was wound up. He managed to retrieve Follo with a simple snug of yarn around his arm that pulled him upwards.
Follo, however, was in hysterics. “I pulled ‘em! I pulled them! You have to go and–”
Tamsy narrowed his gaze at the wailing teenager. “Who is–”
Follo shouted your name in anguish, tears brimming at his lash line. He was writhing in the rope, attempting to flee. Tamsy supposed his plan was to jump down and die after you like some sort of sad hero.
So, in an attempt to play Good Samaritan, Tamsy followed you down into the hole.
It took him a while to find you, really. You’d crawled away from the sun to avoid being hit by anything. You looked horrible as well. Fingers bent awkwardly and purpling, your leg was twisted, welts that will bruise, a cut in your forehead, and still somehow awake and alert.
“Don’t struggle,” he implored. He rushed over to your side with a long rope of blue in his hands. He tied one of your entire arms against his tightly, and you stammered in shock. “This will hurt.”
You barely heard any of his reassuring words through the pain.
Next, the rope looped around your good ankle, your thigh, your waist, anything to keep you flush on him. If he was going to do this, he needed to make a show. This wasn’t his doing. This would be an accident.
“Hold onto me.”
And you did. Your grip wasn’t strong, but it was enough.
He considered it.
And he hesitated.
The string was already looped around your neck.
To die in his strings.
How romantic.
All he had to do was pull. All he had to do was pull. Pull and wait until your face faded in colour. Then he’d return to a shit show. And it would be perfect. He could snap your pretty neck here, and put you out of your misery. Because he’s a nice guy, and he cares.
He can take a stray metal shrapnel lying on the cave floor and drive it through your throat.
He can make all of your pain go away.
But he hesitated.
A mild dilemma.
A misstep in his plan.
Fuck.
Your arms tightened around him. He felt everything. Your fluttering heart beat, your irregular breathing, the way you melted so perfectly into a pool of flesh and bone against him. Those metal bands wrote songs about this terrible fucking feeling.
Tamsy still remembers what happened when they eventually got you and the five others injured during the ordeal into the medical wing. Follo and you were the most dire — sprains and breaks, bruises and welts. Gris and Zanka were tended to, and that batty old hag Enjin received a broken nose after the scuffle.
For points, Tamsy remained patient until you all eventually woke up. Follo from the next bed over was so relieved you made it, guilt stirring heavy in his gut at the entire fiasco.
Tamsy had eventually gotten to you, whispering once, “it's a relief to see you awake.” Because you have beautiful eyes, but he omitted that.
“Thank you,” you murmur. It was just you two for the moment. He was hoping by acting extremely relieved and ignoring the fact he could very well suffocate you with a pillow you’d forget about his hesitation from your rescue.
“How are you now?”
You adjusted yourself to sit up. “Exhausted.” You exhaled through the pain. “I’ve been better.”
“Still snarky as ever,” he commented. “That means you’re recovering.” He reached forward to fix your blankets, gingerly avoiding the tube in your arm. Why he did that, he had no idea.
“Thank you,” you repeated. “For coming back down for me.”
Ew.
“I wasn’t going to just leave you there,” he lied with a teasing grin on his lips. He leaned down to prod at your forehead gently and brush at your muzzled eyebrow. “Get some sleep.”
You had other plans. Tamsy was very rarely caught off guard, but the minute you turned your head to plant your lips onto his wrist he practically froze on the spot. As embarrassing as it was feeling blood rush up his neck, he was quick to act.
He pinched your cheek before making his exit.
Tamsy realised saving you had been a mistake. For a while he was just a pretty face to gawk at in the dining hall, but now he saved your life, and you owed him big time.
One kiss turned into two, into three, into four, until one night he felt your lips on his cheek where the sensitive scarred skin crossed his face. It was only downhill from there. Tamsy would return that night to his room contemplating scrubbing his face fifteen times or not at all. It was a matter of pride and a deep seeded hatred pooling in his stomach.
Had he just disposed of you, none of this would be happening.
And now he can't, because you provide him a feeling he’s never felt before. Not in this sort of way. Not in the way that makes him feel like he’s bigger, he’s better, he’s worth something.
And that’s a disgusting, pitiful thought.
He turns the radio clock off. Better silence than unwanted noise.
Ugh.
He’ll just have to pull through. He can do that. He’s good at improvising. He’ll just play along for however long it takes to grow out of this feeling in his stomach. Like moths. Like a thousand insects wriggling beneath his skin.
He peels himself off the floor and gets ready just in the knick of time. Back in the briefing room, next to Delmon, pretending he doesn’t want to blow his brains out against the wall. All day the same thing, all day the boring chats, pretending to read through some sheet, giving Corvus a nod and ignoring the way he gets stared at.
Then, in the dining hall for dinner. He’s not even hungry. He’s preoccupied, and disgusted, and frankly, he wants to march into your room and rip your pretty face to shreds.
So pretty, and perfect, and smart, and kind and patient and charming and funny and–
He almost bends his fork.
Delmon is yelling in one ear to Follo on the other side of the table. He looks engaged in the conversation, but he winces every time Delmon opens his mouth.
There’s a gentle tap on his shoulder as you slide into the seat next to him. “You look stressed.”
He is. He can't even offer you a glance or he might vomit directly into your lap. “I’m fine.” He picks idly at his food — potatoes and overcooked meat. He notices you don’t even have a plate.
He can feel your heel bouncing nervously beneath the table.
“D’you wanna get out of here?” you ask sheepishly. “There’s a restaurant I wanted to try out in the city.” Then, you bop him on the shoulder. “It has noodles.”
Tamsy almost chokes on his own saliva.
“A date?!”
He leaps up from the table to clasp a hand over Delmon’s mouth as he practically dances in his seat in excitement.
He’s still loud, but his words are muffled.
“Keep your voice down!” Tamsy sneers through his teeth. Spare him the humiliation. His cheeks are burning as is.
“Me and my wife’s first date was at a noodle place!” Tamsy tries his best but Delmon pushes through the gaps in his fingers.
“Enough, please!” Tamsy cries out.
Delmon, somehow, lowers his voice. “Of course he’ll go with you.” He slides Tamsy’s plate out of his reach. Not as if he was eating it anyway.
You stare at him.
He stares back. He wants to drive his fork through your eyes.
Pretty.
He manages to suppress his sneer. “Yes, I’ll come along.”
“Great.” You raise a finger at Delmon before he can cheer and disrupt the entire hall. You grab Tamsy by the wrist and pull him along out of the room.
Gris takes your spot and Enjin follows him on the other end.
Enjin murmurs while picking at his steak, watching you both skittishly leave, “they fuckin’?”
Follo goes bright red and Delmon lets out a hefty laugh.
Gris snorts. “Probably.”
He should not have gone out for noodles with you, either. It’s like every time you asked him to do something he just became an obedient puppet with you pulling at the large blue strings of his instrument. And it sucked as much as it was intriguing.
The night was wildly uneventful, though the restaurant was nice. Good food, and again, he was more entertained by your face than anything else the entire night.
He doesn’t look to his left where you walk alongside him. There’s a gentle click of your shoes — he’ll take those too, eventually. Another keepsake. Maybe clothes next, and then makeup, your comb, toothbrush, and then you can share the bed with him.
It takes everything in him not to puke.
And then, he smiles nicely in the hallway back at HQ. “Thank you for bringing me along.”
“Oh, that’s alright,” you respond. You still look sheepish. “Thanks for coming.” You clear your throat. “I had fun. You’re, uh… good company.”
Awkward.
You both wait for the elevator. It’s empty when it shows up.
When you step in, you awkwardly reach for the silver ‘4’ button while he taps ‘5.’
And then he stares.
He stares for a long time out of the corner of his eye. You’re talking about something but he’s barely focusing on what you’re saying. Blah blah blah, I’m so pretty, I’m so perfect, don’t you just want to lay me down on your sheets and–
“You okay?”
Oh.
You’re touching his hair again. So gentle and soft. You look tired, but your fingers curl around one of the blond sections of his hair above his ear.
This sucks.
A lot.
This is not a problem he wants to be stuck in. This is painful. This is a new sensation for him. A pretty thing touching him. Wanting to touch him. Complimenting him, tugging lightly at his hair, threatening to tug out the hair tie holding half of it away from his face.
“By the way, remember that one night after the party you helped me out? Did I leave my shoes with you? I can’t find them, and–”
In response to your question, and with the way his hair falls over his shoulders when you fling his hair tie at him with a wide grin on your face, he leans down slightly to press his lips to the corner of your mouth.
One sneaky turn of your head and his lips are on yours.
It’s quick, barely even longer than a second before you pull back with a snicker.
It’s like he’s a teenager all over again the way he almost giggles back. Instead, he looks flustered and dizzy.
It’s a good look on him.
The elevator door opens to his floor. You usher him out with wild eyes and a playful push to his chest.
“Good night,” you whisper as the doors close.
Mhm.
Great night.
He stumbles to bed, slips out of his uncomfortable clothes and tries not to scream into his pillow or throw a fist through the window.
And then the nightly cycle repeats.
He pulls your heels out from under his bed. His mouth trembles before he sighs.
This is the worst.
This obsession will go away eventually. The churning in his stomach like insects. His thudding heart and the lingering heat on his mouth.
Summary: There's something wrong about Tamsy. A strangeness that you can't quite place. It's always made you wary. So it's fitting that a dust storm would leave you two trapped alone together. Miles away from civilization, where not even the walls around you are enough to make you feel safe.
Contents: 16.7k words. MDNI. 18+, AFAB, fem pronouns. enemies to lovers-ish (more like reader is incredibly suspicious of Tamsy but ignores the red flags anyway). Tamsy has a jacobs ladder piercing because it's canon. PinV, creampie, choking, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, pussy slapping, biting, degradation, praise, naked female/clothed male, mild dubcon (she's into it, this tag is just here as a precaution), a dash of aftercare.
Notes: he's taken over my brain. Gif made by @ianime0, divider by @pixopix
This day could hardly get any worse, though you're almost paranoid to even have the thought, lest the universe throw a curve ball in your direction just to prove you wrong. That it could indeed get so, so much worse than it is now. Maybe you should count your blessings. You are still alive. That's always a plus — well, you feel mostly alive. Your bones ache, knees pulsing with the dull throb of exertion, and you know that as soon as you make it back to the safety of HQ that you're going straight to bed to pass out.
The trash beasts you had to deal with had been particularly nasty today. Persistent bastards, and they refused to go down. You would have been impressed if the entire ordeal hadn't been so incredibly frustrating. Formidable monsters, made almost impossible to ward off by their scale and ferocity alone. They'd tanked the first barrage of your fire as though the twisting pyres had been nothing. Barreling straight through the heat like the inferno had been flies bouncing from their armored bodies and nothing more.
It had only served to piss you off really. This entire day had gone down the drain as soon as you had managed to track them down. They weren't exactly difficult to find, having wandered a little too close to Hole Town for comfort. Four hulking beasts, all big enough to make the ground tremble whenever they took a step. Team Eager had been assigned to deal with them before they could do any damage, and by Team Eager you mean yourself and Tamsy, because Delmon had requested the day off. To do what exactly, you aren't sure. As far as you know, the guy doesn't even have friends outside of work (not like any of you do, honestly), so you don't have the faintest clue as to what he could be doing.
Knowing him he's out trying to buy exotic plants on the black market again.
It's not the fact that he's gone that's the problem. You can manage trash beasts just fine on your own. You have before and you'll have to in the future. It's the fact that Delmon's absence has left you alone with him.
You could say that it's a blessing in a way. It can get grating, listening to Tamsy's irritated huffing when Delmon projects his voice a little too loudly — which is near constantly. His absence offered a reprieve from that. But on the flip side of the coin, it also meant that you would be alone. Just you and Tamsy. With no other soul around for miles.
You'd think after all of this time in Team Eager, you would have grown used to him by now. But there's always been something strange about him. Something that you've never been able to properly place. It settles around him like an invisible veil, an undercurrent, projected around his body in a field that no one seems to be able to peek through. It prickles at your skin, the kind of primal unease that happens when you're in the sights of something that you can't properly comprehend. Dangerous. Like a predator lying in wait, anticipating the moment it can flash its fangs and bite.
Paranoid.
That's what you've come to call yourself. Or maybe a little crazy. It's the pollution probably. The fumes have finally gone to your head. Realistically, he's given you no reason to assume anything insidious. He's always been kind. Welcoming to you even when you were brought into HQ clad in torn clothes, soot and grime and blood smeared across your face.
A supportive teammate. That's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Tamsy. He's aloof, always walking around with an air of placid reticence, but as much as he unsettles you, he's reliable. That's an aspect of his nature that can't be denied. He's proven that he's tactful, a mindful comrade out on the field time and time again and today was no different. He was always there to back you up, seamlessly slotting himself within the line of danger when the beasts had weaved outside the path of your fire.
All it had taken was for him to bind a pair of them in place, the wide scope of his thread slicing through the thick atmosphere with a speed and agility that's always left you a little breathless. In the blink of an eye, he had them trapped where they stood, living garbage and rusted steel left to struggle as any caught animal would. They were as good as dead once they were arrested within his grasp, two insects twitching flutily on the adhesive silk of a spider's web.
It had given you a good opening with your attention and power reduced from four beasts to a more manageable pair. You didn't have to worry that he wouldn't be able to handle the other two. You knew that beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had them right where he wanted them, and now that they had been spun within Tokushin's threads, you were able to focus your attention into a more narrow scope.
Your flames had become more direct, more focused with your targets decreased to a smaller number, and the fire that spilt from your vital instrument had burned hotter; it licked and swept wide and high. In a burst of a lashing gold and searing red, they had been gone. Obliterated, eaten away by heat as though they never existed at all. Reduced to ash and fragmented rubble that glowed like embers, winking dimly before completely dying out on the parched, toxic earth.
And it was all thanks to Tamsy's help.
It sets your teeth on edge.
But the universe wasn't finished in its goal to irritate you.
A damned dust storm of all things had swept up. You swear that bastard on the TV hadn't mentioned anything about it, but it was there. A thin, but blatant bruise on the blank horizon. Dark and troubling, like a warning of what was to come. You knew what it was as soon as you'd seen it. You've spent enough time out in the field to notice the subtle shifts in things. You both have. There wasn't any denying what it was that you were looking at. It had seemed miles away, but the speed that it was moving at was quicker than the eye could properly track, growing larger — closer by the second.
It wasn't anywhere near as brutal as the damage that a Trash Storm could dish out, but dust storms still hold enough violent force to flay through skin. And it would only be minutes before howling wind and dust would be upon you, spitting air so wildly that the fine sand blowing through the storm would be lethal enough to rip through your clothes like bullets.
Hole Town couldn't have been more than ten miles away, but without a vehicle close by, it might as well as been in an entirely different dimension. You two would die long before you'd ever reach it. But it was by sheer luck that you had passed an old scattering of dilapidated buildings earlier. An odd cluster of them far outside the limits of Hole Town, and they couldn't have been more than a few miles off. Sure, they had looked like they were being held together by hopes and dreams, but they were the most viable option for shelter against the oncoming storm.
You were able to see them with your naked eye, tiny and in the far distance, dark dots on the dunes ahead. Torn, flimsy shanties, but they'd be better protection than just the clothes on your backs. If you hesitated any longer, you'd both be dead. Torn apart by sand and shrieking wind.
You hadn't spared a single though when you had snatched ahold of Tamsy by the back of his coat, scuffing him like a cat with a hasty, "We've gotta get the hell out of here Tams."
He didn't have time to properly spit out a complaint, only a clipped "What are you do—" before you were flicking your lighter open behind you. Fire had spilt from the Zippo in a powerful stream, heat and energy spilling out like thrusters. In a single breath you two were being hurtled through the air in a smooth arch, fast enough that you would narrowly escape the dust storm before it could sweep you up inside of its reach.
It sounds angry outside now. A relentless wail. Shrill as it claws across the structure of the shack, tearing at the shutters, heaving at the metal panels that create the roof like it wants to tear it apart. The building groans from the weight of the storm. Shifting with metallic sighs and groans. The entire structure wobbles around you, rusted walls flexing like a spasming throat, thrumming from a scream that it longs to release. A pained wail like the badgering of the tempest physically pains it.
You feel as though you're being swallowed whole. Eaten alive. But you aren't sure if it's the storm that you should blame for that, or him.
He's seated himself on the other end of the shack, legs crossed at the ankles, back slumped against the tattered cushion of an old, collapsed sofa. His eyes are shut, expression calm and unbothered, as though he can't hear the wind howling outside. He looks peaceful despite the circumstances. His chest rises and falls, gentle beneath the layers of his uniform, a steady rhythm that softly lifts his hands from where he's folded them across his stomach. You could almost let yourself believe that he'd fallen asleep, but you know better.
The room is dark; any possibility of light having been mostly blotted out by the storm outside. The only scraps of it that exist come from your Zippo. And the glow of it blinks in and out of existence from how you listlessly flick the lid open, thumb catching on the flint wheel long enough to spark a flame only for you to snuff it out second later with the flick of your wrist. The lid snaps shut with a thin noise, but a split second later you jerk it back open, over and over again.
A small fire gutters on its hidden wick, tiny but bright. Bobbing around in place, blue and amber. The shine it casts spills across the room, creating shadows in the corners, painting the walls an oily hue. It swathes over him, tracing over his shape in warm strokes, catching on the strands of his hair in muted flecks of gold. If you allowed yourself to think of it for longer the necessary, you'd even go as far as to acknowledge that he actually looks pretty with that tranquil look on his face. The shape of his mouth settled in a relaxed pout, lashes thick and heavy against the ridge of his cheek bones.
You find yourself staring at him like this more and more now, like some kind of freak. It happens without you being aware of it, like your mind is trying to figure him out on some subconscious level. That if you study him enough, the answer might reveal itself to you in some microexpression playing across his face. You swear that you've noticed hints of what lies beneath the surface before —or at least you've convinced yourself that you have. A glimpse behind the curtain in the form of kind smiles that are a little too strained around the edges or words that are too clipped to be truly noble. But really, it's his eyes that betray the most.
You see slivers of emotions break through the façade. Blink and you'll miss it glimmers so fleeting that half the time you believe that you've completely imagined them. And maybe you have.
Tamsy is an enigma in his own right. His entire existence is a mystery to you, held far beyond your reach, and nothing seems to encapsulate that daunting feeling more than his eyes. After all of this time, you still haven't quite been able to figure out what color they are, analyzing them from a distance as best as you possibly can, but you haven't been quite able to nail it yet.
More often than not, they seem like some kind of shade of yellow, but on occasion, you swear you've seen them shift with fragments of gray. The color of metal, cold and detached, the silver flash of a blade caught within the expanse of a muted amber. But when he uses his jinki, they become something else entirely. Bright and electric blue scintillating within the rings of fiery irises.
A kaleidoscope of hues. Sunlight trickling through stain glass.
"Would you please stop fiddling with that thing."
Of course, he has to go and ruin the moment.
He didn't yell, but he doesn't have to. Tamsy isn't the type to shout, and even when he reprimands someone, the pitch his voice reaches could hardly be considered aggressive. His tone was raised certainty, only by a small scale, but the firmness behind it has you going still. When you sweep your attention back over to his corner of the room, his expression has hardly changed except for the subtle furrow that's wedged between his brows. Though he hasn't bothered to open his eyes to look at you, you can feel his annoyance, scattered across the space between your bodies, prickling like an itch.
"Alright, damn. There's no need to bite my head off," you snap, venomous and exasperated. It left you more aggressively than you intended, but the following apology never leaves your lips. Instead you close your Zippo shut with a sharp twitch of your wrist, and when it snaps closed this time, you don't flick it back open again. You leave the room in darkness, and the only thing that keeps it from drowning in a horrible silence is the wind screeching outside.
"You aren't subtle." It's said softly, but the accusation hangs heavy in the air.
"Hmm? What do you mean?" You tilt your head to look at him as best as you can through the shadows that eclipse the shack. It takes a second for your vision to adjust to the dark, but once it does you can make out the outline of his body, a vague silhouette still perched on the sofa, hair pale underneath the gloom.
"Staring at me like that. You do it quite often. Is there something on your mind that you'd like to share?"
You're actually glad now that your lighter isn't on, because you don't know if you'd be able to handle it if he opened his eyes and looked at you right now. Not to be dramatic, but you're pretty sure that you'd die on the spot. You should have expected this, really. Not much slips past Tamsy. He's exceptionally perceptive, it's one of the things that makes him such a valuable teammate to have out on the field. All sharp wit and cunning.
You've been kidding yourself this entire time to think that he hadn't noticed. Or maybe you'd just been too caught up in your own mind to truly try and be discreet about it. Now that you've been caught, you struggle to formulate a proper response. You could be honest about the entire thing. You are on the same team after all; there's not much use in having secrets. But what the hell are you supposed to tell him? That his vibe his off? That he seems a little weird to you for absolutely no reason and so you've been watching him like some kind of creep?
Your face cringes, mouth twisting in a grimace as though you've swallowed something bitter and you're thankful that he can't actually see it.
You feel words forming on your tongue, but they don't actually take a proper shape. Not enough for them to be pronounced, to make it out from the trap of your teeth. You just sit, back tense from where it's pressed against the uncomfortable support of the wooden chair you've been resting on. The rails dig into your spine, harsh and biting through the layer of your clothes.
You know that he's waiting for a proper response, patient and relaxed on his corner of the shack while you're busy tussling with your internal struggle.
"Your eyes."
That's the explanation you spit out instead of the truth. But it's not technically a lie. It borders on honesty just enough that maybe he won't be able to tell that you aren't entirely being candid with him. You almost feel silly for it. That strange instinct to hold your suspicions close to your chest. (Suspicions of what, exactly?) They're so inexplicable that you aren't sure yourself. It's only an urge, deep seeded, rooted somewhere down in your marrow that keeps the confession from slipping free. You feel that odd paranoia creep up the back of your neck, like fingers tracing over the flesh there to raise your hair on end.
Your voice catches in your throat and you sweep the pad of your thumb over your lighter to collect yourself, tracing the familiar grooves of the engravings on your skin. You've known Tamsy for a while, long enough to become intimate with the kind of person he is. You've spent free time with him and Delmon, chatting amongst yourselves inside the booth of some hole-in-the-wall restaurant, laughing and recounting missions while you eat. You've gone out of your way to tease him, joking and prodding at him all out of the intention to get under his skin, to see his lips tug into a bothered frown. And despite all of that, it never fails for that odd worry to creep its way inside of your head like a cold draft sweeping inside a house. Drifting in though the cracks and crevices.
Tamsy is a paradox. Pleasantly familiar and yet completely other. Like a stranger wearing the face of a loved one you never had.
"What about them?" He asks. His voice is as gentle as it always is. Gliding through the bleak atmosphere with an almost hypnotic quality.
"I've never been able to really figure out what color they are. Whenever I think I've finally pinned down the shade, it's like they go and shift into something completely different. It's frustrating."
He hums, not in agreement or rebuff, just acknowledgement. It sounds almost musical. Bells chiming in the distance. But what he says next is more comparable to a bomb detonating. You feel the impact of it explode inside of your chest.
"If you're really that curious, you could come in for a closer look."
He says it was no consequence. As if it was nothing. Now you actually hate that it's dark, that the storm outside has shunned even the most delicate scraps of light because you wish that you could properly see him. Though you're sure that his expression probably hasn't changed. He's probably just as serene as before, eyes closed, hands draped over his stomach.
You can somewhat make out the shape of his body, and he hasn't so much as twitched since this entire interaction has begun. You see the hair that he has done up despite the dark, vaguely visible through the shadows from the pale color of its tresses. The long, blond strands spanned out to frame his head like great antlers or the plumage of a striking bird.
You've never exactly put Tamsy above you. In talent regarding his handling vital instrument, absolutely, but in terms of being a teammate, you're both equals. But right now, he seems so far beyond you, shrouded in shadows. A figure from a myth, past basic human understanding. You've hardly felt like you've been in control this whole day, but whatever confidence you were holding onto has been singlehandedly tugged out from beneath your feet with nothing more than a few words from him. Worse than all of that, is that you're not entirely sure if that was his intention. If he only means to tease or if he's being authentic.
"Are you being serious?"
He has to be joking.
"Come now, we've been co-workers long enough, it's nothing embarrassing." You hate how polite he sounds, like he's genuinely entertaining your inquisitiveness. No taunting or underhanded intentions, just pure cordiality. "I have no problem in indulging your little fascination with me."
"Ugh, you make it sound so weird."
"Do I?"
He actually sounds surprised and somehow that's so much worse than if he was mocking you. This whole thing is stupid. There's no reason why this situation in particular has you tripped up. You've been in circumstances so much more compromising than this. You've literally sat in his lap before, your group and Team Akuta all smashed into the same vehicle, contained within the walls like peaches packed inside a can. You'd be uncomfortably wedged between Tamsy and Zanka, and when the car had abruptly swerved over a rough patch of terrain thanks to Enjin's exceptional driving, the jerk of the wheel had sent you careening into his space (not that you hadn't already been in it, technically).
You hadn't realized that you'd gripped onto his thigh in an effort to stabilize yourself, but before you could attempt to right yourself and fit your body back between the sliver made from his and Zanka's shoulders, Tamsy had grabbed onto your waist. His hands were just there. Firm around the shape of your hips and then he was guiding you onto the seat of his lap, voice brushing against your ear and purring out a low, "Is this okay?" that you had struggled to respond to. You all but forced yourself to practically spit out the confirmation that it was, breath catching on the rapid pulse of your heart.
You awkwardly sat there on his thighs, trying desperately not to focus on how he felt beneath your body. How good he smelt, perfumed by something light and fresh. You especially tried not to notice how Zanka had passed you looks from the corner of his eyes, brows furrowed like he wasn't sure if what he was seeing was truly happening. You were just thankful that Rudo had been passed out, slumped and drooling against the door and that Enjin was too focused on driving to glance back in the rear-view mirror. You never would have heard the end of it if either of them had they noticed how you were curled against Tamsy's chest, his hands still holding onto your waist.
You swear that his fingers had swept over you, tracing vague shapes over the fabric of your uniform. Absentminded, but terribly intimate.
But this somehow has you on edge. Maybe it's how he offered it. All casually, voice stretching out in the soothing hum, as though it was nothing. It would be easier to believe that he was only teasing you, and you almost hoped that he was.
"The wide-eyed, ignorant look doesn't suit you Tamsy." The accusation slips from you before you can fully process it. Low but heated around the edges. You grip onto your lighter harder, squeezing it within your palm in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. It doesn't work.
The quiet that follows is uncomfortable. Well, as silent as it can be with the squall outside screaming and tearing at the shack like it might be able to rip its way inside if its persistent enough. Maybe you'd let it put you out of your misery if it did. Allow it to snatch you up within its current and cut you down to the bone. That would be more merciful than whatever the hell this is.
Your paranoia is a chill, and it had crept in since day one. He was so pleasant when you'd first met, welcoming you onto the team with a warmth that had unsettled you, that you had been convinced had been fake. But you had assumed that everyone at the Cleaners HQ had simply been luring you in to a false sense of security. They had all urged you into the fold with little fanfare, no hoops to jump through or grueling tests. All it had taken was a simple evaluating glance from Semiu and it had been done. You were one of them.
You hadn't believed it at first. You expected some sort of catch. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and kindness wasn't bestowed freely. But they'd given you a roof over your head, a place to call home, a family, and Tamsy had been there to guide you through it all. He and Delmon were the two people who had taken care to show you the ropes, to assist you in getting your footing in the new territory that had been set out before you, and they did so with incredible patience.
But as nice as Tamsy has always been to you, there was something to him that you never could quite place. His kind words, his tender smiles, the way that he's always there to rush in at the first sign of danger to push you out of its path. You think that it all just may be hollow. But you can never come up with a solid reason as to why and it's maddening. There's nothing more than that tingling along your spine, a persistent flutter behind your ribs that urges you to stay vigilant. To look out for a threat that you know isn't really there.
Tamsy has only ever been a good teammate to you. Diligent, reliable. He's a familiar comfort, the kind of person that you'd follow into a fight without hesitation. It makes the uncertainty that's creeping down your back feel like a betrayal. As though you've somehow harmed his trust by just thinking that maybe there's something lurking beneath the surface, right behind his eyes. A danger that you know doesn't exist, but your subconscious demands that it does anyway.
You're going insane and there's nothing you can do about it.
"You know, I've always had the feeling that you've never liked me all that much," Tamsy reveals. No warning, no preamble.
Your skin crawls. "What makes you say that?"
You see the outline of him shift in the dark, the slightest tilt of his head but it makes you feel trapped all the same. As though you've foolishly stumbled into the direct path of a predator.
"You say that wide-eyed ignorance doesn't suit me, well it certainly doesn't suit you either. Don't play coy." His voice is calm. Hitting the same steady notes that it always does, placid and amiable, but there's something else there beneath the veneer. Something sharp. Like a bite. But it's subtle, so minute that maybe you've only just imagined it.
"I don't hate you Tamsy," you answer and it tastes like ash on your tongue. But you don't hate him. Not really. You've tried to, keeping yourself off at an arms length, hiding the tenderness you feel for him behind snide comments and sarcasm. You think that might just be impossible with how important he's become for you. He's a permanent fixture in your life. The ground beneath your feet, a hand guiding you forward. And maybe that's what this all is. It's fear. A fear for the worst. That maybe, he'll turn out like all the others. That he's only here to use and discard, a carrion picking meat from a bone. That once he's used you for all of your worth, he'll discard you. Toss you away like all the other garbage down here.
"No? Then what is it?" He presses, tone flowing like the soft trickle of water.
"I, uh. . . " you sigh lowly and shrug. "It's nothing really. Just personal shit. Dumb stuff." Your reassurances feel flimsy, even to you. Weak on your tongue. But you try to salvage it as best as you can, hoping that he won't be able to sniff out your trepidation. You will yourself to smile, instinctively shaping your expression into one of joy; your voice comes out teasing. "I mean come on, you know you're my favorite team member."
"Oh, really? Well don't let Delmon hear that, you'll break his heart."
For a moment, it's nice. This casual back and forth. The sort that you're used to engaging with him, and you're almost able to forget your paranoia entirely. For a split second, it flickers, water sprinkled on a small flame, and you're able to sit and enjoy his presence unencumbered. And you've been like this before with him. Sometimes you find yourself sitting at the bar on base with him, unplanned. Two creatures in the night, silent, lost within your own worlds but only feet apart. Connected by proximity only. Quiet, solitary, all while everyone else sleeps soundly within their rooms.
And the two of you will just sit, idle beneath the warm lights and burning neon. Something about it feels private. A secret only for you both. An indulgence that you weren't entirely aware you've been committing.
You rarely ever speak and yet a connection has tethered between you, translating far more than words ever could. A hushed, reluctant companionship. An ease that you've been hesitant to name, much less acknowledge. The simplicity and assurance that comes with just sitting with someone, hearing the gentle rise and fall of their breath, feeling the low brush of their body heat seeping past the barrier of your clothes. No expectations, no promises, just the presence of another.
Damn, he's dug his way past your skin, and you hadn't even realized it until now.
You hardly notice he's moving until you register the hushed shuffle of footsteps brushing along the floor, the wooden boards creak lowly under their moving weight, barely discernable beneath the shriek of the storm. You can hardly see him at all in the dark; there's only the sound of his approach, diluted from the wind that tugs and rips at the corners of the shack, making the metal whine like a wounded beast.
You're an animal that's fallen inside a snare. Made as still as a statue while you wait for him to come closer, lungs motionless within the cavity of your chest. It's only once he's directly in front of you that you're finally able to make out his shape, traced over in scant, muted brushes of light. His stare locks onto yours through the cover of the shadows, appraising and weighted, like he's searching for something, and it strips you bare. He's so close that you can feel the heft of his coat press against your knees. You have to angle your head back to properly see him from where you're sitting, but it only feels like you're baring your throat.
He just stands there, a figure looming in the dark.
"You good Tams? You're being kind of creepy."
He doesn't respond. He lets you stew in the silence. In the anticipation. Of what, you aren't sure, but it's there, thrumming inside of your bones and veins like a second heartbeat.
And then he's lowering himself, hunching himself over until he's balanced only on the balls of his feet, crouched so that now he's the one who's looking up at you. Despite the shift in perspectives, you still feel as though you're being stared down upon, not him. Even in the dark, the way he's watching you is flaying. It's like his gaze has locked you in place, an insect pinned down on a cork, exoskeleton carefully dissected to display its delicate insides. It makes your skin prickle, nerves flaring with cold and heat, a conflicting reaction that has your breath snagging in your throat.
"Spark your vital instrument."
His order coils through the atmosphere, almost melodic. Your hand seems to take on a life of its own to heed the command, thumb slipping up to nudge the lid from its place with a metallic click. You can't manage to tear your focus from his face, not with how intently he's observing you. Attention narrowed down and settled on you with a weight of its own. It seems to glide over you, murmuring over your flesh like soft hands mapping over the shape of your body.
When you strike the flint wheel, the flame flares to life and dances. Wobbling on its wick, and as it twitches, the glow spills over the room like gold paint spreading across a worn canvas.
His eyes are there in the shadows. Made incandescent from the small fire. They graze over somewhere close to your soul. Too deep, pressing where they shouldn't. A place that's too vulnerable, one that you want to pretend doesn't exist. But now, it's like you're forced to confront it. That hesitant warmth that rests within the pit of your chest, delicate and saccharine, humming like a second pulse. It expands against your will, fluttering and molten, shifting like a roused animal beckoned by the weight of his stare.
He's unfairly pretty. Made of rounded edges, almost cherubic in nature. You can't help but admire the soft shape of his cheeks and the pronounced swoop of his nose; eyes framed with lashes that are unnecessarily thick. You've always been jealous of them, as long and full as they are. Just another part of him that's stupidly beautiful.
The scar on his face isn't enough to mar how attractive he is. It's just another thing that makes him more of a mystery to you. For as long as you've known him, you've never bothered to ask about it. And he's never attempted to divulge, to share what had harmed him, or who. But you know that he has more scars than just one. Gnarled, pink flesh peeks out past the collar of his button-up, raised with old and damaged tissue. The fringes of it, just like the one that spills down the right side of his face, are jagged and broken, like glass that's been dropped and shattered.
You almost dare to ask him about it now, but decorum keeps the question from slipping free. You can't be sure if he's insecure about the wounds, if being reminded of them would dredge up hurtful memories. He's never struck you as particularly ashamed of them. He doesn't shy away when people gawk or stare. There's been a number of times while ambling down packed street corners or interacting with civilians from neighboring towns that he's been openly goggled at. Mostly by children, too young to understand that what they're doing could be perceived as rude. But he's never shied from the attention, never wavered or flinched like it made him uncomfortable inside his own skin.
Still . . . you can't manage to ask. The very notion of it feels like too much. Like if you dared to prod at the mystery, if you went digging for answers that weren't freely given to you, then you might not like what you'd find.
The flame sways on its wick unsteadily, caught within a fleeting draft sneaking in from the outside storm. It wobbles unsteadily, like it might just tip over from where it burns and vanish. But it doesn't. It persists, still bright, bathing the ramshackle space in a dusky radiance.
The light of it reflects in his eyes, and finally you can see them so clearly from the aid of your proximity. His irises are a motley of shades. An almost cosmic burst of champagne, pale and mesmerizing, broken up by scattered fragments of gray and dusty brown. The two hues that you've always struggled to nail down, trying to guess if it was one or the other, but it's actually both. Delicate flecks of silver and muted bronze. It's like the cosmos are held within in his eyes, nebulous, stardust and sunlight, caught within the cradle of his skull.
Just like the rest of him, his eyes are pretty. So, so pretty—
A burn bites at the edge of your thumb, and were you not used to it, you might have dropped your lighter. The pain douses you with reality. You snap back into yourself, and it's with a cold realization that you become aware of how close you've leaned within Tamsy's proximity. So close that the point of your nose is separated from him by only a few scant inches, close enough that if you angled your head by a hair or two, they'd brush against each other.
You flick your Zippo shut with an abrupt jerk of your wrist. The noise cuts across the atmosphere, seeming to sever through whatever spell clouded your judgement and made you tilt towards him, back bowed like a flower straining to reach the sun.
The dark engulfs the shack once again, and while under its cover you allow yourself to lean back. The chair groans with the shifting of your weight, a punched out, thin noise. Your palm squeezes tight around your vital instrument, fingers sweeping over the engravings made into the metal, the familiar texture of scales and the shallow lines that make flared wings felt beneath your thumb.
You don't hold onto it for much longer even though letting it go feels like giving up a lifeline. You slip it down safely inside the front pocket of your pants, and you cherish the weight of it on your thigh.
The shadows aren't enough to protect you. They can't make you feel unseen. You're terribly exposed, stuck underneath the persistent hold of his stare. But it's the subtle press of his knees against the front of your legs that give you no other option but to be aware of how near he is.
"Did you finally figure it out."
It creeps out lowly through the dark, satin gliding, rich and delicate. The sound of his voice makes you motionless. As angelic as it is, something about it makes ice scatter over your flesh, goose bumps raising; unsettled and captivated all at once.
"What?" You ask dumbly.
"My eyes, remember?" He clarifies, and he almost sounds amused. "You wanted to know what they looked like."
"Oh, yeah." You adjust on your seat again. A simple attempt to keep your mind centered on something that isn't him. He's so close that you can smell him, clean musk and resin. Far more mouthwatering than he has any right being considering that he spends his days fighting sentient garbage piles.
"You seem nervous."
There's barely any light to properly see. It's all vague outlines and silhouettes and yet he's still able to see you so clearly. You're sure he can hear it, the wariness held inside of your voice, the way it trembles around its fringes.
"I do?" You're playing dumb now. Like feigning ignorance might save you from wherever this interaction is heading. You already know that it's a lost cause. Worse than the need to stay afloat, to try and keep ahead of whatever this conversation is, is that you don't think you'd actually mind getting swept under it. Not really.
"You do," he replies. Point blank, blunt. "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you? We are teammates after all. It's important that we're able to speak to each other about things that might make us uncomfortable."
His amiability chills you to the bone for reasons you can't name, not even after all this time. But it makes that stupid, starved thing inside your chest grow bigger, throbbing like a hunger pain. You like it when he gets like this, caring, gentle. It makes the paranoia that haunts the corners of your mind go numb. The longing that you've been carrying with you, an open chasm, a wound torn behind the protection of your ribs cage, is placated. Soothed by words that you've always wanted to hear.
It's awful, more than a little pathetic how deeply you want him.
You really are hopeless.
"I know—"
You don't get the opportunity to try and save yourself. To make excuses and pull yourself back together, because the chance is stolen from you before you could take it.
His hand cups the side of your face. You stop breathing.
This isn't the first time he's touched you. It's pretty common to sustain injuries on the job, and on occasion you've all helped each other as best as you can while out on the field. As a team, you're all familiar with the motions of cleaning lacerations made by trash beasts or making temporary braces for sprained ankles and wrists while out on the field. You've done it for Delmon and Tamsy before and they've done it for you. Caring for each other is all second nature, as easy as breathing, and the skin-on-skin contact is obligatory.
But this is so much different. This isn't done out of necessity. He already had your attention and he knows that, and yet he's gone out of his way to hold you anyway. His palm is warm, fingers spanning around your ear, thumb moving in a short caress over the swell of your cheekbone. A gesture so small it almost didn't seem real.
It leaves you stuck. Seized under the tender weight of his hand.
When he speaks next, it's said softly. Like he's making a confession that he only trusts you with. "You know, you worried me earlier today, trying to take on all of those trash beasts all at once. It's been a while since you've been so impulsive. If I'm being honest, it worried me a bit."
Suddenly you're stripped bare. Exposed in a way that you haven't been in a long time. And he is right. You haven't been so reckless in a while, not since you'd first become a Cleaner. Back when you were a little younger and had something to prove. When you would run directly into the fray without bothering to properly gauge the situation before you did. You didn't worry about danger, or death. All that mattered was that you would become stronger, that your worth to the team would be solidified. Made undeniable.
But today hadn't been that. You were trying to outrun your own thoughts, and combat, the heat of your fire scorching earth and breathing metal, is the surest way to do that. You hadn't bothered heeding Tamsy's warning from where it rose out behind you. You only acted, ignoring him because it was easy, because it got under his skin. Charging in towards monolithic jaws flashing with jagged, steel teeth, flames pouring from your instrument in a blaze. It was all to try and escape the pandemonium inside your head. To shake free of the voice that murmurs and chants that you can't trust him, you never could.
That can't be the truth though, can it? He's here now, crouched in front of you, holding onto your cheek as though you're something fragile and important. Like you could break if he handled you too roughly, and he's trying to diligently to keep that from happening.
You've encountered manipulative people all your life. Those who only wanted to use and pick you clean for all you were worth, demoting you down to little more than a tool. A thing to be used and cast aside once your purpose had been fulfilled. Murderers, petty thieves, the lowest of the low who feed on the weak and indulge in cruelty, they all have the same look in their eyes. And Tamsy isn't one of them. You know this, and yet that little voice, the very one that kept you alive when you'd lurk within grimy alleyways and fight inside blood-soaked basements for money, won't shut up.
It screams from the sidelines, demanding to be heard. But for the first time in what seems like forever, you choose to ignore it.
You draw in a tight breath, all but willing your lungs to expand in order to draw in a gulp of oxygen, and you hope that it will help clear your head. All you want to do now is lean into him. To bask in the warmth his skin provides.
"You're right," you admit. "It was dumb of me. I don't know what I was thinking."
"You weren't." The tension that seeps into his tone surprises you. The faintest traces of irritation coiling underneath his usual placidity in an undercurrent. A riptide you didn't realize you were wading towards. A tremble skips down your spine, but it isn't out of fear. It's a different animal entirely. One that you always knew was there, pacing around the corners of your subconscious, but one you never dared to confront. But it's here now, and with him so close, the traces of his body heat and scent curling around you, you have to see it for what it is.
Maybe it's the darkness the storm provides that emboldens you, but something that feels a lot like courage ignites deep in your gut, white-hot and vibrant. You're no stranger to having disagreements with Tamsy. You're both able to go from squabbling to being cordial at the flip of a switch, a phenomenon that not even you understand. But it's so common that the occasional back and forth's have long since become a facet of your dynamic that everyone back at HQ has accepted. And whatever this is — this new, unexplored territory that's expanding out in front of you, seems a lot like that. It's perilous but also perfectly familiar, an intoxicating blend that nearly blindsides you with how much you like it.
You lips shape into a smile, one that he must feel more than he sees. The corner of your mouth twitching beneath the heel of his palm. "Would you believe me if I said I'm sorry?"
He actually leans closer to you. You hear the rustle of fabric as he moves, and your eyes struggle to track the vague outline of his body when he tilts his head up to properly assess you. He watches you through the shadows, eyes narrowed. But it's not aggressive. It's the heavy-lidded look that comes from someone who's intrigued. Who's been surprised and pleased with an outcome they didn't expect.
His breath sweeps over your face and the hand on your face flexes like he's tempted to squeeze. Like he might sink his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises while he pulls you in closer.
"No."
All of a sudden, you're standing in front of a yawning precipice. A chasm that runs deep. One that if you dare to step forward and plummet, you might not come back out the same. But the trepidation that might have held you back once seems to thaw. Snow bared to smoldering coals.
"Is there some way that you might be able to forgive me?"
You hardly recognize yourself. The voice that reaches your ears is hardly your own. You've teased him before but never like this. All of the taunts that you've snubbed at him in the past have been out of irritation or a playful malice, but this is provocative. Saturated with something hungry and wanting. You don't even know what you're doing at this point. But that's a complete lie isn't it. You know exactly what you're doing, you just don't want to admit it. To confront how debased you've become by nothing more than the weight of his hand.
For one dreadful minute, he's silent. It makes your stomach drop. You second guess everything in a matter of seconds. Terrified that maybe you've stupidly misread the signals you though he was sending. That you were seeing things that weren't really there — that you've gone and made a damned fool of yourself.
You almost pull away entirely, jerk out from his grasp, but then you feel it. His thumb moves. A light glide, dragging over your cheek, navigating softly. It's almost agonizing how slowly he trails it over your face, as though he's memorizing the feel of your skin, leaving fire in its wake. And then his thumb settles, right there along the corner of your mouth to tease over the shape of your lower lip. Feeling you in a way he never has before. Intimately. With a quiet admiration.
It's not even intentional when your jaw parts open, tongue lapping like he might actually let you taste him, but the press of his thumb doesn't move from where he's left it. It leaves you starved for it. Longing for the simple taste of his skin.
This whole thing has gotten out of control. You aren't sure how you've even managed to find yourself here, but all of your shame has apparently left your body because you hardly care. There's no humiliation stinging at your cheeks, no worry shrieking from the fringes of your mind. There's only him.
"Is that what you'd like to do?" He asks, and it's layered in mockery. Scathing in that gentle way of his. It makes your body burn. "Apologize properly?"
You have no idea what 'properly' entails, but it your imagination runs wild with the possibilities. Each one lewder and filthier than the last. It should cloud you with mortification, but it doesn't. Because this isn't the first time your mind has been flooded with obscene images, all revolving around Tamsy, the very guy that you've been futilely trying to convince yourself to hate. Endlessly feeding yourself the unfounded notion that he can't be trusted. And yet nearly every night, while you're alone and too awake to properly fall asleep, the fantasies always creep in. Involuntary and pornographic. You can't even get yourself off anymore without picturing that it's his hands coasting over your body, playing with you just right and not your own.
You don't fight it. Not like you used to. You tried hard in the past not to visualize him. It used to feel dirty and wrong, imagining your co-worker while you had yourself spread open on your bed, fingers working deep inside of your cunt, but it couldn't be helped. An incurable sickness. One that couldn't be shaken by reason or denial. The guilt, the shame was never enough to keep your mind from taunting you, bleaching images of him across your eyes. Always him.
So you shouldn't be surprised that you've found yourself here. Maybe this was always bound to happen. You were just resisting the inevitable, fighting an uphill battle all this time.
"Yes," you answer. Something inside you seems to fall loose at the admittance. A strip of armor cracking and falling, exposing the tender sinew that lies beneath.
His eyes are there, even in the dark, made visible only by how near he is to you. His attention has a weight of its own. He's studying you, watching like you're the most fascinating thing in the world, pinned under his palm. When his thumb begins to move again, slipping around the center of your bottom lip, you feel as though you're being tested. Like he's waiting to see if you'll flinch or yield. But you don't.
You meet his stare through the shadows, and lean into the pressure of his touch. A challenge going unsaid. A soft noise leaves him, something like a sigh, barely heard under the wailing of the storm and the metallic whine of the shack shifting and breathing beneath its angry squalling. But you manage to hear it regardless, the anticipation held inside the sound of it.
His thumb pushes in your mouth, and all of your thoughts draw down into a blank. The weight of it drags over your tongue, the traces of salt on his skin spreading across your palate. Your jaw drops further, letting him press it in deeper until the second knuckle sits right against your lips, and then he just holds it there. His other fingers are still spanned across your face, curling around the hinge of your jaw to keep you still. Not that you have any desire to slip away from him now.
Something about him like this, thumb held in your mouth, staring at you with an intensity that burrows down into your bones makes you realize how alone you are out here. It's just you and him, hidden underneath the cover of a violent storm. He could do whatever he wanted to you out here, and no none would be able to save you. It's a thought that would have haunted you before, it still might deep down, but in a way that's completely twisted, it's also thrilling.
You can't keep yourself from sealing your lips around his thumb and sucking. Lapping the tip of your tongue around the length of it with a contented hum.
He doesn't so much as twitch. He remains composed, annoying unaffected. But you can see the faintest glimmer of it in the dark. Smoldering in his stare, lurking within his flat stare. Hunger.
"Are you actually going to listen? You didn't earlier today, running headfirst into danger like a common idiot."
The thumb in your mouth presses down more, almost painful in its pinch, the pressure sitting right on the edge of being uncomfortable, but you don't allow yourself to jerk beneath it. You stay firm, suctioning your mouth around it as best as you can, your throat bobbing while you swallow down the spit that's begun to pool behind your teeth.
"You deserve to be reprimanded, don't you think." But it isn't a question. He's not really asking at all. It's embarrassing how it makes the nerves across your body light up, pale tension coiling deep inside the base of your stomach. Whatever shred of resistance your psyche might have been holding onto evaporates, tugged easily from the back of your mind like the threads of sun-bleached satin clutched in a controlling grip. Roots plucked from soil.
You don't remove your mouth from his thumb, you keep it there. Opting instead to answer him in an agreeing hum, nodding your head in confirmation, and the motion has your lips dragging up and down the finger in a lazy glide. Softly fucking it on your tongue like you would a cock.
His eyes blaze despite the schooled expression on his face. The only indication that you've had any impact on him at all. It has satisfaction curling around your spine, smoky and languid.
"We could keep this mouth of yours busy," he supplies conversationally, but it's mean spirited. All mockery because he's still got your mouth occupied, stuffed full around the gag of his thumb. "But something tells me you'd enjoy that too much. It would make a lousy punishment for someone so desperate."
The point of his thumb bears down on the flat of your tongue. Enough that pain smarts, darting across the sensitive nerves, bright and sharp. You almost wince, tears threatening to well up along the corner of your vision, but you level yourself through the sting. Determined to keep your composure, to deny him the satisfaction of seeing you tremble.
"Wouldn't it?" He asks, tilting his head inquisitively. He doesn't wait for you to even attempt to answer. He does that for you, using the leverage of the grip his still has around your face to nod your head for you.
It's sadistic. Arrogant. A side of Tamsy that you've never witnessed. Even during your little spats he's hardly been comparable to something like this. He may get annoyed, voice clipped and strained with exasperation, but he'd never been so needlessly cruel.
And somehow, you like it. You actually like it.
"Hmm." His voice glides out, silk coasting on air. It makes you thrum with anticipation, every ounce of you electrified with what he might possibly do to you, but then he's retracting his thumb from your mouth, intentionally smearing spit across your lips as he does it. You feel dazed, and it has you struggling to track him once he moves, abruptly standing up from how he was crouched in front of you. His body unfurls in the dark, the pale hue of his dual-toned hair shifting from how he cocks his head and appraises you.
You probably look pathetic. Eyes glazed over, mouth parted from how you pant around your stuttering breath. You're thankful once again that it's too gloomy in here to properly see all the proper details because you must be a dazed mess, and he hasn't done anything to you yet.
"Stand up." That all he says to you before he steps away, footsteps brushing along the floor as he returns back over the other side of the room, reclaiming his seat on the tattered sofa.
You just sit there, for a second or a few minutes, you can't exactly tell. Time seems to blur into an undefined circle. A thought forms, temporary, as delicate as mist. Are you really going to do this?
Once you open this door, once you step past its threshold, there will be no going back. You won't be able to turn around a pretend that it never happened. When it's done, it's done. You'll have to live with the truth of it. That you've seen Tamsy in a way that you've never imagined you actually would. Remembering how his skin tasted on your tongue, the heat of it, how his voice sounded in your ears, degrading and smooth. That's all it takes for you to have your answer. To make a decision. You shed the final remnants of your hesitation and stand.
You cross the space dividing you carefully. Treading slowly as though he's a threat that might strike. But he remains poised, trained on you as you draw closer. You don't let yourself stop until you're directly in front of him.
He considers you for a moment, lashes low while he stares, a lazy kind of focus. Unbothered and appeased. Like a predator that's convinced its prey to walk directly into its open maw.
"You're going to strip yourself of your clothes and then you're going to lie down across my lap." It's matter of fact, delivered as though it's a future that's already been done. As though he's managed to peek inside of your mind and found that you won't resist him. That for all of your bite, all of the petty arguments you've entertained in the past, here and now, he's got you pliant. Or that's what he believes, at least.
"And if I don't?" You challenge, brows raising even though he probably isn't able to fully see it.
"Then you get nothing." And with that he snuffs out whatever little bit of superiority you had. Out like a light. It's not cold per say, it's just said with the briskness of someone who's already made their mind up. A person who won't be dissuaded and you hate it because you know that Tamsy isn't the kind of individual who relents easily. You'll have to play by his rules or not at all.
"I always knew you wanted to get me naked, Tamsy." You're reaching for security at this point, falling back into the safety of your usual dynamic to try and keep yourself from feeling so unmoored.
"Well, the same could be said about you, couldn't it? After all, our rooms are right next each other, and the walls seem so terribly thin sometimes, don't they."
You think your heart quits beating. It's pulse hiccupping inside of your chest before flatlining all together. Horror drapes over your body like a second skin, too tight and itching, made worse by the embarrassment that sinks down to your gut like a rock.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
He's smiling now, the bastard. "Oh, was I not supposed to hear? What a shame, you sounded so pretty saying my name like that. And here I thought you were putting on a show just for me." He pretends to be hurt, voice raising in a playful but biting lilt.
Your mouth opens to defend yourself, to call him out on being a pervert, but the words never leave your mouth. It would be another case of the pot calling the kettle black. You realistically couldn't accuse him of being a creep without owning the fact that you really weren't any different, getting yourself off to thought of a co-worker who you had assumed was ignorant to your perversions. But it makes you both a little depraved, doesn't it. Dirty. And you like it, knowing that the each time you've been in your room, toying with your own body, pumping your fingers inside of yourself, he's been on the other side of the wall. Hanging onto each sound and muffled moan, just as eager and wanting.
He pats his lap invitingly, the soft thump of fabric on fabric rustling beneath the wailing tempest. "Come one now, there's no need to be shy."
You don't allow yourself to hesitate, fueled only by the desire to prove to him that you aren't some timid thing that he can humiliate and back into a corner. You make steady work of your uniform, working on your coat first, shedding it from your shoulders and allowing it to fall to the floor behind you. It meets the wooden boards with a dull thump. The tight fit of your undershirt comes next. Slipped over your head and discarded alongside your coat.
You're emboldened by the dark. To him, you must be nearly undiscernible, made from shadows and the weak traces of light that have been begun to peek through the barricaded windows. You don't waver or worry about how your body might look; you only focus on your current goal.
You work your boots off next, sliding them to side with the nudge of your foot so that your pants will be able to pool down freely around your ankles once you unzip them. You thumb them off alongside your underwear, hooking your fingers through the elastic band and the belt loops to aid you in rucking them past the shape of your hips. Once they're around your feet, you slip them from around your ankles and step out of them.
Now you're completely naked. Bare with only the exception of your choker, the temperature cold on your neck. His blood is housed inside the cord, clasped directly around your throat, and the thought of that alone turns you on more than it should. Carrying a piece of him always, secure around your flesh.
You don't give yourself the chance to think any longer. If you think, you'll hesitate, and there's no place for that now.
He pulls his arms from his lap when you lean over him, allowing you to plant one of your knees on the sofa, using the support to begin settling yourself over his thighs. You hold your breath when you stretch yourself over him, stomach balled into knots with the suspense of it all, the vulnerability of it. You're right on top of him, so close that your body thrums with the proximity. Everything in you is pulled taut, muscles bunched, lungs tight.
He gives you the curtesy of getting comfortable at your own pace. Remaining silent as you settle on your knees and elbows, smoothing your body downward until your stomach is stretched flat upon his lap, snug within the cradle of his thighs and torso. You fold your arms over the other, using it as a way to rest and prop your head, cheek pillowed on the length of your forearms.
He hums like he's content once you go still. A syrupy sound that pours from him like honey. The graze of his hand follows soon after, the curl of his knuckles and thumb gliding exploratorily down back of your neck to tease across the divot of your spine. It's the kind of touch that someone would hold something delicate with, porcelain or fine glass. Handled with reverence, as though you might shatter into a thousand tiny shards if he were to be too harsh. And it continues downward, sweeping low until he's curiously palming the swell of your ass. Somehow, it doesn't even feel sexual. It's appreciative, like an artist molding clay with their fingertips.
It has something guarded but soft splitting apart inside of you, weeping open with the desire to be held and cradled. A gasp escapes you without you meaning for it to happen, shuddering and dim. As though even your body was reluctant to release it, but it couldn't be contained. The warmth of his palm sweeps over you, fingertips tracing over your hips and ass, tensing to grope and squeeze at the fat.
You didn't expect to be handled this carefully, and if you weren't in the right head space, it might have broken you.
"How many do you think we should do." It's murmured in a way that you know isn't truly directed at you, a musing only for himself. Coasting over the form of your body like satin. "How about four. One for each beast you tried to face without thinking. Hm, no. That seems too easy." His pats you on your right cheek, deceptively gentle considering what he has in store for you. "Let's double it then. Eight strikes in total for misbehaving. You'll be able to handle that, won't you?"
You're already wet and it's humiliating. Arousal damp, leaving your pussy to clench around nothing.
"Yes, I can handle it," you choke out.
"Really. Let's test that, shall we."
You don't get to linger on how the tone of his voice spikes, raising the slightest degree with what sounds suspiciously like delight. You hear the impact before you feel it. A sharp, pronounced crack that splits across the heady air like kindling being broken over a knee. And then comes the pain. White-hot, doused over your nerves in a rush that throbs.
It has you more shocked than anything. You expected him to take things slow, to work you up into it, but maybe you were just being delusional for trying to convince yourself of that. The way he had dug his thumb onto your tongue earlier should have proof enough that he wasn't going to be sweet. He's bearing his full weight into his arm. Hitting you strongly enough that you know you'll be tender after this, skin inflamed and sore. Covered with bruises that will take weeks to heal.
"What the fuck, Tamsy—"
"Is it too much for you?" He asks, but there isn't an ounce of care to heard. It's all mockery. Gloating sadism.
"No," you grit through clenched teeth.
"Good. Then start counting."
You center yourself with a deep breath, stilling yourself as the flare of pain decreases and melts into a raw pleasure. Violent but blissful in its own right.
"One— "
He doesn't let you get the first number out before he's striking you with the second blow, palm flat and harsh, brought down directly over the same cheek that he's already hit. Absolutely determined to leave you tender, wracked with pain and pleasure. It makes you toes curl, muscles flexing as the hurt sears through you.
"Two." You spit it out like its toxic and dig your nails into the sofa's worn fabric in a feeble attempt to brace yourself.
"There you go," he coos. "So you can be good. You just need a little directing. A firm hand to keep you in check."
His words, as much as they piss you off, reach some needy part of you. The one that longs to please, to be wanted and kept. Captured and embraced. A feeble thing, starved for attention. The musical cadence drips inside your ear like sap, saccharin and intoxicating. You find yourself arching your back, spine bowing to press it against the palm of his hand when he sweeps it over your ass, soothing and irritating your screaming nerves all at once.
His sweetness is temporary. In a blink, he draws his arm back and brings it down where you're still raw, one, two strikes in quick succession. It douses you in liquid fire, a burn that has more cum smearing down your inner thighs, soaked and shameless. It ebbs through in deep, vibrant rolls, cresting over the other, and you have to concentrate to breathe through it. Manually urging your lungs to expand and contract around the air.
Through the haze you just barely remember to count the two hits. You breathe around your voice, a trembling noise that sounds pathetic to your own ears, but your mind has become too muddled for you to truly care about things like pride. Your ego having been weighed down, buried underneath the brutal ecstasy boiling through your veins, clouding your skull in an intoxicating vapor.
"Look at you, you're already halfway there," he says, managing to praise and degrade you in a single purr. "Such a pretty thing for me."
You moan without meaning to. The sound is more of hitch. A strangled whine, but it pours out you anyway, lewd and punched out. Everything about it is jarring. The noises coming out of you, the sting of his hand, this entire interaction. It's all unexpected. Never in a million years would you have imagined that you would actually end up here, naked and laid out on Tamsy's lap in the middle of sandstorm. It almost makes you laugh, delirious, but you swallow it down before it can escape.
He's like a juxtaposition. Balanced dangerously between tender and malicious. He's usually so soft spoken and demure, you should have known he'd be a sadist—
He traces a finger over your pussy, gliding it down over your entrance to soak it in your arousal. It's dirty how he smears it, a second finger joining in to crudely slip over your clit and then back up again. Back and forth, over and over, feeling the way you involuntarily clench around nothing when he circles the tips over your hole, spreading you open. You're so soaked that you can hear it, how wet it is.
You nearly get lost in it, hips lifting on their own to chase after the pleasure, but you should have known better. You should have expected it. His fingers leave you, and you aren't able to mourn the loss, to complain like you want to. He touches you again, but it isn't with a hand that gives. It isn't gentle or rewarding. It's an open palm, flat and firm, brought down directly against your cunt.
It's molten. Light explodes behind your eyelids — you hadn't realized you'd squeezed them shut from the impact — bright and searing, the blaze of a thousand suns. The hit seems to reverberate through you, sparking through your blood and setting your skin ablaze in a confused torrent of a rapturous torment. It is painful, but truly it's the surprise of it that really gets you, muddling every thought in your brain, burning them down into ash, insignificant. Leaving you dazed and helpless, caught within the cage of his body while everything seems to roll through your entire being.
You're tempted to lash out at him, to call him out for neglecting to at least give you a proper head's up, but the words melt on your tongue, turning into another useless whine.
". . . asshole." That's all you can manage. A weak insult on a shuddering breath.
His free hand settles on the back of your neck, fingers looping around your choker and gripping it until the cord hugs your throat, making your lungs feel tight, airways shallowly restricted from the pressure. It makes you lightheaded.
"No, I don't think that's the word you're looking for. Did you forget to keep count?" He taunts. Sharp teeth disguised behind the veil of geniality. "If you can't remember, then maybe we should start over all again. Give you the chance to get it right."
Alarm reaches you despite the haze, lighting splitting through fog. Your head tries to tilt, just enough for you to glare at him from over your shoulder but the press of his hand on your choker keeps you pinned. Cheek held down on the couch from where it's slipped off of the folded support of your forearms, skin shoved on worn polyester. You can just barely make him out from the corner of your peripheral vision if you strain enough, and your eyes meet his over the slope of your shoulder. They're just as tranquil and unfazed as they always are, pale in the darkness, watching you with the relaxed satisfaction of a predator that's got its pray trapped between its claws.
A taunt is right there, on the tip of your tongue. Burning hot like the point of a heated poker, but the insult never comes. Instead, there's a shaky exhale, and then: "Five."
Disappointment echoes through you, scathing like a venom, but it's vanquished just as quickly as it appeared. Extinguished underneath the tide of pleasure that froths up when you see how gratified he looks when you give him the response he wanted. He's smiling, like the smarmy jack ass he is. It's one you've never seen on him before. There's an element about it that's alarming, lips pulled just a bit too wide to seem normal. Stretched to a degree that hangs on the fringes of the uncanny valley. Gloating, arrogant, inhuman. Eyes glinting with a fervid contentment. The expression of someone who's relishing in the sight of you vulnerable, quaking from the rousing blend of pleasure and pain.
You've seen him smile before, of course, but never anything like this. They're always soft, pleasant, showing a kind of quiet restraint and manners. Nothing like this, all sharp edged and cruel spirited. But some twisted little part of you, small and buried deep behind your ribcage, seated between the crevice of your lungs and sinew, likes it. It would creep you out — it should, but you're already a lost cause. You were since the moment he held your face with his hand. Probably further than that, honestly. All those quiet moments in the bar, sipping on bad booze and lazing in each other's company, every time he's protected you against trash beasts and traffickers, have all lead to this and you were just too blind to see it.
He had you from the very start.
His fingers caress between the apex of your thighs, calming the sting he made. The cool temperature of them is a balm on the ache, and you can't help the way your eyelashes flutter, how you sigh in relief when deft fingertips trace low to circle your clit. The pleasure melts through you, draining the tension from your muscles. You go lax across his lap instantly, turned docile with only a few nimble strokes of his fingertips.
"See. This is how things can be when you don't act like a brat."
You hum in response. The scowl you meant to flash him ruined by how your eyes squeeze shut instead. Lulled into a stupor by the way he's still pulling at the choker around your neck, keeping it firm around the base of your throat, and the steady rhythm of his fingers on your clit has your reasoning turning liquid.
"But you've only got three more to go. Keep being good for me, and I might just reward you after." He leans in just a little then. Enough that you can feel the strands of his navy hair tickle over the flat of your back, drawing out a shudder that trembles through your bones. "Do you think you can manage that?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
Your brows cinch close, lips parting dumbly. It's instinctual to want to snark back. And there's bubbling under the surface, and you can tell he can see what you're contemplating. Recognition dances in his eyes. It isn't frustrated but delighted. Like the prospect of you defying him would only entertain him. The temptation to oppose him is there. To offer some scathing jibe.
But it doesn't come. You're shocked by the discovery, how the vexed heat beneath your skin simmers and dies. You're tired of the constant fighting. The resistance, the battle you've been ceaselessly struggling against. For just this once, if only for an hour or few minutes, you'd like to simply exist. You don't want to think, you want to feel.
Your gaze softens, the fire in your eyes reduced to sparks that extinguish into cinder. You swallow unsteadily around the saliva that's pooled inside your mouth, and the flex of your throat strains against the restriction of the choker. "Yes, sir."
"There's my good girl. I knew she was in there, buried down behind all of those petty insults, the stupid fighting. You really needed this, didn't you?" Something like a laugh puffs from him then, pleased with himself. "Well, I suppose I don't have to ask that. I already know you did with how often I got to hear you moaning my name like some cheap slut late at night. All worked up over your fingers. I wonder what you'll sound like on mine."
Of course that's when he chooses to slip them inside of you, two at once, agile and long, stretching you open. You gasp into the sofa, a ragged moan, drawn out like you've been wounded breaks from you. Your cunt spasms at the abruptness of it but ultimately yields to the intrusion. You're so wet already that they slide in without any resistance, your body giving in. Your hips move on their own, gingerly rolling to try and build the pleasure deeper.
He's hard. You can feel him right there against your stomach, prodding at you through the thick layers of his clothes, and you can't help but to loathe the fact that he's still wearing them. You don't want to get your hopes up, but he feels heavy, long based on how the length of his cock spans along the shape of your abdomen.
Your jaw drops when he curls his fingers and strokes them in further, and it feels so good. Each brush and crook building up a delicious euphoria that flows through you, thick and smoky. Every drag earns another noise, low and thin, but you can't keep them back. It all floods from you uninhibited, spilling like wine from a tipped over chalice. And it makes you greedy, spine bowing into a bigger arch, arms lifting as much as he'll allow to push yourself back on the stretch of his fingers. When you moan this time, it's not another insult, but his name. Spoken out on the foggy atmosphere as though it were a prayer.
"Knew you'd sound prettier like this," he hums. "Those pathetic fingers of yours just weren't cutting it, were they."
But his generosity is temporary; it always comes at a price. His fingers are gone, slipped out of you without a single warning, and the gutted sob that leaves you is pitiful. There's no chance to mourn the loss or to curse him for it. The weight of his palm connects with the swell of your ass with a sharp impact, one that leaves you reeling, nails clawing at the sofa to cling for a shred of stability.
"Six," you hiccup. The word leaves you without a single thought, as though it's become instinct. Second nature.
"Very good." Simple praise, but you're suspended on it.
The next comes just as swift, just as brutal as the previous. Except it hits lower, right there over the back of your pussy where he still has your thighs spread open. It makes your teeth clench, involuntarily writhing as the affects of it lash through you, making your eyes roll when you shudder. The grip he has on your choker keeps you centered through the barrage. The fingers he has around the cord release so that he can sweep them over the nape of your neck, reverent in its touch.
"Seven."
Anticipation draws up in the pit of your belly, it pools down between your thighs, and you want it so badly. The hurt is rapturous, the ache made from the first blow merging and growing when he delivers the final hit. It lands directly over your cunt, the splay of his fingers sparking a heat over your clit that's so intense, you swear you almost come.
You body clenches like it just might, pleasure lapping through your marrow, twisting like a hot coil in the cradle of your hips, but the release never crests. It just stays there, holding you in an awful limbo. One with no beginning or end. You're stuck, right on the precipice of ecstasy. So close that you can taste it, vivid and bright, but just outside of your reach.
"Eight," you manage. Watery from unshed tears. You don't even realize that you've started begging until you feel your voice reverberating through your throat, airy and desperate. A string of, "Please, Tamsy. Please, I wan' it."
"You do, do you?" He asks, but it's performative. Meant to humiliate you more than you already are. But you can't manage to be humiliated at all with how starved you become for it, soaked and aching. "You want me fuck you. Think you've earned it?"
You're nodding, no contemplating, no hesitation. "Yes. Yes, please. I'll be good. I swear."
It's quiet for too long, and his hands don't move. Firm around your neck, the other traces unintelligible shapes and symbols on your ass, making the tender flesh more sensitive, aggravating the nerves. You hiss at the throb, but you don't flinch. You're too focused on the moment, of the feel of him under you, the steady fluctuation of his chest rising and falling, the warmth of him. Grounding, pleasant. And yet it manages to slip your notice that his hands have shifted until it's too late.
In a disorienting blur he's shoving you further up the couch, using the gap between your bodies to lift himself out from underneath you. The material of his uniform rustles and drags over the sofa, the heavy drape of his coat framing your waist as he leans over your back. His hands are hot and rigid when they close around your hips, latching onto you with the strength of steel bands, enabling him to use the leverage to jerk them up. Guiding your spine into a pronounced arch, giving you no option but to hold yourself up on the support of your knees so that you don't completely collapse in a lust drunk sprawl.
He completely folds himself over you, nudging his head next yours, tracing the point of his nose against your temple. An action so tender that it makes you ache far more than his hand did. His cock drags against your pussy, bare and thick — when the hell did he even pull down his pants? — smearing your arousal over its length. Getting it wet and sloppy, and teasing you all at once.
"If you want it so badly," he pants. "Then take it." His teeth nip at your ear just as he lines up the tip with your pussy and sinks in until his hips are flush with the backs of your thighs. He's so much bigger than you expected, stretching you open, spreading you thin on the length of him. And then you feel it — or them, rather. The rounded points of three individual bars, smooth metal, rubbing across the tight clench of your cunt as he drives himself inside of you, so deep that it robs you of oxygen.
Piercings.
Of course he has his dick pierced.
They feel far better than they have any right to be, providing a texture that you didn't think you ever needed. He fucks himself into you in heavy strokes. Driving so deep that you frantically search for something to hold onto, a single hand blindly reaching in the dark, fingers grasping for anything to hold. When his hand finds yours, straying from the vice grip it has your waist to hold your palm, it's unexpected. Too intimate for whatever this is, but you cling to him regardless, unable to resist.
"Tamsy, I— fuck."
"Just like that, pretty girl." His voice sinks in, hypnotic, tantalizing. "Be good for me and take every inch just like a good slut should."
He fucks you like he's angry. Quick, brutal thrusts as though he's trying to carve himself inside of you. Wet sounds echo throughout the shack, loud and filthy over the howl of the wind. Filling your ears with the crude smack of skin on skin — a damp plap, plap, plap, accompanied by his panting and your unrestrained moans. All of it reverberates off of the metal walls, a ceaseless echo. It's all you can hear, all you can feel is him, inside of you, around you. You still taste the salt of his skin on your tongue, and it makes you crave more.
Your hips lift, greedy to meet the pace he's set, to bring you both pleasure. Pain flares across the tender skin of your ass each time he drives into you, the press of his body amplifying the raw heat sizzling over the inflamed flesh. But the ache of it also intensifies the pleasure. It has it twisting in your stomach, an unforgiving knot, lightning spiraling in taut loops.
You aren't going to last long. You know you aren't; you can feel it. He's worked you up so much already. Shoved you close to that delicious edge with every strike he left on your ass. The bruises that are forming, the tender skin, it all licks through you. The rawness of it hums at your clit. It's like you're being consumed. Eaten alive by the pleasure and pain that seems to douse every inch of you. He has you eclipsed inside of him, the bliss he feeds you, the curl of his body over yours. It's almost too much, but also not enough, and yet you can already feel the orgasm welling up inside of you, blazing, picking you apart piece by piece.
You try to stave it off as best as you can. You don't want it. Not yet. Not so soon, but it's persistent, pooling inside of you like molten honey pouring through your blood stream. Your fingers clench around his hand like it might save you.
"Tamsy, wait, I don't — not yet, please."
"You gonna come?" His voice curls in your ear, condescending and smooth like silk. "But we just started. So pitiful, baby."
He's so cruel, you should have expected it as soon as the hand around your waist vanished. It's back on you less than a second later, shoved directly between your thighs, fingers pressed on your clit.
"Wait," you plead. But he doesn't stop, and it's too late.
You're wound up so tight that all it takes is a few sweeps of those fingertips, the vigorous thrust of his cock splitting you open, the press of his piercings dragging over your walls. You get taken under without any time to brace for it. Abrupt and violent. Everything in you seizes as though you've been electrified, muscles bunching up viciously. Your pussy clenches around him in a vice grip, squeezing to wring out every ounce of bliss from your body, and it makes your lungs too tense to properly breathe. Stars cloud your vision, iridescent and flashing against the dark. Vibrant from how floaty your head has become, thoughts muffled.
Still, you notice through it all, that he's not stopping. He hasn't come yet.
The pleasure is dulling, and what takes its place is too tender and sharp. He's merciless, fucking you despite your hypersensitivity, relentless even when your hips writhe in an impulsive attempt to try and escape the onslaught.
"It's too much."
He lets go of your hand, prying it from your fingers and that makes you whine more than the mean way he's toying with your clit. There's no opportunity to gulp down a proper breath, to plead or beg him for reprieve. His free arm hooks around your ribs, as giving as a band of iron, to haul you up and onto your knees. Fully drawing you into the press of his chest, pinning you onto his body while he drives up into you. No where to run or move. There's not an ounce of give within his hold on you. All you can do is take it, reduced to little more than a doll for him to fuck.
His chin hooks over your shoulder, nose dragging over your cheek when the fervor behind his thrusts jostles you both. Something about the angle has him brushing a little deeper, and the head of his cock strikes that debilitating spot inside of you. The one that makes your spine bow and toes curl.
"You'll come as many times as I want you to." He angles his head lower, lips tracing over sweat-damp skin, and then his jaw is parting open. Teeth sink into flesh. The agony that rips through your split nerves is so awful that the way your pussy clenches tight around his cock almost seems like a betrayal. It shouldn't feel good. You shouldn't like how it throbs with hurt, but you do. The euphoria of it simmers in your stomach, it splashes like a galaxy behind your eyelids, and you whine liked you've been gutted open.
There's a reprimand in the strength of his bite. A claim too, unspoken and hedonistic. It feels like he's cutting his name into you, making a pact with blood and teeth. It confronts you with a reality that you hadn't bothered to ponder until now. What comes after this. How things will be when the high is over and you're both left to face the consequences of what you've done. It leaves you with the horrendous truth that you don't think you'll be able to pretend that this never happened. Now that you've had him like this, breathless in your ears, covered in a sheen of sweat, speaking words to you that you've only ever imagined, there's no way you'll be able to forget it. This. Him.
Your neck goes slack, head lolling onto his shoulder. Your arm feels shaky when you lift it, bones gone lax and useless but you don't let it stop you from raising it up to thread your fingers through his hair. It twines through your grasp like silken threads, water spilling through a tense palm. You don't think when you nudge at his head, urging him to release the pinch of his jaw from around your shoulder. Thankfully he relents, allowing you to guide his head at an angle, and you lean your own so that you can press your lips to his blood stained mouth.
He groans. A throaty noise that tapers off into what could have been a whine. He doesn't pull away like some tiny part of you, briefly ignored by your impulses, had feared. He leans into it, matching your fervent rhythm and then surpassing it, dominating the metallic kiss through an exchange of nipping teeth and the sweep of tongue. Licking into your mouth as though he wants to drink you down. It's sloppy, a little crazed. It's not the kind of kiss you would have initially expected from Tamsy. You always imagined a reverential restraint, prim and gentle, lightly teasing. But this is sybaritic and ravenous.
There's a violence to it, as though you're both trying to consume the other, sinking your teeth into the plush of the others lips. Determined to leave a mark. To stake a claim on each other's bodies. Unified by animalistic desperation. But under the frenzy of it, there is an adoration. It's worship made from the scrape of canines and the smear of spit. It's raw, unrestrained, and in the display of unrestricted lust, is true devotion.
The weight of it splits you apart from the inside. It caves your chest in, turns you vulnerable and bare. But you can't stop. Can't shy away or flee within the safety of yourself. You let it all spill over you, the piety and the affection you feel, as dangerous and startling as it is. Even if it destroys you from the inside out, eats you like a disease, you know you won't stop wanting him now.
You're not in love with him. Not yet, but you're already somewhere hazardously close to it. Balanced precariously on the fringes. One misstep or push and you'll collapse right into its unforgiving embrace.
You want him to devour you whole. You want to swallow him down until you bleed into each other.
The grip you have weaved through his hair tightens, nails clawing down his scalp enough that it must sting. He hisses into your mouth, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he kisses you deeper, his hips drive into you harder, splitting you open on his cock like he wants to wedge himself inside of you permanently.
"Tamsy," you slur, tongue stolen by how he traces it with his own. "Please, I wanna come again. I need it, I want you to fill me up."
"Is that what you want," he murmurs against your lips, the chilled metal of his piercing a shock on your heated, bitten mouth. "But I thought you couldn't handle it. 'It's too much.'" It's a patronizing mimicry of your voice, pitched high and whiney. But you can hear it, how equally affected he is. Breathless and trembling.
It's difficult to be annoyed by his mockery, irritation dwindling into nothing when he draws his fingers around your clit in tight loops, reducing your thoughts into incomprehensible mush. You jerk, still teetering between a limbo of hypersensitivity and the need for more. More friction, more pleasure, more pain, more him.
"I know," you gasp, ribs shuddering from the full body tremble he wrangles from you, keeping you full and spread thin on his girth. The three piercings lined down his cock drag inside of you, brushing up against tender spots, places you didn't realize you had and your eyes nearly go cross from it. "I didn't mean it. I need you, need you to make me come, please." You pepper kisses along the cushion of his lips, soft and adoring, tilting your head back a little further to trail them over and past the corner of his mouth, feeling the texture of his scars. The angle is hell on your neck, straining the muscles, but you can't be bothered to care. Your voice trickles out, a hushed, shameless stream of "Please, please, please, please."
"Should have known you'd be this way. All that snark you always like to give me; you just needed to have it fucked out of you." He groans when your fingers snag at his hair, his hips twitch. "I should keep you like this all the time, pinned down on my cock. Maybe I'd even use Tokushin on you. Have you all bound up and pretty for me."
Your cunt seizes tight around him, muscles flexing while you moan. The thought of it and the persistent strum of his fingers, the roll and grind of his hips has you going dumb.
"Of course you'd like that. You'd let me do anything I wanted to you."
You nod, the movement sluggish and loose, like a bobble head.
"Go on then. Let me see how pretty you are when you come."
It tears through you then, inevitable, bigger than the previous. It engulfs you in its scope, sweeps you under, stronger than the storm raging outside. Your hips jerk, spine arching while you squirm against the band of his arm around your torso. It keeps you trapped. Forced to feel every ounce of pleasure, every inch of his cock as it fucks up into you.
You hear yourself sob from it all. A warbled cry of his name as the ecstasy shreds through you. He groans when your pussy bears down on him, locking him inside to draw out your pleasure. And he doesn't stop either, urging you through your orgasm while chasing after his own. You can hear how wrecked he is, just barely concealing his fracturing composure behind tight gasps and thin whines. Whispering in your ear to guide you through it, hushed praises of "Let yourself have it" and "Keep going. Keep fucking yourself on it, pretty girl."
His fingertips keep stroking over your clit, steady circles that have you seeing stars, making your cunt tighter and sloppy with your cum. And then his hips are lurching, pace made choppy, bouncing you up and down on his length to chase after his own end. He reaches it just as yours begins to ebb, coming deep inside of you with a guttural moan that fades in a hitched whimper. The warmth of his release pulses through you, reaching deep and settling at the seat of your stomach, pooling inside.
He grinds into you, drawing out your shared pleasure for as long as he can, keeping you both floating and intoxicated on the high of it. He stops only once it becomes uncomfortable, the blissful heat fading into something that's too much, too raw for either of you to handle. Both of his arms draw close, encircling your middle, and he drops his head to scatter open mouthed kisses over the wound on your shoulder. Apologetic, doting.
You're too exhausted to move. Panting and loose-limbed, sated with a satisfaction that's rooted in bone deep. You don't resist when he slips himself from you, though it's uncomfortable to enough to make you hiss. The combination of your cum drips from you, smearing down the inside of your thighs, wet and filthy, but you don't voice any complaints. You don't care to despite how gross it feels. You're still happy regardless, shrouded in a fine mist of your elation, body thrumming with balmy aftershocks.
You half expect for the atmosphere between you to turn stale and awkward. For him to nudge you away from him, indifferent now that he's gotten off, but he doesn't. Instead he's drawing you closer while he shifts to settle you both down, sorting out the curl of his limbs until he's able to comfortably splay them out. Carefully directing you until you're both reclined on the sofa, legs tangled, skin slick with sweat, curled into each other like you're the only things in the entire universe that matter anymore.
It's a reflex for your mind to try and take off with what happens next. How this will impact your dynamic, but you shut down that stream of thoughts before they can get out of hand. Sealing them like the tightening of a valve on a faucet. You don't want face reality yet. To stress and concern yourself with the what ifs. For now, you just want to exist. To indulge in the moment, to laze in the warmth of his body against yours, even if it won't last forever. Your neck pulses with the pain of his bite, but there's no anger over the bloodied mark, just peace. The kind of calm that comes with being claimed, accepted.
For now you can just be and bask in each other's presence, consequences be damned.
Right now, there's only you and him. The absentminded glide of his fingers tracing down the divot of your spine, the warmth of his breath caressing the crown of your head, his heart beating vigorously under your ear. Within this pocket of space you've made for yourselves, the wind outside doesn't sound so monstrous. It's no longer the wailing of a lonely animal but a song. One made just for the both of you.
When he speaks next, satin-soft, it's a salve on an open wound. The relief of water flowing down a parched throat, embodied as a hum caressing against your heated skin. "Let's stay like this for now. At least until the storm passes."
You don't argue or resist. You settle, going lax, body curving to fit with his own. You can't help but to smile, your agreement going unsaid but definitely felt by how you tuck yourself into him, turning your face into the cradle of his neck, breathing in his scent.
You can't imagine anywhere else you'd rather be right now.
You don't notice the unsettled chill that creeps up your spine.
prguitarman
origamiaround
vaporwave
blakekathryn
2087
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
