SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ After months of cold shoulder from your boyfriend, the relationship finally comes to an end when a Reddit post spiraled into your best friend’s orbit, and the poster? Your own boyfriend. The embarrassment and shame brought onto your name began tumbling when he thinks you will come back —like you always do, he quotes— to him. However, this time your best friend had a plan in mind to prove your snobbish ex-boyfriend wrong. To set you up with her friend . . . Who is also going through a messy break up scenario of his own.
PAIRING ᯓ★ nerd! gojo satoru x fem! reader
TAGS ᯓ★ does not follow the original jjk plot . suggestive content . no smut (it is implied that gojo and the reader had sex, but will not be described) . gojo and the reader are in their 20s . pokemon lover gojo . gojo is a middle school student teacher . cursing . mentions of sex . naoya cameo . romcom stuff . fake dating . mentions of cheating (not done by gojo or the reader) . shoko cameo . suguru cameo . loneliness . slow updates
You casually stared at the headlines, seeing his green hair made your blood boil. Just by the looks of it, you’d make out that he’d probably hire someone to pay more so the Zenin would be headlined. Based on experience itself, you’d seen him done it before himself. Quote unquote, call the media and pay them to headline the Zenin for traction, I need it up by next week.
Honestly, it doesn’t even surprise you anymore. You were 100% sure at least every company has done this somehow — but the sight of Naoya’s face just makes your blood boil somehow. And you hadn’t paid the internet to be shown something like this (though it wasn’t actually the internet’s fault at all, you just needed someone to blame for it).
For the past seven years, you were 100% positive that you know more shit about the Zenin clan rather than their contributions. And that, you couldn’t deny even if someone had asked you to fabricate it up.
“You’ve been staring at that for a while now,” Shoko blew a puff of smoke away from where you sat before she hung her cigarette by the side of the ashtray. Your gaze lifted from the screen to her figure where she’s pulling her hair back into a bun, “it’s not worth it. You know he pays the media to do that, only people full of shit do that.”
Only people full of shit, you thought. Nodding to yourself, she’s right. Naoya and his family are full of shit and everyone agrees.
Suguru and his friends had gone on their little Japan tour a few days ago. And you were left without any other work, he told you, “Rest day”. For the past week, he had you making flyers here and there for the tour, and you were glad to do it with the income that he promised you; no joke, he called you late at night for a request, even if he does sound apologetic, you still did it because you had no hard feelings for him. In fact, you were glad to even be doing this in the first place.
Also, he did promise to bring something back for you as an apology, extra income in a form of . . . probably food or a keychain. But, hey, a keychain from Sendai doesn’t sound too bad. Or a cheesecake from Hokkaido doesn’t sound too shabby at all.
“Ieiri, can I ask you something?” You pucker your lips slightly, the straw from your “half-full” cup, or as Satoru said “half-empty”. Ieiri stared at you, the streets are bustling and people passed by the sidewalk right by where you and Shoko sat outside the cafe, “It’s about Satoru and Suguru.”
“You’re gonna ask what happened between them,” she guessed. And she guessed right.
“Yeah.”
The corner of her lip tugged upwards slightly, “Don’t think it’s my place to tell that to you, you should ask Satoru about it. Or Suguru now since you’re working for him,” internally, you groaned at her very helpful inquiry, but still, the curiosity wedged in your heart.
Satoru had been extra busy lately, meet ups were rescheduled. Now that he had landed an act as a tree, he was needed during practices and . . . quote unquote, needed for prop making because he was apparently the strongest amongst his peers. It was a stroke to his ego, and Satoru wouldn’t stop telling you about how he helped carry things around the school during this time of the day. And it was bound to happen again.
Though, you don’t mind it at all — in fact, this was much better than the constant flex of social statuses, money, and fame.
“Did they fallout?” You asked, hoping for more enlightment from Shoko who is blissfully smoking her second cigarette of the day, “I just need something. Anything.”
“They fell out, reason? You’d have to ask the both of them,” she shrugs.
Today was one of the days Shoko could have a day off, and she had decided to call you up early in the morning for a little coffee and breakfast. Well, it’s noon now and the both of you were still together, not that you were complaining about it. Times with her are rare, and you’d salvage this moment with her. Her eyes were blankly staring at the people passing by, making sure that every puff of her smoke is directed away from people passing, “I didn’t know they fell out until Suguru came up to talk to me that he was going to move to start a band, actually. It was pretty upsetting, and for a while, I kinda hated them.”
Your eyes softened at her words, “Why?”
“I was there too, wasn’t I?” Her voice died to a soft whisper of solemn, she pressed the burning edge of her cig into the ashtray, pressing on it lightly to kill the fire, “then again, things happen. And it’s really not my place to say anything on their behalves because I’m completely clueless of what actually happened.”
Your thumbs fiddled with each other, Shoko clapped her hands together, “But, I’m completely chill about it now. That was a long time ago, and we’re all good . . . I’m good with the both of them. But them with each other?” She asks herself before shrugging nonchalantly, “Wanna grab dinner together later?”
“You seem to be getting close to Satoru,” Shoko replied, a tinge of slyness in her voice, “I take it everything’s going well then.”
“What? The whole fake dating stuff?” You were nonchalant in answering her, failing to notice the deadpan on her face, “it’s fine. I mean, we’re starting to get to know each other, we went out to see a movie, and stuff. Naoya’s still trying to fuck me up, I swear, he’s everywhere, Ieiri.”
Shoko sighs, “Yeah, that’s what he do. He thinks you can’t get better than him,” there are so many men better than him in every aspect, you rolled your eyes in annoyance, “he won’t stop at nothing to make sure you come back. Which is why Satoru is the perfect choice for this. He’s a total heartstopper.”
You nodded in agreement, “Yeah, I agree.”
“Out of curiosity,” Shoko answers again, sipping on her Americano, “what do you really think of him?”
You got lost in thought. Truthfully, you haven’t known Satoru Gojo for a long time at all, and if you were to be honest; you (shamefully) confess that you barely know him at all. Maybe the surface stuff about him, but if we were talking about what we think of a certain someone. You part your lips, “What do I think of him?” Shoko hums softly, waiting for an answer.
“Well, one,” your thoughts went back to the moments where Satoru drove you home, walked you through the alley, and made sure to wait until you get inside before leaving. Not to mention, the way he pays and teaches you instead of berating you like how Naoya would, “he’s very nice. He walks me home — actually, he drives me there . . . and walks me through the alleyway to my apartment, waits for me to get inside before he leaves. And he tecahes me stuff I don’t understand, and he says nice things to me. Unlike that dickhead, Naoya.”
“What else?”
You groaned, “I’ve known him for what? Going two months maybe, and I don’t know how he really is,” Shoko raised her arms up in mock surrender, finally making sense of it all, “ask me again in a year.”
Shoko grimaced, “I could bet you right now that in a year, you and Satoru are going to be in a loving relationshi—”
You cut her off immediately, “No, I’m saying that I don’t think I’ll be dating anyone soon and that includes Satoru. Despite him being nice,” and why are you talking like he likes you anyways? You shook your head, “and he probably doesn’t see me that way too. We need to stop twisting a completely platonic relationship into something romantic. Yeah?”
“Touche.”
Another thought striked you, “Also,” Shoko already swiveled her face away, “what is with that reaction?”
Shoko blew out a loud and dramatic sigh, “I just know that you’re gonna ask me something about Satoru’s life.”
True, “It’s just pure curiosity. How did he and his ex . . . You know, get together and broke up?” Shoko raises a brow in amusement, “Just curious.”
Shoko’s eyes glinted in a cheshire way, “Glad you asked, I actually just got the full information for that not too long ago. I’m taking full responsibility for what he’s going to say when you tell him that you know about it,” she straightened herself up, “they started dating two years ago. I actually know the girl, which is shocking to me when he told me about it because Suguru and I do not like her at all.”
“Apparently, since college years they had been talking behind our backs. Getting close and all. He confessed that after we graduated, he and his ex-girlfriend apparently started going out a few months after — and mind you, he kept it all a secret until . . .” She points at you and herself, “until all three of us met up so I could match the both of you up. I just knew, and pushed him to tell me about it; also, he got cheated on.”
“Why do you hate the girl?” You questioned.
Shoko hummed, “I wouldn’t say hate. My mistake, I strongly dislike her because we were partnered up a couple of times for a group project and she couldn’t contribute to anything. And by anything, I mean anything. Not even printing costs, transportations, I had to work on everything myself — I did rat her out to my professor and she didn’t pass the class. It’s a mutual thing.”
“Why did she chea—”
Shoko stares deep into your eyes, “All I know is that she never really thought that he was worthy of anything. She just thought he was easy,” you look down at the coffee — the dark brown liquid turning a bit lighter from the melted ice, “we might not see each other much. But, the one thing I can say about Satoru is that when he loves, he loves. And you don’t find that often. So, I guess finding out about this the hard way was very saddening for him.”
You bobbed your head, understanding the situation. “And you know what’s funny?”
Shoko toyed with her straw, “She cheated on him with another mutual good friend of ours,” you bit your lip.
“That sucks.”
“Totally. For someone who just got cheated on, he seems pretty okay — which is also one of his habit, you should take notes. He’s a lonely kid, doesn’t live with his parents anymore. I don’t even think he lives with them back when he was a kid at all. Hard for him to make friends, and he doesn’t talk much if you don’t talk first. So, I guess he felt the comfort with you. That’s good. He loves going outside if he has someone to go with, besides that? He locks himself in and plays games.”
The information opened a new vision and you nod your head, “Okay. Okay. Thank you . . .”
“Thanks for driving me.”
Shoko pokes her head out, “Hey, the alleyway’s pretty dark. Sure you can walk alone? I don’t mind risking a shif—”
“No, your shift is to save lives, gosh. I’ll be okay,” you waved your hand slowly, ushering her away, “it’s fine. Thanks for driving me home, Ieiri. Safe trips home,” Shoko smiles at you, rolling her windows up. You hear her honk three times before taking off into the streets.
The messages end right then and there, and you look around; night breeze caressing your skin gently — walking towards the wall right by the mouth of the alley, you plant your back to it. Shifting left and right, bored. Hands shoved right inside the pockets of your pants to warm them from the crispy air, shoulders rolling in a shiver. You had no idea why you were waiting for him too, maybe a part of you wanted him to walk you inside after all.
No longer than 10 minutes later, his familiar Sedan parked right by the sidewalk in front of you. A small smile tinged on your face at the sight of white mop of hair, instinctively you walked closer to him. The streaks of dark green paint and red ones on his cheek were apparent, and a shy smile displayed on his face.
“Sorry, did you wait long?” He brushed his hands against his white shirt —no, not white anymore. Barely even white actually, it had paint all over it now, and you were sure it was a result of his tree and prop making— Satoru looks down at you, “It’s chilly. You didn’t bring a jacket?”
Your head shook lightly, “No. I didn’t think it was gonna be this cold,” truthfully, it wasn’t actually that cold. You just couldn’t help but to agree at his statement, in fact the words came out before you could process it, “you came all the way here just to walk me inside here,” your hand gestured towards the mouth of the entrance.
Satoru took off his glasses, shouldering the sweat on his nosebridge, “Yeah. If you haven’t noticed, it’s creepy in there. Instead of you getting scared alone, we should be scared together,” he was scared all this time? Now the guilt pooled on the bottom of your stomach, swirling at his words.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
His fingers slid the glasses back into place, and the alluring cerulean glinted happily, “I actually wanted to, and I’m more than happy to do it. It’s my decision, no?” Smart, you bobbed your head in agreement, not being able to deny that, “Let’s get you home then.”
He walks first, guiding you into the alleyway. Satoru was tall enough to hide your view in front, all you could see is the outline of his back, and it made you feel safe. Satoru pops out of the other side with a smile, the streaks of paint crinkling under the strain of his skin, “How was your day?”
“Good,” you answered him slowly, “yours?”
Is he about to flex about his strength again? Satoru parts his lips, “Better now. It was tiring, but at least we got to meet. Ice cream tomorrow then? We can agree on that, right?” You grinned at him.
SYNOPSIS ᯓ★ After months of cold shoulder from your boyfriend, the relationship finally comes to an end when a Reddit post spiraled into your best friend’s orbit, and the poster? Your own boyfriend. The embarrassment and shame brought onto your name began tumbling when he thinks you will come back —like you always do, he quotes— to him. However, this time your best friend had a plan in mind to prove your snobbish ex-boyfriend wrong. To set you up with her friend . . . Who is also going through a messy break up scenario of his own.
PAIRING ᯓ★ nerd! gojo satoru x fem! reader
TAGS ᯓ★ does not follow the original jjk plot . suggestive content . no smut (it is implied that gojo and the reader had sex, but will not be described) . gojo and the reader are in their 20s . pokemon lover gojo . gojo is a middle school student teacher . cursing . mentions of sex . naoya cameo . romcom stuff . fake dating . mentions of cheating (not done by gojo or the reader) . shoko cameo . suguru cameo . loneliness . slow updates
Last night, you’d spare 2 minutes of your time to send him a quick message to confirm that it was you. It was left on read, with an additional thumbs up emoji to sindicate that whoever read it actually received it. To get a job is pretty exciting, which was of course odd because people around don’t seem to be having fun in their own jobs. And if money don’t matter —you were sure the world would be a happy place. Minus the fact that everything would be chaotic, but that was besides the point.
Money does buy happiness, and whoever said it didn’t could go to hell.
You didn’t waste any time grabbing your sketchbook to make a rough sketch of his poster, this was important. They were actually going on a national tour —and people will see your design, which was an extra boost on your branding. This was going to be good on your portfolio, actually (crazy enough, you did build one for future purposes).
Roughly 2 hours later, you had a rough sketch sent to Suguru. And to be frankly honest, you don’t take him for someone who would reply quick; but his reply came in, and you were 100% sure this was Suguru considering he . . . Texts like he talks.
That night, you “in a joking manner” sent a message to Satoru. Lighting up the flame that had almost died from the lack of talking. He had replied later than Suguru, you could understand considering how busy he must be with grading papers and . . . Practicing to be a tree. The conversation lit back up when Satoru had offered you a ticket for a new horror movie next week. Perfect timing, you weren’t busy and you had so many things to talk about with him regarding your new job with Suguru.
Who knows, maybe they could meet back up. Hence, why you were out with a loose sweater and pants for a trip to the movie theater —the air conditioning was cold despite how hot the afternoon had been. And as much as you appreciated a little coolness, it was over the top . . . And you didn’t need to be walking down the aisle alone for a short trip to the restroom mid movie. One, it risks you getting jumpscared mid walk and resulting in a fall; if lucky, just a little jolt. Two (only if you fall), it would be embarrassing to come back after a fall and get cozy back in the seat. Imagine, what would Satoru say about it?
“I bought you popcorn, I didn’t know which one you liked so I had them mix the butter and sugar up . . . Oh, also! Lemon tea, and I had extra jelly in them. Trust me, they’re the best,” you know how movie theaters serve overpriced popcorn and drinks you can get outside for much much cheaper. Don’t get me wrong, in this economy? You can’t help but to feel bad because of it, “I want to treat you. As a token of our friendship —and for the fact that I might have came off as rude when we first met. I didn’t know how to react.”
“I didn’t think you were rude at all,” in fact, you felt like he could have been rude-r about it because you were sure you would be if you were him, “and thank you so much, Satoru. You didn’t have to do that, you know right?”
He had a shy smile on his face. Teeth gently nipping on his bottom lip, “I wanted to. You’ve been through a lot of bullcrap, especially with your ex-boyfriend. I hope this makes you feel a little bit better,” he hands you one of the drinks which you took with ease, thanking him one last time for it before he slowly walks towards the studio —now that you realized, he paid for the tickets and food. Does this consider as an official ‘first’ date for the plan? Well, even if it isn’t, you’d still conclude it as one when Naoya asks about it (he will come back, channel the inner zen, you could feel a little evil spirit coming sooner or later).
“How much are the tickets?” You asked, sipping the drink.
“Free,” he replied back nonchalantly, stealing a glance, “my treat. I don’t want you asking about it anymore tonight or reminding me about it. Yeah?”
“I’d feel bad.”
He grunts, “I guess you could feel bad, I don’t mind,” he spoke in a lighthearted way that you can’t help but to nudge your elbow at his bicep, “just clarifying, I watched the trailer and it was a little scary.”
“I’m not scared of jumpscares.”
You were in fact scared of jumpscares. One, the thing your feared most: getting jumpscared mid walk down to the restroom happened. Thankfully, no falls, just a little yelp for the audience (not your fault, mind you, there were people screaming inside). Two, Satoru had taken a random swing from your elbow during one of the jumpscares and . . . Let’s just say that his skin was a bit on the sensitive side, so here he walks with a bright smile and a red mark on the side of his cheek like a trophy.
“Gosh, I am so sorry, Satoru . . . I didn’t expect the jumpscare to be like that,” he pursed his lips into a wide smile, the corner of his eyes crinkled at your panicked state, “please don’t do that, you’re actually scaring me with your smile. What are your intentions?”
Satoru laughs loudly. Brushing his hair back, “It’s fine, that was the first time I’ve received an elbow to the face in a movie theater. You’re good, and it doesn’t hurt. Don’t worry about it, you’ve apologized like three times,” you puckered your lips at the sound of his laughter and the way he just brushed it off, because the sound when your elbow connected with his face does sound serious, “it hurts before, but it doesn’t now. You didn’t do it on purpose either, so don’t worry about it, (Name).”
Your cheeks felt warm from the embarrassment and shame. This wasn’t supposed to happen right now, and the fact that Satoru looked like he had the time of his life made it even worse! You’d honestly feel better if he were to click his tongue in disdain because that’s how people shuould react, right? Not to laugh it off and tell you it’s fine, “I still feel bad. Can I please take you for dinner right now? My treat. You’ve done too much tonight,” he hummed softly, tutting his finger sheepishly, “come on, please? It’s the least I could do after hitting you.”
“Not on purpose,” he counters, “and plus, it’s refreshing.”
“Dinner is okay then?”
He looks up, nodding, “Dinner sounds great actually,” the sun was beginning to dip under the horizon as the familiar orange-ish hue colored the sky here and there, “what do you feel like eating right now? Maybe something soothing . . . Hotpot?”
You perked up at the suggestion, “Hotpot is perfect.”
The streets were packed to the brim —no, that was an overstatment. Sure, it is packed, cars honking, people on bikes swerving here and there passing through little gaps, and people brushing by other people to make it to their own destinations. Satoru and you resided in a small area by the side, your shoulders nearly pressing into the walls of shops; initially, you had been walking on the outer parts of the street, but Satoru had swerved right by you with the excuse of “liking it better on the outer part”, it could be a lie . . . Or not, only he knows.
The hotpot restaurant wasn’t packed, at least there were still tables free unlike the lines you saw from several shop outside. Chillers were filled to the brim with raw ingredients ranging from the freshest greens to fresh seafood. Both Satoru and you were given the usual golden colored pot for each your own kind of creation, you reached out for the tongs, gripping them with resilience. Already nitpicking the usual ingredients with known movements. Satoru put much more thoughts on his pot; but half of what you have in your pot is in his too.
Satoru sat across from you, grinning, “Do you get hotpot often?”
Your chin laid on your open palm as you shook your head, “I can count the amount of times I’ve ever eaten a hotpot with my fingers, and right now? Probably five times, six with this one,” hotpot could be pretty expensive when you let yourself go with all the ingredient grabbing — every 100 grams was unpredcitable. You were sure you garbbed at least less than 700 grams once, and you exceeded your expectations. Eating alone as well, couldn’t blame yourself, it was your first time eating that time.
Satoru’s head hung, “Me too. On special occassions maybe. The faculty loves to have a good hotpot every once in a while though, I just come by to eat and go,” his explanation is lighthearted and he looks around, “this is the first time I’ve been in this shop though. I might recommend it to them.”
“Do you guys drink too?”
He laughs nervously, taking off his glasses —the little marks etched into his skin from the nosepads of his glasses raged red— and laying them on the table right by the tissue box. His head shook from side to side, fingers raised up to thread along his hair, “I actually hate alcohol, I can do a couple gulps . . . But, that’s about it. I’m not a really strong drinker,” the tip of his ears turned slightly red from his confession, “I don’t like the taste of it.”
A hum escaped from your throat, “I could understand that, it could be pretty rancid.”
“Right? It’s just . . . Fizzy and bitter.”
“Mhm, though you should try soda and alcohol. It could be a pretty awesome combination,” you tell him, moving slightly backward as the waitress delivered the pot of your orders to your table — the (broth of your choice) soup making your mouth salivate at the sight, “personally, I think hotpot goes better after alcohol. It just kinda washes the alcohol away after.”
“Really? I think alcohol doesn’t go with anything,” a chuckle emits from your lips, you watch him scoop a spoonful of broth before sipping it slowly, eyes shutting from the heat of it.
“This is really good,” you could already picture the spicy trail that would form around his lips from the slightly spicy broth, and not to mention how hot the broth was currently which would definitely amplify the spiciness of it, “it’s a little spicy, but it’s good.”
Then the topic of Suguru struck you, and you cleared your throat, “So, I got a side job thing . . . Full-time, actually. But, I don’t work everyday and I work from home, guess who my boss is?” Satoru blew on a piece of thin sliced beef, “The clue is that his name starts with a letter S.”
“Suguru?” His eyes widened.
“Bingo, his band needed a graphic designer since the old one bailed and I just happened to walk pass the flyer. Weird coincidence, right?” Satoru took a sip out of his soda can, sitting back, “His band is going for a tour in Japan in a bit.”
“I haven’t been on speaking terms with him. To be really honest with you,” your smile dropped and you blinked —was this a bad time to bring Suguru up into this conversation? And it seems like your face explained everything as Satoru scrambled to reassure you, “it’s nothing bad. We had a little fight before he left to pursue his dreams, I still think of him as a close friend and I really missed him. How does he look? Healthy?” You don’t miss the tinge of excitement in his voice.
You explained to him, “Yeah, he and his bandmates seemed to be doing good. They have a studio on the second floor of a bookstore, and . . .” they looks like rich kids throwing away money for a graphic designer, you’d like to tell him but shake your head at the thought that might ruin your paycheck, “and yeah, they seem to be thriving.”
Satoru continued eating his hotpot, “I don’t like his bandmates. We fought because of them, I’m guessing . . . Pink hair, tattoos, permanent bitch face?” He must be talking about Sukuna, and he took your silence as a confirmation, “he used to get into a lot of fights. I was afraid that Suguru might be pulled into the wrong crowd. This and that happened, we haven’t talked since then, but if we do meet, I hope we could talk things out. Does he know that you know me?”
“No, I only mentioned Ieiri.”
“Good, good.”
“Sorry for bringing that up—”
Satoru cuts you off with a sheepish wave of his hand, “You didn’t know, and I don’t mind talking about it at all. It’s great that he’s doing well,” you weren’t a psychology master or were you a master of reading people’s mind — but you could definitely tell that the topic of Suguru was something that he was uncomfortable with. The gears in your brain reeled to think of another topic, far away from Suguru or his bandmates.
“Oh, I started opening my commissions again,” you blurt out in a moment of panic, hoping that Satoru wouldn’t mention anything about the sudden change of topics, “I haven’t gotten any customers besides regulars, but hey, it keeps food on the plate. And can I just tell you how relieved I am that my regulars are complete sweethearts? Because that last client made me mis-uh-rable.”
Satoru emits a giggle, “I could understand that,” beads of sweat began forming on the side of his head, “it’s good that you decided to take a break from opening your commissions. Forcing yourself could lead to burnout, and it’s the worst thing ever.”
“Have you ever feel burnt out?”
Satoru nods, “I took a break from gaming for a year because I was so intense on it, day and night, focused on being the best player, focus on stats. It wasn’t fun anymore, and I moved on to building games —I built houses for fun everyday for a year,” he shrugs his shoulders lightly, “I got back to my original game and just focused on the story instead, much more fun than focusing on the characters’ stats and power. It felt too greedy and I got angry when I lose.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Right?” He chuckled, clacking his chopsticks gently against the corner of his pot. He slurped the broth like he hadn’t drank any form of liquid for years, “I’m all done. This is great.”
Your pot was nowhere near close to done, just a few things have disappeared from the broth. Most of the meat, that’s one. Although, you’ve realized that you’ve scooped up more broth than ingredients from the pot. Satoru sat there, smiling, beads of sweat dropping from his forehead —he took a sheet of tissue, pressing it onto his forehead. The salty droplets seeping into the tissue, turning it an almost transluscent color.
You quickly finished your hotpot, and like you promised; you did pay for it, although he insisted that he should do it. You managed to convince him by saying that he left his phone on the table, and he actually went to check on it. Though, as return when the two of you walked back to the movie theater not too far away where you both walked from earlier, Satoru convinced you that he should drive you back home with the excuse of it being “too dangerous” for you to walk alone.
And like the other time, he courts you along the dark alleyway. His cologne merging with the pungent smell from cigarettes arond the two of you. And once you stood in front of the old door of your apartment complex, Satoru stood there waiting for you to enter before he leaves. You wonder why, “I’m okay now. Thanks for walking me here, Satoru. I had a lot of fun today.”
Satoru smiles, “Just wanna make sure you get in safely. You do know that annually, the police handles around three thousand and seven hundred cases of stalking, which includes illegal entry and home intrusions. I want to make sure you get in alone,” the thought of him waiting for you to go in made you feel like a jelly. The warmth on your face made your whole body fuse.
“ . . . Good night, Satoru. Thank you for today, have a safe trip home, okay?” Satoru waves his hand in return before his fingers shoo-ed you inside quickly.
synopsis. satoru is a bonafide genius. he’s got the perfect transcript and ten-year plan to prove it. he knows how to keep his head down and avoid the chaos his twin thrives in. so when the unofficial frat princess sets her sights on him, he knows there’s a catch. he just doesn’t figure out what it is until he’s already fallen for her
pairing. nerd! satoru gojo x popular! fem! reader. ✶ contents. sfw! college + gojo twins au ⇢ fratjo’s called souta. romcom-esque meet cute. except it’s actually a meet embarrassing + satoru runs a strict program. cw. profanities as usual ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
in the grand scheme of things, this bet would be a piece of cake if your so-called friends had just let you do your thing. alas, every time you’d so much as tried to drift towards satoru’s corner of the room, they would block your path with flimsy excuses.
shoko needed help finding her phone; which was in her pocket the whole time.
utahime suddenly needed your help touching up her makeup.
and suguru just flat-out stood in front of you, arms crossed and expression grim. he’d also refused to answer your plethora of questions about satoru in an attempt to deter you from going through with this and lengthening his own life span.
by the end of the night, you’d managed to catch exactly zero moments alone with satoru. he’d left the party early, of course. probably to go study or do something that’s equally as boring. which was a shame because you’d thought of the perfect pick up line and everything.
( ‘according to newton’s law of universal gravitation, if i’m attracted to you then you’re attracted to me’. okay . . you didn’t actually think of it. you’d found it after searching up ‘nerdy pick up lines’ on google and you were certain it would’ve worked on him. maybe
shoko strongly felt otherwise and murmured something about how you should ask him to share his electrons with you instead, so you could finally have a stable relationship. how rude ?? )
so far you’ve had no luck with satoru, and suguru is determined to make sure things stay that way. unfortunately for him, you aren’t going to back down that easily. you know exactly how to get him to stop intercepting your every move: bribery.
instead of nursing your hangover in the comfort of your dorm room, you drag yourself out of bed and trudge to the cafe near campus. it has a partnership with jujutsu tech so you get discounts, which is a bonus. the pastries are great, which is another. plus, suguru is a complete and utter sucker for their vanilla bean cold brews – a fact you’re fully prepared to exploit.
so here you are, standing by the counter waiting for your order, one hand pressed to your throbbing temple while the other scrolls aimlessly through your phone.
the cafe is quiet for late morning – save for the soft hum of espresso machines, the murmurs of students half-heartedly revising for finals, and the clatter of dainty mugs against saucers. rays of sunlight shroud the cafe in a soft, hazy glow. the scent of roasted coffee beans and warm golden pastries lingers in the air, rich and soothing in a way that almost makes your hangover feel bearable. almost.
your head is pounding – a direct result of your questionable life choices – and you can still taste the ghost of last night’s cheap vodka on your tongue. every time you close your eyes you see the image of toji’s smug grin as he’d paraded his new sorority girl around the party.
you push the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. you’re halfway through reading shoko and utahime’s texts about how you’re definitely going to lose this bet and how they’ve started their own bet on how many days it’ll take you to give up, when something catches the corner of your eye. you look up. and there he is in the corner of the cafe, satoru gojo.
he sits by the window, surrounded by what can only be described as a fortress of textbooks. the titles alone make your head hurt. he’s hunched over his laptop, shoulders curved inward in concentration, fingers flying across the keyboard with a speed that’s almost inhuman. a pair of navy blue noise cancelling headphones are clamped over his ears, shutting out the rest of the cafe entirely.
he somehow looks even more intense than he did at the party last night. he’s like a different species to you, one that doesn’t belong in the wild of a psi bau rager™. he belongs here, in this quiet, sun-drenched corner, surrounded by books.
every now and then he pauses, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with an irritated flick before returning to whatever it is he’s typing. the mellow sunlight filters through the strands of his pale hair, turning them almost silver, and frames his pretty features in a mellow glow.
you find yourself staring longer than you mean to. he’s so . . . focused. so unbothered. he’s living in a completely different world, a world of equations and theories and things you can’t even begin to understand, and he doesn’t seem to care that anyone else exists. it’s a level of self-assurance you’ve never encountered before. completely unlike the guys you usually date, who are all desperate for validation.
your name is called from the counter and you step forward automatically, grabbing the drinks – a disgustingly large black coffee for suguru and a ridiculously sweet caramel latte for yourself – without taking your eyes off satoru. he still hasn’t looked up. not once. if he isn’t going to notice you . . . you’ll just have to make him.
you stand there in the middle of the cafe for a moment, pondering. a smile slowly tugs at the corners of your lips. this is perfect. he’s completely unsuspecting, a perfect target. you can do this. you can totally do this.
you adjust your grip on the drinks and start walking towards his table, a plan forming in your mind. something that will force him to look at you, to see you.
closer now, you notice the faint crease between his brows as he reads something on his screen. you can also hear the faint rhythm of what sounds suspiciously like minecraft music seeping from his headphones. you have to suppress a giggle. of course he listens to video game music.
you’re practically hovering over him and he’s still oblivious to you, lost in his own little world.
you take one final step past his chair and let your foot catch the leg of it. your body lurches forward and your latte slips in your hand, a perfect arch of creamy coffee flying directly towards his laptop.
“oh my–” the gasp leaves your lips right on cue. a wave of caramel latte, complete with extra whipped cream, splashes across his table, narrowly missing his textbooks. you didn’t mean to spill that much. a few drops, maybe, to create a moment, a reason to talk. well shit.
to his credit, satoru reacts faster than you expect him to. his arm shoots out, shielding his keyboard as your drink splashes on the table, dangerously close to his belongings. the minecraft music in his headphones cuts off as he yanks them down around his neck, his head snapping up. his eyes, a startlingly bright blue, lock onto yours, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe. they’re even more intense up close and are currently filled with a flicker of annoyance.
“careful,” he frowns. you feel your morale sink ever so slightly. that. . . was not the reaction you were expecting. no flustered stammering or no immediate concern for your well-being. he immediately begins inspecting his laptop to check for damages, his brow furrowed in concentration, long fingers carefully wiping away the droplets of coffee from the sleek black casing.
“i’m so sorry,” you apologize profusely, setting down suguru’s coffee and what’s left of yours on the sticky table. you grab a handful of napkins from the nearby dispenser and start dabbing at the lukewarm droplets, feeling your heat rise to your cheeks. this is not going according to plan. at all.
“it’s alright, it’s just coffee,” he finally looks up again, his bright blue eyes focused in a way that makes you feel like you’re being scrutinized under a microscope. it’s unnerving but he’s not angry, not really. you think ?
“i’m such a klutz honestly,” you sigh, trying to recover with a charmingly self-deprecating smile, one that usually works on guys. “i’m literally a natural disaster, i could’ve ruined your textbooks.”
his expression doesn’t change in the slightest. “technically,” he says after a beat of silence, his devoid of any emotion, “that would be more of an anthropogenic accident.”
“. . . what ?” you blink, momentarily stunned. did this guy just correct your metaphor ? who does that ?
“you’re a human,” he explains, as if that isn’t the most obvious thing in the world, “natural disasters occur without human intervention. what you’re describing is an accident caused by human error.”
silence settles between you as satoru watches you clean the table. you wish the earth would soften, open up and swallow you whole. but it doesn’t. you just stand there, dabbing at a sticky table with a handful of napkins, feeling like a complete and utter idiot.
“if you hold your cup closer to the middle,” he offers, tone still matter-of-fact, “it stabilizes the center of gravity.”
“huh ?” you’re completely bewildered by the peculiarity of this cursed interaction. this was not supposed to happen. you were supposed to have a cute, flirty meet-cute, not a freaking physics lesson.
“the middle,” he repeats patiently, gesturing towards your half-empty latte “gripping it higher makes it more liable to tipping. lower your grip, closer to the center of mass, and you’ll have more control.”
you stare at him. for a split second you think he’s joking. his expression says he’s absolutely not. he looks like he’s about to tell you to read a book because your stupid is showing
“. . . right,” you say slowly, feeling completely out of your depth. you’ve never been so thoroughly derailed in your life.
he sets his laptop back on the table once he’s positive his work is no longer endangered, his movements precise and economical.
“you won’t have as many accidents that way,” he murmurs, already turning his attention back to his screen, effectively dismissing you. you press the napkin flat against the table one last time, feeling utterly defeated.
“i’ll. . uhh. .keep that in mind,” you mumble, backing away from his table.
he nods, barely acknowledging you, and closes his laptop with a decisive click. he slips it, alongside his textbooks, into his bag before standing.
“sorry again,” you try one last time, desperate for some kind of. . .anything. but he’s already slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“it’s no problem,” he says politely as he steps around you, “i have to go anyway.” he gives you a brief, impersonal nod before walking out the cafe without another word. the bell above the door jingles softly behind him. and just like that he’s gone.
you stand there in the middle of the cafe completely dumbfounded. the interaction lasted less than ten minutes and meant absolutely nothing to him. he didn’t even ask for your name. he didn’t even smile at you.
satoru is proving to be a difficult target. he really isn’t making this easy for you. you pick up your drinks again – carefully from the middle this time – and head toward the door. holy. fucking. airball. this is a million times harder than you’d anticipated.
“there’s no way you spilled your coffee on purpose” suguru splutters, clutching his stomach where he lies sprawled across his unmade bed. his body shaking with laughter as you recount the series of unfortunate events you’d endured this morning.
“i did ! and maybe i’ve watched too many movies but i thought he would at least help me clean it up or crack a joke or something. but no !” you lament, flopping onto a bean bag chair with a dramatic sigh. “all he did was give me a physics lesson. that was so freaking humiliating i’m never going back to the cafe again.”
shoko, who’s perched on the edge of suguru’s desk, wipes a tear from her eyes. “fuck, i wish i could’ve seen it.”
“shut up,” you grumble, burying your face in a pillow. “i lost so much aura and i’m starting to realize that this is genuinely impossible. he’s like a robot.”
“he’s not a robot,” suguru laughs, “you can’t just stumble into his life and expect him to be completely obsessed with you. you’ve gotta speak his language first.”
“and what language is that ? fucking javascript ??”
“ha, you’re funny,” suguru finally sits up and runs a hand through his messy hair. “you just need a legit reason to be around him. one that appeals to his genius brain.”
“like what ?” you sigh, lifting your head to look at him. “we have literally nothing in common, i fear. and he clearly isn’t big on conversations. . so unless i resort to contacting an etsy witch he’s not gonna give me the time of day”
“or just ask him to tutor you” shoko quips, eyes lighting up as she lights her cigarette, ignoring suguru’s protests about her smoking in his room.
you groan, sinking further into the bean bag. “in what ? we have absolutely zero classles together.”
“exactly !” she grins, taking a long drag from her cigarette. “because he’s in the honors college and he’s so wrapped up in his own world, he probably has no clue what you’re majoring in. so you tell him you’re struggling in something that’s a piece of cake to him–”
“why the hell are you helping her ??” suguru interjects, shooting her a well-meaning glare
“i bet utahime that she’d at least last a week” she shrugs, “i’m sitting on a decent pay day here”
“i hate all of you” you scoff. “and that’s not even going to work anyway, i’m pre-law and he’s into engineering and other confusing stem stuff that i wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.”
“well, tough luck,” shoko murmurs, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “if you plan on asking for help in any other courses you might as well admit defeat right now and swear off men for the rest of college.”
“so what ? do i just pretend to be a stem major to trick him into spending time with me ?” you ask, the idea sounding more and more absurd the more you think about it. how would you even pull that off . . .?
“if you’re actually gonna go through with this nonsense,” suguru sighs, flopping back onto his bed, “you might as well fully commit to the bit. what’s one more lie on top of this whole clusterfuck ?”
you frown at him, but he’s right. if you want to get satoru to fall in love with you, then you’ll have to go about this properly. you chew on the inside of your cheek thoughtfully, you can’t think of any alternatives that would result in satoru really noticing you. so, reluctantly, you settle on the only option you have:
you’ll fake being a struggling physics major and hope he doesn’t see right through you.
the concept of reshaping yourself entirely to catch the attention of someone who’s practically a stranger sounds absurd the more you think about it. but it’s a little too late to back down now. the bet is made, the stakes are set, and your pride is on the line.
“fine,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “i’ll do it. but you two,” you point at shoko and suguru, “if i go down, i’m taking you with me.”
suguru groans, dragging a hand over his face. “i knew i should’ve just walked the other way freshman year”
“it’s wayyy too late for that,” you grin, “now, tell me everything you know about physics, shoko, i need to sound convincing. oh and i’ll probably need to borrow your textbooks too. . . how heavy are they ?”
a wry smile spreads across shoko’s lips. “heavy enough to knock satoru out with, if you need a backup plan.”
“don’t give her any more ideas,” suguru pales visibly, his hazel eyes wide with horror that seems a little too genuine for your liking. just how little does he think of you ?
“hey, i got you coffee,” you pout, gesturing to the forgotten cup on his nightstand. “you’re supposed to be helping me now.”
“me . . help you . .? y’know souta’s room is right across the hallway,” suguru points out, his voice dropping to a whisper. “if he gets me in my sleep, what use will coffee be to me ?”
“he’s not actually going to kill you,” you wave your hand dismissively. “c’mon, shoko let’s ditch the drama queen. i wanna go look at your textbooks.”
with a solid plan in hand, you’re starting to feel a little more confident about winning satoru over.
you’re smart. you can totally fake your way through physics tutoring. sure, it’ll be boring. mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly boring. but it’s just a bunch of laws and formulas, right ? it’s not like you have to actually do anything except pretend to understand it. plus, you’re a fast learner. what could possibly go wrong ?
masterlist day zero ⇆ day one
── .✦ mimi’s notes: ^ the answer to that question is everything !! i mean what’s newton’s third law of motion ? don’t be deceived ( like nerdjo ) i hate physics passionately
if you can't find nezu in the jjk-verse, you can find her in the cross-over universe where gojo satoru is part of slytherin house. @throughsixeyes sits down with the elusive @nezuscribe ( nezu ) to discuss being recommended on tiktok, and all things related to the literary process of writing for a certain white-haired sorcerer.
Tell us where do your ideas come from?
Nezu: A lot of my ideas as amalgolmations of my thoughts, tv shows, movies and books! Sometimes my au's are inspird directly from a source (ex: slytherin!gojo being inspired from the potter universe but not jkrowling) while apocolpsy!gojo was inspired by a lot of end of the world movies/shows
What inspired you to start writing?
Nezu: what inspired me to write was I would read a LOT as a kid and I think it fueled something creative in me. I was always writing a spin off on whatever book series I was obsessed with at the time, and it only felt natural to write fanfic when I grew up!
What kind of research do you usually do for your fics?
User: The research I do really depends on what au it is I'm writing. Sometimes I look up historical outfits/terms, other times I look up different Shakespeare plays a character might reference
How much does engagement affect your creative process?
Nezu: A lot, unfortunatly. It's hard not to get bogged down by numbers or comparison. I feel like a lot of the time I worry that my fics are too long/not what people want to see, so I worry writing what I truly want and seeing low levels of engagement. It's disheartening, but I'm trying to move past it
What is your favorite work until now?
Nezu: My favorite work until now would have to be my arranged!gojo series!! It was so fun to write for and it felt like a passion project that I have been thinking about for so long. I was so happy that other people also loved it as much as I did, and I felt glad to write a lot of angst and still have people read it!
Do you outline your stories or not? If you do, how is said process?
Nezu: I kinda just go at a fic! I think a lot about what I want it to be in my head beforehand, and usually just hope it works up until the very end. For some reason I don’t really like outlines, so planning every minute detail out in my head before I sleep is my favorite thing to do
What has been the hardest fic you've written?
Nezu: the hardest fic I’ve ever had to write would probably be the arrangement, act two. I felt a lotta pressure because a lot of people were waiting a while for this second part, and I didn’t wanna let anybody down. I still wanted to write something that I’d enjoy reading, but I was nervous with how angsty I wrote it and worried people wouldn’t want to read something that long.
How do you improve your writing?
Nezu: I just keep writing and reading! The best thing that helped me with my writing was never stopping, so I've really been doing this since I was 12!
Do you set yourself personal deadlines?
Nezu: I set internal deadlines, but never anything harsh!! It stresses me out too much, so I have an idea of when I want something done, but never a strict deadline
How often do you read your old works?
Nezu: Depends on how old. I don't read the first fics I wrote because I feel like the writing is so bad, but stuff from the past two years I'll read sometimes!
What do you think makes a good story?
Nezu: ANGST TO FLUFF!! I LOVE angst and I LOVE yearning and I think that it’s something I try to put a lot of in my fics. I don’t really see people write angst to fluff the way I want it, so I hope I’ve created a small corner where people like me find something they like in the fics I write!!
Do you write with music? If so, which songs get you pumped? or do you listen to ambience music or work in silence/outside noise type?
Nezu: this might sound psychotic, but I’ll find one song that emulates the vibe of my fic and jus listen to it on repeat when I’m writing it. I think I listened to “bewitched” by laufey over 80x when writing my slytherin!gojo fic
What is the inspiration behind your theme?
Nezu: Tbh any inspo for my theme is usually inspired by a hozier song/album. He's my favorite artist (seen him three times not to brag) and his music is so deep and meaningful and it always inspires a theme
Do you remember the first time you were recommended on TikTok? Which fic was it, and what was your initial reaction?
Nezu: omg yes the first time I was recommended on tiktok was in a comment section talking about tumblr fics and somebody recommended my nerdjo fic!! I wa so surprised because I feel like my blog is a little smaller compared to other jjk authors, so the fact that people know me outside this app (if that makes sense) made me so happy
Do you feel that Gojo is oftentimes mischaracterised, or believe every writer is entitled to their own characterisation of a character/s?
Nezu: honestly I feel like I mischaracterize him! Nearly everyone I read writes him super open and lovey (which i absolutely adore), but for some reason I NEED to write him as serious and a little harsh at first. I think every author has complete autonomy over how they characterize someone, even Gojo, and this is what makes me happy! I love serious men who yearn so that’s what my Gojo is!
What is your favorite AU/trope to write for Gojo, and do you feel that there is enough material about the same written and/or discussed on JJKblr?
Nezu: I LOVE writing fantasy/historical au's for gojo but I feel like I do it too much so I'm trying to branch out!! I personally don't see a lot of it but I'm sure it's there
Have you considered writing for other JJK characters, or are you loyal to The Strongest?
Nezu: I've really tried to write for other characters but for some reason I literally can NOT write for anyone other than Gojo. I actually started this blog off by writing for bakugo, then sukuna, but once I started writing for gojo everything just kinda fell into place! I feel like I can somehow mold him into different genres but it still somehow works
synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.
pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso
wc: 14.8k
content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair
art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333
“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.”
You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?”
“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour.
If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space.
Pack you up and bring you with him.
But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position.
“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips.
“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.”
A routine mission.
It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment.
Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on.
“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.”
“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face.
He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you.
But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play.
Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his.
“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured.
“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.”
He liked the ring of it.
His wife.
All his.
He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time.
Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness.
You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself.
“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud.
“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it.
“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed.
Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed.
The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it.
Soon, you’d have the best.
“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both.
“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed.
“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes.
You wanted to believe him.
“Uh-huh,” you exhaled.
He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you.
His home.
Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.
“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you.
“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.
“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.
“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours.
There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.
But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up.
And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press.
Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.
Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress.
“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it.
Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes.
He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too.
You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum.
He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body.
Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay.
“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone.
Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high.
“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body.
But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck.
He didn’t want to let go.
And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts.
They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot.
He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position.
But he’d get to stay with you.
Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment.
“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in.
“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.
Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out.
You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.”
That was just who you were.
What you’d do.
You gave him what he wanted.
Even when you didn’t like what he asked for.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.”
“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him.
But you giggled, and that was good enough.
“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested.
“We already-”
“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time.
“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?”
“I just want you.”
Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.
He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.
Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them.
Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become.
Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible.
They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.
It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on.
All just a galaxy away.
It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe.
Risky, sure, but it’d been done before.
And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem.
The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet.
Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter.
No, a more pressing issue had presented itself.
A distress signal was being sent up.
Someone was below – and begging to be rescued.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it.
“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen.
“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.
Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.
“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time.
“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”
“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far.
Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months.
“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded.
“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”
Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.
It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.
And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.
There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.
“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it.
He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.
Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.
“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.”
“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.”
Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave.
There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth.
“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing.
He told himself it was the right thing to do.
That it was what you would expect from him.
He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages.
You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera.
But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up.
“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it.
He wanted to touch the screen.
Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong.
“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it.
And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and-
Holy shit.
“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.”
A baby.
He was going to be a father.
His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.
“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.
Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments.
“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie.
No. You surely didn’t mean…?
“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?”
It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space.
Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it.
You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks.
“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.”
Never.
He’d fucking be there.
“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.”
He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he?
Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four.
“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.”
He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera.
“I’ll come back for you.”
Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.
But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?
In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.
“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze.
Found his mouth opening, about to say no.
Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel.
But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way?
Would he be able to look his children in the eyes?
He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.”
Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it.
He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship.
𖥔 ݁ ˖
“You should move on.”
It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.
You couldn’t let go of him.
Six months turned into six years without Satoru.
The one thing you were terrified of had come true.
You lost him.
Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him.
Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks?
You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you.
It’s always someone else.
Until it’s not.
Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come.
“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-”
“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket.
You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father.
Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug.
Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead.
When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.
Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood.
Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere.
She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru.
But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt.
“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry.
“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys.
She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh.
You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it.
If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes.
You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about.
Apollo and Artemis.
After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery.
To be fair, you had done it in his place.
Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went.
The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call.
And then nothing.
NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious.
Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing.
Somewhere you’d never be able to reach.
You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them.
Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint.
You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.
At least the ocean was on Earth.
It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand.
But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too.
You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk.
Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed.
And Satoru had missed all of it.
Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one.
And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway.
Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.
There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it.
Him.
But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids.
The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it.
You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class.
Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings.
Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had.
You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it.
“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.
“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake.
His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go.
“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.
“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing.
“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over.
You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them.
“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”
You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.
“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.
Your chest hurt.
Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.
“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him.
“Oh, um-”
“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.”
People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”
“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”
“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.”
You bit the inside of your cheek.
Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence.
Satoru would know what to do.
But he wasn’t here.
And all the decisions were yours to make.
Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.
Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.
“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.
“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair.
You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field.
Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home.
Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play.
He didn’t.
To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either.
Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.
You told yourself that you were being an active parent.
Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards.
Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work.
And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.
He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing.
The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute.
Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy?
Smile back when they spoke to you?
Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet.
You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them.
But eventually, the school year wrapped up.
You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that.
Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it.
A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids.
Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out.
“Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing.
“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her.
“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose.
They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too.
“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting.
“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you.
It was nice of him.
This was nice, actually.
A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans.
But it wasn’t terrible.
You loved your children. Loved being their mom.
Maybe you could learn to love your life too.
You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang.
“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair.
“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.”
You didn’t want to consider if you would.
“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded.
You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to.
All you really wanted was for them to be happy.
“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him.
Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.
His eyes were dark.
Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them.
But they were deep. Warm.
“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.”
“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too.
He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”
“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously.
“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?”
𖥔 ݁ ˖
Their mission was fucked.
Suguru was dead.
Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call.
Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder.
Now they had neither.
The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process.
Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too.
Like his best friend wasn’t gone.
He’d never get him back.
No one would.
Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home?
He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.
God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl.
The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it.
Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut.
But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now.
He wished you were here.
Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him.
That his best friend was somewhere better.
Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him.
Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life.
Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he?
He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-
The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief.
Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest.
Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.
Loading messages from the past eleven years.
No. No no no no no.
It was wrong.
It had to be fucking wrong.
The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-
Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back.
He did. He would.
The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone.
Begging him to not make you.
Gojo froze.
Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message.
Part of him wanted to hit stop.
Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it.
But his fingers weren’t fast enough.
And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying.
Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying.
The twins. His twins.
Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this.
Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera.
He was.
Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another.
His children were growing up without him.
From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids.
In what? Fifty minutes?
Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back.
They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him.
Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them.
And you, god, his pretty, perfect you.
Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead.
Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening.
You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked.
His girls a wormhole away.
Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you.
But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.
What if it was too late?
What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth?
The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met.
Would you stop missing him too?
He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background.
You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home.
Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you.
Gojo felt like a stranger.
Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his.
“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.”
“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off.
Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours?
He didn’t actually want an answer.
But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway.
You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up.
It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt.
An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed.
A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately.
Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.
Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do.
Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade.
But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-
He puked.
Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.
An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade.
Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame.
“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait.
But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it.
His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was.
And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back.
A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier.
His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.
“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.”
He was terrified to know how long.
“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.”
He wanted to see him. See both of them.
Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now.
“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.”
His chest hurt.
Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
The mission should’ve been routine. Simple.
Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony.
“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.”
The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver.
“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.”
If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was.
Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him.
“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”
Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever.
“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?”
Everything hurt.
His body, his heart, his soul.
Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family.
The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated.
“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins.
You hadn’t even confirmed-
“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.
The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.
Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style.
No. You couldn’t-
“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.”
What a load of fucking shit.
The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it.
“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”
Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.
“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.”
Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed.
Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden.
“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?”
He could never hate you.
Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.
He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night.
Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.
“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”
No no no.
He could still make it.
Couldn’t he?
If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole?
Hadn’t he lost enough?
Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand.
You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-
A wedding dress.
“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight.
The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer.
You looked like an angel.
And Gojo sorta wished he was dead.
Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage.
And then a noise in the background startled you.
The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out.
Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.”
Another man was calling you baby.
Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open.
“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.”
“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly.
“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it.
And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat.
“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.”
It could be.
It would be.
Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time.
That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time.
Behind you, there was a knock on the door.
“Can I come in now?”
No.
This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder.
“Yeah,” you quietly answered.
Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.
But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead.
“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.”
The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared.
“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.”
Gojo wanted to strangle him.
Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son.
Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be.
“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him.
Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes.
See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him.
Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t.
You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru.
Not that you could even see him.
You thought you were talking to a ghost.
That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads.
“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.”
No. Please no.
He was.
“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.”
The screen went dark.
His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve.
He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened.
Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received.
A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago.
You weren’t married yet.
Maybe there was time.
And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back.
He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in.
“What the hell-”
Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now.
“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.”
That wasn’t a fucking option.
They had to make it.
But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right.
And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch.
He was barely showering.
Barely eating.
Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures.
They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad.
Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time.
Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever.
He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed.
Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them.
By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family.
This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean.
Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.
Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home.
“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research.
“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-”
“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled.
It couldn’t end like this.
He’d be too late if he stayed.
“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack.
“Shoko, they don’t-”
“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.”
“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion.
“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.
He didn’t have the seconds to debate it.
“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship.
“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.”
“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander.
Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to.
And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from.
He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator.
Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home.
Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.
He should make it.
Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers.
If only he could send out a fucking transmission.
He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out.
Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.
But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too.
When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected.
He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his.
Some part of him felt like it was all light years away.
Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?
Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day?
Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.
But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole.
Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls.
Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar.
He could do this.
Failing wasn’t an option.
Not after everything that had brought him here.
“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here.
But he hoped you could feel him.
That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet.
The landing fucking sucked.
Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you.
It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing.
“Are you okay? What the fuck is-”
Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief.
“Uh, could you give me a ride?”
Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder.
“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you.
“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over.
Gojo still had your number memorized.
Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him.
No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either.
But they did.
“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick.
“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.”
“Satoru?”
“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.”
Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit.
He was finished.
Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins.
Would you be happy to see him?
Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him?
He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel.
Was he too early?
Too late?
Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it.
He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there.
Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it.
And there it was.
Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him.
He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it.
His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had.
The one he hadn’t been there to give you.
You couldn’t be-
Someone tapped on his back.
He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.
“Dad?”
It wasn’t you.
Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he?
“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-”
“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-”
“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.”
Every word was a fresh punch to the gut.
A great grandfather.
He never even got to be a father.
Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids.
“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.
“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?”
Four months had been forty years.
Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done.
A fool masquerading as a man.
Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears.
Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all.
He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again.
Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection.
His children wouldn’t need him.
For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave.
“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.”
God, he felt like he was going to die right now.
Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed.
“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-”
It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time.
“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.
Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.”
He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions.
Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there.
He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo.
Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach.
“You’re-”
“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully.
“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”
“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.”
And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.
Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life.
“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand.
“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now.
“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.
Because right now, he was filled with hate.
Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.
He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe.
Mostly though, he hated himself.
“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”
Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.
Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.
“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.”
She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.
To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet.
Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.
Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person.
Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.
And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed.
He would never get to know.
His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it.
His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back.
A loving fiancé and father.
Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day.
You're a normal girl in college, a broke little barista and trying your best to keep your scholarships up - Satoru Gojo is not normal, not at all - he's the six eyes, the clan leader, and about to have to marry and take over. The two of you wish for something different when a rare comet shoots across the sky. And that's when you wake up in his body - Satoru Gojo, a powerful sorcerer a world away, and he wakes up in your tiny little dorm bed, with a pair of tits. The two of you stare in the mirror at unfamiliar faces and wonder if any of this is real, and just who the two of you were - could you get back to your bodies, and was a different life really any better?
pairings - Sorcerer! Satoru x fem! reader
warnings Based on the movie your name obviously - it will be very angsty, but also kinda cute - you will keep body swapping throughout, there will be a time difference - fix it fic. Toru is 22, you're 21. size difference to make it more dramatic and funny, canon adjacent (yes, I'm writing him as a sorcerer hehe) Geto never defected, eventual smut, lots of character and plot, emotional - planning on four parts to this. taglist open <3
art by @3-aem of courssee <333
part one
Life was normal before that comet shot across the sky.
You were just a normal college student – struggling in physics, but doing great in everything else. You had a part time job at a coffee shop in your little town, you had a boy you had a crush on and a few friends, but mostly – you studied. You studied till your eyes burned, till they hurt so badly you fell asleep right on your desk, drooling on whatever text book you had.
You didn’t come from money – your family in fact was too broke to put you through college, but they loved you, they helped you get financial aid and scholarships so hopefully you could do better than they did. You loved them very much, too, there were video chats every day since you lived in the dorm outside of your city.
Days were just that – normal, as you worked on your degree, a wicked hangover on your twenty first birthday, where you finally got your first kiss. Yeah – you could say you were that much of an introvert, you hadn’t even done that yet. You wish you remembered it more, it was something quick and hasty as fireworks went off, it was that time of year when you were born.
Something special, something beautiful, but something was…
Off.
It was off even that day. Maybe your period was coming or something, but everything on the day of your twenty-first felt off – especially when you got that damn letter saying if you didn’t raise your physics grade you’d lose that funding.
Tears blurred your vision as you collapsed onto your bed with that letter, knowing if your parents knew how horribly you were doing they would be so disappointed. You couldn’t help but wish for an escape from the crushing weight of all these expectations – many of which you placed on yourself, rushing to take that invite and get positively drunk at a party.
You didn’t tell the guy it was your first kiss, you just did that – let him slide his tongue in your mouth and press you against a wall, then it was all a bit of a blur – you heading back to the dorm, sneaking away. Crying yourself to sleep even though you technically ‘had fun’.
Why did you feel so lonely, though?
Yet when you woke up, everything changed.
Your body changed.
Your fucking room changed.
You were no longer in your little dorm – you’re in some fancy ass, rich ass room with an enormous bed and black silk sheets. You gasp and worry – did you end up with that dude last night? Did you think you got home but got too fucked up!? Your heart hammers in your chest as you peek down – and then you see it.
You see it and fucking scream so loud, seeing you’re wearing boxers rather than panties – and instead of your pussy, there was a dick. Oh, not a small dick, either – and not a soft one, a fully hard, massive fucking cock was on your body.
“What the fuck!? What!?” You jump up and fall, unused to the lanky ass legs that are currently under you, ones that cannot be yours – pale and muscular and so goddamn long. You’re way too tall, so tall you’d hit your head in your fucking dorm, looking down at everything in shock, stumbling into a dresser.
Even your voice is deep and – sexy!? You rush over to this fancy dresser, gasping as you see a perfect face in a mirror – a man’s face, with beautiful blue eyes and cheekbones to fucking die for. You smack at that face as if reality will hit – seeing chest muscles where your titties should be, blushing in his pale skin as you see that bulge in the mirror.
You're inside the body of the hottest man you’ve ever seen in some fancy ass home you could never afford!
“It has to be some dream,” you curse and rush out, running down spiral stairs – how big is this man’s house?! It’s a whole fucking confusing mansion, you’re rushing through everything, trying to find some hint of who he could be – of what weird ass fever dream you’re having, when the door knocks. “One minute!”
You’re rushing over now, opening it and seeing a dark haired man look at your body, rolling his eyes. “Put on some clothes, Satoru. We have training.”
“Training?” He raises a brow at you, and you struggle to act normal, searching your brain for anything. “Training…”
“Yeah, Satoru – training. Just because you’re perfect at everything doesn’t mean me and Shoko don’t need more practice. We have to set a good example if we wanna teach some day.”
“Teach. Examples…”
The man blinks his amethyst eyes, looking right at you now, too close, so close you fucking blush again. “What’s wrong with you, Satoru?”
Satoru – who was Satoru?
*****
Satoru was exhausted as he trained his fucking ass off, entirely exhausted – he wanted a break, he wanted a vacation, he didn’t want to fight anymore curses, or see anymore of his old classmates die. He didn’t want to take over the Gojo family name, and he sure the fuck didn’t look forward to the inevitable arranged marriage the elders were about to place on him.
Standing in his shower since he was covered in grime from fucking curses exploding, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he was not born a Gojo at all – what would it be like if instead, he had been someone normal? If he was just a normal guy at college, and not training to teach the newbies at Jujutsu high?
If he were a normal twenty two year old man who wasn’t about to have to become the clan leader, and take on all this goddamn responsibility he didn’t ask for? Sure, Satoru loved to be the strongest – but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the constant effort, the secrets, the lies they told – the way everything fell on him and his friends, all the expectations making him drown.
He was a Gojo – they were the strongest, and that’s all there was to it. Day in, day out, everything was simple. KIll everything bad, save everyone he could, but goddamit if he wasn’t exhausted, if he didn’t just want to go be a normal guy – maybe go study physics, study theories of the universe he wishes even he could know more about.
Go look at the stars with a pretty girl and laugh, a girl he chose.
Yet that doesn’t appear to be anything he will get – no, he was born a Gojo, and that was that. Even falling asleep in his silk sheets that night, he could not stop his mind from racing, frowning as thoughts raced through his mind at a rampant pace.
How could Satoru Gojo ever live a normal life?
Well, he wondered what normal meant that next morning when he felt hungover – something he never, ever was. Satoru did not drink, it dulled his senses too much, but every now and then he had gone out with Suguru and Shoko, Nanami throwing back whiskey like it was nothing, but he could barely hold one without getting sick.
And does he feel sick – and he feels sad, more sad than before, like emotional in a way he can’t remember being. He reached out as he felt tears burning his eyes – that doesn’t happen, either. Satoru trained himself not to cry from a young age, but now he’s doing just that, his fingers touching unfamiliar cheeks that were wet with tears he hadn't shed in years.
Unfamiliar.
He looks at this shitty little bed then and screams, plopping out of it – his arms fucking flailing. He can’t even take looking at these thighs – not his lanky ass legs, no, they’re cute thighs, ones he himself would grab and spread if it belonged to a pretty girl underneath him. Cute lil socks on his ankles covered in kittens.
Kittens!?
Satoru stumbles again, bashing his head and feeling hair fall against his shoulders, shocked with that alone, but especially not being white. He stands and rushes to the little dresser – too small for him, everything is too small for him, but he is not six foot four, not one goddamn bit he realizes, looking at his reflection, at the pretty tits half falling out of a tank top spun.
Tits on his body!? He grabs them and squishes them in his hands, confused as fuck now, but he can’t help but keep squishing these pretty tits, as if they could rid him of the fucking stress, looking at the unfamiliar face. Softer features than his, completely different in every way – though she…
He!?
This body was beautiful, this face was lovely, the type of girl he’d flirt with or throw on his charm, but be just a little nervous, a little shy. Her lips are swollen as if she’d been kissed all night, he knows that look from women he’s been with, that hung over, fucked out look – though…
He doesn’t feel fucked – well how would he know!?!? He pulls aside those shorts, blushing and then covering back up, the panties were just a little wet, soaking the matching kittens. And that’s when it hits him, that clenching feeling in his tummy – he’s got a pussy.
And TITS.
Satoru Gojo is a…
Knock knock knock.
Maybe it’s Suguru and this is a joke, maybe this is a curse fucking with him – it’s one of those terrible fucking villains who make his life hell, and he’s cast under something. Or it’s a test – Yaga is fucking with him, making sure he can tell what’s real or not. Some Gojo initiation.
Anything but what this is – when a girl knocks at the door and smiles at Satoru, leaning against the door and crossing her arms.
“How was the first kiss, birthday girl?” She teases, Satoru blinks.
“Um… kiss…”
She says your name then.
Your name, is that your name?
Just who are you?
“Are you skipping physics? Aren’t you failing bad?” She asks now, clearly concerned as Satoru sputters.
HIM failing physics? There was no fucking way – well, that and Satoru IS NOT A WOMAN. “Failing? Nah, I don’t fail any subject.”
“Girl last night you were a mess about it, what’s wrong?” She asks again, he shakes his head, well – your head – and your phone is ringing. “Gonna get that?”
“Yeah.”
What’s your pattern!? What’s your phone pattern!? He tries so many times he gets completely locked out, cursing. “Maybe you’re still drunk?”
“Um yeah, I’m gonna take a shower and… get it together!” Satoru says, trying to get used to the girlie voice rather than his own, laughing as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck – much softer than his own. When she finally leaves he leans against the door, picking up that phone again – a glittery pink one.
What the fuck?
*****
You were wearing this unfamiliar dark clothing – you’ll give Satoru this, the man has taste – it was as fancy as clothing could get. You’re absolutely sure that it costs more money than anything in your dorm put together, even these shades you have to wear must be expensive.
One moment you’re another girl, the next – you’re seeing curses.
"Focus, Gojo,” Suguru is his name – apparently, the man with the long dark hair, smiling tiredly as he smokes a cigarette. “You’re off today.”
“Right, focus…” You trail off and sigh, holding up your hand and gasping when blinding light erupts from your palms, obliterating the practice dummies right in front of you. You stare at your shaking hands – huge ones, by the way, all of this goddamn man was huge. “I did that!?”
“Rub it in,” Shoko teases, laughing as she leans against Suguru, smoking a cigarette and laughing at you a bit. “We know you’re the best, Gojo. Stop acting as if you’re like us.”
“I’m not…” You trail off then, focusing on this insane fucking energy again, feeling it course through your veins.
You don’t even get tired, like something is regenerating you constantly.
What the fuck was this? What was this power, these creatures, any of it they were talking about? You can only hope when you go to bed tonight, everything is fucking normal – that you’re failing physics, and that you’re not a six foot four rich man who seemingly never gets a break.
And you thought you worked hard.
Every moment of Satoru Gojo’s day was taken up – from training, to this driver named Ijichi who takes him all over, to the next meeting where you have to fucking hope you can keep up this act, a room full of doors, interrogating Satoru about his upcoming wedding.
This man is getting married?
There are photos of prospective brides, and all you can do is shuffle through them, curious when the fuck you were going to wake up and not have a dick.
****
“You cheated on this test!” The professor of physics comes and yells at Satoru after he aces the test, he raises a brow at her. “No way you didn’t.”
“Why would I cheat?”
“You are the worst student in my class,” she slams the paper on Satoru’s desk, a blank test with different questions. “Do this, and I’ll watch you the whole time.”
His classmates – well they’re your classmates – look at him, all worried, but he aces the goddamn test again, until she’s sputtering. Satoru can see why you suck at physics, considering how mean she is – but luckily he just knows everything, and she can’t argue a second time.
“Well, I guess you pass.” She mumbles, handing him his paper with a hundred percent. “Barely!”
Satoru is tired when his phone goes off – work at six.
WORK.
He has to go work!?
He re-set your pattern to a fingerprint, so he got your phone open – and found just where you work, a little coffee shop. Satoru was a goddamn barista. He was getting bitched out by customers when he’s used to fighting curses – and that’s the craziest thing of all, besides having tits and a pussy.
He couldn’t see well – in fact, your vision was shitty. You had to wear glasses and these weird contact things, and he certainly couldn’t see curses – they could be all around, and he wouldn’t sense them.
He had to get back to his damn body.
*****
You’re so tired when you come back to the Gojo mansion you plop in the living room chair, yawning and kicking off his dress shoes, eyes shutting with your head leaned back. Your body is sore, and you still can’t sleep – this aching, gnawing feeling of being inside this huge body taking over, wondering just what sort of hallucination you were having.
You fall asleep on that couch, as Satoru crashes face first in your tiny little dorm room, and the two of you wonder…
Will you wake up from this weird fucking dream, of bodies you two can't recognize? Was any of this real?
patreon - comms
as these are short they'll actually be coming out fast hehe - this was eating me UP I can't wait for some juicy angst
Gojo Satoru taking care of you during recovery – after you almost didn’t make it
The first week is the worst.
You’re discharged from the infirmary after five days because Shoko finally snaps that “if you keep hovering like a cursed spirit she’ll never rest properly, Satoru.” So he brings you home—to the apartment that suddenly feels too big and too quiet without your usual teasing filling it.
He carries you over the threshold like you’re still in your wedding dress, not bandaged and pale and leaning heavily against his chest.
“Put me down, idiot,” you mumble into his neck. “I can walk.”
“No chance.” His voice is light, but his grip is careful—too careful. “You’re on strict bed-rest orders. Doctor’s wife privileges.”
You roll your eyes, but it hurts to laugh so you just let him settle you on the couch he’s already piled with every soft blanket in the apartment.
From that moment on, Gojo Satoru—strongest sorcerer alive, walking disaster, chaos incarnate—turns into the most annoyingly attentive nurse the world has ever seen.
The Routine (Gojo Edition):
Morning: He wakes up before you (because he barely sleeps anymore). First thing he does is check your breathing—hand hovering over your chest like he’s confirming your cursed energy is still there, steady. Then he makes breakfast. Not mochi. Actual food. Scrambled eggs, toast, fruit cut into stupid little hearts because “aesthetics matter, babe.” He feeds you the first bite every single time, grinning like an idiot when you glare.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You almost died. I get to be ridiculous for at least a month. Non-negotiable.”
Medications: He has your pill schedule memorized better than his own missions. Alarm goes off? He’s already there with water and the exact pills in his palm. If you try to take them yourself he pouts dramatically.
“Let me. It’s the only time I get to feel useful.”
“You’re useful every day, Satoru.”
“Yeah, well. Humor me.”
Wound Care: Shoko taught him how to change dressings properly. He does it with surgical focus—gloves on, gentle fingers peeling back tape, cleaning every incision and bruise like they personally offended him. He talks the whole time to distract you from the sting.
“See? This one’s healing nice. Almost as pretty as the rest of you. Almost.”
When he sees fresh bruising or a stitch pulling, his jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything, just kisses the unmarred skin above the bandage and moves on.
Mobility: You’re not allowed to walk more than ten steps without him. He scoops you up bridal-style for bathroom trips, kitchen runs, anything. If you try to protest he just says:
“Infinity says no.”
“You’re not using Infinity on me.”
“Am too. Emotional Infinity. Very powerful technique. Patented.”
Entertainment: He turns the living room into a movie theater. Projects films on the ceiling with cursed energy (because why use a normal projector?). Brings home every snack you’ve ever mentioned liking. Reads aloud from the romance novels you pretend you don’t own when your voice is too weak to talk much.
He does terrible character voices. You laugh until it hurts.
“Stop—my stitches—”
“Worth it,” he says, kissing your temple. “I’d do worse to hear that sound again.”
Nights: The worst part for him.
He insists on sleeping on the side closest to the door—“just in case.” But really, it’s so he can watch you breathe. He spoons you from behind, one arm draped carefully over your waist (avoiding wounds), face buried in your hair.
Sometimes you wake up to him murmuring against your neck.
“Don’t do that again.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise.”
“Promise.”
He exhales like he’s been holding the breath since the day you got hurt.
The Breakdown (Day 8):
You’re finally strong enough to stand in the kitchen alone for more than a minute. You decide to make tea—simple, harmless.
He walks in, sees you reaching for a mug, and something in him snaps.
He’s across the room in a blink, hands shaking as he takes the kettle from you.
“I’ve got it,” he says too quickly.
“Satoru—”
“I’ve got it.”
His voice cracks. He sets the kettle down harder than necessary. Turns away. Shoulders rigid.
You step closer, touch his back.
He spins, pulls you into his arms—careful, always careful—and buries his face in your shoulder.
“I can’t—” he chokes out. “I can’t watch you do normal shit without thinking about how close I came to never seeing it again. I can’t—I can’t lose you. I won’t.”
You hold him tighter than your injuries should allow.
“You didn’t. I’m here.”
He nods against you, once. Twice. Doesn’t let go for a long time.
When he finally pulls back, eyes red but trying to smile:
“Okay. New rule. No more independent tea-making until I say so.”
You snort. “Dictator.”
“Your personal dictator. Get used to it.”
Weeks later:
The bandages come off. Scars remain—jagged lines across your ribs, thigh, shoulder. He traces them sometimes when you’re half-asleep, gentle fingertips mapping every mark like he’s memorizing the proof you survived.
“Battle scars,” he murmurs. “Sexy as hell.”
You swat his hand weakly. “Pervert.”
“Your pervert. Forever.”
He leans down, presses the softest kiss to the worst scar.
“Thank you,” he whispers against your skin. “For coming back to me.”
You card fingers through his hair.
“Always.”
And for the first time since that night, he believes it.
Fully.
Because you’re here—breathing, laughing, healing, his—and he’s going to spend every single day making sure you never have to fight that hard again.
Even if it means he has to be the most overprotective, ridiculous, loving husband in existence.
(He’s okay with that.)
He’s more than okay with that.
i swear i lost this fic in the notepad. i was just organizing all my digital stuff and guess what i found, i was gonna rewrite it,
synopsis. satoru is a bonafide genius. he’s got the perfect transcript and ten-year plan to prove it. he knows how to keep his head down and avoid the chaos his twin thrives in. so when the unofficial frat princess sets her sights on him, he knows there’s a catch. he just doesn’t figure out what it is until he’s already fallen for her
pairing. nerd! satoru gojo x popular! fem! reader. ✶ contents. sfw! fluff. eventual angst. college + gojo twins au ⇢ fratjo’s called souta. takes place during junior year. brief mentions of ex bf! toji. loosely inspired by ‘how to lose a guy in ten days’ and very romcom-esque with a lot of drama. reader is very flawed and lowkey insufferable + the bet is hella dumb ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
day zero ✶ day one ✶ day two ✶ day three ✶ day four ✶ day five
day six ✶ day seven ✶ day eight ✶ day nine ✶ day ten ✶ weekend
+ more days to come
pairing: arrangedhusbandclanleader!satoru x arrangedwife!reader
trope: slow burn but they never burn + "please don't leave me" + death of a spouse
one month of loving satoru gojo, and one month of satoru gojo loving you. except the shifts of time and space never truly lined up, and eventually he learned the price of perfection—albeit far too late. if only he had realized earlier that the only way he should’ve regarded you was with pure, blindfolded devotion…
wc: 8.6k
cw:
↪ angst warnings: satoru is genuinely an asshole in this oml, whoever said playing nonchalant was hot? slimed. miscarriage -> major character death (guess who!)
↪ smut warnings: consummation of the wedding (he takes his stress out on you), fingering, unprotected piv, breeding (no like deadass they're pushing for an heir) it's a magical experience for the two of you but he ruins it cause he's a loser leads to -> pussydrunk satoru, and i mean he is WHIPPED, 2x oral (f. receiving)
jj's a/n: this is for my darling @sweethearticism's 13k followers event!! sweetheart's brutal bakery is looking to be delicious i am so ready for all of these (so ready to cry ngh) this is revenge for all the times you made me cry with your writing eden, and don't worry, i'll get more personal revenge later... wink. i can't find the fanart creds so if someone does, pls lmk!! other images are from pinterest and dividers are by me!
also. this is MY TAKE on satoru being your arranged husband!! i believe that satoru doesn’t like being told what to do and just pretends to under the guise of “actually following along” while secretly having another agenda. but i also feel that if he was meant to marry a woman that he did not know, he’d be mad because it’s another choice being taken away from him. but because he is quite literally a mirror who deflects instead of hitting things head on anymore, he takes that out on reader. so if anyone comes at me for mischaracterization (anons in my inbox if you were curious), just know that i 1) don’t give a shit and 2) i am the biggest mischaracterizer and i’ll make it make sense to the world. if not, just my little group here on tumblr <3
mita's a/n: i have further decided that i shall stake a claim on the fanfiction that i helped write, so now i will make an appearance! this was such fun to write. i hope you like reading it as much as we (yes, we, even if jj will not admit it) liked writing it! xoxo
find the rest of my works here!!
You’re seated at the dinner table, waiting for your husband and the elders of the gilded Gojo clan to arrive. Your own family was forgotten the moment you signed yourself over to his family, a single scrawl of ink dictating that you were forever his, in sickness and health.
Wed to man that you hadn’t even seen, since the Gojo clan elders demanded, in the name of tradition, that you wore the blindfold during the ceremony. A lady scoffed that it was proof of your surrender to him.
You tell yourself that what you’re doing is surrendering to duty, truly.
But your sudden compliance when the same voice placed in front of you as you shared sake that tasted like coiled, bitter poison on the way down, is a stark contradiction to that.
You think, Maybe I can get a look now.
When you try and twist to catch a glance of the man you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with, but before you can turn fully, his hands ground your chin back in the direction of the empty chair across the table.
A battlefield of food stretches between the two of you, and yet you’re still plagued with the struggles in your own heart between duty and love.
Something like the very emotion bleeds through the slender fingers that tie a blindfold around your eyes. You’re left with only the sensations of your touch and the echoes of light and dark shadows across the folds of your shifting blindfold. Not even allowed to know what your husband, the man you are wed to looks like.
“Trust me,” he sneers, all too clear in just his voice, devoid of empathy and instead dripping with a poisonous replacement—something like malice, “that’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
The weighted silk on your eyes feels less like trust and more like a leash.
When the elders arrive for dinner and ask why you’re both wearing blindfolds, Satoru replies that they were the ones that said it was a sign of submission. And because feeling around for your fork garners murmurs from the elders, you give up on picking at your food.
Half-way through quiet bites and small talk, someone clears their throat.
“So, Gojo-sama, in regards to consummating the marriage—”
“Don’t worry. It will be done,” he cuts in.
There was a moment of silence before the voice continues, “And the lady?”
“The lady answers to me,” Satoru answers dismissively before you can even answer. Your lips purse at his abrasiveness, sparking rage that only simmers under your skin.
After dinner, after the elders have left, you’re still hungry, because you haven’t eaten. But before you can feel around for a fork, servants crowd around you, and the table is suddenly spotless.
From the shifting light, you think that Satoru is still there. But he makes no movement otherwise, at moments completely still, like a smudge of color against silk.
“Satoru—” you attempt, only to be disrupted.
“You will address me as Gojo-sama.” His tone leaves no room to argue.
Your eyes narrow behind the safety of the silk. “Okay, Gojo-sama—”
“And you will not speak in my presence, wife.”
There’s a sound like the sliding of chair legs against protesting wooden floors, and ensuing footsteps that make it feel like he’s gotten up and left the room. When your pricked ears can no longer pick up the patter of his footsteps, you curl your fingers around the blindfold.
Wondering how your husband can anger you this much, you rip it off.
The lights are a welcome crest of reality laving over your eyes.
Satoru Gojo, clan head of the Gojo clan, renowned for his cursed technique and incredible prowess, is cold and cruel, even in the shadow that he leaves behind. The colorless ghost looms over you, dwarfing your insignificant, cowering form.
You start questioning your worth.
Does he need a wife?
Does he need me?
Does he even like me?
A servant loops her arm through yours and walks you through the estate halls. Even when he’s not around, Satoru’s presence is constant in his phantom footsteps echoing behind you.
You don’t know how marriage is supposed to work. Maybe there was a few days where the husband and wife slept apart before consummating the marriage.
Whatever that meant. You attempt to ask the servants, but they turn a furious shade of carmine, duck their heads with an apology, and scurry away like fearful mice. Like just the thought of whatever the two of you were meant to do was too scandalous for their minds.
After a few days, you stay up an entire night for him to show up, to knock at your door. You tell yourself it’s duty, but deep down, nestled somewhere between your soul and heart, you’re waiting for him to prove that he might care for you—this woman he’s supposed to call his wife for the rest of his life.
The stars laugh at you silently in sparks of light that lull you to sleep, disappointment blooming under your cooling blood. You don’t know that when you’ve finally fallen asleep, tired of waiting for someone that you’re quite aware won’t come, that he appears in the doorway, hesitating before sliding the door open.
Satoru Gojo never hesitates. He makes split second decisions with the information provided to him by his Six Eyes, but his heart and soul are telling him different things.
It’s harder, still, when the moon paints your face in such a way that he can’t tell what emotion is prying at his chest and clawing at something deep inside the cavity.
If anything, Satoru isn’t equipped to deal with emotions. What he doesn’t realize is that he’s terrified of breaking something so fragile. Fear wasn’t an emotion, just a reaction that those weak to threats offered to a higher power.
And so almost entirely subconsciously, he pushes away from the threat.
A week after you’ve gathered your emotions enough to face your husband, you ask to see him. The man you’re speaking to furrows his brows, knitted together in disarray as he shakes his head. You’re told that you’re not allowed to see him, let alone request to see him.
You had thought marriage was a castle crafted with tall spires tossing flowers to the wind built on a strong basis of love, so why is hurt knocking the supports down?
You’re hidden away in one of the wings of the estate, a place where a bird soars to fly into the sky, except you’ve been tethered to the ground away from the rest of the family. You keep asking to see him, regardless, keep asking when he will return from missions.
Just as the loneliness threatens to drag you under, you’re informed that a clan meeting is coming up. You’re meant to make an appearance as the new wife of the clan leader, but you don’t feel pretty in the mirror, even if you look the part.
The robe is silken and falls around you like a waterfall of silver flickering between your favorite color. Are you allowed to have a favorite color anymore? Did Satoru send you this tailored robe knowingly, because he knows your favorite color?
Inside, you feel broken,like he’s punched a fragile mirror to shards inside your body, and now glass was pricking at your limbs every time you moved. Except with the realization that he might actually care, your heart reaches down and pricks itself trying to mend the mirror.
The afterthought of blood blooms across your face as the door slides open. You lift your gaze to meet one that has been clinging to you like a shroud. You don’t know her name, the servant’s, but she presses her forehead to yours without a word.
Her smile is the only source of outright compassion you’ve gotten since coming here. It’s also the only reason you have a smile on your face as you trudge to the meeting room.
In the minutes you spare before it starts, you’re seated next to your husband at a table that makes it feel like doom himself is crawling from the fine cracks. You smile, regardless of the distance that separates you two and satisfies the elders, because the girl has lifted your spirits.
“Who were you with?” Satoru’s voice is strained past a smile. You glance up at him, at the slant of his jaw, at the quiet anger pressed into the corner of his lips. He’s got a blindfold on, but his gaze is unwavering as he stares ahead, like he can still see.
“Who was I… what?” you echo, albeit quietly. The room spurs on.
“I can sense cursed energy on you,” he sneers, “so don’t bother lying to me.”
You blink up at him. “I was talking to a servant.”
“Why did she touch you?”
“She was doing my hair.” The lie slips out like lush velvet, leaving your throat dry.
Satoru stills, the movement of his jaw working around words ceasing. When he speaks again, his tone has shifted, dropped lower to a cutting edge.
“You can do your own hair. From now on, nobody touches you but me. Understood?”
With the knife pressed against your straightening back, you force a smile. It doesn’t make much of a difference, even though this is the first time you’re actually seeing your husband, and this is what he tells you.
Even though you should be beyond ecstatic that this is the man you’re married to.
From his facial structure, you gauge that he is indeed handsome. But what good was beauty when one didn’t have the warmth needed to spark empathy at their fingertips?
Couples laugh and share food. The room feels more like a festival than the precursor to a clan meeting. After a few moments of watching a woman giggle at her husband, batting at him for trying to pick at her food, you reach for Satoru’s sleeve, hoping for some semblance of normalcy.
He pulls away almost immediately. Your smile slips off of your face.
“Don’t,” he says quietly, eyes trickling from you to the tables in front of him, “we’re not them.”
Satoru’s blindfolded gaze lingers on the couples, as if he can trail your gaze and genuinely wishes he can believe otherwise. Or maybe you’re the blind one.
When the meeting begins, it’s all information that will forever be irrelevant to you. All things that you will never ever care about, about a clan you will never care about, from people who will never care for you like family. Except for when your ears catch one particular question.
“So, how do you feel about married life, Gojo-sama?”
There’s a moment of silence. The world takes a breath.
Expectant ears are pricked, yours included.
“Feelings do not alter lineage,” Satoru says simply. “Marriage is an answer to a problem, and the problem isn’t worth more than that.”
Even though the clan offers a nearly identical, impressed reaction with no empathy to the woman seated next to their beloved clan leader, you’re not as hurt as you thought you would be by hearing it. Your smile had pursed quite a while ago.
But even so, when the meeting ends and you’re meant to part ways in the night, you stand in front of him, blocking the doorway to the diverging paths of the estate.
You had thought it would be different. Somewhere between your confusion and anger, you find the courage to meet his eyes, glowing faintly like a threat behind flimsy fabric.
“Do we sleep apart?” you ask.
Satoru lifts his head, looking somewhere over your head. “Yes.”
“But I thought married couples—”
“You thought wrong. Goodnight.” Without another spared glance, Satoru brushes past you, but the questions are already slipping past your lips as you grasp at his sleeve, stunning him into stilling because when was the last time someone talked back to Satoru Gojo?
You don’t know. All you know is that you want some answers.
“Then why did you marry me?” Your voice wavers.
His own is steady, far too steady for the ground crumbling beneath your feet. “I didn’t marry you for love. I married you because I require an heir that can see what I see. That’s the point. You’re here to ensure continuity, nothing more.”
His admission sinks in as quick, sharp jabs. Satoru may as well have just slapped you, even though it’s a silent truth you’ve been denying this entire time. All you are is a pristine lineage plan wrapped in flawed human skin.
“Will you not even sleep in the same room as me?” you reason, willing your voice not to crack.
Satoru stands still in the doorway at your question, glancing over his shoulder. But he’s not looking at you, not really. Not when he’d rather be blind than truly see you for the first time.
“Don’t expect me to waste time proving I’m your husband.”
Even his absence feels heavier than his presence. The sound of his footsteps as he walked away to leave you at the crossroads of a loveless marriage are pounding in your ears as you lie awake in bed, unable to sleep with the only answer you know to ring true.
Clear and concise—Satoru Gojo doesn’t know love. Not in the slightest.
“If you can’t walk blind, you’ll never survive here,” someone muses as you walk past. Apparently in just three weeks, the marriage, or lack thereof, has taken a toll on you not just mentally, but also physically.
The elders scorn you, even though you should be the one scorning them for putting you in this pitiful situation. And your husband is there to hear their every murmur, now adorning the blindfold in light of your silent refusal to,since it happens to be the only rebellion you can orchestrate with no consequences.
His silence to their mockery feels rehearsed, like he’s practiced being cruel. He doesn’t say anything against the elder. You trail off to the dining room like a vengeful spirit.
Except revenge isn’t on your mind—just slow, painful ache.
You smile when your favorite female servant informs you that Satoru has left on a mission. It’s not because of what she tells you, but of the smile on her own face as she does. She then assures you that he was always quick with his missions, and tentatively suggests that you wait for him.
So because it’s your duty to play the dutiful wife, you sit outside, waiting for him. You tell yourself it’s just for that, but something in your chest argues that maybe he’ll be in a better mood after ripping curses apart without breaking a sweat.
Maybe then, his anger won’t be harnessed in a cold, cruel blade, tipped in poisonous words grazing just shy of your neck. Rain threads your hair. When you shake it out, the water drips away, but the cold stays.
When he finally arrives, not ten minutes later, you’re unsurprised to see that an iridescent second skin is rolling above the first as no rain nettles his body. What brings surprise is that Satoru sees you sitting outside, acknowledges you with the slight flare in his Infinity.
You smile even though it’s too cold to smile. Even though your lips want to restrain their breaths as your eyes glance up to the dry jacket fluttering around his shoulders. But beyond the flare, he doesn’t even spare you a direct look.
Satoru just says, “Next time, don’t bother waiting.”
Duty still calls, though. Some warm tea was sure to melt his facade, right? Just like your mother taught you to make it, except you get carried away in thoughts of her, your family, and their well-being.
You practice smiling in shiny reflection of polished kettle, stretching your lips thin over teeth that stay tucked behind them, except for when you try fruitlessly to elicit a charming grin from your husband. Husband. Steam blurs your mouth into something kinder than the truth.
Who are you kidding? You didn’t marry for love—you married for stability. For the guarantee that even if you weren’t, your family would be in a better place. Was the money your body was worth enough to give them a happy life? Did you do the responsible thing and sacrifice yourself so that your clan need not suffer like you?
But if you’re fighting for your family, who’s fighting for you?
A porcelain cup slips from your hands, shattering on the ground. Absently, you kneel to pick at the pieces, cutting your finger. You shake your hand, wincing, embarrassed as your husband comes over to check on you.
To check on you. The realization has something blooming in your heart as an embarrassed smile flits across your face. Satoru crouches near you, breath nearly ghosting your skin. He picks up a shard, turning it in his fingers, except it can never really hurt him.
It’s impossible to hurt Satoru Gojo, but he’s perfectly able to hurt others with just the blunt edge of his words. How ironic.
“This is what you are. Fragile. Breakable.” Satoru stands. “And if you don’t do your job properly, easily replaceable.”
There’s a moment of stunned silence before you quietly ask, “Why?”
“Kindness makes you people expect things.” Satoru glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “I don’t give what I can’t keep.”
The cuts on your fingers are nothing compared to the spear in your heart. Satoru keeps twisting it further and further with every day that passes. Maybe you were trying to impose a mirror of good on him when there was truly none left.
Maybe you had unwittingly married a heartless man.
The elders continue to press you about consummating the marriage. of course, over three weeks, they’ve been pestering Satoru about it, sure. But he rarely talks to you, let alone let himself stray near you, so you don’t know what they expect you to do about it.
Except it seems to snap on him one night, nearly a month into a fruitless marriage where you play the perfect wife in a life that feels more like something from a horror novel than a romance novel.
You’re waiting for dinner the night it happens. The night that thin thread strung from the tips of his frosted hair to his robes brushing the mats suddenly tears in half.
The antique bowl in front of you creates ghosts for a while, then stops. The rice cools in a slow surrender, building your straight spine, steam curling in your lungs, keeping your breaths small.
“He’s been delayed,” someone says to no one in particular, and the room agrees by pretending not to hear. But instead of lowering your head, you lift it, beckoning the woman at the edge of the room.
“Where is he?” you ask, soft.
“Gojo-sama is in a meeting,” she squeaks out.
“For what?”
“I… cannot say.”
“Hm.” The sound dies in your throat.
“My lady, I suggest—” The servant pauses, hesitant, glancing away. “He is not in a good mood. I would warn you to stay away, if I was in a place to.”
As if you didn’t do the same thing every night. But you smile your gratitude away in her flushed cheeks and glance back at the door.
You tell yourself you aren’t hungry, that your concern is heavier than appetite. If Satoru walked through the door right now and peeled the moon’s light off his shoulders, you would forget the bowl entirely and ask if the elders told him anything important, if the details of the meeting bit back, if his hands are warm.
If he needs you to warm his hands for him. Forget how irritated he is, maybe he just needs someone to talk to.
Satoru does not come.
But you have always been obedient, in a way, and patient enough to wait longer. Imagining his blindfold pushed up to his hair, a pink seam on his cheekbone from the knot entertains your mind. You imagine his mouth shaping your name and catching on the last syllable like a hook.
You fantasize too much.
Cold rice sits strangely on your tongue. Warm rice forgives a long day, but the bowl in front of you is unforgiving.
A shadow falls, and your heart jolts. But that presence behind you isn’t nearly as imposing as that of your husband’s.
“Pardon me, my lady,” the same servant whispers, hands hovering as she slides your bowl away and nestles a new one into its place.
You glance at the door.
“It’s fresh,” she says, “from the back pot. I’d thought…”
The heat climbs your bones. Your throat tightens on nothing. You manage a strangled thank you and lift your fork. The first mouthful burns enough to make your eyes prickle, searing your tongue like all the words you never found the courage to say.
You look at the door again and imagine him there, late, lips quirked in something mocking yet still everlasting. Something that could burn the walls and still give off no warmth. You swallow and find the lack of said warmth hurts worse than the cold ever could.
But with the way his icy blue eyes are boring with an almost feverish, heated gaze knocks the breath out of your lungs, coating the back of your throat in something like passion as he takes a step closer, blocking the exit to the dinner hall.
You lower your head, waiting for him to move, feeling the heat radiating off Satoru's muscular body as he looms over you, so close that if he wished, his weight could press against you.
“You’re coming with me tonight,” he says, too rough to be a request.
When the door slides shut behind him and you face him, confused, he looks softer, almost gentle in the dim light of his bedroom. But there’s a hunger driving his actions as he presses forward, your knees buckling as you back up against the frame of his bed.
“W-What are you—”
“Consummating this marriage,” he grumbles, offering nothing further as he sheds his clothing, yanking at the collar of his shirt, pants collapsing carelessly to the floor, “since they seem so keen to keep bringing it up.”
Consummate. Nothing flickers through your mind at the thought of it, mind going blank, but as much as a part of you fears it, another part of you aches for his touch, craving the slide of his skin against yours. Faux warmth still feels cold on your skin.
But even fake love is better than none at all, right?
When he reaches you, left in nothing but his boxers, Satoru leans forward, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that doesn’t bother with any tender warmth. His tongue pushes past your lips, a large hand roaming down your body.
It’s the first kiss you’ve gotten in the four months of meeting and marrying him. You nearly lose yourself in the glide of his lips against yours, letting yourself be pushed onto the sheets, back immediately arching off the bed as Satoru grinds his hips against yours.
Your husband smirks against your lips, hand gripping your thigh, hiking your leg up and around his hip as he rocks into you harder, your panties growing damper with every strategic shift.
His lips trail down your jaw, teeth scraping over your pulse point before he sucks at the skin, marks blossoming like flowers on over the stretch of skin that drew taut whenever you shot him a challenging glare.
Slender fingers slide under your skirt, fingers pushing your panties aside to stroke through your slick folds. Two fingers push inside of you without so much as a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, pumping in and out of your tight heat, curling to hit that spot that makes your toes curl.
His eyes remain fixed on yours, lashes damp with tears and curling into one another when he retracts. Almost immediately, you mourn the loss of his skin.
“Wait—”
“Relax,” he instructs as the fat head of his cock prods against your folds, smearing your arousal before he starts to push forward, stretching you upon painfully slow, “wife.”
A shudder snakes down your spine and pulls your stomach taut as he stills, eyes fluttering shut, lips pursed like he’s willing himself to stay silent beyond that.
A low groan still slips past his lips when he’s buried to the hilt inside of you, his pelvis flush against yours. Satoru stays still for a moment before starting to move, pulling out until only the tip of his cock remains inside before slamming back in.
The ornate headboard slams against the wall with each powerful thrust of his hips, his hand sliding under your leg to lift it higher, allowing him deeper access.
Satoru’s lips find yours again, kisses messy and barely enough to drown out his soft sighs. He swallows down your cries, drinking in your expression as something writhes in his chest, unfurling like a blossoming flower as your walls start to flutter around him like melting velvet.
The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the room as his breath comes in harsh pants, each exhale accompanied with a roll of his hips.
“I'll get it done," he mutters, voice slurred , “even if I have to breed this pussy ‘til it takes."
The head of his cock kissing your cervix, his fingers sinking into the outer flesh of your hip as he hilts himself inside and holds himself there.
Satoru stays nestled inside of you as the last waves of his orgasm wash over him, ensuring that every last drop is sealed deep inside your gooey pussy. Only then does he pull out and roll onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes as he catches his breath.
A smile curves his lips. In twenty-seven years of life, the static in Satoru’s mind has finally quieted at the thought of your shy smile, to which he cracks open his gaze to find that very smile gracing your face.
What is this feeling stirring in his chest whenever you smile like that, whether it’s to him or not? You’re just a stranger bound to him by the fickle whims of fate and the ruthless ambitions of his clan, right? So why does he feel like he would ruin and remake the world to see the curve of your lips everywhere?
He thinks he should break the silence.
So Satoru opens his mouth and says, “At least it’s over, right?”
Your smile slips right off of your face. You reach for the hem of your nightgown, tugging down until the planes of your body are hidden from him, but Satoru doesn’t know why you’re clambering from his bed so eagerly. “Wait—”
“If that’s all, then, I’ll take my leave.” Satoru sits up, confused even though you don’t wait for an answer. As soon as you’re dressed, the door slides open and you’re gone in a single breeze. Maybe if he had chased after you, things would have been different.
Maybe it’s a feminine thing.
But because he has no answers to any of the questions in his life regarding you, he lies back down on his open palms and throws his leg over the other one, humming to himself.
You stand with your back to the door, hand clasped over your mouth, lingering arousal and hurt blending in your mind and your heart until the image of your husband becomes syncretic to the definition of the word duty.
Satoru stares up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, the thought of your smile getting his cock painfully hard against his thigh until the image of his wife becomes syncretic to the definition of the word love.
Now, Satoru knows what it means. He grins to himself in the moonlight.
Satoru thinks of that night far too much for any sane man. Everywhere he looks, the memory is there—his lips pressed up right to the corner of yours or his fingers slotting perfectly between yours or even that wasted look in your eyes when he came inside you.
Nothing outwardly happens this week. Nothing quick enough to tilt the axis of his world, except Satoru is thinking too much, hesitating to take what he wants, and he has never hesitated in his life, ever.
And he’s never been this… needy, either. You’ve awoken something in him. Something that makes it so that when just a sliver of skin above your hipbone is exposed to him, he’s brought back to the night where he pressed you into the sheets and showed you that he cared.
Because that was the single night where he knew what even an afterthought of care meant after going an entire lifetime of caring for nobody but himself.
That was one of many instances when you smiled at him with that heartshattering smile that made him rethink his entire life, who he was, why he was put on this earth. Except he couldn’t do anything but act cold to it because he didn’t have an answer to the question burning his head.
Why was he here, if not for you?
And so in a not-so-sudden change of heart, because you’ve been melting it all this time, he tells all the servants to get out. Someone lingers at the doorway, mumbling something about breakfast, but his voice was low the first time, and it can’t go any lower.
It’s the same residual that he sensed on you the first night you saw him, and your eyes kept washing over him like a greedy ocean. He had lapped it all up, of course, except maybe the foreign jealousy curdling in his veins made him seem cruel.
Satoru hadn’t meant to, of course. It’s just that jealousy was something others feel when they look to him, not something he feel back. Envy is, put simply, a one way street, and yet the speeding of his heart denies him the comfort of that fallacy.
He doesn’t want anyone else touching you, save for him.
Eventually, with a sharp cut of his eyes to theirs, they scamper away, and you’re still sitting alone on the other side of the table. He beckons you to come near.
You do as he says, head bowed, refusing to meet his gaze. Your plate trembles in your hands. Satoru doesn’t understand why you treat him like this now. Where did the fire in your eyes go? Where did the warmth go? Where is that beautiful smile?
You sit down, and Satoru waits as patiently as he can for you to finish eating. Your eyes keep flitting to his untouched plate. From your eyes, he knows you’re taking into account his stillness and judging whether or not you’re supposed to be eating. Whether or not this is a test, of some sort.
Satoru doesn’t know why you see marriage as a test. It’s simply a duty.
Except duty isn’t the reason he swipes everything off of the table when you take your last bite, chew and swallow, and set your fork down. It isn’t the reason he picks you up and puts you on the table with a kind of gentleness he hadn’t known he was capable of.
It isn’t the reason he feels this hunger clawing at his stomach that no food can satiate. No, it’s that look on your face of a smile flashing for just a moment before melting into a compliant whine—that’s what he’s looking for.
That’s the reason he doesn’t care who the fuck walks in when his head is buried between your thighs. It’s the reason he can get off on simply pleasuring you, because when you’re lost in the throes of ecstasy, all of your quiet mannerisms get chucked out of the window.
You call him asshole. You pull at his hair. And the leader of clan Gojo, just Satoru when he’s on his knees for you, likes it.
“Call me that again,” he rasps, tilting his head to press a sticky kiss to your inner thigh, eyes blazing as they meet yours.
“I apologi—” you cut yourself off, breathless when he delves back, “ngh—’Toru!”
Satoru’s never been like this, never inclined to believe that the slice of heaven between your thighs is salvation, but here he is, on his knees in the dining room, eating you out like a man starved.
And if you are his salvation, then he must mean something to you, too. A deity is not so cruel as to leave her worshipers praying without offering any boons in return, yes?
When he pulls away, he knows you’re satisfied, from the way your thighs are trembling. But he’s not satisfied, because in the quiet of afterwards, that smile that he longs for pulls at his chest. It’s not on your lips, either. Satoru thinks he can do something about it.
He pulls himself to his feet, leans over and tries kissing you.
And you turn your face away from him and ask, “May I be excused, Gojo-sama?”
Satoru realizes that sex can’t fix everything, after all. Your smile haunts his waking dreams.
The following week, he starts to change, getting too close, deciding that the distance that had been slowly built upon over a month was just a bridge meant to burn anyways.
Every step you took, now it isn’t just the ghost of him in your thoughts that follows, but the real, breathing man, trailing you as you wander the estates.
“You look less angry today,” he says. “It suits you.”
You don’t reply and he’s left with the replay of his words in his mind.
Idiot. Less angry? What kind of husband says that?
But he’s learning to be a husband, so mistakes are bound to happen.
One evening, rain pours as you stand out on the balcony, looking out over the forest overlooking the rest of the estate. Trees flicker in time with the rain-slick wind whipping through their decaying leaves, dousing you in a thin mist that cools the simmering of your blood.
Satoru can feel it boiling under your skin, but he approaches regardless, wondering if it’s enough to warm his own body with the wavering of his Infinity over you. He leans too close, he can tell, almost shy.
“You could catch a cold,” he murmurs, sounding clumsy in a way that doesn’t befit the clan leader.
You step away from him, even though the Infinity extends like a shroud that refuses to let you go. “Thank you, Gojo-sama, but I’ve survived worse than rain.”
When you skip dinner one night, Satoru brings food to your room, hesitant grin fearfully boyish.
“Eat with me, please.” He holds out the plate. “I want to share a meal with you.”
He has no reason to know that the only reason you skipped dinner that night was to avoid seeing him entirely, to find solace in the unfurled wings of your isolated room in the estate.
You blink. “It’s a bit late for that, Gojo-sama.”
Reaching out, you accept the food regardless and set it aside, but Satoru lingers, a small box in his hands. He thinks you’re fighting a smile when you take that from his hands, too.
Even without looking, he knows when you open the box and glance inside, there’s a hairpin, chosen with the notion of pretty women like pretty things. He can’t gauge what you’re thinking from your expression—definitely not that you’re thinking that the most beautiful things were often the most sorrowful.
Like the beauty of your heart when blood cracked and spilled like crimson hands clawing at a prize won not by love, but by duty.
Satoru doesn’t know that, though.
“It reminded me of you,” he says sheepishly, scratching his neck as he eagerly waits to drink in your reaction.
Instead of giving him what he wants, you stare at it. “Gojo-sama. I hate blue. I’d appreciate if you—you stopped. You don’t know me well enough to choose things for me.”
The wood of the estate keeps good secrets. He knows that better than anyone, although you don’t make much of an effort to hide the fact that you’re already stashing away his gift to you.
His attempts to broker a peace, tucked away between splintered wood and not clutched between your fingers where they should be.
Satoru’s smile fades like a dying star as his eyes trail your quiet movements, flitting back up to yours, capturing a plea that he can’t find the words to voice aloud. “Then let me stay, please. Let me learn.”
But silence has become your greatest strength, catching in your quiet refusal. Even though you’re lying lush velvet to his face—the blue of his eyes would always be your favorite.
Even so, this time you close the door to hurt blooming on his face. The man standing in the face of your dejection and knowing nothing other than how to shout back at it, Satoru reasons to himself that you must miss the ache washing off him in waves—because the things that we feel ourselves are often the hardest to spot in others.
You are with child. Everyone, including the doctor, expects the clan leader to nod because this isn’t surprising news, since the marriage was consummated over a week ago.
But Satoru starts crying, tears seeping through his blindfold. He tried willing them not to fall, because the elders present are invading what should have been a private moment between a husband and wife (but when had it ever been just the two of you, anyways?). Someone claps Satoru on the back and tells him good job.
Except he doesn’t reply to that, instead parting the sea of strangers to meet you in the middle. He reaches out, and as you sit on the examination table, for the first time Satoru Gojo holds your hand gentle yet so insistent that he feels your pulse carve a new map under his skin. It thrums like a soft rhythm to the frantic patter of his own heart.
He doesn’t say anything. The elders frown their disapproval. You lower your eyes to it.
Slowly, like a crack in time, you retract, fingers slipping from his.
Satoru wonders how he can cry tears of joy and still feel this blissful anguish prying his ribs apart with every wavering breath he manages to drag in.
When you return to the estate, news has already reached the ones left at home. A servant hands you a box of baby clothes, a gift from someone you know by name but not face. Satoru recognizes the name, and the clothes are all printed all in clan colors and embroidered with sigils.
The look on your face tells him that you wanted something soft, ordinary, human. Something like how you had dreamed of going baby clothes shopping with your cousins back at home. But the reality is that there is no such life waiting for you.
Only the man with the clothes in his hands, who can’t gauge your thoughts.
Satoru stares at the fabric, tightening his grip. “I wanted this to be ours,” he reasons.
“This will never be ours,” you reply, quiet and cold.
He wishes he could have another moment to fight for his wife, for the woman who looked at him like he was worth something, who smiled at him even when he didn’t deserve it. Satoru wishes for any emotion, even anger to spark in your eyes.
But he understands your character well enough to know that all you can think behind your blank eyes is they dressed my child in duty in the womb.
They dressed him, too.
The gardeners insist that they can do this for him, and the elders give him strange looks as they saunter past. But for an entire week, Satoru gets on his knees and plants flowers in the clan garden, awkwardly digging with bare hands.
“They’ll bloom when the baby comes,” he explains when he catches you watching him, not because you mean to, but more because it’s all you can do. Your eyes always find his, meant to be anchors in a stormy sea, but more so the catalyst of said storm.
You continue walking. “Nothing blooms here. Not really.”
With soil under his nails and your beauty erased by duty, Satoru swears that he will present these flowers to his newborn child. And he won’t let them take away his child’s youth.
Satoru had already lost you, in a way. He isn’t going to lose his child, too.
The evening sun catches in his eyes as his fingers slip around your wrist, pulling you back into the vacant garden of souls trampled on by uncaring children and elders alike.
It’s here where Satoru unties his blindfold for you for the first time, letting silk pool around his neck. At least, that’s what your eyes fixate on before they lower. His hands reach out, ready to cup your cheeks and bring your gaze to his, but you refuse to look him in the eye.
“I don’t want to hide from you anymore,” he pleads, sinking to his knees, looking up at you with something dangerous in his eyes. This is why he hides away his eyes.
If not everything, Satoru wants at least something of his to be yours.
He presses you into the soil, promising he’ll see to it that your clothes are washed if you let him do this, and trails open mouthed kisses, declarations of his newfound love sick in his eyes, down your body.
Satoru breaks you apart and puts you back together on his tongue with the kind of precision that he knows makes something resurface in your throat, something sick and vile and utterly ruinsome to your thoughts.
He is your husband by contract, not by love.
And the clan leader is thinking about how he can change that when you tug his hair, but not in a way to lead him to do on, in a way that makes him pause and pull away, blinking up at you.
“You already did,” you say in response to his question, “that’s who you are, Gojo-sama.”
Even after so long of hearing his formal title on your tongue, he wants you to call him Satoru. Call him dear, sweetheart, something endearing that would mean something other than the honorific used by everyone else.
Against everything, Satoru wants you to call him something reserved just for the two of you. Smile at him like the world is just a stage, and you’re simply the grand finale where he kissed the love of his life.
The love of his life won’t allow him a kiss.
How can he, when the sliver of moonlight keeps turning your face away?
Once again, it isn’t just the two of you—it never was.
nine months later
Satoru had asked where you wanted to give birth. You hadn’t offered an opinion. He asked if the estate was okay. You had nodded, eyes dim, expression solemn.
You look nothing like an expecting mother. There is no glow to your skin, even now, no rosy flush on your full cheeks, or enough blank space between your eyes. He doesn’t let you sleep alone, anymore, because you complained once of cramps in the night to a servant.
Now he falls asleep with his body curled around yours, fingers rubbing at the swell between your hips, his body pressed in perfect contact with yours, matching up nearly perfectly.
And every morning, he wakes up on instinct and wanders down to the estate kitchen and makes tea the way you like it. One bag, one spoon of honey, water warm enough to ward off the chills of the impending day.
The tea always cools, though, by the time you shift awake. His empty cup is on the nightstand, and he sits on your other side watching the curve of your side rise and fall.
Sometimes, he thinks to reach out and comfort the kicking baby inside your body. His child. But you only let him when you’re asleep, and flinch away when you’re aware of his touch.
Satoru can’t help but feel a little guilty. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know how to fix your relationship. He’s never been good with fragility, with careful and measured love.
Love itself was foreign to him. At least, before he met you. But now, no matter how much he has to give, he’s too late. You aren’t willing to accept it.
Satoru can only hope that his child, a blend of you and him, will be willing to show you how to. And then maybe fate can guide you down the path you’re meant to be on.
Elders gather outside the room, suffocating the air outside. But inside the room, only your heavy breaths and soft, keening whines fill the room. Satoru insists on being present, against tradition, and kicks everyone but Shoko, the doctor, and her assistants out, also against tradition.
The fact that a female doctor is delivering the baby is rebellious enough, but that isn’t why she’s here. Satoru only trusts Shoko to do this for him. And as a bonus, if anything, it’s a slap in the face to everyone standing outside.
Satoru holds your hand, terrified even as your breaths steady. “I’ll stay. For us.” His blindfold hangs loose around his neck, the third straw in a series of traditional offenses that will come back to bite him later.
But the wolf on the horizon would come to maul him away in the weeks to come (if it could), and you’re giving birth to his child now.
You’re exhausted, hollow-cheeked, pain screwing your face. But you’re also eerily silent now, lips pursed, unwilling to let whatever is brewing on your tongue into the open air.
Someone mutters from outside, “Ensure the heir survives. That’s all that matters.”
His words seep into Satoru’s brain, finally registering when Shoko lifts her head and tilts it, a silent question in her eyes.
“She’s not a vessel,” Satoru whispers, not really in answer to her, but in defiance to the elders, coming too late. “she’s my wife.”
Shoko’s panic is tenfold because it comes from a woman usually so reserved and calm, but Satoru notices her hands trembling slightly, covered in your blood, in your silence. Frantic movements blur in his eyes.
And he starts to panic, too, a reflection of the scene rippling in the smooth lake of your face. “Stay, please, stay. I don’t care about heirs—I don’t care about anything. Just stay, please, don’t leave me. Fight for me, please.”
Your voice is fragile. “You expect me to fight death to prove I’m your wife? When did you ever fight for me?”
Against the strongest curses, just the flick of his hand is enough to end entire battles. But Satoru doesn’t know how to fight against who he becomes when they are watching him.
He never learns, and even if he did, he would be all too late. All in vain.
You close your eyes, a soft exhale escaping your lips. “I stopped expecting things from you. Things that would’ve made you mine. The very things that you feared.”
“Please, no,” he whispers. “I didn’t—”
“But you did.”
He tells himself he longs for that smile, and even now as it curves your lips like a testament to the last beats of your heart, he wants to kiss it. Satoru wants to kiss his wife.
His hand is warm against your cold cheek as everyone retracts from around your body, the room silent going where it should be filling with the wails of a child.
You tilt your head towards his, eyes blank, and he swears he sees a spark in your eyes fizzling as he presses his lips against yours, his gaze locked onto yours.
“This is what I am,” you whisper helplessly, like it’s your fault, “breakable. Replaceable. You said it yourself.”
He was wrong. You aren’t replaceable. You never had been.
Satoru Gojo just never liked taking the blame.
“I love you.” The admission is warm on his lips and something meant to be ethereal—a miracle to pull you from the hands of lady Death with her lithe fingers cupping your soul—except it does nothing to the slowing of your heart in your chest.
A pause.
“Feeling don’t alter lineage. You told me that, Satoru.”
Satoru doesn’t know why you call him that at the end, when he can’t do anything for you. When he wants to do everything, and he’s not strong enough to save you. It’s not a scathing retort, but a simple question—one that brings guilt to his throat, suffocating him, taking up all the space in his lungs and expanding along his chest.
Both you and the child slip away as one being, in one ragged breath that he inhales, vowing to keep it in his lungs forever until he has to force himself to exhale, force himself to live despite your death, letting the sliver of life you have in your eyes escape even as the room goes silent. He holds your hand until it cools, blindfold slipping from his neck and fluttering to the floor as his warm tears drip onto your still body.
Satoru screams, but the clan hears silence.
Shoko takes an unsteady breath, perhaps knowing just from the state of the clan leader and one of her longest friends that no amount of consolation will be enough. Instead, her voice adopts a clinical mask as she steps outside of the room, closing the door behind her.
But her voice is clear, even past the ringing in his ears. “His wife is dead.”
“And what of the heir?”
No sympathy for you, but it had always been this way, hadn’t it? Satoru had just refused to see it past the duty hanging low in his gaze. The one that was swinging in yours when you died.
“Dead.” He hears the strain in her voice, knowing it’ll mirror the heat roaring to life in his mind, taking up the silence that stormed through the room.
The clan’s immediate reaction? Something about finding a replacement swirls into the mindless chaos outside.
Inside, your coffin is quiet, just how you like it. They try to put a blindfold over your eyes, but he doesn’t let anyone near your body for days.
At your funeral, the elders express their sorrows for their beloved clan leader, for their Satoru Gojo’s eyes, for their praise and worship, wasted on a gaze that forever refused to meet them.
No remorse for you. He would’ve blown the entire place into the wind if not for the image of you smiling back at him in the painting framed near your coffin. He finds the restraint somewhere in himself at the sight.
Satoru knows—knew—you well enough to know you like—liked—the quiet, even when you accuse—accused—him otherwise. Except kneeling in front of the flowers that he once promised to present to his newborn child, Satoru Gojo could never call it a waste of time.
As he sobs into the peaty soil, not caring if the heavens or hell bore witness, he realizes one thing pressed into the space between his ribs.
Blindfolded devotion had clouded his eyes even from the moment he sipped sake from a cup and thought, “Marriage is simply duty. Marriage is my duty.”
Duty survived—but you did not.
And only one of those mattered in the end.
a/n: if you caught the ref as fast as mita did i love u. anyways sigh smd guys this took me so long to perfect i kept tweaking and geeking until it was like. mwah. delicioso. or maybe i've just got an ego. anyways time for me to lock in on android!satoru or maybe general!satoru in mulan... maybe i'll post a poll sigh. likes and comments always appreciated! love ya <3
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ surpriseeee — this is 3 parts now hehe. satoru is still our lovingly annoying sweetheart here, but this part does have a bit more angst than the last. nothing too wild though… just a whole lot of yearning and our poor reader being very committed to denial. i hope you enjoy! part 3 will be the last one. (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
<<< part 1 - main masterlist - part 3 >>>
part 2
“Ma’am, may I interest you in our menu?” the flight attendant asks, leaning in with a practiced smile.
"Oh—um. Yes... thank you."
The thick, cream-colored menu lands in your hands a second later, and you settle into your seat just as she disappears down the aisle. A seat that is far too comfortable for the current state of your life. But that’s the thing about first class — it makes it very hard to be appropriately miserable, and you are trying to be miserable right now. You are committed to it.
“If you need recommendations… I recommend the wagyu.” Satoru leans in, close enough that his breath feathers warm against the side of your neck. “It’s to die for.”
He grins, blue eyes glinting behind snowy lashes. And unfortunately, the wagyu isn’t the thing currently putting your life at risk. Because a shiver moves through you before you can stop it.
“O-Oh…” your head jerks away, quickly. “Uh-huh… sure.”
Refusing to turn, you keep your eyes stubbornly on the cabin — denying him the satisfaction of seeing what his closeness does to the treacherous, backstabbing organ inside your chest. But you catch him in your periphery — leaning back, entirely unbothered, reaching for his own menu with that pleased little hum that means, of course, he notices.
Ugh.
This is going to be a long-ass ten-hour flight. And first class, as it turns out, is only roomy when you aren’t seated beside the exact person currently making your pulse act deeply unprofessional.
…
Wait. When did you pulse start doing that?!
Miserable, you remind yourself. Yeah. Miserable.
With a sigh, you click your seatbelt into place and flip open the menu, genuinely trying to build a case for why this is the worst decision you’ve ever made. Unfortunately, it is hard to maintain righteous regret when the menu has no prices on it. Not one. Just elegant font, artful descriptions, and ingredients arranged like poetry.
…you’d booked economy.
Economy.
But then he’d upgraded your tickets last minute like that was a normal thing a person did — insisting you fly with him. Like swapping someone’s middle seat for a first-class cocoon with a duvet and a champagne flute was just… hospitality.
“Um… Satoru?” Your brow arches as you take in the absurdly extravagant menu. “How much does this cost, exactly…?” He doesn’t even glance up. “Mm? Oh.” Flipping a page, his hand waves lazily. “Don’t worry about it.”
…
Don’t worry about it?
You are very much worrying about it. Because how the hell does an intern afford this?! You know how much interns make at your company; you’ve worked with HR, signed off on the numbers — and it is categorically not this.
But fine. Whatever. That is, somehow, the least of your problems right now. And your mind was already veering back toward the more immediate catastrophe currently taxiing toward the runway.
Your family.
“Right… well. Anyways, Satoru,” you say, setting the menu down. “We should probably establish the basics before we get to Japan and—”
“—what do you like to eat?”
You blink, lips parting.
“I—sorry…what?”
“I like sweets,” he says, turning toward you. A toothy grin spreads across his face, dimples peeking. “Let’s see… cake, cream buns, mochi…” he muses. “Oh! Especially kikifuku mochi, it’s the best.” He nods solemnly. “Honestly, I think it’s the whipped cream inside that really makes the difference.”
Your brow furrows as you stare at him.
…when did this become a TED talk about sugar? You were trying to discuss a plan, and he is out here curating a dessert menu like the most pressing crisis of the next ten hours is pastry selection.
“Okay…? That’s nice. But we should talk about—”
“Food,” he states, picking up the menu you just set down. He flips it open and angles it back toward you like that is the only sensible conversation available. “C’mon. What do you like? Not what you’ll settle for… what you’ll actually like. Ten hours is a long time, sweetheart.”
Brow knitting, you frown.
He cannot be serious. That is not the priority right now.
“That—that can wait. We need to—”
“—establish the basics, yeah.” He rolls his eyes and tips his head back against the seat, like your resistance is personally exhausting him. But then his gaze flicks back, amused. “And I’m just saying food is a basic necessity. Because you skip lunch when you’re busy, forget breakfast when you’re anxious, and then act shocked when you feel like shit three hours later. So, eat.” He places the menu back in your hands. “Preferably something that isn’t stale pretzels, yeah?”
Something hot and startled climbs your neck so fast it’s almost impressive. Your mouth opens, but whatever rebuttal is forming never makes it. Because before you can recover—
“Honestly, I gotta say… the soba is pretty good too, actually.” His face is suddenly just over your shoulder, murmuring close enough that you feel the heat of him against your ear. “If you don’t want the wagyu, that is. Wait—scratch that. Maybe ramen…?” His finger traces a line on the menu, pale lashes lowering, tongue clinking gently. “Mm… never mind. Too much broth and there could be turbulence.”
Your whole body stiffens. Because his closeness does not feel unwelcome. Which is exactly the problem.
…when did he get so comfortable?!
“…stop doing that,” you mutter, pulling back. He looks over, the picture of innocence. “Doing what?”
Your lips purse.
“I dunno. Being…” But the word dissolves, and you're reaching for your water, needing something to do with your hands. “So… comfortable. So—” You cut yourself off with a small huff. “Like this.”
His grin is unbearable, lazy and crooked.
“Oh?” he reclines. “Like what, baby?”
You sputter into your water.
“Baby?”
You’re choking on your drink, and Satoru looks entirely too pleased with himself. He's chuckling, leaning over without a second thought, one hand settling warm between your shoulder blades.
“Awwh… what’s this? Don’t be shy now,” he hums, the picture of helpfulness, rubbing slow circles with a sigh. “We’re gonna have to get way cozier than this if I’m playing boyfriend. Just establishing the basics, yeah?”
As you straighten with a glare, you can tell without a doubt he is openly enjoying himself. That grin hasn’t moved a goddamn inch.
…asshole.
Huffing, you settle back into your seat. And it isn’t long before the plane shudders gently away from the gate, inching out onto the runway with that slow, terrible sense of inevitability that only air travel is capable of producing.
“Ladies and gentlemen, at this time please ensure your seatbelt is securely fastened… flight attendants, prepare for departure.”
The overhead announcement crackles through the cabin, too polished to be comforting. While beneath you, the whole plane seems to draw tight, a low hum building through the floor, climbing up through your seat.
You exhale, letting your eyes fall shut. Just long enough to pretend you weren’t here. Just long enough to avoid the window, the runway, and the deeply unhelpful fact that your brain liked to save all its worst thoughts for takeoff.
…like how first class wasn’t exactly known for improving your odds. Like how takeoff and landing were statistically the worst parts. Like how the engine sounded different now, probably… maybe, and—
“Hey.”
Satoru’s voice came quieter this time; enough to pull your eyes back open. When you look over, that vibrant blue is already watching you — steady, unhurried, like he has been waiting for you to surface.
“Are you… nervous?”
“What? N-No…” you lie, huffing. His brow arches, sensing your bullshit. “Okay… then why are you doing that with your hands?”
Following his gaze, your fingers had folded into fists without even noticing, in that particular way they always do when you’re trying to physically hold yourself together.
Fuck.
It’s ridiculous, really. You knew flying was statistically safe! Knew it the way you knew balance sheets and quarterly projections and the exact percentage margins that kept departments alive. And yet, takeoff had always felt like the part where logic starts losing altitude.
“Oh…” A small, awkward laugh slips out, just as the engine begins to roar. You smooth your palms over your trembling thighs, shouting over it. “It’s fine! Really! I just… um—I guess I don’t particularly like takeoff, is all!”
His expression softens in a way you weren’t braced for. But before he can answer, the plane surges forward and your eyes squeeze shut. A massive force presses you back into the seat while vibrations climb through the floor and up your spine.
It’s terrible. Completely terrible. But somewhere in the middle of it, a warm hand slides against yours. It takes you a second to register his fingers lacing between your own, and the moment his thumb brushes the back of your hand, you instinctively grip him tighter.
Your eyes stay shut, but you feel the plane lift hard and fast into the sky. And somewhere between the roar of the engines and that awful pull in your stomach, the slow circles his thumb traces against your skin become the only thing your body seems willing to trust.
By the time the pressure eases and the plane finally levels out, your lungs have only just remembered how to work. For a second, neither of you moves until—
“…better?”
His voice brushes the quiet between you. You blink your eyes open.
“Yeah…” you whisper. “Um… thanks.”
He smiles. “Sure.”
That thumb brushes one last time against the back of your hand before finally pulling away, dropping back into his lap with a simple nod like it had been nothing. And the loss of that warmth was immediate enough to sting.
Oh…
He’s… annoyingly good at taking care of you. And worse, your body had recognized it before your brain could file the proper objection — clinging first, thinking later, like comfort was something you could afford to trust.
Maybe the altitude was messing with your head…
Ten hours was a long time.
Long enough to work out the safest parts of the lie. How long you’ve been together. Where you met. Which version of the truth felt neat enough to survive one wedding weekend without collapsing under the weight of follow-up questions.
It was just… not long enough, apparently, for the parts that actually mattered.
“Soooo… question…” Satoru had stretched lazily, turning his glass between two fingers as he glanced over. “What exactly should I expect when we land?”
You kept your attention on the blanket across your lap, flattening a wrinkle. “Probably… jet lag?” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze, fussing with the fabric. “And a long enough drive to regret everything in peace.”
He snorts. “Well, yeah. Obviously.” Ice clicked softly as he tipped his glass, shifting toward you. “Not what I meant, though. I meant with your family.”
And when the warmth of his attention settled against the side of your face — you hesitated. Because it was patient in a way that only made it harder to meet. Patient in the way of someone who’s learned that pushing doesn’t work on you. Which you’re unsure is better, or worse. Because waiting means he’s paying attention, and paying attention means he’ll notice when you crack.
“We’ll just… talk about that later,” you huffed, tugging the blanket a little higher before turning toward the window. “I’m tired. Gonna try to sleep.”
Later… yeah. Later.
But by baggage claim, you were running out of runway. You had to do it soon. Get it over with. Preferably somewhere between the airport and your hotel, where you could spit it out quickly and not have to watch his face too closely while you did.
So now, Satoru yawns beside the conveyor belt, tired blue eyes skimming the slow parade of suitcases rounding the carousel. Hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, posture easy in a way that only makes you more tense. You stand there staring at the back of him, fingers hooked tight in the seam of your shirt.
Now.
“Hey… Satoru?” you mumble. “Hm?” His gaze lands on your luggage and he’s already stepping forward to grab it. “Um, well…” You hesitate. “About my family… I—"
“—oh! Look—look! There they are!”
The moment her voice rings through the terminal, everything inside you locks. You turn, and for one wild second, you genuinely wonder if it’s too late to get back on that godforsaken plane.
Satoru hauls your suitcase off the belt.
“What about them?” he asks, turning when you stop short. Then he sees your face. “…sweetheart?” His brows furrow, following your line of sight — and there is your mother, cutting through the crowd with Trish beside her, moving with the kind of delighted urgency you aren’t prepared to see for at least another twelve hours.
No.
No, no, no.
“—oh my god, there he is!” Your mother walks straight past you — past you — and both hands are wrapping around Satoru’s like he’s who she came for. "Oh, he's handsome. Trish, look—"
It’s no surprise, really, that you’re a second thought. You’ve been a second thought since before you could name it. But that isn’t the wound that matters at this particular moment. The bigger problem is that she’s here.
…why the hell is she here?!
You were supposed to have more time—
“—oh my god,” Trish breathes to you. “Damn. girl. He’s, like… stupid handsome.” And Satoru’s grin went smug, drawling. “Oh, please, ladies. Keep the compliments coming. I’m feeling very welcomed~”
Your mother giggles. “Handsome and funny. Oh, he’s a charmer,” she says, smacking his shoulder playfully. Though the laugh lands bitter. “God. Why on earth would she keep you from me?! I mean… wow. I was beginning to think she’d die alone.”
The words hit like a slap dressed as a joke.
Satoru blinks, the smile faltering for half a second, head tilting imperceptibly.
…great.
Of fucking course she’d say something like that within the first thirty seconds.
“Mother… what—” your voice wavers, eyes falling shut with a swallow. “Sorry. I just—what are you both doing here?”
She did a tiny double take, like she’d only just remembered you were standing there. “Oh, honey…” A hand waves, scoffing. “Don’t be silly—of course we’re here to pick you up! God. I wouldn’t leave you stranded at the airport,” she snorts.
Oh, right.
So she wouldn’t abandon you at an airport. Just in another country.
…good to know there's a line somewhere.
“Besides, why don’t you both just stay with us instead?” she’s already reaching for Satoru’s hand again, bright with the idea. “We’ve got a guest room ready, and I’d love for the chance to talk to you.”
Your body goes rigid.
Oh no. Fuck no.
Anything but that.
Satoru must have seen it written across your face — that particular shade of panic —because his eyes cut to you for only half a second before he slips his hand free, turning back to your mother with a smile already in place.
“That’s incredibly kind, ma’am,” he says, tugging you into his side with an ease that shouldn’t have felt as steadying as it did. “But we’re staying pretty close to my family’s place, and I should probably swing by tomorrow morning.” He rubs the back of his neck with a theatrical groan. “It’s been a few months since I’ve seen my father, and trust me, I’ll regret it if he finds out I came to Tokyo and didn’t stop by, y’know?”
Apparently, ten hours isn’t long enough for the parts that actually matter, because…
“Oh? Your family’s place?” your mother repeats, brows lifting. “So, are they here in Tokyo too, then?” He nods. “Mm, yeah. Pretty much all the Gojos are—at least on my dad’s side. My mom’s in Kyoto.”
…
Wait.
Did he just say Gojo?
As in—
Your boss’s family?!
No. Absolutely not. Between the jet lag, the shock, and your mother still glowing beside you, your brain simply does not have the bandwidth for this. Your lips part, blinking like that might somehow rearrange what he just said into something less insane.
Nothing comes out.
“Gojo…” your mother repeats, brows knitting. “Why does that sound familiar?” Trish blinks. "Wait—like… Gojo Corporation Gojo?!"
Satoru’s grin widens. “Yep. That’d be us.”
“Ah!” Your mother snaps her fingers. “Gojo Corporation. Yes—of course! Silly me. I thought that name seemed familiar…”
And now, the hurt arrives before the shock finishes landing — ugly and precise and aimed at the exact spot that never heals right. Five years of your work, your career, your life inside that building. But she only knows it because a handsome man says it in a terminal.
You stare. “Mom… you can't be serious?” and the hurt in your own voice catches you off guard. “I’ve… I've literally been working at Gojo Corporation for the last five years.”
Fuck...
Get it together.
Out of the corner of your eye, Satoru watches you. But your mother moves on like you’re invisible.
“Oh Satoru Gojo, you just keep getting better and better.” You feel him hesitating as she tugs eagerly. “Come—come! At least let us drive you both to the hotel, hm? There’s so much I need to hear and—”
“—sorry ma’am, no.”
Satoru’s pulling you into him like the decision has already been made. And you blink while his fingers smooth gently through your hair, tipping your chin up with a long finger.
“Honestly, I’m beat…” His thumb brushes your cheek, gaze searching your face. “…aren’t you, love?”
There’s a hitch in your breath
Oh.
So… you’re not invisible?
As it leaves you in a quiet shudder, for one suspended second, there is nothing but that soft blue of his eyes and the way they’ve gone gentle for you. All you can do is nod — and a single tear slips free before you can stop it.
He tucks you against his chest, hiding your face, and flashes a grin back at your mother.
“Ugh… I appreciate you coming to get us, but we’ve been up for way too long and—” Glancing down at his phone, he lets out a small laugh. “Ah. Perfect timing! Would ya look at that—my driver’s here.” A tug of your hand. “But we’ll catch up tomorrow, yeah? Bye, ladies~”
Your legs are moving on their own, and you don’t even catch the expression on your mother’s face. Can’t. Not when your pulse is still tripping over itself. Not when his hand wraps around yours like letting go isn’t even a question.
The suitcase rolled behind you, with the airport crowd bustling. While those bright eyes flicked back, making sure you were still there every few steps.
“C’mon, pretty girl… we’re almost there,” he murmurs. “Just stay with me, okay? Eyes on me, yeah?”
And… you weren’t sure why he lowered his voice. Not when they were already well out of earshot. You only know that… it nearly undoes you all over again.
By the time the limo pulls away from the curb, Satoru had already figured out two things: your mother was awful, and somehow, he’d gotten you out of there only to realize he hadn’t fully brought you back with him.
It’s the furrow in your brow that gets him first… then the wobble in your lip — the one you think you’re hiding, the one you always think you’re hiding. You haven’t said a word since climbing into the backseat. Haven’t looked at him either. Instead, you stay toward the window, watching Tokyo slip by in blurred ribbons of light, glowing against the glass in streaks of neon. A city that has no business being that beautiful when you look that broken.
…shit. Should he crack a joke? No. Maybe not.
But asking if you’re okay feels useless. You obviously aren’t. And worse, saying it out loud feels like the fastest way to make you disappear even further behind that window — to watch you pull the shutters down the way you always do.
“Well, then…” A hand drags through his hair as he lets his head fall back against the seat. “Um… gotta say—your family really believes in making an entrance, huh? Talk about—”
“—I thought your name was Satoru Geto.”
He blinks.
“Huh?”
Your gaze finally pulls from the window, landing on him, and the hurt in it is so carefully contained it almost looks like composure. Almost. Except he’s spent four months learning to read you, and composure doesn’t tremble at the edges like that.
“…Satoru Geto,” you mutter carefully. “That’s the name on your employee record, no?”
Oh...
Right. That.
“…is it?” His gaze slips away, fingers scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah… um. About that. Geto’s actually my best friend. I just used his last name because the initials matched.” He’s flopping back against the seat with a small shrug, one arm slinging across the top. “Made it easier to sign off on stuff that way. Gotta work smarter, not harder, right?”
And tilting his head, a crooked grin tugs at the corner of his lips.
Yours doesn’t move.
“Right,” you deadpan, turning back toward the window. “So your plan was to just let me keep calling you that.”
You don’t say it like a question.
…is it a question?
Satoru’s brow furrows at the hurt threaded beneath the words. “No… I—” he huffs, hands dropping into his lap. “Obviously I had to hide it while I was working with you, but my legal name was on the boarding pass I gave you, so it’s not like I was actively hiding it, sweetheart.”
You scoff under your breath. “Oh. Cool. So I was just supposed to… what—figure that out on my own?” And suddenly, your voice is doing this awful thing now — losing its clean, controlled shape, slipping into something thinner. Hotter.
He hears it immediately, sighing. “Sorry… but why is this the problem?” he asks, more confused than anything now. “Help me out here. I mean… I thought your mom was what had you upset back there.”
Your eyes roll. “Your name is literally on my paycheck, Gojo. How is that not a problem?”
He stares. Genuinely stares. Because for a second, he doesn’t know what to do with that. To him, his name was just a name. The company was just a company. Status had always felt like something other people got weird about first. Not him.
So, like an idiot, he goes for the joke.
“Well… technically, I think my name is on a lot of paychecks, so—"
“—Jesus Christ, am I a fucking joke to you?”
And the humor drops out of him so fast it almost startles you. Shit. That backfired tremendously. “Whoa—what? No!” He straightens, brow furrowing. “No, no, no. God, no—sweetheart, of course not. Why would you think that?”
You’re looking away before he can see what that does to your face, because you hate how quickly his voice goes from careless to cracked. Hate yourself for making it do that.
Damnit.
You know that wasn’t fair. He had just gotten you out of there. Seen you unraveling in that airport and stepped in without making it worse. Without making you ask. And still — somehow, in the span of twenty minutes, the whole world had shifted under your feet. Him, your mother, that last name. This damn… wedding.
…why does everything feel so hard to sort through right now?
“Just…” You swallow, shifting towards the window, blinking back tears. “Sorry. Don’t talk to me right now.”
His expression softens. “C’mon… no,” he murmurs. “Please… please don’t be like that. I’m sorry you found out this way. I should’ve told you sooner.”
The crack in his voice makes everything unbearable, and outside, Tokyo keeps sliding past in fractured light. So, you look at the window because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than trying to untangle the mess that is your life. Easier than naming what specifically hurts so much.
And easier than asking yourself what, exactly, had been real and what had only ever been off the record.
Clearly, the universe looked at the absolute clusterfuck of this trip and decided it wasn't finished with you yet.
Because apparently, your fake boyfriend had a limo. Your fake boyfriend, who can upgrade your tickets to first class like it’s nothing. Your fake boyfriend who is also, apparently, your boss — and decided to book you at a luxurious five-star hotel in Tokyo while somehow neglecting to mention that part too.
Whatever. Either way, you're too tired to care. Or maybe just too tired to forgive him — despite the way the marble floors and soft gold light whisper luxury around you like an apology you didn’t ask for.
All you know, is that by the time the two of you make it upstairs, your silence was beyond awkward and hardened into something heavier. More deliberate. So, the moment the suite door clicks open, you’re beelining to the bedroom.
“Goodnight.”
You mutter it under your breath, shutting yourself into the bathroom before he can answer you. And when you change into your pajamas, you try not to linger in the mirror — because your whole face feels tight from holding yourself together, from trying not to cry for what feels like the hundredth time tonight. And as if that weren't enough, the wedding is tomorrow.
…how the fuck are you supposed to get through that too?!
With an exhausted sigh, you push open the bedroom door, reach back to kill the light, and—
“…what are you doing?” you deadpan, stopping cold in the entryway. Because at the foot of the bed, you find Satoru in sweats, crouched on the floor, carefully spreading a blanket across it. He smooths the corner flat and those blue eyes flick up, then drop back down.
“Making myself comfortable?”
…
That explains absolutely nothing.
Your brows pull together. “Okaaay…? Clearly. But—why?” Rolling your eyes, your arms cross. “Don’t tell me you fucked up the reservation. I mean, you’re the one who booked this place. Don’t you have your own suite?”
“Yup. I do.”
He says it so easily it almost irritates you more. You watch him fluff the pillow and set it on the floor like this is perfectly normal behavior for a man who can apparently summon private drivers and spend obscene amounts of money at the drop of a hat.
Your teeth grit. “Great. So go lay in your bed.”
Exhaling through his nose, he lowers himself onto the marble like it’s no different than a mattress. One arm tucks behind his head, the other rests over his stomach, all lazy limbs and impossible calm.
“Nah,” he says. “Think I’ll sleep here. Promised you wouldn’t be alone this trip.”
And the universe, apparently, hadn't taken quite enough from your dignity yet. Because you find yourself genuinely speechless.
For a moment, you just stand there looking at him — at the ridiculous length of him stretched out across the floor, at the fact that he has a whole bed somewhere else and was still choosing this — and at how he somehow managed to make the gesture feel casual enough not to embarrass you and sincere enough that it did anyway.
“…suit yourself,” you grumble, stomping over to your bed.
You yank the covers back and climb in with an irritated sweep, reaching over to find the light. Darkness folds over the room in one soft rush, and for a while, there’s only the low hum of air conditioning and the distant glow of Tokyo bleeding dimly through the curtains. Somewhere beneath it all, you can hear the faint rustle of fabric from the floor, the small settling sound of him getting comfortable.
…
Or trying to.
You lie stiffly on your side, facing away from the edge of the bed that he lays, staring into the dark like you can force your mind to shut up if you just do it hard enough.
Ugh…
Despite how tired you are, sleep feels impossible.
Rolling your eyes, you pick up your pillow and shift to the other side of the bed with an annoyed little huff. And there’s the broad line of his back in the dark. One arm folded under his head, the other sprawled carelessly over the blanket, like this is all perfectly normal. Like sleeping on the marble floor in a five-star hotel is not objectively unhinged behavior.
“…you’re actually gonna sleep down there?” you mutter into the dark.
“Mm.” His voice comes easy, amused. “You should be sleeping, missy.”
“So should you,” you huff. “In a bed.”
Chuckling, he shifts onto his back, sprawling out like a starfish. He hums. “Nahhh,” and an exaggerated exhale breathes out of him, tired. “The floor’s fine. I’m reconnecting with the earth. Re-centering. Some might say it’s very… grounding.”
You can hear that pleased little smirk of his, even in the dark, and it pulls a snort out of you before you can stop it. “…wow, seriously?” Biting back a grin. “You’re so stupid.”
He laughs under his breath. “Yeah… maybe. Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been called that. Probably won’t be the last, either. But…” With a tired sigh, he drapes his arm over his face, half-hiding in the dark. “…guess I’d rather be stupid than leave you alone, though.”
The words slip out, and the room goes strangely quiet. Something tender and awful pulling tight in your throat as you stare down at him for a second too long.
…what are you even supposed to do with that? With him?
He’s down there on the floor, keeping a promise you never asked him to make.
Swallowing, your fingers tighten on the blanket. “…hey, Satoru?” That low hum answers, and you hesitate, staring at the dark shape of him on the floor, your heart doing something stupid and uncomfortable against your ribs.
“Come up here,” you blurt.
…
Silence.
“Wait… huh?”
Your eyes squeeze shut.
As if saying it once wasn’t bad enough.
“I-I mean…” you’re shifting onto your back, staring hard at the ceiling because looking at him suddenly feels impossible. “I just… there’s plenty of room, so just—come up.”
…
He’s quiet just long enough to make your face burn hotter. And when he’s pushing himself onto one elbow, even in the dark, you can feel the disbelief radiating off of him like heat.
“Uh… right,” he laughs awkwardly. “I think the jet lag’s getting to me, because there’s no way I heard that right unless you’re fucking with me.”
You cover your face with a groan.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Christ, stop making this harder—” you snap, voice rising. “I’m serious you idiot! Because you’re not making me feel worse tonight by sleeping on the goddamn floor—so hurry and get your ass up here before—”
“—yes ma’am.”
He’s moving before you can rethink the entire thing, despite how your pulse is suddenly loud in your own ears. You scoot over, clutching the blanket to your chest, and the mattress dips beneath his weight — the sheets rustle. His body shifts. And then everything goes still.
…too still.
All you can do is lie there. Stiff. Acutely, helplessly aware of him. But it’s dark — mercifully dark — and thank god for that, because you don’t think you could survive seeing his face right now. Not this close. Not after that. Not with your own invitation still echoing back at you like something you’d like to physically retrieve out of thin air.
“Soooo…” he mumbles, fingers tapping the mattress. “Um… for the record, this is like… significantly nicer than my original arrangement. Way less marble.”
Despite the nerves, his words loosen a laugh from your chest. “…yeah? Well, good,” you mutter, tugging the blanket a little higher. “Because honestly, the level of commitment you were showing that floor was a little concerning.”
He chuckles. “True, true.” And suddenly, you can hear the lazy stretch of a grin in his voice. “Buuuut I mean… I wasn’t about to lose our first fight—not as your boyfriend.”
Your breath catches. “W-Wow…” You huff like that’ll cover it. “You—um… got real comfortable with that word fast,” you mutter, trying for dry and missing by a mile.
A low hum. “I'm a committed man. What can I say?” and his voice is all smug velvet and sleep-rough warmth. “Mmm… I kinda like the sound of it, actually.”
The words land lower than they should. Because that should not sound as good as it does.
“D-Don’t… don’t say it like that,” you stammer.
The mattress dips.
“Mm?” he whispers. “…well, how else should I say it, princess?”
…
Fake.
Fake boyfriend.
The word lands somewhere quiet and ugly under your ribs, and all at once the warmth of the bed feels strange against your skin. Because that's what this is. What it has to be. A role. A weekend. A lie with soft edges and an expiration date. And…
“Just—nevermind…” you mutter, shoving it down, repositioning your pillow. “Laying in a bed with my boss was not really on my bingo card for this trip. Or finding out halfway through it, apparently.”
He scoffs. “I’m not your boss. My dad’s your boss.” A humorless breath leaves you. “Yeah? Well, that is not as comforting a distinction as you think it is, Gojo, when your name is still on my—”
“—Satoru,” he corrects softly.
You blink into the dark.
“Wait. Sorry… what?”
A small huff leaves him, almost annoyed, almost something softer. “It’s just…” he grumbles, shifting against the sheets, “I like it a lot better when you call me Satoru…” And even without seeing him, you can hear it.
Is he… pouting?
The fabric rustles again as he shifts. “Look…” he says after a beat, and the teasing has gone out of his voice now. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I just…” He exhales through his nose. “I didn’t think hearing my last name would make you start acting like I was suddenly somebody else...?”
Your lashes flutter as he scoots closer, and this time, your breath catches. Because a thin line of moonlight slips through the curtains, cutting across the bed just enough to catch him there. The loose fall of white hair over his forehead, the softened line of his mouth, the pale blue of his eyes gone dim and almost silver in the dark.
“And…” His voice lowers, softer now. “I guess I didn’t realize how much I liked just being Satoru to you..." Those blue eyes dip to your lips, just for a second, before lifting back to yours. His breath hitches.
“Y’know I’m still me… right?” He whispers.
As his breath fans across your face, you feel fingers slipping over yours, careful enough to feel like a question, and your pulse does something wild. Because for one suspended second, he doesn’t look real. He looks like something half-dreamed.
Beautiful.
“Right…” you breathe, the word thin. “I know that, and… I-I’m sorry for lashing out at you earlier. I just… I wasn’t expecting any of this, and then everything at the airport and—and god—and then my mom and—"
The words are tumbling out now, too fast, too loose, and even in the dark you feel laid open by them. Bare in a way that makes you want to snatch every one back. Because there he is, looking at you with that same unbearable patience, thumb brushing over the back of your hand in slow, absent strokes, his mouth tipped in a smile so soft it almost feels private.
…yours.
And that’s what’s terrifying. He feels like something you could lean into. Like warmth can be simple. Unconditional. Real.
But…
Nothing in your life has ever taught you how to lean into warmth without waiting for the condition beneath it. Without turning it over, looking for the fine print. So, perhaps that’s why, when his thumb brushes over your hand again, you pull away.
And his frown is instant.
“I-I…” Your eyes squeeze shut as you clear your throat. “Sorry.” The word comes out frayed. “I want you to know I appreciate you doing this. Genuinely. But…” You swallow hard around the ache pressing at the base of your throat. “Tomorrow is it.”
The room goes so quiet you can hear the air conditioning hum.
His brow furrows, pushing himself up on his elbow. “Um… what are you saying?” He scoffs, lips pulling into a disbelieving grin. “I don’t understand. Why are you acting like everything—”
“—after this is over,” you blurt, chest rising. “You can just—forget all this happened, okay?” And your voice thins. Blinking back tears, your eyes flick away. “That’s it. You’ll forget about me. You go back to your life. I go back to mine. Just like we agreed and—”
“—I don’t remember agreeing to that.”
Your eyes glance back from the hurt in his voice, and somehow that only makes it worse. Because...
Why?
Why does he have to look at you like that?
You exhale shakily. “I think we both need sleep more than we need this conversation, so…” The blanket is already up at your chin by the time the words leave you. “Let’s… leave it at that. Okay? I’m exhausted," you whisper. "Goodnight, Satoru.”
Shifting away, you roll onto your side before he can say anything else, before he can make this harder than it already is. The bed gives with a quiet creak behind you.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
And you lie there, holding yourself rigid, as if that could undo the part of you that almost turned back.
Still. Despite how tired you are… sleep feels impossible.
a/n. oof. sorry for leaving you on the angst 😭 but this felt like the right place to split it so part 3 can be fully wedding-focused. tysm for reading! i'm blown away by all your support. he's literally so patient and attentive, whaaa. i wanna eat him up 😭
you and your husband, nerdjo, rewatching his old science vlogs from his high-school days 𑣲 .✦ ݁˖ ۶ৎ
husband!gojo x f!reader, 16yo nerdjo mentioned, gojo has glasses, fluff | wc 1.3k
“…hey suguru, are you sure the camera’s set up correctly?”
you smile to yourself at the sound of satoru gojo’s voice — albeit a much younger and more boyish version of it — coming from your laptop as you put the video into full-screen.
you lean closer into your husband, the present-day satoru, who’s sat by your side with his brows pinched and lip jutted out as he watches his younger self dart across the camera frantically. you’re both curled up, the laptop upon your legs and your head on your husband’s shoulder, his own head resting atop yours. by his side is a bowl of brownies — a friday evening necessity for you two now — and his legs are tangled with yours beneath the blankets.
on the screen, ivory strands of hair flash across the screen as you watch the much younger version of him fuss with the camera, trying to focus it properly on himself. from the little portion of his face that you can see, he’s evidently stressed, chewing so hard on his lip that you’re sure that it’s bound to start bleeding at some point in the video.
after a few minutes of messing with the camera, a sixteen year old version satoru finally comes into view on your laptop. there’s something softer about him, an almost refreshingly naive sense of youth in his features as he beams at the camera, clearly pleased with himself for finally working it out.
“…okay! hello viewers! today’s video is going to be about determining planck’s constant using….” he rummages through the small tray to his left. “ah- this little guy!”
he holds up a tiny blue LED bulb, a huge grin on his face. “it doesn’t look like much, but there’s a crazy amount of quantum mechanics behind making this thing run!”
you snort at that, playfully nudging present-day satoru, who pouts and turns to face you.
“toru, you were such a dork!”
“i wasn’t! it is a pretty cool piece of physics — you just don’t understand!”
you can’t help but laugh harder at that, at which he groans and lifts a brownie to your lips.
“you’re doing too much laughing. just eat.”
you gasp, scandalised, pushing his hand away playfully. “you’re just trying to shut me up!”
“am not.”
you’re about to offer a witty comeback when you’re interrupted by the slightly distorted sound of video-satoru speaking to the non-existent viewers once more.
“…okay..so you can see here that i’ve set up the circuit. here,” he points at a power pack, “i’ve attached the power supply to a resistor. then i’ve attached the ammeter in series to our LED. oh, and of course the voltmeter is in parallel.” he lifts the LED bulb attached to two crocodile clips, holding it beside his face.
“hey, this shade of blue kinda matches my eyes! see?”
you feel satoru physically tense up a little by your side, clearly cringing at his past self too. you put a arm around him, rubbing his shoulder soothingly as though to comfort him that it isn’t that bad even though it really is.
“okay..now you’re gonna want to roll up a piece of cardboard to form a tube…” he demonstrates, eyes fixed on the surface of the table. his tongue is stuck out just slightly in concentration, a habit that seems to have followed satoru even into adulthood, before finally lifting it to his eye.
“it should look a little like a makeshift telescope….tada! like a pirate, i guess…guess you could say that it really looks like i’m about to walk the planck.” you’re sure you hear somebody snort at the terrible pun — presumably shoko, judging by the pitch of the noise.
you have to bite back your own laugh for the sake of your poor husband, who has now dramatically buried his head in his hands with a groan.
“my own wife hates me.”
“i don’t hate you toru! i think you were cute!”
“you think i was a total loser.”
“a cute loser!” you quip with a giggle, pushing his glasses back so you can study his face clearly and propping them upon his head. carefully, you study his features, as though to gauge whether he’s really embarrassed. of course, he’s got his signature pout on, dramatic as ever, but you can still see the slight crinkle in his eyes as he tries to fight off a smile.
he clearly enjoys the attention.
you sigh and playfully flick his forehead. “you are so dramatic! whatever, eyes on the screen. we still need to see the result of this experiment, right?” you pull his glasses back down, fixing them so that they’re now resting upon his nose.
video-satoru steps back slightly so that he’s fully in view, absentmindedly fiddling with the sleeve of his sweater as he speaks.
“okay! so my friend shoko’s gonna turn off the lights now…and then i’m going to use this,” mini-satoru holds up the cardboard tube, “to block out any remaining light from the windows! my eyes are pretty sensitive to my surroundings already so i could technically skip this step, but for the sake of accuracy i’ll do it anyway.”
the lights flick off and you hear rustling on the screen before his voice sounds once more from somewhere in the dim classroom. the quality is too poor to properly make out his features amongst the sea of darkness.
“okay..so i’m going to keep gradually adjusting the resistance until i see it light up…”
as if on cue, the familiar soft white hair and cheesy grin come into view, illuminated by soft tones of lapis blue. the light seems to bounce off his features. the quality of the LED is much too poor to fully light up the room: instead, it flickers weakly, dancing across the boy’s face in uneven patches. nonetheless, the pleased grin on his face is so distinguishable, so satoru, and you feel your heart swell a little at the boyish look he flashes towards the camera.
with a little kick to his legs under the blanket, you mumble, “you were so cute toru…it’s not fair.”
you keep your eyes fixed on the animated actions of his younger self on screen, leaning further into him subconsciously as you pick up a brownie slice and take a bite.
“hey, aren’t i still cute now?”
“…don’t push it.” you mutter between chews.
the laugh he gives off is warm, hints of the sixteen year old version of him you’re watching on screen just slightly noticeable in it if you listen close enough. something about it all, about current-satoru’s messy white hair, the way his brows relax a little as he smiles, the hints of a cheeky grin evident on his face: it’s all so familiar, so unbelievably sweet and reminiscent of the naiver, smaller version of him currently rambling excitedly on screen.
the video comes to an end as you stare at satoru. you’re zoned out, eyes fixed on his features, staring at him as though deep in thought. eventually you realise that the video has already ended and that he’s already moving to shut the laptop, clearly somewhat relieved at the opportunity to turn it off, before you eventually speak up.
“next week we’re watching the most recent one.”
you murmur it with a sense of finality, and satoru can’t help but raise his eyebrow at the suddenness, a tone of worry seeping into his voice when he finally speaks.
“mm? why that one specifically?”
“…shoko told me you blew something up.”
“oh. that one.”
author’s notes: filler post since exams start tomorrow💔this is so embarrassing but i had to check the notes whilst writing this because i forgot how to do the practical
anyway physics paper 1 tomorrow and i’m writing a fic about one of the practicals do we think i’m getting that A*
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(!) warning: self-harm/non-suicidal self-injury (nssi), domestic and financial abuse, exploitation.
the dense, humid air of the march afternoon feels sticky against your skin. you’re on your knees on the kitchen floor, the coldness of the tiles seeping through your thin school uniform. a damp, grimy rag in your hand slides over the linoleum, picking up rice crumbs from your brother’s lunch and sauce stains from your sister’s. the scent of citrus detergent mingles with the residue of grilled fish that still permeates the house –a smell that seems to have permanently settled into your hair and clothes.
from the living room, you hear the shrill laughter of your older brother, kenji, as he plays his video game console –an expensive one that was well out of the budget, but which your father had decided to buy without blinking twice. the sound of digital explosions and thunderous victories serves as the constant soundtrack to your labor. your little sister, sekai, is watching cartoons, her high-pitched, cheerful voice singing along to the opening theme of some trendy anime. they are two worlds of noise and joy, while you exist in the third, oppressive silence of the kitchen.
your back aches. you’ve been in this position since you got home from school nearly two hours ago. the heavy backpack, filled with books you’ve barely been able to open today, rests by the door –a silent reminder of a future that seems to fade with every minute you spend scrubbing the floor.
you look at the wall clock, a square, unadorned thing your father bought at a 100-yen store. the hands move with agonizing slowness. there are only thirty minutes left until your mother returns from her part-time job at the local supermarket. thirty minutes until your second shift begins.
you close your eyes for a moment. only in that darkness can you see yourself in a white coat, a stethoscope around your neck, saving lives, diagnosing illnesses in time, doing good for humanity, being someone important. someone whose name isn't just ‘the middle one’ or ‘you, bring me this’. it’s a dream you’ve nourished in secret, hiding anatomy books borrowed from the school library under your mattress, reading them by the light of your phone when everyone else in the house is already asleep.
the sound of the front door interrupts your thoughts. it’s your mother. and as is her custom, she doesn’t greet you. she simply leaves her keys on the entryway table and walks toward the kitchen. she stops at the threshold, and you can feel her gaze evaluating you, judging the progress of your cleaning.
"still not finished?" her voice is flat, devoid of emotion, as always.
"almost, mom. just the back area left."
"hurry up. i need to start preparing dinner. and go iron your father’s shirts. he needs them for tomorrow."
you nod without saying a word. there is nothing to say. you lift the bucket of dirty water and pour it down the sink drain. just as you finish, your father enters the house. he is a large man, with a presence that fills the room and crushes it. he removes his shoes with a weary sigh and sits directly at the living room table.
"sekai! kenji!" he shouts. "come eat dinner!"
your mother already has the table set. four plates. four bowls of rice. four pairs of chopsticks. but one of them is smaller, with a lesser portion. it’s as if the fourth place exists for you only out of obligation.
you sit in the only empty chair, the one at the end of the table, far from everyone else. you serve the rice and the miso soup, your hands moving with a speed learned through years of practice. dinner passes in the usual silence, save for your mother's questions to kenji about his day at school and your father's stories about his coworkers. no one cares about yours. no one asks.
suddenly, your father sets his chopsticks down on the plate with a sharp click. everyone goes silent.
he looks directly at you, and his eyes, which usually pass through you as if you were transparent, are fixed on your face.
"i brought the mail in today," his voice says, low and heavy. "your grades came."
your heart stops beating. you knew. you had seen the envelope with the school seal on the entryway table, but you hadn't had the courage to open it. you knew they weren't good. how could they be? you spend your nights doing laundry, cleaning, serving. you study in stolen fragments of time –on the bus to school, during breaks when you’re not running errands for your brother, late at night when sleep finally overtakes you.
"well?" your mother asks, without looking at you.
your father pulls a folded paper from his pocket and spreads it out on the table. he doesn't read it; he simply leaves it there, like proof of your failure.
"a 4 in math. a 5 in science. what’s the point of you going to school if you can’t even pass the most important subjects?"
"i’ve been studying, father." you manage to say, your voice a trembling whisper. "it’s just that i don’t have time, with everything i–"
"time?" he mocks. "your brother has time to practice with the baseball club and still gets good grades. your sister has time for her piano lessons and is the best in her class. we scrape the coins from our pockets to give you all the best, and they do value the sacrifices. time is not the problem. the problem is you."
the words hit you like physical punches. they have invested the minimum in you while burdening you with the maximum, and yet, you are the one who doesn't know how to manage.
"we’ve already spent enough on you with middle school." your father continues, and now his voice grows colder, sharper. "high school is expensive. good prep schools for university are a luxury. and for what, if you’re only going to fail?"
your mother agrees in silence, cutting a piece of fish and placing it on kenji’s plate.
"your mother and i have been talking." your father keeps through, and every word is a nail pinning you to the floor. "it’s time you start truly contributing to this family. you will leave school after you finish this year. we will find a full-time job for you. some office work, perhaps. or in a factory. something that doesn't require a brain that is useless for studying."
the world stops. the hum of the air conditioner, the murmur of the television, the crunch of sekai chewing with her mouth open... it all fades away. only their cruel decision remains, echoing in your skull.
the dream of the white coat shatters. the stethoscope breaks into a thousand pieces. university, the career, the life you imagined –the only engine that kept you going, it all burns and turns to ashes from which no phoenix will rise, because you're not one. you’re not a person with a future. you’re a resource that has been exhausted. you’re an unnecessary expense. you’re a disappointment.
perhaps your father is right. you didn't try hard enough. you didn't memorize the periodic table or the anatomy of plants right. and those were such simple things at such a basic level; if you couldn't make simple associations, how would you ever treat patients, knowing for certain you would cause them some kind of harm?
you look up and see kenji cutting his meat, pretending he isn't noticing the drama. you see sekai toying with her miso broth, oblivious to the meaning of the sentence they’ve handed down to you. you see your mother looking at her plate, a silent accomplice. no one intervenes. no one is on your team. no one ever was.
"understood." you say. no tears. not yet. just a cold, enormous void where your hope used to be.
you finish dinner in silence. you do the dishes, as always. you clean the kitchen, as always. you prepare the bath for your father and brother, as always. every movement is mechanical, automatic, because it’s the only information your brain has successfully processed and learned.
you go up to your room, located right near the attic; it’s the smallest space in the house, a forgotten corner where the summer heat pools and the winter cold seeps in without mercy. there is only one small window that looks out onto the neighbor’s roof, and through it comes nothing but a faint orange glow from the streetlights. your bed is a narrow futon on worn tatami mats. next to it is a small metal shelf with your few textbooks, all of them with dog-eared corners and frayed covers. and under the bed, in a shoebox, lies your treasure: the borrowed anatomy book, with its full-color illustrations of muscles and bones –a map of a body you will never actually get to observe.
you close the door with a soft click. there is no lock, but it’s the only act of privacy you can afford. you sit on the edge of the futon, and for a few minutes, you just stay there, staring fixedly at the wood grain of the door. your body is still, but inside there is a storm of panic and despair.
your father killed you. he didn't kill your body, but he killed the person you could have become. all that silent struggle, all those sleepless nights, all those moments where you endured hunger because there wasn't enough food for you after serving the others... it has all been in vain.
the pain starts in your chest, becoming a physical weight that makes it difficult to breathe. it’s a beast inside you, a creature made of years of neglect, of silent insults, and the certainty that you were never enough. the beast writhes, claws, searches for a way out, but there is none. screaming would do no good; it would only bring more trouble. you can’t cry either, though you try with all your might to find some release. you spring up, driven by a feverish, desperate energy. washing your face will help, or so you think, but your hands are already searching for the bottle of pills your mother took for sleep –or something, anything to distract you from the helplessness you feel in this moment.
you open the sink drawer. inside, next to old toothbrushes and nearly empty tubes of cream, is your father’s old shaving box –the one he left there because it took up space in his room, and yours is a perfect storage closet. you open it with clumsy fingers. the metal blades gleam under the fluorescent light, sharp and promising. you don't think twice.
on impulse, you sit on the toilet lid with the box in your lap and take out one of the small, almost insignificant blades. you hold it between your thumb and forefinger, watching how the light reflects off its edge. it looks as peaceful as the sunrise projecting onto the sea's surface, the way waves welcome the glints of light.
you roll up the left sleeve of your school uniform –the one you haven't been able to take off because you haven't had a single breath even to go to the bathroom. the skin of your wrist is pale and smooth; the veins are a very pretty aquamarine color –attractive, seductive. you don't think. you simply act.
you press the cold edge of the metal against your skin. there is a brief sting, a puncture that is almost trivial. then, you slide the blade horizontally.
the pain is sharp and immediate. it’s a clean cut, not very deep, but deep enough. for an instant, the dull, constant ache of loneliness and hopelessness doesn't exist, only the pain of your skin breaking, just like everything inside you that is already broken. a drop of blood forms, bright and dark. it grows, gets heavy, and then begins to trickle slowly downward, tracing a warm, wet path along your forearm.
you watch it, fascinated. it’s the first honest thing that has happened to you all day. the first proof that you feel, that you are not invisible, that you are alive –because you bleed. it’s a hypnotic red that releases adrenaline and dopamine you’d never experienced before.
it hurts, of course, but it also leaves a sensation of strange calm. for this pain, you can use a cold compress with antiseptic to make it better; the other pain, however, hides like a coward and worsens every time you open your eyes. you have power over this pain, not over the other. you have found a way to control it, to give it a face and a place.
you wipe the blade with a piece of toilet paper and put it back in its box. as you pull your sleeve down, you wonder if it was the right place to do it and if you’ve had your tetanus shot, because you know this first cut won't be the last –not when it’s the only comfort you can provide for yourself.
-
three years have passed.
you are eighteen years old and you work at a cannery on the outskirts of the city. the work is repetitive, exhausting, and loud. you spend nine hours a day on your feet, on an assembly line, placing metal lids onto tuna cans that pass by on an endless belt.
the money from your paycheck goes directly into an account your mother manages. they give you a small weekly allowance for transportation, and nothing more. you live in the same house, in the same room.
your future is the weather report, your present is the implacable assembly line, and your past is a 4 in a biology exam.
the cuts are not daily, though they are frequent. you have learned to be discreet; one hot day when you wore a short-sleeved shirt, your mother saw them while you were serving tea. her reaction was not one of worry, but of irritation.
"and what’s that stupidity?" she asked with a grimace of disgust, gesturing toward the maroon line with her chin. "be careful. if you get an infection or cut too deep and die, the funeral will be very expensive. and don't you dare do that to us; we aren't going to shoulder the expenses of a daughter who died because she was clumsy."
your father, from behind his newspaper, added without looking up: "just one more burden, as if we didn't have enough."
that was how you learned the cuts had to migrate. now they hide in the soft skin of your upper thighs –a territory no one’s allowed to see. there, you can be more generous with yourself.
the lines are longer, sometimes so deep that fatty tissue surfaces and must be hidden beneath the fabric of your work uniforms and pajama pants. it’s a ritual you perform in the bathroom with the door closed, using a disposable razor blade stolen from your father’s pack or a pencil sharpener you disassemble with a patience you don't actually have –but it’s worth it when your skin opens and you feel the outside world fade away.
but sometimes, the blade isn't enough. sometimes, panic or rage strikes you in the middle of a work shift, or during a silent and oppressive family dinner, and you need immediate, more subtle relief. that was how you discovered the magic of friction.
at the factory, you use a pencil eraser. you rub it hard against the back of your hand, over and over, until the skin reddens, then blisters, and finally opens into a small, round burn. it is a sharper pain because the action takes its time; it isn't instantaneous. and when they ask, you have the perfect answer: "i burned myself in the kitchen, with a pan." no one doubts you. why would they? you’re the cook and the cleaner. it’s a believable excuse.
other times, you need a more blunt pain. when rage boils in your chest –a black, thick rage against your circumstances, against your life, against yourself–, you seek impact. you let the heavy wooden drawer where you keep your clothes slip from your hands and fall onto your bare feet. the sharp pain that shoots through your metatarsal bones is a shock that jars you and pulls you back to the present. or, if you’re feeling particularly brave, you jump from the tatami and land on your knees on the hard floor. the dull thud and the pain radiating through your legs, leaving you writhing on the ground, is a punishment you deserve –a way to discharge the destructive energy that threatens to consume you from within.
on the very bad days, when the anger is a beast that cannot be contained with cuts or burns, you attack yourself directly. you bite your arms, leaving a row of purple tooth marks on your forearm –a desperate bite into your own flesh. or you strike your head with your fists, against the wall, over and over, until the weight in your chest has subsided, your vision has brightened, and the energy has drained completely, leaving you empty and trembling on the futon. it’s the only way to calm the storm.
one saturday afternoon, you come out of the shower –with a fresh cut at ankle level–, wrapped in a fraying towel. the door bursts open without a warning knock, and sekai, now eleven, appears holding up her new doll to show it off, but she stops dead when she sees you. her gaze travels over your body. of course, the bruises from the blows on your arms are visible –a collage of purple and yellowish moles in various stages of healing. a recent eraser burn gleams on the back of your hand, red and sensitive.
"onee-chan, what’s wrong with you?" she asks, her voice a mixture of worry and sadness. "you’re hurt."
you look away, blushing slightly. is it from shame, or because the desire for someone –anyone– to see your pain has finally been fulfilled? the expression vanishes before it can take shape. instead, you find yourself reciting a line you’ve rehearsed in your head –a poetic, nonsensical justification.
"no, princess. do you remember that paintings are made on a canvas?" you extend your hand so she can take it, and she does, hesitantly. "my body is a canvas, and i’m just trying to paint it."
sekai frowns, confused. she doesn't understand what is pretty about that, but she quickly plants little kisses on the visible wounds and her small arms wrap around your neck, without letting go of her most prized possession.
"you’re the prettiest, even with those things." she says, her voice high and sweet. "if you get hurt, i’m right here to heal you."
you stay there, motionless, returning the embrace with a single hand. her words hurt you more than what you are already feeling. because in her eyes, there isn't a single flaw, but you know well that your art is trash. your body is trash. you are trash. the canvas is stained, the paint is ugly, and the artist is useless.
-
"security guard. requirements: 18 years old, high school diploma." you read it one day on an advertisement in a crowded train on the oedo line. it was the lowest possible bar, the minimum requirement society demanded of you –a constant reminder that your value was that of a mass that did nothing but occupy space: expendable and replaceable.
you submitted your application. the interview was a mere formality, as the contract was immediate. they needed staff urgently, and the fact that you were young and female was no impediment to getting the job. the uniform –a coarse fabric in a blue that pretended to be authoritative– didn't feel like a symbol of justice or authority. it felt like a prison of another kind, a set of rules and expectations that trapped you in a new role of servitude.
after a thirty-hour induction course in a classroom filled with other faces just as desperate as yours, you were assigned your post: access control for cargo and service personnel in an ultra-luxury corporate building in roppongi hills. but they didn't send you to the polished marble lobby or the offices with views of tokyo bay, of course not. they sent you to the basement, behind a gray formica counter, with a rickety office chair and a monitor showing six different angles of concrete and cars.
it was 3:22 in the morning. you were eight hours into your shift, and sleep, naturally, was pulling you down. you had tried everything: mentally reviewing the krebs cycle, each step that once fascinated you in science class; going to the bathroom to splash cold water on your face –the shock lasted barely a minute; drinking coffee from the vending machine, a bitter, chemical liquid that tasted like plastic and conformity. nothing worked.
upon leaving there, at seven in the morning, only your mother's shouts awaited you because the rice wouldn't be ready, along with more mountains of dirty laundry. being here wasn't so bad by comparison. your head drops forward, the monotonous hum of the fluorescent lights creating a lullaby.
clack!
the sound explodes like dynamite in the closed, silent space. a black leather glove strikes the formica surface with force, just centimeters from your face. you jump in your chair, an involuntary spasm of pure fright.
your eyes snap open, disoriented, focusing first on the perfectly stitched gloved hand, then traveling up an arm encased in a black fabric of insulting quality –a textile that absorbs light rather than reflecting it. the fabric, which likely costs five years of your salary, fits a muscular, defined arm. you continue to look up, passing a broad shoulder, until you find a face.
a tall man, with white hair tinged with lilac in the shadows and an undercut. his eyes, behind rectangular polarized sunglasses, peek out flirtatiously with a playful spark; they are a brilliant blue, almost electric, and they look at you with a mix of amusement and something colder, more analytical. a frisky yet cynical smile curves his lips.
"good morning, sleeping beauty." his mocking voice comes out like a silken sigh. "i'm glad to know the building is in such good and vigilant hands."
you remain silent, your heart beating so hard you can feel the pulse in your throat.
"i... i'm sorry, sir. it was only a second, i..." you stammer. your mind, still dulled by sleep, cannot form a coherent sentence.
"a second is all it takes." the man in black interrupts, leaning both hands on the counter, invading your personal space. "in my world, a second of distraction is a life. you’re the first line of defense for this basement, and you're drooling on the desk."
he looks you up and down, lingering on your uniform that is a bit too large, on your hair pulled back in a rush.
"what a disappointment." he continues with cruel frankness. "if you're going to fall asleep on the job, at least have the decency to do it where you won't be in the way. it's unsightly and unprofessional."
he pauses to adjust his leather gloves with a slow, deliberate movement. "clean your face. you have a mark from the chair on your cheek."
he doesn't wait for a response. he straightens up and turns away as if he has already forgotten you. just then, another man –older and in a suit– hastens down the loading ramp, followed by two other bodyguards just as imposing as the first. the white-haired man moves with feline grace, positioning himself between the client and the exit door, his eyes scanning every shadow.
it was a three-second error. your lapse. the moment your attention vanished. and he had seen it all.
as the group disappears through the emergency door toward the armored convoy waiting in the street, he stops at the threshold. he turns back to you one last time. his smile has vanished, and now his blue eyes observe you with an intensity that completely disarms you. there’s no mockery now, only a cold and penetrating evaluation.
"you have a job as simple as guarding a door. do it better." he mutters neutrally. "next time, it might not be me who finds you asleep."
and with that, he vanishes. the metal door closes with a heavy, final thud, leaving you alone again in the silence of the basement.
-
the days turned into a torture of anticipation.
the physical exhaustion remained the same –a dead weight on your bones at the end of each twelve-hour shift–, but now there was a new element of stress.
occasionally, without warning, the white-haired man would appear in your basement. not always with his client. sometimes he came down alone to ‘review security protocols’, but you knew it was to ensure you were contributing and earning the taxes you cost.
his blue eyes would rest on you for moments. they weren't looks of curiosity or interest, but looks that judged you, that dismantled your weary posture, your wrinkled uniform, the dark circles that makeup could no longer hide. each of those looks was a nail, and each reprimand from your superiors –who now seemed to watch you more closely by his order– was the hammer that drove them in. and each time, there was a new scar in your collection of battles.
the canvas of your thighs had become too small, saturated with white lines crossing over the pink scars of the previous week. for that reason, you began to colonize the curve of your hips and the soft, vulnerable skin of your abdomen. that area was thinner, and the slightest movement –laughing at a joke of sekai's, bending over to pick up kenji’s plates, or simply breathing deeply when panic struck– sent an electric tug from the center of your body.
other times, you stole the cigarettes your father left forgotten in the living room ashtray. in the solitude of the bathroom, with the door closed and the extractor fan on to mask the smell, you pressed the incandescent tip against the skin of your lower back. the ravenous heat devoured layers of your skin until it left a red, throbbing crater. the smell of burnt flesh mingled with the kitchen detergent, creating a fragrance that only you could identify as that of your own destruction.
even when you didn't have a tool at hand, your body found a way to sabotage itself. your fingernails, which once dreamed of holding a scalpel with precision, were now just bloody stumps. you bit them with such fury that the raw flesh was exposed, making the simple act of buttoning your security uniform an exercise in pure agony.
and when the rage against your mother or the humiliation from that arrogant bodyguard became a physical knot in your throat, your hands would go to your head by pure instinct. you would wind strands of hair around your fingers and pull with feverish strength, enjoying the crunch of roots detaching from your scalp. every strand torn out was a thought you managed to extract.
one morning, when you finally return home, sweaty and exhausted, the universe decides to pull the puppets' strings to laugh in your face once again. you step into the main elevator, the polished steel one that is normally forbidden to you, but it was empty and you just wanted to get to the street as quickly as possible. just as the doors are closing, a gloved hand stops them, and he –the man who always wears those dark glasses and is irritatingly attractive– steps in.
he stands beside you; the distance between you in the small space is intimate and suffocating. his cologne reeks of an overwhelming economic status that you couldn't possess even in your best dreams, and his freshly glossy shoes look exactly like the kind that could crush you like an ant until you become a speck of dust. he doesn't look at you, of course; he simply stares ahead, but his presence is so overwhelming that the air grows thick.
the elevator begins to ascend. only four floors to reach the ground level, only four torturous floors before you can run out.
and then, with a jolt and a screech, it stops dead. the lights flicker for a moment before lighting up with a dim red emergency glow. silence.
"not now, please." you mutter to yourself.
an electronic voice with some interference crackles from the speaker: "apologies for the inconvenience. we have experienced a mechanical failure. maintenance staff is on the way. we estimate a repair time of approximately two hours."
two hours. two hours trapped in a 1.54 square meter metal box with this man.
panic hits you like a wave. your mind, in its desperation, clings to the immediate consequences. your parents. you'll be two hours late. your mother will scream, your father will look at you with that sickly contempt. breakfast won't be ready. your brother will complain, your sister won't stop asking you questions.
then, your gaze falls upon your feet. you remember some stockings you saw at the mall –charcoal gray, with delicate lace at the top that made you feel, for an instant, like a normal person, like someone who could have beautiful things. but you can't actually buy them, because the value of your time isn't yours, but belongs to the family you didn't choose to be part of. you don't see a single cent of your money. and now, because of this delay, your mother will demand that you request an extra bonus, and the shame will be unbearable.
anxiety climbs up your trachea like acid. you begin to sweat –a cold sweat that soaks your back under the uniform jacket. your hands become clammy. you need a way out. you need to feel something else, something you can control.
without realizing it, you start to scratch. you scratch your arm through the fabric of the jacket, over and over, with short, damaged nails that haven't grown a millimeter since the last time you bit them. there’s no relief. you tear at yourself harder, with more desperation, jaw tense, eyes fixed on the closed metal doors.
"you should take off the jacket." he mumbles, limiting himself to looking sideways at your circus act, unimpressed.
you startle. you’d forgotten for a moment that you had company. he is sitting on the floor, legs crossed, completely unconcerned, as if he were in a park instead of a broken elevator.
"no, thanks. it's not hot." you lie, the tension palpable in the very tone of your voice.
"i didn't tell you because of the heat," he says, and his gaze shifts from your face to your arm, which you are still scratching fiercely. "you're sweating and you're hurting yourself. it's obvious you're nervous. are you claustrophobic?"
the direct comment demobilizes you. you lower your hand immediately, as if you’d been caught stealing. you feel the blood rush to your cheeks, a mix of guilt and rage.
"i'm fine."
"you're not. you're about to have a panic attack, and the jacket isn't helping. take it off." his tone isn't a suggestion. it's an order, said with the same calmness with which one would thank a waiter for bringing an order to the table. there’s an authority in his voice you cannot defy –one you recognize from all your bosses, but multiplied by a thousand. and it is worse in the same proportion.
"i don't want to." you repeat, weaker this time.
he sighs, a sound of bored exasperation. he stands up with impossible fluidity, and suddenly he is far too close. he pins you against the elevator wall. he doesn't touch you, but his body creates a barrier you cannot cross. his blue eyes look down at you, and all the amusement has vanished, replaced by a frigid impatience.
"i don't like repeating myself." he raises an eyebrow, jokes aside. "either you take off the jacket voluntarily, or i'll take it off for you. and i don't think you want me to touch you. so choose. now."
who is this clown to force you? fear paralyzes you because of the certainty that he is capable of doing what he says, and no one would stop him. your resistance crumbles. with trembling hands, you begin to pull the zipper down, and time stretches to infinity.
finally, you manage to open it. you slide the jacket off your shoulders and let it fall to your waist, where you tie it clumsily, as if it were a life jacket keeping you afloat. you’d forgotten to wear a long-sleeved shirt, so you stand there in short sleeves. the cool air of the elevator hits your arms without the shield of the polyester.
his eyes shift to your arms, inevitably. there is no leniency in his gaze, but no judgment either. he sees the circular burns on the backs of your hands; he notices the destroyed nails and the purple, half-healed bite marks on your forearms. he sees the fresh red scratches you just gave yourself. he says nothing at first.
he is so accustomed to the perfection of expensive suits and efficiency that standing before a body treated like a waste container seems alien to him. why would someone go through life with that kind of mutilation? he could never understand it.
in silence, he takes two steps back and sits on the floor again.
"so this is what you do when you're not asleep?" he snorts ironically, analyzing the deactivated elevator buttons. "creepy. is it some kind of punishment? because there are people who channel their frustration better, and i hate to tell you this, but many have problems far more serious than yours."
the silence that follows his words is sepulchral. your hands tremble with a violence you cannot hide. you try to untie the jacket to cover yourself again, but your numb fingers fail to hook into the fabric. you huddle in the opposite corner, pressing your back against the cold mirror, desperately avoiding his glare. the humiliation of being accused by the man who represents everything you could never be –perfection, power, freedom– was the deepest invisible cut of all.
-
an hour passes.
the intercom only emits occasional static. the fluorescent light flickers for a few seconds, casting long shadows over the mess of marks on your arms.
"i'm sorry." he says out of nowhere, mortified by guilt. "i shouldn't have blurted out such stupidity."
he seems annoyed, scratching the back of his neck, though he sounds sincere.
"i've always believed weak people have the choice not to be, and they don't take it. that's why i despise them." he pauses, sighing heavily. "i suppose that wasn't right."
what kind of apology is that? you don't feel moved, but you nod with that empathy you feel for everyone but yourself, sliding against the metal and letting yourself fall into the corner, hugging your knees.
"did someone do that to you, or was it you?" he asks, with a somber expression.
"it's none of your business." you respond sharply, looking at him with distrust.
he shrugs. "we've got a long time. might as well kill time somehow."
he has a good point. the most surprising thing about the situation is that it's the first time you've had a small moment to let your mind go blank and do nothing. it's in this moment that you discover you haven't been granted a single minute of your adolescence to enjoy, to have hobbies, to simply idle.
then, sentimentality takes hold of you, and before you can cover your mouth, you are vomiting everything that has burdened you for more than half a decade.
"it's not that i wanted to be a guard," you begin, feeling chills as your own confession bounces off the walls. "i wanted to be a doctor. or a veterinarian. i liked the smell of antiseptic because it meant something was healing. do you think someone with better opportunities would choose such a grueling and low-paying job? just as you despise the weak, i despise the ignorant who speak from their privilege."
you let out a dry laugh that sounds more like a choked sob.
"my grades started dropping in middle school, not because i was stupid, but because i couldn't read about reproduction and algebra if i had to scrub the floor until two in the morning. if they saw me with a book, my mother would throw it away. she said studying was for people with money, that i was just another mouth to feed and my only function was to be useful. to be a tool. but they never said the same to my brothers."
you squeeze your knees, trying to shrink even more, feeling the tug of the cuts on your hip.
"i never had toys, let alone a cell phone. kenji has his console, sekai has her doll castles... and i have this uniform that itches my skin and digestive problems from stress. i work twelve hours here, and when i leave, i work another six at home without rest. and money..." you bite your lip until the metallic taste of blood floods your mouth. "i don't see a single yen. it all goes to my mother's account. the other day i saw some gray stockings, so beautiful for winter... and i started crying in the middle of the street like a dumbass because i realized that even if i work until i die, i'll never be able to buy even a thread on my own."
he doesn't interrupt. his silence feels like a permission granted to continue emptying yourself.
"that's why i do it," you say, gesturing vaguely toward the mess of your arms and abdomen. "because everything in my life belongs to someone else. my time, my money, my future... it's all theirs. but the pain... the pain is only mine. no one can take it from me. when i cut myself, or when i burn myself, it's the only moment when i decide what happens to me. besides, i counteract the emotional pain with the physical. if i didn't, i don't think i could tolerate it. and i'm not allowed to kill myself either because it would be a waste of money. though if i did, they wouldn't bother burying me; they'd abandon me in a pit where other unclaimed bodies lie."
you finish the sentence and the silence falls again, blacker than before. you feel naked after handing your misery over on a silver platter to the man who an hour ago made you feel pathetic. you expect him to mock you, to tell you it's a weak excuse, but you only hear his ragged breathing in the dimness of the elevator.
he stays staring at you, and for the first time in his life, he doesn't know what to say. your wings had been clipped before you learned to fly, and now, you only used the bruised feathers to have a bit of control over your own fall.
"if it's hell... why do you stay?" he asks, stripped of sarcasm. "you're eighteen. you have a job. you could rent a room anywhere on the periphery, disappear from their radar. why let them continue draining you until there's nothing left of you?"
you shake your head with a sad smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "if i leave... who will take care of sekai? if i leave, she'll be the next one who has to scrub the floor and leave school." the mere thought makes your stomach churn. "and they're my family, the only thing i know. and i love them. if they don't accept me, why would anyone else?"
he snorts and runs a hand through his white hair, messing it up for the first time. "that's what i don't understand." he says, staring at you. "love isn't a debt you're born owing. love is earned, built, deserved. it's not given by default just because you share a surname, blood, or a roof. what you call love sounds more like a contract of slavery you never signed."
he looks at the elevator ceiling, as if his own past were being projected like a movie there.
"i was trained to be a machine since i could remember." he declares, removing his glasses as if they were the bulletproof glass shielding him. "there were no fairy tales in my childhood, only combat manuals and survival tactics. i was military because that's what was expected of someone strong. they trampled on me, used me like a chess piece in kings’ wars that weren't mine, and demanded i give my life for people who didn't even know my name."
he looks at his gloved hands, clenching his fists.
"and you know what i did? i got tired of being someone else's dog. i quit and became a private guard because here the money is more for less effort and loyalty is a business, not a sentimental obligation. i got up every damn time they knocked me down, but i did it for myself, not for them."
he finally stands up, shaking out his legs that remained cramped for so long.
"at the end of the road, when you die, you're not going to take your parents' thanks with you, nor the sacrifice you made for your sister. you're going to go alone. and the only thing you'll have left is the gratification, or the regret, of having made the best decisions for yourself. i decided not to be a victim. i decided no one else was going to decide when i eat, when i sleep, or how much i'm worth. if i live for others, i die before my time. you're already dead inside, and the worst part is you do it for 'love', but you're confusing it with morality, because love will never leave you like this: resigned and stagnant."
the metallic sound of the mechanism forcing itself open breaks the spell they were submerged in. the light from the hallway, much brighter and warmer than the artificial light of the silver box, floods the cubicle, forcing you to squint. outside, there is a small committee: sweaty maintenance technicians and an administrative representative of the building, falling over themselves with apologies and bows.
"we are so terribly sorry! a fault in the voltage regulator... please, accept this as a small compensation for the inconvenience and lost time." says the man in the suit, extending two envelopes with the complex's golden logo.
it's a modest reward, but for you, those bills represent hours of sleep you won't have to sacrifice this week. however, panic hits you before gratitude: your battered skin is exposed for everyone to see, and it won't be long before they make gestures of disgust.
before you can react, you feel a firm, warm weight on your shoulders. the guy with whom you shared secrets wraps his own jacket around you with a speed your eyes can barely follow. without saying a word, he places it over you, covering the map of your misery with the navy blue fabric. his hands linger an extra second on your shoulders, making sure the lapels hide your forearms well before the technicians get too close.
"she feels a little dizzy from the confinement," he announces, his voice regaining that cold, professional baritone tone. "give her space."
he takes his envelope with indifference and tucks it into his thousand-dollar trousers pocket. then, he looks at you one last time. there is no trace of the vulnerability of a few minutes ago; he has put his own armor of perfection back on.
"do yourself a favor." he whispers, so low only you can hear as he walks toward the exit. "use that money for yourself. not for food, not for your brother. for something that is yours alone."
he stops for a moment, his back to you, adjusting his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and strides down the hallway with a firm step, leaving behind the coolness of his breath and the brutality of his truths.
you stay there, clutching the jacket against your chest, feeling the envelope in your hand and the stinging of your wounds beneath the fabric, wondering if you’ll ever have the courage to be as ‘selfish’ as he is.
-
you locked yourself in the tiny laundry room with the borrowed jacket, which had an elegant "gojo satoru" embroidered on it. everyone is asleep. you use the most expensive detergent, the one your mother only allows for the 'guest' sheets, and you rubbed the fabric with a delicacy you had never applied to your own skin. as it dries, gojo's fragrance invades the space, a tactile reminder that someone had asked about you for the first time in your life.
you kept it hidden in a plastic bag under your futon, protecting it from the vultures in your family who, had they seen it, would have tried to sell it or claim it as their own.
you've gone five days without drawing on your skin. it's the peak of the calm, that moment where the scars are closed but the mind starts to itch again. your nails have grown barely a millimeter, enough for the edge to feel sharp against your fingertips.
gojo has kept his word. now he doesn't just stop by to supervise that the s4 motion sensors are working; he stops by to scan you.
"you're still in one piece." he says one early morning, leaning on the counter with that characteristic arrogance. "five days is a personal record, i suppose."
he doesn't congratulate you. for gojo, being okay is the norm, not an achievement worthy of applause. but his way of encouraging you is practical, almost robotic, as if he were giving maintenance to a vending machine he wants to see working.
little by little, the security counter fills with strange, unnecessary luxuries. first, it was a purple silicone stress ball that you squeezed until your knuckles turned white, substituting the need to grip a box cutter. then, a professional rubik's cube, the kind that turns with a satisfying click.
"use it," he ordered you. "your hands need to be busy. if you manage to solve one side, maybe you'll stop looking like a psychiatric patient for five minutes."
he even brought you bubble wrap. the sound of the pops under your fingers was so pleasant that it calmed the noise of your mother's screams still echoing in your ears.
another early morning, the old radio from the warehouse was tuned to a station barely audible through the static. you were humming dino's the real thing, almost without realizing it, as much as your ability allowed you to follow a rap track.
gojo appeared out of nowhere, as always. he didn't say anything at that moment.
tonight, he leaves something on the counter, indifferent. it's a dino from seventeen keychain. by pressing a small button, it lights up with a crisp, white led light that changes color depending on how many times you press it.
"here." he speaks, lowering his glasses a centimeter. "by the way, your radio sounds like a rooster that forgot how to crow, and your voice isn't much better."
you look at the keychain and feel your own eyes lighting up. it's a gift from someone you barely know but who has learned to read you. a gift no one’s going to take from you, an object you don't have to share with kenji or hide from sekai.
tears ruin your mascara, and gojo observes you for a second longer than necessary. his expression doesn't soften, but a sly smile betrays his stone mask.
"don't lose it. and don't cry. it's so you can light the way when you decide to get out of here."
he walks away, leaving you alone with the small light of dino blinking in the palm of your hand.
-
"where did you get this?" your mother holds up the envelope you’d hidden under the mattress. the venom in her tone is as familiar as the smell of acrylic on her hands. "a second-rate security guard doesn't receive 'tips' of this size for watching a door."
"it was a thank you. the elevator stopped and..." you try to explain, taking a step forward with your hand extended, your heart thrashing like an earthworm sprinkled with salt.
"reward?" she lets out an incredulous laugh that makes you feel dirty. "don't lie. we know what kind of men pass through that building. what did you have to sell for them to give you this envelope? what part of yourself did you give them to be so selfish and hide money from the family that supports you? you are ungrateful and a leech."
that’s the straw that broke the camel's back. how dare she throw such an accusation at you, especially when you’d broken your back trying to please them? you lunge to try and snatch the envelope from her, but before your fingers could brush the paper, your father's heavy hand falls on your shoulder, pinning you in place.
"enough," he decrees, angry. "your mother is right. if you have this extra money, it's the least you owe us for all the mediocre grades and the expense you represent. this envelope stays in the house to pay for kenji's tutoring and the month's debts."
"it's mine!" you yell, tears of helplessness burning in your eyes. "i was the one locked in! i was the one working the shift! all i do is work for these pittances!"
"and for that arrogant tone, you're not going to sleep until this house is a mirror." he adds, pushing you roughly toward the kitchen. "there's a sack of azuki beans in the pantry that got mixed with pebbles. you're going to separate them one by one. and after that, you’ll clean every single window, inside and out. i don't wanna see a single smudge of your existence on that glass tomorrow morning."
the sound of your brother's television seems to mock your bad luck from the other room. you sit in front of the wooden bowl, with the red beans scattered about. your hands, the ones gojo had tried to keep busy with rubik's cubes and bubble wrap to distract you from your unhappiness, were now empty and desperate for an escape.
the peak of calm is over.
this time, rage is so potent that doesn't fit into one linear cut, or two, or a burn. you walk toward the small hallway, where the only mirror that belongs to you hangs –a cheap object with a splintered frame that you had bought with middle school savings.
upon noticing your reflection, you saw the weakness that gojo despised; the existence that you yourself despised.
you throw the first punch with a closed fist, and the frame shakes gracefully, smudging the glass with the oils from your skin. the second is brutal, your knuckles immediately turning scarlet. the third is lethal; a third of it shatters, distorting your own image, and you strike again, and again, and again, until the mirror is reduced to a spiderweb of disproportionate shards.
blood bursts and begins to spill, staining the wooden floor you would have to clean later. you look at your hands, some glass shards resting comfortably embedded in the skin; the knuckles are split open, throbbing and unrecognizable, but a sense of calm washes over you immediately, regulating your heavy breathing. you feel better, but your body has been wounded for so long that you don't remember it without marks. you don't remember it healthy. and that makes you feel worse.
-
the 4:00 a.m. shift in the s4 basement feels more freezing than usual.
you’re wearing white cotton gloves, the cheap kind sold in convenience stores for gardening work. under the fabric, your knuckles are a mass of scabs you can't stop picking at and raw flesh that sticks to the fibers every time you make a move. the smell of bleach lingers on your skin, after having cleaned every window of your parents' house until dawn. it was so strong it made you dizzy, and to top it off, you haven't slept a wink.
gojo appears with his classic elegance. there is no sound of footsteps; he seems to float around the perimeter. he stops in front of the counter as usual, and his uncovered blue eyes immediately fix on your covered hands.
there are no questions. there is no gasp of surprise or gesture of pity. gojo is not the kind of man who kisses your wounds and makes you promise you'll stop; he’s the kind of man who demands that you get up, even if you have no strength, or if you have to do it in an ocean of broken glass.
"cotton is a terrible choice for open wounds." he exhales in disapproval. "it's gonna stick when you try to take them off, and you'll have to rip your skin off all over again."
you don't respond. with him, you can afford the luxury of doing so.
"i have two pieces of news for you." he pursues, leaning an elbow on the counter, no compassion whatsoever. "the first is i have a friend. her name is shoko. she's halfway through med school and she is... peculiar, but efficient."
he pauses, letting the word 'med' float in the basement air for you to digest.
"shoko is looking for a roommate in a small apartment near the faculty. it's not a palace, but there’s no screaming, there are no children or vultures, just cigarette butts. besides, she gets bored easily, so she's willing to tutor you so you can pass the university entrance exam. we'll see if you really have the mettle to be a doctor or if you're only good with your own blood."
you feel a sudden dizziness, an acidic nausea that has nothing to do with hunger. for a second, you visualize yourself in that place where you should already be, and a paralyzing terror arises. your mind, trained by your parents to find the flaw in every light, immediately starts sabotaging you.
you think of sekai being left alone with the kitchen rag, of your father's fury, of the possibility of failing the exam and confirming that, indeed, you’re the idiot they said you were. but beneath that fear, there is a small flutter in your stomach. gojo isn't offering you charity, but a weapon.
"the second," he leans in a little more, his shadow completely towering you. "i have an idea and i need you to trust me. i'm going to introduce you to a different way for you to feel that balance on your skin without the kind of scars you have to hide under a polyester uniform."
he straightens up, adjusting his wristwatch with a metallic click that sounded final in the silence of the basement.
-
gojo pushes the heavy door open and gestures for you to enter.
the walls are covered in flashes –framed designs of dragons, lotus flowers, koi, and oni demons. the lighting is low and warm, creating an intimate, clandestine atmosphere. in the back, sitting in a black leather chair under a cool light lamp, is a man. he’s tall and slender, with long black hair tied in a low bun. he looks up from a sketchbook. his eyes are slanted, calm, and convey a peace that makes you feel you aren't being judged.
"suguru, i brought you the patient shoko told you about." gojo says, taking off his glasses and leaving them on a glass table with plastic bone legs.
this suguru dude stands up with an elegant unhurriedness. he approaches you and, without asking permission but with extreme gentleness, takes your gloved hand. he doesn't squash it, he simply feels the weight and the heat of the inflammation under the cotton.
"satoru says you have a temple you want to redesign. what identity do you wanna give it?"
the aforementioned man is standing, leaning casually against the wall near the door, with his hands in his pockets. he hasn't said a word since bringing you here; he literally pushed you from the roppongi hills building into a taxi and then to this shop. you didn't complain either.
"i don't have money for a tattoo." you stutter, turning red.
gojo laughs, rolling his eyes. "don't worry about that. it's on me. choose whatever you want."
what story do you want to tell? you don't know for certain, but being the author seems absurd, distant, and challenging to you.
the tattoo artist pulls a folder from under the counter and places it in front of you. it's full of drawings; they’re more personal, more artistic sketches. there are complex geometric patterns, delicate flowers with petals sharp as blades, animals that look ready to jump off the page.
"you don't have to choose right now." he reassures you. "look. think. if something catches your eye, if something makes you feel... something, tell me. we can modify it, make it yours."
your hand trembles as you reach your fingers toward the folder and touch the edge of the paper. it’s rough and textured.
for an instant, you imagine the machine's needle, the buzzing, the sharp pain piercing through you. but this time, it wouldn't be an act of desperation in a dark basement. it would be here, under the warm light, with the guidance of this calm man and under the inquisitive gaze of the person who truly saw you.
you look up and meet his eyes now, waiting for some kind of approval that you well know you don't need, but that you seek. he doesn't smile; he simply nods, almost imperceptibly, and it's all the encouragement that makes you take the leap into the void.
you open the folder and start turning the pages. on the sixth, you find an anchor, but it's not the anchor that catches your attention, but what is around it.
"this one!" you announce, to your own surprise, very excited.
-
"a broken rope with quotation marks above it." gojo murmurs, breaking the ice with a tone close to respect. "poetic and pretentious, so you."
you both admire the drawing on your left wrist, which now covers the first cut you ever made.
"in my mind, words no longer have a place to tie themselves." you reply, watching your steps on the pavement. "and the next one will be the half-face of the girl submerged in the water oval. sinking and floating at the same time. because that's how i've always felt, fighting to reach the shore."
he lets out a soft laugh, projecting the idea onto the starry sky. "floating is the first step to learning how to swim. suguru will be delighted to sink the needle into that concept."
you reach the main avenue, and he raises his hand with a lazy grace. a taxi pulls over with screeching tires, and gojo opens the door for you, waiting for you to slide onto the synthetic leather seat. he sits next to you, keeping his distance but leaving his hand in the space between you in case you need something to hold on to.
"where to, cinderella?" he asks, looking at the driver through the rearview mirror. "back to the basement or the vulture's nest?"
you take a breath, feeling the stretch of the tattooed skin. for a second, the image of sekai sleeping in that gloomy house smashes your heart. you think about the azuki beans, the clean windows, the stolen envelope of money, and the broken mirror. but then you remember the touch of the needle and gojo's voice telling you that love doesn't come by default.
"take me to shoko’s." you ask timidly, and yet, some kind of firmness slips through. "i'm not going back home. not tonight, not ever again."
he raises an eyebrow, but his lips lift into a genuine smile, one that lights up his blue eyes more than any streetlight in the city.
"final decision?" he asks, needing to be sure you won't regret it.
"final." you confirm, even though a treacherous tear slides down your cheek. "i’ll take care of sekai from afar. i'll send her money to an account only she can touch, and i'll help her manage it. if i stay there to save her, we'll both end up suffocating. from now on, i'm gonna focus on myself so i can do something for the people i love."
the taxi driver, sensing the tension, turns on the radio at a low volume. then, gojo dictates his friend's address, and finally, the vehicle sets off toward your destination.
"well," he sighs proudly. "it seems you've finally made the first real decision for your own well-being. and that, believe me, deserves something special."
as the taxi merges into the nighttime traffic, gojo reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a slender silk box wrapped in a silver ribbon. he hands it to you.
"what’s this?" you ask, confused.
"open it."
your hands tremble slightly as you untie the ribbon. it’s been a lot of emotions for a single night.
you lift the lid, and inside, resting on a velvet bed, are them. the stockings. the charcoal gray stockings with the delicate lace at the top you saw in the window display that morning. the ones you couldn't buy because your money wasn't yours. you stare at them, unable to believe it. how... how could he remember?
"you mentioned them in the elevator, and i went to buy them after they handed us the envelope." he remarks, as if reading your mind. "i knew something would happen, and i had to secure them for you."
you look up from the stockings and look at him. everything –the noise and the out-of-focus city lights, the unintelligible radio, the insistent honking of horns, the taxi driver's coughs– fades away. all that remains is the weight of the box in your hands and the grin on his beautiful face. it’s enough to remind you that, once you have hit rock bottom, the only way left is up.
and as you wonder what the next thing you should say or do to thank him, your mother wonders why the dishes are still dirty in the sink.
you like gojo, the best friend of your childhood friend, geto.
warning: pica, selective mutism.
late september afternoon light filtered through the ginkgo trees in the schoolyard, casting fractured gold across the concrete. the air carried particles of chalk and overripe persimmons from the tree that leaned over the eastern fence. you were pressed into the corner where the library wall met the equipment shed, your cotton uniform skirt bunched against your knees, your red loafers scuffing faint patterns into the dirt.
from here, you could see the others –shrieking clusters of second-graders playing oni-tag, the boys kicking a soccer ball that sent up puffs of ochre dust each time it struck the packed earth.
you were counting ants marching across the crack in the pavement when a little shadow fell over you.
"are you alone?"
the voice was soft, curious, without malice. you didn't look up. you'd learned that if you stayed still enough, if you breathed shallowly, they would lose interest and wander away.
but this shadow didn't shift. instead, it settled –fabric rustling, the scuff of knees against gravel– and suddenly there was a boy sitting beside you, his black hair catching the sunlight in a way that made it look blue at the edges. he wore the same navy uniform as the others, but his collar was crooked, and there was a grass stain on his elbow. his eyes were heavy-lidded, ancient-looking for a seven-year-old's face, studying you with an intensity that didn't match the gentle slope of his shoulders.
"i'm geto suguru." he said. "you're in class 2-b, right? i see you through the window during lunch."
you said nothing, but your fingers tightened around your knees.
"everyone's playing." he continued, tilting his head. the motion made his hair swing, glossy and straight. "don't you like running? my legs get tired too. but the teacher says we have to move our bodies or we'll get sick."
an incalificable silence stretched between you, thick as honey. you could smell a hint of soap and the school fountain water, and underneath that, the faint green scent of the leaves he'd probably been climbing during the last break.
"you don't have to talk," he said finally, and his voice was so quiet it almost disappeared into the breeze rustling the leaves overhead. "i can just sit here. is that okay?"
you didn't nod, but you didn't pull away when his shoulder brushed yours, light as a moth's wing.
-
the next day, he found you in the same corner.
you'd been watching the clouds migrate across the narrow strip of sky visible between the buildings, cataloging their shapes –whale, ship, a hand with too many fingers– when you heard the plastic scrape of something being dragged across concrete.
geto suguru was pulling a yellow plastic sandbox behind him, the kind with a red lid and wheels that squeaked. it bumped over the cracks in the pavement, leaving faint tracks in the dust. he stopped when he reached your corner, positioned the box between you like an offering, and sat down cross-legged on the warm ground.
"i brought this." he said, as if explaining something obvious. he lifted the lid. inside, the sand was unspoiled, honey-colored, glinting with flecks of mica that caught the noon light like trapped stars. "it's from my house. my sister and i used to play with it, but she's in middle school now. she says it's babyish."
he plunged his hands into the sand. the grains sifted between his fingers, making a sound like rainfall. you watched, mesmerized by the way the light played across his knuckles, the way the sand coated his skin in a fine golden dust.
"sand is interesting," he said, his voice dropping to a contemplative murmur. "it's just rocks, but tiny. millions of years of being worn down by water until they're soft." he cupped his hands, brought them to his face, and inhaled. "it smells like the beach. even though we're inland."
then, without ceremony, he opened his mouth and poured the sand in.
you watched in horror as he swallowed it, his throat making that atrocious movement, like when someone tries to keep from choking. but he didn't cough, nor did he show any signs of fighting for his life. he just chewed.
there was a crunching sound, subtle but distinct –the grinding of silica against enamel. his cheeks were slightly bulged, like a chipmunk's. his expression remained placid, as if he were tasting fine chocolate rather than playground aggregate.
"don’t tell anyone, but i like sand." he paused, swallowing. "it tastes like the color grey. and thunder. far away thunder."
you had so many questions you weren't going to ask. what did the color gray and thunder taste like? did sand not get between his teeth or stuck in his molars? did it taste better than a plum muffin? your mouth opened, and a sound came out. it was rusty, unused, wheezer, but it was unmistakable: you were laughing.
geto turned to look at you, sand still dusting his lower lip, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. not a grin –his mouth barely moved–, but the warmth was devastating in its gentleness.
"see?" he said. "not so scary."
you reached into the box. the sand was warm from sitting in the sun, granular and flowing, slipping through your fingers like liquid time. you didn't eat it –you weren't that strange–, but you cupped it, let it fill your palms, and when geto began building a lopsided castle, you helped pat the towers.
-
wednesday smelled of rain that never fell: of iron and ozone, the humidity wrapped around the school like a wet wool blanket.
geto found you by the flowerpots.
you'd migrated from the corner to the narrow strip of garden that ran along the southern wall, where the school kept potted hydrangeas and a wilting tomato plant that the science teacher was attempting to resurrect. you were poking at the soil in one of the empty pots –dark, loamy earth that crumbled into rich chocolate-brown chunks when disturbed.
"that's better than sand." geto said, appearing beside you like he'd materialized from the humidity itself. he wore short sleeves today, and you could see the delicate bones of his wrists, the way his veins showed blue beneath translucent skin. "my sand is dead. this dirt is alive."
he knelt, his knees sinking into the mulch that surrounded the pots. without hesitation, he scooped a handful of soil from the tomato pot, threaded with white roots and the pale curl of a discarded earthworm. he brought it to his nose first, inhaling deeply, his chest expanding with the breath of decay and growth.
"it smells like..." he looked at you, those heavy eyes searching your face. "like sleeping. like things growing where you can't see them."
then, he ate it. you could hear the grit between his teeth, see the way his tongue pushed against his cheek to work the texture. it was a scene too bizarre to witness, enough to make your stomach churn instantly.
"that's gross." you said, your voice surprising you. it rang in your own ears too loud.
geto didn't flinch. he swallowed, his throat working, and used the back of his hand to wipe his mouth, leaving a smear of brown across his cheek like warpaint.
"that's mean." he whispered.
you looked at the dirt in the pot and then at geto –his untucked shirt, his grass-stained knees, the serene expression. he didn't judge you for not speaking, for avoiding everyone; he just remained existing in your periphery, performing the acts that traumatized you and, simultaneously, entertained you. letting you be whatever shape you needed to be. he didn't demand answers, he didn't get frustrated. so, perhaps it was a bit cruel to judge him.
you reached into the pot. the soil was cool, damp, teeming with invisible life. it packed under your fingernails, black and rich. you didn't eat it, but you held it, let it sit in your palm like a living thing, and when geto began separating the earthworms from the roots with infinite, gentle care not to crush them, you helped.
-
geto would find you every day –by the equipment shed, under the ginkgo tree, in the narrow space behind the gymnasium. he never asked why you hid or why you didn't speak. instead, he brought his treasures:
a collection of pebbles that he chewed slowly, methodically, describing the taste as 'like the moon, if the moon was salty'.
a handful of grass blades, which he ate while lying on his back, staring at the sky, claiming they tasted 'green, but the green of deep water, not leaves'.
a piece of bark from the persimmon tree, which he gnawed on like a beaver, his jaw working with quiet determination while you drew patterns in the dust with a stick.
you began to anticipate his presence –the particular rhythm of his footsteps, softer than the other children's thundering chaos. you learned the topography of his face: the small scar above his eyebrow from a fall he'd taken in first grade, the way his ears were slightly too large for his head (promising the sharp elegance they would grow into), the particular shade of his eyes –brown, like the dirt he loved to consume.
you never asked him why he ate things that weren't food. it seemed as natural to him as breathing, as your own silence. while other children screamed and tumbled and demanded attention with the desperate violence of fireworks, geto was a candle –steady, warm, consuming himself quietly to give off light.
"i like you." he said one day in late autumn. the leaves had turned, carpeting the ground in gold that crunched like geto's sand when you walked. you were sitting on the low wall that separated the school from the neighbor's persimmon grove, your legs swinging, not quite touching the ground. geto was eating a piece of dried leaf, brittle and brown.
"everyone else is so loud. you're not." he simply said, offering you a piece of the leaf. you took it paper and tucked it into your pocket. a smile tried to bloom at the corners of your mouth. "can i eat a little of your hair?"
the question startled you. was he going to rip your hair out with all his might? would he pull out some poultry shears and trim you like grass until you were bald? by instinct, you backed away, but he raised both hands to reassure you.
"i won't do anything to you. you can give me whatever you want."
a few seconds passed before your hand moved to one of your braids, specifically the tip of the hair that was left over. you nodded, and by the time classes were over, geto was already devouring the strands with special relish.
-
march arrived with winds that cut through the wool of your coat, carrying petals from the early cherry blossoms that confused the season. the graduation ceremony was approaching –you could feel it in the way the teachers spoke, the way the older students walked the halls with a new heaviness, the way the light changed from winter's pale clarity to spring's tentative gold.
you found geto behind the gymnasium, where the snow had melted into muddy puddles that reflected the grey sky like shattered mirrors. he was kneeling in the dirt, his winter coat unbuttoned, his breath coming in white clouds. before him lay a patch of snowdrops that had pushed through the frozen earth.
"i was waiting for you." he said, without turning around. he knew your footsteps now.
you sat beside him. the ground was cold, seeping through your skirt, but you didn't care. you watched him reach out, touch one of the snowdrops with a gentleness that made your chest ache.
"they eat the winter." he said. "the bulbs store everything –cold, dark, waiting– and then they turn it into this." he gestured to the flowers. "white. like hope."
he plucked one. you expected him to eat it –he'd eaten stranger things– but instead he turned to you, extending the flower on his palm.
you looked at it, at geto's hand, at the way his fingers trembled slightly in the cold. your fingers brushed his as you took the snowdrop.
behind you, the school bell rang, calling the children back to their classrooms, to their noise, to their lives. but in the narrow space between the gymnasium wall and the frozen flowerbed, in the mud and the melting snow, you sat with geto suguru and held more than a flower: you took a hand. his hand.
somewhere in the distance, spring was coming.
-
geto suguru had been taken to the hospital in the last semester for swallowing a handful of nails that damaged his stomach. or so that was what parents said, what your mother repeated to your father, and what no other child knew. you never saw him after that.
middle school passed without a fuss, but you met shoko, a short-haired girl with a beauty mark near her eye who was cynical and flirtatious. she would trade backpacks with you and defend or protect you from anyone who was too insensitive to you, because she saw you as a younger sister. shoko was the only one who knew your voice –geto by then would have already forgotten.
while your classmates underwent the violent metamorphosis of puberty –voices cracking, bodies elongating, social hierarchies crystallizing–, you remained the girl who sat by windows rather than desks when permitted, who ate lunch on the roof or behind the gym, who answered roll call with silence until teachers learned to simply nod at your raised hand. you’d learned to speak when necessary, but the words felt foreign in your mouth, and you spat them out only when absolutely required.
you didn't hide because you were afraid. you hid because the world was loud, and you’d discovered you could simply opt out. the social reunions –birthday parties, karaoke outings, the desperate clustering in fast-food restaurants after school– held no appeal. you would rather sit in the empty classroom during club recruitment, feeling the afternoon sun warm the wood of your desk, listening to the distant shouts of the soccer team as if they were broadcasts from another planet.
you were fifteen when you saw him again.
the first time you saw geto suguru in four years, he was standing beneath the cherry blossoms in the courtyard.
he was taller, of course –everyone was taller–, but the growth had refined rather than awkwardized him. his hair was still black and straight, now touching his collar, and he wore it tied back in a way that showed the elegant architecture of his skull and his sharp jaw. he was speaking to someone, his head tilted in that same contemplative angle you remembered from childhood, his hands gesturing in slow, measured arcs.
but it was the boy beside him who stopped your breath.
where geto was still water, this other boy was lightning trapped in glass. gorgeous white hair like your snowdrop stood in defiant spikes around a face that seemed carved by something violent and divine. he wore the same uniform, but he wore it collar popped, sleeves rolled to the elbows revealing hairless forearms.
he was laughing at something geto said, with his head thrown back, throat exposed. watching him felt like a deaf person hearing for the very first time.
"–don't see why i have to attend the stupid meeting." the white-haired boy was saying, his voice carrying that particular adolescent timbre –cracking slightly at the edges but powerful, arrogant. "the old geezers just want to yell at me just for hitting the guy who was messing with haibara. okay, maybe haibara didn't get him an A, but the poor kid is way too positive to see when they're being scumbags with him."
"there's diplomacy, satoru," geto said, and hearing his voice again after four years was devastating. "you could try using your words before you use your fists."
"where's the fun in that?" the boy –satoru– bumped his shoulder against geto's. "you're my conscience, suguru. you attend the meeting. i'll nap."
geto sighed, and the sound was exactly as you remembered: soft, accepting, the exhalation of someone who carried weight without complaint. his eyes lifted then, scanning the courtyard, and you realized with a jolt that you were standing in the open, no wall to hide behind.
his gaze locked onto yours.
you saw the recognition flash across his face –a widening of those heavy-lidded eyes, a parting of lips, the slight forward tilt of his body as if pulled by an invisible thread. he said something to satoru and then he was moving, crossing the yard with long strides that ate the distance between you, and your heart was hammering against your ribs in a rhythm that felt resembled pure panic.
"look who's here." he said when he reached you. "you grew."
it was such an absurd thing to say –such a childish observation from someone who now towered over you, whose shoulders spanned the width of the doorway behind him– that you almost laughed. almost.
"don't worry. i don't eat anything that isn't strictly food anymore after those nails. if you ask me, teachers overreacted." he winked, surrendering a beautiful, heartwrenching smile. "i'm glad you found your way here."
"who's the wallflower, suguru?"
the voice crashed into the conversation like a wave against rock –gojo satoru had approached, moving with a loose-limbed grace that shouldn't have been possible for someone so tall. he stood beside geto, and the contrast was staggering: black and white, shadow and light, silence and noise. you could feel the judgment of his gaze behind the sunglasses.
"don't be rude." geto said, but there was no heat in it. "this is an old friend. from elementary school."
"elementary school?" gojo leaned forward, invading your space with such casual entitlement you knew immediately he'd never been told no. up close, he was overwhelming. the width of his shoulders blocked the sun, creating an eclipse that made you dizzy. you could see the texture of his skin –pale, poreless, unfairly perfect– and the way his mouth quirked in amusement. "what's your name, wallflower?"
"she doesn't talk much." geto explained, and his hand came up, resting briefly on gojo's shoulder, restraint. "to anyone."
"i see." gojo huffed, tilting his head. "is she a snob or just shy?"
"just... careful." geto said, and you loved him for that, for understanding your silence even now. "leave her be, satoru. you'll frighten her."
"me?" gojo placed a hand on his chest in mock offense, and the gesture was so theatrical, so deliberately exaggerated, that you felt that strange pressure in your chest again, the one that had started when he approached. "i'm a delight. i'm the most delightful person you'll ever meet, right, suguru?"
"you're exhausting." geto said, but he was smiling.
"same thing." gojo turned back to you, and even through the round shades, you felt the intensity of his focus. "well, wallflower, since suguru vouches for you, you're automatically interesting. i'll allow you to exist in my presence."
"come on," geto said, intervening with that gentle firmness that was so uniquely him. "we're going to be late. it was good to see you." he added to you, and his eyes held volumes. "we should talk. properly. soon."
they walked away; geto with his calculated steps, gojo with a bounce in his stride that suggested he was constantly fighting the urge to run, to jump, to explode into motion.
it hurt. the feeling in your chest –a tightness, a heat, a restless fluttering– was treacherous. it was wanting to follow and being rooted to the spot.
you had fallen for this satoru guy in a hummingbird heartbeat.
-
a week later, you found yourself in the second-floor hallway during the lunch break, having escaped the cacophony of the cafeteria for the relative silence of the north wing. you were leaning against the bank of lockers, waiting for shoko and eating a konbini onigiri when the air suddenly changed.
you knew it was him before he spoke. the bittersweet fragrance, the shift in pressure, the way the fluorescent lights seemed to hum louder in his presence.
"wallflower." gojo satoru saluted, appearing beside you as if he'd stepped out of the air itself. his eyes were for everyone to see, an endlessly, shakingly blue, like the heart of a glacier, like electricity made visible. they were looking at you with an intensity that made you want to simultaneously step closer and run away.
you said nothing. you took another bite of your onigiri, chewing slowly, deliberately, staring at the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall across from you.
"silent treatment, huh?" he leaned against the locker beside yours, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. he was too close. "that's fine. i'm good at monologues. it's a skill i developed when i was a kid and didn't have anyone to talk to."
you chewed. swallowed. the rice stuck in your throat.
"geto told me about you." he continued, his voice dropping into a conversational spectrum that was surprisingly gentle, at odds with his chaotic energy. "said you were the first person who ever looked at him and didn't want anything. just sat with him and ate dirt together or something weird like that."
your fingers tightened around the onigiri, rice grains crumbling against your palm.
"he said you were his first real friend," gojo said, and there was something defenseless in his tone now. "before me. before he found me in that empty classroom, eating my lunch alone because i held too much grudge against the world, just as the world held it against me. everyone happy, growing up, having no idea that growing up was the worst of all curses."
you turned your head and looked at the blue eyes that caught the fluorescent light and seemed to glow, unearthly, terrifying.
"so i guess we have something in common, wallflower." he said, a small smile playing at his lips. "we're both geto's rescue projects."
"i'm not a project." you replied.
the words came out before thinking. you hadn't planned to speak. you never planned to speak. but he was standing there, so sure of himself, so casually claiming kinship with you based on shared trauma and geto's kindness, and something in you rebelled.
gojo's eyebrows shot up. he pushed off from the locker, turning to fully face you, and you saw his chest rise with a quick intake of breath. "oh," he said, and the word was delighted. "so suguru's girlfriend can talk. i was beginning to think he imagined the whole thing."
"i'm not his girlfriend, either."
gojo blinked. then, he bursted out laughing, a sound that echoed off the metal lockers. "oh, man." he gasped, wiping his eyes. "okay, good to know, i guess. establishing boundaries early. i respect it."
you felt heat crawl up your neck, embarrassment making your ears burn. you looked down at your onigiri, now half-crumpled in your grip.
"hey," gojo said, and his voice had softened, losing the theatrical edge. he crouched down, bringing himself to your eye level, and you were startled by the proximity of him, close enough to see the individual lashes that were white as spider silk. "relax. i was teasing. i do that. it's my thing."
you rolled your eyes. gojo satoru didn't seem so fun and charming anymore. his appearance was like a dream, but listening to him for more than two minutes straight was a nightmare.
"suguru talks about you a lot." gojo continued, standing up again, giving you space to breathe. "more than he talks about anyone. i was jealous, actually. when i found out you were here. thought maybe i'd be replaced."
"you won’t."
he raised an eyebrow. "how are you so sure?"
you shrugged, the answer too obvious. "because you’re his opposite, which makes you his complement. he needs you. he needs that balance."
geto and you were too similar, or so it seemed. he was the first thing that felt certain outside of your home, but he didn't need you.
your chest ached. you pressed your hand against it, feeling the flutter of your heart, the constriction of your lungs. gojo reached out, and before you could flinch away, his hand was hovering over your heart, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his palm.
"your heart's beating fast," he observed, his head tilting in that predatory curiosity. "are you scared of me?"
"the only thing that scares me is you getting too comfortable and overstepping with me."
his grin turned wicked. "good," he said. "fear keeps you sharp."
"get your huge, stuck-up hand off my friend, you idiot." shoko appeared like a victorian warrior, her fist raised in a threat. he dropped his hand immediately, stepping back, and the loss of his warmth felt like a physical ache.
"and you are...?" gojo asked, mocking. the smile vanished abruptly when shoko snatched the glasses hanging from his shirt and shoved them up into her hairline, crossing her arms.
"i’ll be the one kicking your ass if you don't get lost in the next ten seconds."
you thought gojo would respond with his classic impudence, but to your shock, he turned slightly flushed and just shoved his hands into his pockets.
"see ya ’round, wallflower."
he disappeared around the corner, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, leaving behind only the lingering pressure of his almost-touch against your chest.
the onigiri had gone cold in your hand, but you didn't notice. you were too busy listening to the new silence in your head –the one that was full of blue eyes and sharp grins and the exhilarating sound of your own voice saying words.
"who's that clown?" shoko muttered, but when she turned to look at you, she noticed you were grinning from ear to ear. not even you realized that.
-
the day melted into liquid gold by the time you stepped through the school gates, the sun hanging low over the skyline like a bruised peach, bleeding amber and rose across the scattered clouds.
shoko had been detained for smoking behind the gym; you waited for her outside the disciplinary office for twenty five minutes until the secretary shooed you away, telling you she wouldn't be released until after six.
the streets were different at this hour –emptier, the elementary school children already home, the salarymen not yet released from their glass towers. your footsteps echoed against the concrete, each scuff of your loafers a lonely percussion in the swelling silence. you carried your bag in both hands, the strap digging into your shoulder blades, and you watched your shadow stretch long and thin across the pavement, distorted by the position of the dying sun.
"you're walking alone?"
the familiar voice came from behind you. you didn't turn immediately. you let the sound wash over you, feeling it in your teeth, in the marrow of your bones. geto suguru fell into step beside you, his shoulder hovering two inches from yours, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his uniform jacket.
"satoru's in detention too." geto explained, his voice pitched low. "he filled the math teacher's car with bees just to get out of the test. it took fifty five minutes on the clock for him to admit it. i had to bribe him to get him to crack."
you almost smiled. you didn't, but you felt the tug at the corner of your mouth. geto saw it –he always saw everything– and his own lips curved in response. you didn't know what was stopping you from answering; it wasn't as if you wanted to leave him talking to himself... but you couldn't. the sound simply wouldn't climb to travel through the air.
"he's exhausting." geto continued. "but he's... better, now. than he was when i found him."
you nodded. you remembered the hallway, the teasing, the confession, the words. you remembered the way gojo shook your ground with zero effort.
"he talks too much." geto said, and his hand brushed yours for a second. "but he's kind, in his way. fiercely protective. he'd destroy the world for someone he loved, and build a better one from the ashes."
you listened to the rhythm of his speech, the cadence that had deepened since childhood but retained that same composed quality, as if he were tasting each word before releasing it. you watched his profile as you walked –the line of his nose, the way his hair had come loose from its tie, strands brushing against his cheekbone, the elegant column of his throat where his collar was unbuttoned against the evening heat.
he was beautiful.
you'd always known geto was attractive –the way girls in your class whispered about him, the way even upperclassmen paused to watch him pass–, but seeing it now, in the chamomile light of the setting sun, was different. the symmetry of his face had refined into something almost cruel in its perfection, but his eyes remained soft, heavy-lidded. the angelic features paired with that depth of sorrow. his whole face was a mosaic of religious art, of martyrs and saints.
"i thought about you," he said suddenly, the confession dropping into the space between you like a stone into a pool. "after i left."
you stopped walking. he took two more steps before realizing, then turned back to face you. the sun was behind him now, outlining him in fire, making his edges blur and glow. you had to squint to see his expression, but you could feel the fervor radiating off him.
"i worried," he proceeded, his voice dropping even rougher. "i worried that you were alone. no one should be alone." his hand rose, hesitated, then settled on your shoulder. "i wished so many times that i could find you again, just to know you were okay. just to sit with you, even in silence."
he took a step closer. you could see the individual fibers of his uniform, the way the black absorbed the sunset and turned it to rust. your throat was tight. you wanted to speak, but the words were tangled, caught on the barbed wire of your own vacillation.
his thumb moved in a small, soothing circle against your shoulder. you could smell the shampoo he used –something herbal, like the traditional remedies your grandmother used to brew. you could see the fine texture of his skin, the barely-there stubble along his jaw that suggested he shaved in the mornings but his hair grew fast, the small scar above his eyebrow that you'd noticed before, white against the tan.
why is it always like this? you thought so loud you were sure he could hear your mind. you wanted to tell him. you wanted to say i really like your hair or even just hey… i missed you.
but your tongue felt heavy, useless. you’d replayed a thousand conversations in your head, practiced them in the mirror, whispered them alone in your room where your voice worked perfectly. yet here, in front of him, you were mute again. did he know? did he think you were weird? boring? that you never cared? the thought made your stomach twist. you cared so much that your silence felt like betrayal after all these years. why wasn't there a problem with shoko? god, why was it even easier with gojo?
just say something. one word. his name. anything. but you stayed quiet, nodding when he spoke to you, hoping your eyes said everything your voice won’t. hoping he could read the storm behind them. hoping he waited just a little longer.
"there's an occultism club," he said, his hand falling away from your shoulder, the loss of contact leaving you cold. "at school. it's just me and satoru right now. we need three members minimum, or they'll disband us."
he started walking again, slower now, and you fell into step beside him, your arms brushing with each stride, sending small shocks up your nerves.
"you could join," you could see the tension in his jaw, the careful neutrality of his expression. "bring your friend. shoko, was it? the one in detention. she's... she's interesting. smart. satoru thinks so too."
your stomach dropped. the sensation was physical, visceral –a sudden hollowness behind your navel, a coldness spreading through your veins. you kept walking, kept your face neutral, but you felt the blood drain from your cheeks, felt your fingers go numb where they gripped your bag strap.
"he likes her." geto’s voice changed, taking on a wondering trait, almost bemused. "i've never seen him like this. he gets nervous around her. stupid, even. he asked me three times today if i thought she'd like the new manga he bought, as if i would know. as if anyone would know. he just... he looks at her, and he forgets how to be... him."
each word was a needle sliding between your ribs to pierce something vital. you felt your chest contract, making it difficult to breathe. the sunset suddenly seemed too bright, too orange, burning your retinas.
"he's never been nervous before." geto chuckled, an incredulous sound that scraped against your guts. "never. not when facing spirits at the club, not when fighting upperclassmen, not when dealing with teachers. but ieiri shoko walks into a room, and he forgets how to speak. it's... remarkable. like, bring my best friend back!"
you stopped again. this time, you couldn't hide the way your shoulders curled inward, nor the way your breath hitched. geto noticed. of course he noticed. he turned to you, his expression shifting from affection to concern. his eyebrows drew together as his hand reached out again.
"are you alright?" he asked. "you look pale. is it the heat? we can stop somewhere, get some water–"
you shook your head, playing it down. but you weren't fine. you were shattering, silently, invisibly. he was the only one. the only person besides her who ever made the words flow. one word from him and the lock in your throat would loosen. and now? of course he’d fall for her. how could he not?
more than jealousy, you felt an immense worry, because you’d lost a key. yes, perhaps you were being selfish to some degree, but it was a key. your key to someone who might even like you back. what if he was my only chance? what if i can never speak to anyone i actually like again?
everything belonged to a torn-away future, back when the present hadn't even taken off yet. this time you were angrier because you knew what it felt like to be heard by the person you liked… and you knew you might never feel that again.
you started walking again, faster now, wanting only to reach the intersection where your paths would diverge, where you could escape to the bathroom of your apartment and vomit up the grief that was rising in your throat like bile.
"hey," geto said, catching up with his longer strides. "did i say something wrong? you seem... different. did i upset you?"
you shook your head again. he didn't believe you. you could see it in the set of his mouth, the way his hand hovered near your elbow as if ready to catch you if you fell. but he was too kind to push, too respectful of the boundaries you'd spent years building around yourself like walls.
you walked in silence the rest of the way –geto casting worried glances at you, you staring straight ahead. at the corner where you would turn toward your apartment building, geto stopped you with a gentle hand on your elbow. his touch was warm, careful, and it broke something inside you. you felt tears prick at your eyes, hot and humiliating, and you blinked rapidly to keep them from falling.
"thank you." he muttered, intimate. "for walking with me. for listening. i missed you."
you looked up at him –at his beautiful, sorrowful face, at the eyes that held four years of longing and the mouth that spoke such kind words while unknowedly delivering such cruel truths.
"i'll see you tomorrow." geto said, his hand falling away. "at the club room? third floor, east wing. after school."
you nodded fast before turning and walking away. behind you, geto stood watching until you disappeared into your building.
-
the occult club room was located on the third floor's eastern wing, a forgotten corner where the sunlight filtered through grimy windows in beams thick with dancing dust motes. the walls were lined with sagging shelves holding books with titles in languages dead and living: the lesser key of solomon, the book of enoch, gojo's personal notes scrawled in messy kanji on loose-leaf paper.
you came because geto asked, and you stayed because the alternative was the empty walk home alone.
shoko joined on the third day. her and the boys got along with the ease of parallel lines running toward the same horizon. you watched it happen in increments too small to name but too large to deny. the way shoko would lean over geto's shoulder to examine a pentagram, her chin nearly brushing his collarbone, her finger tracing the paper while he held his breath to avoid disturbing her concentration. the way he began bringing her tea without asking –hojicha, she'd mentioned once, offhand, and the next day there was a thermos waiting on her desk. the way their silences became comfortable while yours remained constructed.
and it wasn't much different with gojo, either. geto maintained a certain distance, but gojo couldn't care less. you developed a sudden, intense interest in the stitching of your uniform skirt whenever they sat too close on the club room's moth-eaten sofa, thighs nearly touching, heads bent together over a single book. in the way your jaw ached from clenching when gojo reached out to brush a stray hair from shoko's face, his fingers lingering a fraction too long.
but the worst part was, when geto was present, you retreated into your silence like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. you became furniture, a ghost haunting the edges of their interactions. you answered questions with nods, with shrugs, with the minimum movement required to acknowledge that you were still technically corporeal. but when he left –when geto excused himself to use the restroom or to speak with a teacher or to check out an incident that had been reported in the neighborhood–, you transformed.
"pass me that chalk." you'd say to gojo, your voice emerging fully formed. "no, the white one, not the ceremonial crap. i'm drawing a containment circle, not summoning your ego."
gojo would blink at you, those blue eyes widening with surprise, as if you were a book he'd assumed was blank suddenly revealing elaborate illustrations.
"wallflower has teeth." he'd say, that insufferable grin cutting across his face.
you'd roll your eyes, tossing the chalk at his head with a precision born from years of practiced isolation –plenty of time to develop aim when you spent recesses throwing rocks at fences. "my name isn't wallflower, you overgrown albino. it's–"
"yeah, yeah, i know your name." he'd catch the chalk effortlessly, spinning it between his fingers. "i just like watching you get annoyed when i don't use it. you make this face–" he'd mimic you, scrunching his features into an exaggerated scowl. "–like you're calculating the exact velocity required to make my head explode."
"not exact velocity." you'd correct, turning back to the circle you were drawing on the floor. "exact angle. there's a difference."
he'd laugh then, loud and genuine, and you'd feel that dangerous warmth in your chest, the one you were trying to cauterize. you'd talk with him –spar, really, verbal fencing matches where he tested your reflexes and you learned to parry his arrogance with your own. you spoke less with him than you did when alone with shoko, still guarded around the source of your affliction, but you spoke. complete sentences. jokes, even.
but geto never saw it. he returned to find you silent again, and gojo never exposed you. he never dared to make you look bad in front of him. that was one of the few things that truly made gojo exceptional: he didn't butt in where he wasn't wanted.
two months of this. sixty days of watching the boy you loved fall in love with your best friend while your childhood friend... fell in love with your best friend too?
then came the sleepover.
shoko's apartment was on the sixth floor of a concrete building in nakano. you arrived at seven, bag slung over your shoulder containing pajamas and toothbrush and the mask you were preparing to remove.
the transformation began the moment shoko locked the door behind you.
"finally!" she shouted, kicking off her loafers with aggressive satisfaction. "i thought i'd have to perform the perfect daughter routine for another hour. my mother's been on a rampage since i got that detention –apparently smoking will ruin my marriage prospects, as if i want to marry some uptight who cares about virgin lungs."
you dropped your bag. you toed off your shoes. you straightened, rolled your shoulders, and when you looked at her, you were someone else entirely.
"your mother has the emotional range of a dial tone. i mean, seriously, shoko, the woman thinks 'rebellion' is using the wrong fork for salad. did she actually cry when she found the cigarettes?" you said, your voice coming fast, gesturing with your hands as you spoke.
"wailed," shoko confirmed, leading you toward her bedroom. "like a professional mourner at a yakuza funeral. you should have seen it. oscar-worthy performance."
"please, i've seen better acting from gojo when he pretends to be injured to get out of training." you followed her, already undoing your hair from its tight braid, shaking it out so it fell wild around your shoulders. "last week he claimed he pulled a muscle in his 'everything' and lay on the floor for thirty minutes until geto kicked him. the drama. the sheer commitment to the bit."
shoko's bedroom was small, cluttered with medical textbooks and fashion magazines in equal measure, the walls plastered with anatomical charts and a single poster of a rock band you'd never heard of. the futon was already laid out, a nest of blankets and pillows that looked like a cloud had collapsed onto the tatami.
you flopped onto it face-first, groaning into the fabric. "god, this feels good. my spine has been compressed into a pretzel by that damn uniform."
"you're different." shoko observed, not unkindly, as she changed into pajamas –oversized t-shirt and shorts, her hair falling loose down her back. "when it's just us. you're like..."
"like what?" you rolled onto your back, arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling.
"like gojo." she grimaced. "but smarter. less likely to accidentally destroy the building."
you threw a pillow at her. she caught it, laughing, and suddenly you were both twelve again. it wasn't as if much time had passed since then, but shoko was forcing herself to grow up very fast, and now there were boys too.
"so," shoko started, settling cross-legged on the futon beside you, opening a bag of chips that smelled of seaweed and vinegar. "speak of the devil. or devils. plural."
"which devil? we know several. there's the pretty one who eats dirt, the albino one who is dirt–"
"the pretty one asked me out." shoko interrupted, and the chip in your hand crumbled to dust between your fingers.
you kept your face neutral. you'd had practice. "geto?"
"no, you absolute disaster." she rolled her eyes. "gojo. satoru. the one with the sunglasses?"
"yeah, i heard about him somewhere." your stomach performed a complex gymnastics routine-sinking, twisting, rising to lodge in your throat, but your voice was steady, detached. "when?"
"tuesday. after the club meeting. he cornered me by the lockers –literally, trapped me until i agreed to hear him out." she popped a chip into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "said he'd been trying to ask for weeks but kept 'failing spectacularly', his words. said i made him nervous. said i was the most terrifying thing he'd ever encountered, including demons and spirits, and he needed to know if i'd let him take me to a movie or if he should prepare his will."
your fingernails were digging into your palm, but you forced them to relax. "what did you say?"
"i said i'd think about it." she looked at you, her dark eyes seeing through the architecture beneath. "i like him. he's... he's a lot. but he's genuine. under all that arrogance, he's just a kid who wants someone to see him. like you do, actually."
"me?"
"don't play dumb. you're exactly alike– you and gojo. all sharp edges and defensive posturing and pretending you don't care while you care so much it might kill you." she leaned forward. "so? what's your opinion? should i say yes?"
"do you like him?" you asked, and the words came out cautiously.
"i asked you first."
"i think..." you sat up, suddenly unable to lie still, your hands moving again, tracing patterns in the air, running through your hair, gesturing toward nothing. "i think he'd destroy the world for you. i think he'd burn it down and build you a palace from the ashes. i think he'd be loyal until the end of everything, and i think he'd make you laugh until you couldn't breathe, and i think–" your voice cracked, just slightly, just enough. "i think you'd be an idiot to say no."
shoko was quiet for a long moment. the city hummed outside, trains passing, lives continuing in their orbits. then she said, soft and dangerous as a scalpel: "you didn't answer my question."
"what?"
"i asked for your opinion on me dating him. you gave me a character analysis. you told me what he'd do for me, how he'd love me." she leaned even closer, her eyes narrowing. "you didn't tell me if you wanted me to say yes or no."
your hands stilled. you felt caught, pinned like a specimen under glass. "it doesn't matter what i want."
"it matters to me."
"shoko–"
"because i think you're in love with him." oh, no. "i think you sit in that club room and you watch him with your heart in your throat. i think you practice speaking when he's not there because you want to be loud enough for him to hear. i think you crumble chips into dust when i mention his name because you're trying not to scream."
you couldn't breathe. the room had shrunk to just her face, her eyes, the truth she'd excavated from your ribs.
"but here's what i can't figure out," she continued, her voice gentling now, becoming something almost sympathetic. "because you look at geto too. and geto looks at you, but he does it in a way– like you're the only solid thing on a planet of liquids. so which is it? the yin or the yang?"
you opened your mouth just to close it. you wanted to laugh it off, to throw another pillow, to retreat into sarcasm and deflection. but the silence had hold of you now, the real silence, the one that lived in your core, and you couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare at her with eyes that had gone too wide.
"oh, my god. you want both?!" shoko took swiftly your trembling hands in hers.
"shut up. you've got it wrong." you blushed.
"okay, i’m joking, but i think you’re confused. geto was there for you when you were a child and had no friends, and gojo is the one you can truly be yourself with." she squeezed your hands. "but i feel like that's because you haven't given geto the chance to truly know you, that’s why he treats you like a shortbread cookie. just as those two are friends because they’re polar opposites, you’re geto’s complement, too. and geto doesn't even look at me the way you think he does. he brings me tea because gojo told him so, but with you– i think the poor guy stops breathing every time you're in the same room, for fear of hurting you. he’s very considerate and mature for his age."
you shook your head, denial automatic, but she pressed on.
"stop." you articulated.
"right now, geto's in love with a memory of you. right now, you’re gojo’s match."
"but gojo doesn't like me. he likes you." you reminded her with bitterness.
shoko sighed. "but he talks about you a lot, and i know he has more fun in your presence. if you’d just make up your mind, you’d have a chance." she asked, releasing your hands, settling back on her heels. "are you gonna keep letting gojo chase me while he should be chasing you?"
-
it was raining.
you were sitting on the floor, back against the radiator that knocked and hissed with trapped steam, your knees drawn up beneath your skirt. geto was cross-legged near the window, supposedly reading a text on yokai, but his eyes kept drifting to the outside. gojo lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown over his face, his chest rising and falling with the slow pace of near-sleep, his white hair catching the grey light. shoko sat beside him, also reading with her bare feet –she'd kicked off her loafers an hour ago– tucked beneath her thighs.
no one was speaking. you could hear the click of geto's throat when he swallowed, the rustle of his pages, the distant thunder that rolled across tokyo. then, shoko closed her book with a decisive snap that made gojo twitch.
"i'm hungry." she announced. "geto, come with me to the cafeteria. i want to check if they have those melon buns left, but i don't want to walk through the rain alone."
geto looked up, his expression softening into that gentle attentiveness he reserved for her. "now?"
"yes, now. before they sell out." she stood, stretching, her joints popping. "come on. i’ll buy you anything you want."
"i’m not hungry." geto complained, but he was already closing his book, already standing, already reaching for his jacket. "satoru, watch the room. we'll be back in ten minutes."
"mmhmm." gojo mumbled, not moving his arm from his face. "bring me something. something with sugar. i'm dying."
"you ate three pudding cups at lunch." geto observed with fond exasperation. he followed shoko to the door, pausing only to look back at you –a glance that lasted a decimal forever. "you'll be alright?"
you nodded.
the door clicked shut behind them, and the room changed. gojo removed his arm from his face and sat up in one fluid motion, no longer languid but alert. his blue eyes sparked with the vigor of a predator who’d been pretending to rest.
"she's not subtle." he said, his voice cutting through the rain-noise like a blade. "shoko. she thinks she's being subtle, but she might as well have lit a neon sign saying 'confront each other'."
you pulled your knees tighter to your chest. "i don't know what you mean."
"bullshit." he swung his legs off the sofa, planting his feet on the floor, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. the movement brought him near your space, close enough that you could smell him. "you asked her to arrange this. or she asked you. either way, we're alone, and we need to talk."
you looked at the window. the rain was coming harder now, a deluge that turned the courtyard into a lake, the trees into weeping figures. "about what?"
"about shoko," he said. "about why you look like you're stepping on knives every time i mention her name. about why you don’t want suguru to walk you home but you wait for me."
your head snapped toward him. "i don’t– you–"
"and she rejects me because of you." gojo's eyes were too bright.
you felt your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, everywhere. "so do you love her?"
the words came out rushed, unplanned. gojo blinked. he sat back, looking at his hands –large, scarred at the knuckles from fighting. "no," he said finally. "i don't think so."
"but you asked her out."
"yeah, i like her, obviously." he laughed, but it was self-deprecating. "and i saw the way suguru looks at you, and i wanted that. i wanted to feel that." he looked up, and for the first time since you'd known him, he looked his age. "he stares at you like he'd swallow the ocean if you asked him to. like–" he stopped, ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up in wild spikes. "i want that. i want to feel that way about someone. i thought maybe shoko... she's smart. she's beautiful. she doesn't take my shit. i thought if i tried, if i practiced, maybe i'd learn how to feel it."
your chest ached. you pressed your hand against it, feeling your heartbeat against your palm. "that's not how it works."
"tell me about it." he said bitterly, but more determined. "but here's the thing, wallflower. you're so busy watching me watch shoko, that you're missing the entire fucking picture."
"what picture?"
"suguru." he said, and his voice became serious in a way that made you go petrified. "you think you know him. childhood friends, sandbox and dirt, blah-blah." he leaned forward again, invading your space this time. "but you don't see him."
"i– i don’t get it." you whispered.
"of course you don’t." gojo's hands moved, gesturing with frustrated energy. "i share a dorm with him. i see him at three in the morning when he thinks i'm asleep. and let me tell you something: he never stopped eating weird shit."
your heart hammered until you felt it stop completely.
"he does it when he's anxious," gojo continued, his eyes never leaving yours. "when he's upset. when he's feeling things he can't name. i've watched him eat paper –notebook paper, loose-leaf, the corners of his textbooks. i've found erasers in his mouth, matches, chalk, the plastic caps off pens. last week i caught him chewing on a shirt button until it cracked."
your stomach twisted. why hadn't geto told you? he used to eat all that in front of you, didn't he? what had changed? you thought about his hands, his kind and welcoming smile, so inviting that it intimidated you.
"he does it more now." gojo said softer, despite the harshness of his words. "since you came back. since you started talking."
"i don't talk when he's–"
"exactly." gojo pointed at you, his finger accusatory. "you don't talk when he's around. you go silent. you become that girl from his memories again. but when he leaves, you change. he’d heard you. he’d stood in the hallway and listened to you talking with shoko, with me, laughing with us. he’d heard you argue with me when i come back early, before i announce myself. you're a different person."
you couldn't breathe. you started to feel dizzy, feeling as though the room was too small for claustrophobia hitting you. was it guilt? it couldn't be; you knew you didn't do it with the intention of hurting anyone, but gojo was hurting you.
"and he knows." gojo didn’t notice. "he doesn't say anything, he's too fucking noble for that, but he knows. he leaves the room on purpose sometimes. did you know that? he'll make excuses: 'i need to check something', 'i'll be right back', so you'll be comfortable. so you'll talk. so you'll be yourself."
"stop." you whispered.
"he sacrifices his own presence for your happiness." gojo couldn't stop. "and then he goes somewhere alone and he eats paper. he chews on erasers. he puts things in his mouth that aren't food because he can't swallow his frustration to be the person you talk to."
you were shaking. you didn't realize you were shaking until you tried to stand and your legs wouldn't support you, sliding you back down the radiator, the heat of it burning through your uniform jacket.
"i bought him iron supplements." gojo said, his voice breaking slightly. "did you know that? i went to the pharmacy and i bought him iron pills because i thought– maybe it's anemia. maybe it's from some deficiency. i left them on his desk with a note that said 'eat these instead of the furniture, you freak'. he laughed it off. said he was fine. but he's not fine."
the image was devastating: gojo, loud and chaotic and apparently caring, buying medicine for his friend, trying to solve a problem he didn't understand, while you stood in the center of it all, oblivious, wrapped in your own pain.
"why don't you want to talk to him?" he asked, calmer now.
"it's not that i don't want to." you exploded, kicking an empty can of sprite, geto's favorite drink. "it's that i can't. i freeze up. it's not– it's not like i don't feel comfortable with him, but... i don't know. it's not my fault. don't put this on me." the lump in your throat kept you from carrying on.
gojo didn’t push. instead, he crouched down so that you were forced to meet his eyes. "he doesn’t know you anymore. i know we’re young, but you need to decide if you're going to keep letting him care about someone who doesn't exist, watching him destroy himself with anxiety."
you were crying. you hadn't realized you were crying until gojo's thumb brushed your cheek, wiping away wetness, his expression softening into something like pity.
the door opened then –shoko's laughter preceding her, geto's soft response following, the smell of melon buns and wet wool filling the room. she shook rain from her hair, geto holding a paper bag with grease stains blooming through like flowers, his eyes finding yours immediately, concerned.
"everything okay?" he asked, setting the bag down, moving toward you with that instinctive gentleness.
"i told her a horror story." gojo intervened when he saw you didn't even nod. "i told her all about my childhood."
-
the months between gojo's revelation and the closing ceremony passed like water through cupped hands –inevitably lost.
you practiced. god, you practiced. in front of mirrors, you spoke to your reflection until your throat was raw, constructing sentences like stadiums, building bridges of words that could span the chasm between who you were with others and who you were with him. you practiced with shoko, with gojo, trading barbs and confessions in equal measure until he almost smiled when you entered a room.
but when geto appeared –when his shadow fell across the doorway, when his scent of woody watermelon entered your atmosphere– you became stone again. your tongue turned to lead. the words retreated behind your teeth like hermit crabs into shells, and you were seven again, made of silence and corners.
gojo watched it happen. every day, he watched you transform from fire to ash the moment geto entered the room. he watched you mouth words that wouldn't emerge, watched your hands go still at your sides, watched you enter that closet of glass. and every day, his expression grew heavier –not with rage, but with a disappointment so profound it looked like grief.
you hated yourself for it. but the fear was stronger than hate.
and between the indecision and the worry, the ceremony arrived at the gym, which had been transformed into a cathedral of endings, rows of folding chairs arranged, banners hanging from the rafters in the school colors, the stage draped in cloth that smelled of storage. you sat between shoko and an empty seat –gojo had been called away for some disciplinary matter as usual– and you tried to make yourself small, tried to disappear into the crease of your program.
the principal droned on about achievement and growth. the vice-principal read names –honor roll, perfect attendance, students who had distinguished themselves. you weren't among them. you'd distinguished yourself only in your ability to remain unseen, to be a live-action ghost from your club.
then: "and now, a representative from class 1-b will say a few words about the year's end."
you didn't react. you were safe in your anonymity, safe in your silence.
"from class 1-b–"
and then, your name came next.
your blood turned to ice. your vision narrowed to a tunnel. you felt shoko's hand on your arm, felt her whisper ‘you don't have to’, but the teacher was already there, already taking your elbow (‘cause you didn’t react), already guiding you toward the aisle with a smile that didn't see your panic, didn't see the way your legs had stopped working, didn't see the way your throat had closed like a fist.
the walk to the stage was a thousand miles. the microphone waited like a weapon. the faces below –hundreds of them, a sea of eyes, all watching, all waiting– blurred into a wash of color and sound. you reached the center of the stage. you opened your mouth.
nothing came out.
not a whisper. not a breath. your vocal cords had locked, paralyzed by the weight of expectation, by the sudden violence of exposure. you stood there, frozen, your hands trembling at your sides, your vision spotting at the edges, and you knew –you knew with absolute certainty– that this was how you would be remembered. the girl who couldn't speak.
the silence stretched. it grew teeth. it became something alive and hungry, consuming the air in the space. you heard shifting, heard whispers, heard someone laugh. and finally, a commotion.
you turned, still shocked, and saw geto suguru standing in the aisle. he was wearing his uniform, perfectly pressed as always, his hair tied back, his face that mask of winsome composure. but his hands were moving. his hands were at his mouth.
he was eating the decorative flowers from the aisle arrangements.
white chrysanthemums, the ones arranged in foam blocks along the center aisle –he was pulling them free, one by one, and putting them in his mouth. chewing. the sound was audible through the silence, that familiar crunch from childhood, the grinding of petals against enamel. he swallowed, reaching for another, his expression beatific, as if he were alone in a garden rather than standing in the center of three hundred staring students.
"geto-kun?" the principal's voice crackled through the microphone, confused, horrified. "what are you–"
"they taste like white funerals." geto said, his voice absolutely unhinged. he pulled another flower free, a long-stemmed lily, and bit the head from it with a sound like tearing paper. "like snow that knows it's the last snow. like–" he chewed thoughtfully, his eyes closing, his throat working. "like her embrace when the sun hits it just before sunset."
every eye in the room was on him now. the principal was sputtering. teachers were moving toward him, but he was already walking, already moving toward the stage, eating flowers as he went, leaving a trail of stems and petals behind him like breadcrumbs.
"geto." you whispered, but the microphone caught it, amplified it.
he reached the stage, walking past you, close enough that you could smell the flowers on his breath, and he stood at the microphone, his mouth stained with pollen, and he said: "i think i've had enough of ceremonies. who's with me?"
the silence held for one heartbeat. two.
then gojo –gojo who had appeared from somewhere, who was standing in the back doors with his arms crossed– laughed. loud and delighted and absolutely inappropriate, and it broke something. the room erupted in maniacal laughter, without letting their guard down in case geto suguru decided to go cannibal and devour everyone present.
the teachers were overwhelmed, trying to restore order, and in the confusion, geto turned to you, locking his eyes on yours.
softly, his hand found yours, his fingers threading through your trembling digits, and he squeezed once, and then he was leading you off the stage, through the chaos, out the side door into the blinding sunlight, and you were running, both of you running.
it was the most ridiculous and cringe-worthy scene shoko had ever witnessed.
-
it was the end of the day, turning the world to saffron and rust. the year was over. the summer yawned before you, vast and empty, and if you didn't speak now–
geto stopped at the corner. he turned to face the three of you, his hands in his pockets, his hair coming loose from its tie. "well," he said. "i suppose this is goodbye for now."
"see you in september, i guess." gojo said, though his eyes were on you, questioning, hoping.
"take care of yourself." shoko added, squeezing your hand briefly before stepping back and holding her boyfriend’s –gojo’s.
geto nodded and looked at you, smiling. you could see the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw worked, the way his hand twitched toward his pocket where you knew he kept ‘emergency’ erasers and paper clips. he was preparing to let you go. again. always.
he turned to leave.
"wait!" you heard yourself say.
the word came out loud, louder than ever before. geto stopped. his shoulders went rigid. gojo and shoko paused for a moment, but they continued walking, hand in hand, disappearing around the corner, leaving you alone with him on the street corner as the sun bled out into the horizon.
geto turned slowly. his face was open now, vulnerable, and he waited. he always waited.
just breathe. one word at a time. you can do this.
your hands were trembling inside your pockets, remembering how he used to hide crayons so you wouldn’t eat them by mistake, how he was always by your side since he met you. he’d always been like that: protective, patient, the kind of person who stays.
there’s nothing to be afraid of. he’ll be gentle with me.
your throat was dry, but today you decided you’ll push back harder than you ever have. because this was him. geto suguru, the most understanding and tender person in the world. the boy who went around picking up and adopting kids his own age so they wouldn't have to be left with no one, so they would feel supported, so they would always have an alternative and a safe place. and he, he was a home.
you swallowed. once, twice.
say something. anything. his name. tell him you like listening to him talk. tell him his kindness makes you feel safe.
the words were right there –buzzing, frantic, alive– but your tongue won’t move. what if nothing comes out again? what if he finally gets tired of carrying the conversation? what if he thinks you don’t care when the truth is you care so much it hurts to breathe?
you glanced at him. he was looking at you, but he wasn’t rushing you. he never did. he never will.
he deserves to hear your voice. not just nods and smiles. he deserves to know you like him. that watching him care about people makes you like him even more.
your lips parted. a tiny sound escaped, half breath, half attempt. come on. for once, let the words win. tell him he’s important. tell him you’re trying. tell him… anything.
"i practiced." you said finally. there was your voice: real, sincere and yours. he nodded, so you could keep going. "every day. i practiced what i was going to say to you. with everyone i can talk to." you tried not to trip over your own words, so you just closed your eyes. not seeing him would make it easier. "it's not that i don't want to talk to you, it's that– it's that i feel so much for you that i didn't know what it was."
your heartbeat kept you from breathing steadily, but you ignored it. "you mean so much to me. you represent so much to me that– i don't know, you're so noble and mature and i was afraid of seeming childish or saying something and disappointing you, because my silence told you so much."
the tears were hot on your cheeks, salt in your mouth, but you didn't care anymore.
"i'm not sick. nothing catastrophic happened to me. i didn't face death. it was just easy for me to talk to those people to whom i owed nothing."
you took another step. you were close enough to touch him now. tears that were now gathering in his own eyes –eyes that watched you for years without demanding anything in return.
"you are the most significant person in my world. you have always been the axis around which i rotate. you’ve taught me so much since the first day."
you reached out. your hand trembled as you touched his face –his cheekbone, the skin warm and slightly damp, the texture of him present and alive.
"i want you to hear me. to ask you something, to tell you everything. i'm asking you to wait a little longer, maybe, but this time it’s a promise."
the silence that followed was different from all the others. geto reached up. his hand covered yours where it rested against his cheek, his fingers threading through your fingers, pressing your palm against his as if branding himself with your touch. his eyes were closed now, droplets trapped in between his lashes. it was the first time he heard you speaking directly to him. when he opened his eyes, they were infinite and dark, reflecting the streetlight and the stars that were beginning to pierce the twilight.
"your hair…" he whispered, his lips brushing your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, each touch feather-light and devastating. "your hair tastes like a kiss from a tuberose bloomed in mercury."
i was searching for something else but discovered the most beautiful thing ive read all day. the entire thing felt like a poetic coming of age film. their friendship means so much to me and the way its represented is so beautiful i love it
cowboy!gojo who went out west to esp as his past, find gold, and get old. but one thing led to another and he finds himself in a small town, herding the mayors cattle.
the pay is good and the mayor is an even better man, so cowboy!gojo throws his dream of finding gold away and rather focuses on something he knows he’s good at.
and for months it goes well. the lady in the town flirt with him, walking up to old horse den where he’s usually around and bat their eyelashes. sometimes he gives them a polite nod, sometimes he flirts back.
it’s all smooth-sailing until you come.
he’s heard talk about you. the mayors oldest daughter, back from studying art abroad. that man loved you so much, cowboy!gojo could hear him chattering up in excitement the weeks leading up to your return.
and you proved…different than what cowboy!gojo expected.
he’s already been aquatinted with your little sister, a prim and spoiled girl already preening about marriage and babies. he thought you’d be that. maybe even a little worse.
but you’re not. and despite the fact that he distances himself a great length and tries to stick to his work, you pique his interest.
you’re quiet and shy. timid and tight lipped smiles as you wave to him when you pass him working on the field. he sees the way your eyes linger on his body. he doesn’t hate it the way he does with other women.
you’re polite and kind, brining him some food your house cook made, asking him questions about where he’s from. he answers, curt and deep.
but he likes it. he seems to like you.
and cowboy!gojo is fine with wrangling horses and cattle. but he’s not fine wrangling you, the mayors daughter.
cowboy!gojo who went out west to esp as his past, find gold, and get old. but one thing led to another and he finds himself in a small town, herding the mayors cattle.
the pay is good and the mayor is an even better man, so cowboy!gojo throws his dream of finding gold away and rather focuses on something he knows he’s good at.
and for months it goes well. the lady in the town flirt with him, walking up to old horse den where he’s usually around and bat their eyelashes. sometimes he gives them a polite nod, sometimes he flirts back.
it’s all smooth-sailing until you come.
he’s heard talk about you. the mayors oldest daughter, back from studying art abroad. that man loved you so much, cowboy!gojo could hear him chattering up in excitement the weeks leading up to your return.
and you proved…different than what cowboy!gojo expected.
he’s already been aquatinted with your little sister, a prim and spoiled girl already preening about marriage and babies. he thought you’d be that. maybe even a little worse.
but you’re not. and despite the fact that he distances himself a great length and tries to stick to his work, you pique his interest.
you’re quiet and shy. timid and tight lipped smiles as you wave to him when you pass him working on the field. he sees the way your eyes linger on his body. he doesn’t hate it the way he does with other women.
you’re polite and kind, brining him some food your house cook made, asking him questions about where he’s from. he answers, curt and deep.
but he likes it. he seems to like you.
and cowboy!gojo is fine with wrangling horses and cattle. but he’s not fine wrangling you, the mayors daughter.
