The moment your shoes hit the cool tile floor of the hotel lobby, you were 90% sunshine and 10% “What the hell are we doing?”
Satoru Gojo looked like a model off duty, a bit too cool for someone about to commit several federal emotional crimes. White hair slightly messy, round sunglasses still on even though you were inside, dragging his suitcase with one hand and balancing a churro in the other.
“Did you have to buy a churro the second we landed?” you muttered, eyeing the cinnamon-sugar crime against travel hygiene.
“Florida airport churros are sacred. Do not disrespect.” He chomped with full eye contact. “Besides, we’re about to lie to two full sets of parents. I need sugar to fight guilt.”
By the time you reached the hotel room, courtesy of Satoru’s agency, aka the one good consequence of his ridiculously handsome face, you were both tired and buzzing from the fact that this was it. Lie Week. Guilt Fest 2026. Operation: God Forgive Us.
You dropped your bags, and Satoru flopped onto the bed like a man defeated by air travel and moral ambiguity.
“Okay,” you said, cracking your knuckles like a mafia boss with a to-do list. “The plan.”
“WE HAVE A PLAN!”
“WE’RE LYING TO OUR FAMILIES WITH A PLAN!”
“WE’RE GOING TO MARRY EACH OTHER ON A TOURIST ISLAND!”
You jumped and screamed so much that a knock came from the next room. “Please keep it down!” someone yelled.
…
The sun was soft and golden on their backs as they rolled down Florida highways, singing off-key to old-school J-pop and questionable American pop-punk like they were on a pre-wedding honeymoon, except it was all pretend. The windows were down, the breeze smelled like the ocean, and Satoru kept reaching over to squeeze your thigh every time you laughed a little too hard.
You had both changed into your “beach-chic almost-wedding-but-not-quite” fits, he in a white linen shirt with sleeves rolled up, those bright eyes sparkling behind his dark sunglasses, and a smile that could crash economies, and you in a loose off-white sundress you found at a random boutique, with Satoru’s oversized black jacket lazily flung over your shoulders like you owned him. (Which you kinda did.)
Everything was… weirdly perfect. Until you turned the final curve and saw it.
The massive rusted GATES CLOSED sign hanging like a joke from God.
“…No,” Satoru said, slowing the rental car. “No, no, no. This isn’t—what?”
You both hopped out and jogged to the entrance, trying to reason with the two security guards lounging near the barrier. The taller one looked deeply uninterested, sipping from a thermos like he was paid to ignore romantic delusions.
“Off-season,” he grunted. “No access till May.”
“But we came all the way from Japan—”
“And…?”
Defeated, you trudged back to the car, Satoru following with both his hands in his snow-white hair.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of you were sitting in a deserted beachside park, shoes in sand, hearts in your throats. The light had turned that aching pre-sunset orange, the kind that made everything feel more dramatic.
Satoru sat beside you, fiddling with the little velvet ring box, opening it, closing it. Opening it. Clicking it shut. Like he was trying to time a decision with his heartbeat.
You sat in silence, his jacket still wrapped around you like a security blanket. It smelled like him. Of all the cities in the world, this was the one you’d chosen to lie for love. And now, the gates of fate were literally shut.
“Maybe it’s a sign,” you murmured, voice soft. “Maybe God’s telling us to stop this.”
Satoru sighed deeply, resting his head back against the bench. The breeze messed his hair, but his expression stayed unreadable.
“If we stop now,” he said, voice low, “we’ll lose the only chance we have. The only lie we’ve got left to be together. I don’t care if it’s a stupid lie. I’ll take stupid over losing you.”
You looked down at your hands. You remember the night you told your sister everything.
Your sister stared for a long time.
Then she set down the tiny romper she’d been folding, turned fully toward you, and let out a soft sigh. “First of all,” she said, her voice low but warm, “you’re taking advantage of my situation.”
Your shoulders sagged with guilt.
But she reached for your hand and squeezed it. “Leave it. I don’t mind, ___. If that gets you what you want... I really don’t.”
Your lips trembled.
“But,” she continued, her voice breaking just slightly now, “you’re telling the family you’re pregnant.”
She paused.
“You know… the first time a woman finds out she’s pregnant, telling your parents, your husband, realising it yourself… it’s such a beautiful thing, ___. You’ll miss that happiness. You’ll never get it back.”
You blinked hard, but your tears spilled anyway.
“Even if it’s a lie,” she said, wiping under your eyes gently with her thumbs, “even if you say it now… you can’t take those words back.”
She looked at you then, properly.
“Is he even worth all this?” she asked quietly.
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.
You just nodded. Slowly. With all the weight of your heart behind it. Your face was blotched, nose red, and you looked like a child again.
She reached out, pulled you into her arms, and whispered into your hair,
“Then you better not let go of him.”
Everything was so dumb. So far. So broken and terrifying and… weirdly beautiful.
Then, all at once, you shifted closer to Satoru on the bench. Close enough to feel the heat of his shoulder. Close enough to rest your hand over his. He stopped clicking the ring box.
You turned to him and whispered, steady as a cliff edge, “Let’s call our parents, Satoru.”
Announcement from the heavens: ___ and Satoru Gojo are officially about to lie to their respective parents.
“Hello, dad?”
“Hello, mom.....”
…
You were already done.
It was dark now, Florida’s humid breeze brushing softly over your face as you sat hunched on the same park bench where the plan was made. The phone sat beside you like a crime weapon. Your knees were pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around them. You could still hear the 15 seconds of silence ringing in your ears. Ten of those seconds weren’t even breathing. Just stillness. A storm waiting to explode.
You watched Satoru from afar, pacing under the glow of the hotel’s entrance lights, phone to his ear. He looked… calm. Strangely calm. One hand in his pocket, his shoulders squared like he was just confirming a delivery. You couldn’t hear what he was saying, but your heart was thumping like it wanted to escape your body.
Then, just like that, he hung up.
He walked toward you, slowly. No drama. No gasping. No Shakespearean cries. He plopped down beside you, exhaled like a sigh had been building in him for years, and leaned back on his palms.
You didn’t say anything. You were too deep inside your own head, running through imaginary court scenes of family betrayal.
So he spoke first.
His voice was soft, almost teasing.
“You look like someone who just hacked into NASA and didn’t find any aliens.”
You blinked out of your trance.
“I called my mom,” you muttered, your voice brittle, “She… she cut the call.”
He turned his head toward you.
You nodded. “The whole call lasted fifteen seconds. Ten of those seconds, she said nothing. Then she just said—come back, angrily. And hung up.”
Satoru let out a whistle, low and long. “Damn.”
You rubbed your face.
Then he added, “My dad… he listened.”
You looked at him, surprised. “What?”
Satoru nodded slowly. “He just… listened. Patiently. Didn’t say a word. I kept talking like a madman—explaining the whole thing, giving background, timeline, tone shifts, drama, for some reason.”
“Still—nothing,” he said. “So I… just cut the call myself.”
You both sat in silence for a second.
You, holding guilt like a ticking bomb.
Satoru, holding your hand like he still believed in the universe.
The lies were told.
And now, the clock had started.
…
The flight home was mostly quiet, except for Satoru's constant fidgeting. His leg bounced. He cracked his knuckles. He chewed gum like it was a stress exercise. Meanwhile, you stared at the airplane window, not seeing anything past your own pounding anxiety.
The moment the plane landed, Satoru turned to you and shoved a neatly folded piece of paper into your hands.
“Read it after we land. But not before. Or I’ll cry and embarrass myself,” he said, serious.
You blinked at him, confused. “What is it?”
He adjusted his beanie, grabbed your suitcase and his. “Just instructions. For survival. Like... a combat briefing but more pathetic.”
You stared at the paper in your hand, your heart twisting. He handed you your bag and said softly, “Keep it in mind. You go first. I’ll follow after ten minutes. Go on.”
You hesitated, but nodded. You turned away, holding the paper tightly in your palm as you walked towards Arrivals.
Exactly ten minutes later, Satoru walked toward the same exit, chewing his lip. His steps were slower now, nerves catching up with him.
But as he neared the terminal doors, he stopped.
Nobody was there.
Well, correction: someone was.
A hand suddenly patted his shoulder. He turned sharply.
It was you.
In your hoodie, carrying your suitcase, and looking just as confused.
Satoru blinked. “Heeeeyyy… What are you doing here? Where are your parents?”
You shrugged with a sheepish smile. “They didn’t come. Probably pissed.”
Satoru snorted, trying to soften the blow. “Damn. That’s harsh.”
You smacked his arm. “Your parents didn’t come either.”
He scoffed. “Nah. They probably took the other exit or something.”
You shook your head. “They’re not there. I checked.”
The laughter in his chest stalled. Satoru stared ahead in silence.
You reached into your hoodie pocket and opened the paper he'd given you, unfolding it with a rustle.
Reading aloud, you began:
“Your mom will be crying. Your dad will be angry. Your sister will give you those stupid gestures about ‘the situation’… the moment you see them—this was your first course of action, huh?”
You looked at him, deadpan, and stuffed the note into his hand. “What do we do now, Nostradamus?”
Satoru scratched his head, embarrassed. “Well… I was kinda banking on that prediction being right.”
Without a word, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a small, small-sized bottle drink. He placed it into your hand like it was an apology from the universe.
You rolled your eyes, but smiled faintly and shoved it into your hoodie pocket.
Both of you walked outside and hailed a taxi.
Two cabs pulled up.
You and Satoru looked at each other, silently agreeing to take one together. No explanations needed.
Inside the cab, he gave the driver his address. You followed and gave yours right after.
Satoru’s house was the first stop.
The tension hadn’t left yet.
Satoru’s neighborhood crept into view through the cab window. He was still holding your hand tightly. Tighter with every passing second.
His thumb fidgeted against your knuckles like he was decoding Morse code with anxiety. You could feel it in his breath. The way his knee bounced. The way his eyes kept darting from the driver’s mirror to the window.
“Calm down,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “Keep calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. What if th—no, no—breathe…”
You blinked and looked out the window.
His house was on your side, visible now in the distance.
Except… something was very off.
You rolled the window down and slapped his shoulder.
“Satoru.”
“What,” he muttered, not even looking.
“There’s… there’s a tent at your entrance.”
That got him.
He blinked once. Then twice. Then full-on panicked.
“WHAT KIND OF TENT?” he blurted, as he literally climbed over your lap like a lizard escaping a cage, sticking his whole damn upper body out the window.
From afar, a cream-colored ceremonial tent stood outside his house, draped over the entrance with gold embellishments. You could spot chairs. People in traditional kimono. Something that definitely looked like a buffet line.
He sat back into the car, pale as chalk, biting his nails.
“Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.”
You stared.
He turned to you, eyes wide and haunted. “Do you think I killed my heart-patient grandma?”
“Wait—your grandma is a heart patient?!”
“Yessss--I’m gonna be arrested for emotional murder—”
You shoved him.
The cab came to a stop.
“Get out,” you said.
He clung to your sleeve like a toddler. “Don’t make me go, baby. They’re gonna sacrifice me to the fertility gods.”
“Satoru, out,” you said.
He whined.
But eventually, he climbed out, pouting.
He shuffled to the car boot, grabbed a suitcase like it was a coffin, and turned back one last time.
You were already peeking through the window, eyes squinted in worry, watching him.
He gave you a pathetic little wave. The ‘pray for me’ type.
You waved back.
The cab started reversing, turning to head toward your address.
Through the rear window, you could still see him standing at the gate. Staring at the tent like it was the portal to hell.
You didn't know what was inside that tent.
But you knew this for sure.
Whatever it was, Satoru was definitely underdressed for it.
The second Satoru stepped through the front gate, suitcase in hand, his uncle pounced like a well-trained guard dog.
“Ah, our world traveler returns!” Uncle beamed, arms open. “Crossed the oceans, conquered demons, and came back with news, hm?”
Satoru blinked. “Where’s Grandma? Is she okay?”
“Perfectly fine!” the man said, pulling him inside. “She’s in the kitchen making your favourite stew. Said something about ‘cooking for the boy who crossed the waters!’”
Satoru nearly collapsed in relief. So the tent wasn't a funeral thing. Thank God.
“Thanks, Uncle,” he muttered, dragging the suitcase inside.
That’s when little Takeru, his uncle’s devil spawn, popped his head out from the corner and went, “aniki! Can I take your old bike?”
“Sure,” Satoru nodded, distracted.
Takeru zoomed out to the garage like his soul depended on it.
Seconds later…
“Eww! What is THIS?!” Takeru’s screech echoed through the neighborhood. “Satoru-aniki, this rusty pink piece of garbage?! You used to ride THIS?!”
Satoru sighed and shuffled inside, ignoring the insult to his youth. But his eyes darted around. Still no sign of his dad.
His mom was in the hallway though.
She looked… off. Sad. Almost like she’d aged three years in the one week he’d been gone.
“Go take a bath, son,” she said quietly.
“…Okay,” he muttered, suspicion already bubbling.
When he got back, towel on his head, he found Takeru playing with the suitcase like it was a spaceship, zooooooming it around the hallway and occasionally spinning it like a beyblade.
Satoru picked up his phone and called you while drying his hair.
You answered immediately.
“Hey, you—” you paused. “…Wait. Wait, wait, Satoru.”
“What?”
“I just got down from the taxi, okay? The driver gave me the suitcase—but this isn’t my suitcase.”
“…What?”
“THIS IS YOUR SUITCASE. THERE’S A PHOTO OF YOUR FAMILY’S GOD TAPED TO IT—YOU TOOK MINE.”
Satoru’s soul exited his body.
His eyes snapped to Takeru still zooooming the suitcase across the floor like it owed him money.
“TAKERU!” Satoru screamed, grabbing the phone away from his ear, squatting down and holding your suitcase away from him.
“STOP ZOOMING MY LIFE.”
Takeru looked up. “ANIKI! YOU DIDNT BRING ME CHOCOLATE?”
“To HELL with your chocolate!”
The kid let out a dramatic gasp and scampered off yelling curse words that were banned in schools.
Satoru brought the phone back. “I’m so sorry—”
Click.
You’d cut the call.
Satoru groaned, dragging the suitcase toward his room. His mom followed in silence, watching him with a sad look.
He set the suitcase down in the corner and turned to her, trying to put on his best ‘son-who-has-life-under-control’ face.
“It’s so unfortunate…” she whispered, eyes glassy. “That you’re… infertile, son.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah… very… tragic. May my sperm rest in peace.”
She sniffled.
Then he frowned. “Wait. Why is everything moving so fast? Why the tent? Why are all the relatives here?”
His mom darted her eyes with the corner of her sleeve. “Your dad went to Master Gakuganji’s house. He’ll be back soon. He’s going to announce it to the whole family after dinner.”
Satoru’s brain short-circuited.
“He’s gonna WHA ??”
“It’s important that everyone knows—”
“MOM,” he wailed, “I DID NOT WIN A NATIONAL AWARD, THAT YOU'LL TELL EVERYONE. OH MY GOD—”
He dashed out of the room, racing past cousins and rice cookers, straight to the dining table where his uncle was gobbling down dumplings.
“Uncle! I need your bike!”
“No can do,” he said, chewing. “Your dad told me not to let you ride it, apparently it's bad for your manliness.”
Satoru stared, shocked, betrayed.
Then his eyes landed on Takeru.
Still outside. Still with that rusty excuse of a bicycle. Pumping the tire.
“Move.”
Takeru blinked. “What? But this is—”
“I SAID MOVE.”
Takeru kicked the bicycle as Satoru got on it.
And then, ladies and gentlemen, like a warrior in a tragedy, Satoru mounted his childhood bike and cycled off like his fertility depended on it.
Next stop: Master Gakuganji’s house.
…
At your house.
The taxi barely rolled to a stop before your mom was already at the gate, arms folded, eyes sharp as a blade. You stepped out, suitcase in hand, except it wasn’t yours. You realized too late it was Satoru’s, but your mom noticed.
“Japanese?” she asked, voice quiet in a way that chilled your bones.
You nodded, barely.
Her hand lifted, and your heart froze, but it never landed. “I’d hit my daughter if she did wrong,” she said, her voice trembling now, but with fury. “And my daughter knows not to do this wrong.”
She turned sharply and stormed into the house. You followed quietly, head low. Your sister was on the couch, her round belly visible even beneath the oversized shawl. She offered you a sheepish smile, gentle, knowing.
You tried to give her a look, say something, but your mother was already digging through the drawers with angry hands. She turned around, pregnancy test in hand.
“Take it.”
“Mom—” your sister began, rising to her feet.
“Don’t you interfere,” your mom snapped. “You already did enough.”
You swallowed and nodded, gripping the test and walking into the bathroom with trembling hands.
I’m done for mom gave a preg test, you texted Satoru as you shut the door behind you.
Almost immediately, his reply came.
Satoru: I predicted this. Use the drink I gave you. Hoodie pocket. It’s made to trigger positive.
You stared at the tiny-sized bottle, pulling it out like it was some kind of divine relic. The label was torn. Nothing on it suggested anything miraculous, except… well, this was Satoru Gojo we were talking about.
You followed his instructions, hands shaking.
Two lines.
You exhaled. A long, shivering sigh.
You walked back out and handed the test to your mother without a word. She took it, glanced down, and walked away, silent. She didn’t even look at you.
You stood there, breathing heavy. The silence crushed your ears.
And then warm hands wrapped around yours. Your sister pulled you in gently, belly pressed against your side, arms encircling your shoulder as you finally cried.
“It’s gonna be okay,” she whispered.
…
The wind howled in his ears as Satoru pedaled with all the fury of a doomed man.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he picked it up without slowing down. “Yes, Mom?!”
“Satoru, come back—your dad’s back already.”
Satoru groaned, “WHAT. The dinner isn’t over yet, right?”
A pause. Then her voice turned panicked, hushed but tense. “Come back fast. Your father’s calling everyone to your room—he’s going to announce it now, he's saying dinner later.”
He nearly dropped the phone. “MOM. YOUR HUSBAND IS GOING TO BE THE END OF ME.”
“I know, I know—what do I do?!”
“Tell him I got into an accident! A big one! Like—like I’m bleeding and unconscious. Please!”
There was a beat of silence. “How can I--Okay. I’ll try.”
Satoru sighed, still cycling madly, trying to turn the damn rusty bicycle around. The front basket wobbled, then clanged to the ground, rolling across the street with a metallic screech.
“Fuck,” he hissed, abandoning it entirely. He clumsily jerked the bike around, phone still clutched in one hand, when the back tire slipped on a patch of gravel—
And the next thing he knew, he was face-down on the pavement.
Pain bloomed in his knee and arm like fire. Blood. Scraped skin. His elbow stung raw. He winced and rolled over, eyes squinting at the streetlights above. “Great,” he muttered, voice tight. “So now I really got into an accident.”
…
Meanwhile, back at the house.
His mom rushed to the hallway, still on the call with him. “Satoru, he’s locking the door! He’s locking the door!”
“Stop him! Say anything!” Satoru hissed from the ground, biting his lip as he sat up slowly, gravel embedded in his skin.
Inside the house, his father stood tall in Satoru’s room, the suitcase, your suitcase, unknowingly packed with god knows what, propped proudly against the door.
“My son,” his father began, voice solemn, “has a disease—”
BANG.
The door flung open violently. The suitcase toppled over, landing with a loud thud. The zipper burst slightly from the impact, the contents shifting, dangerously close to spilling out.
“What are you doing?” his mother said, breathless.
“I’m having a serious discussion with our family—”
“Well, I have a serious problem—your son just got into an actual accident, not a social one!”
At that moment, every pair of elder eyes widened, including his uncle’s.
“Accident?” his father repeated, brows drawn.
“Yes! On his way here!”
The room erupted in murmurs, someone mentioning calling an ambulance. People rushed out, and Takeru, accidentally in a rush, tripped over the suitcase. It fell open.
Back on the street, Satoru sat on the curb, bloodied, wheezing, and muttering to himself.
“WHY ARE THEY IN MY ROOM. I swear to god, if they open that suitcase—if they open that suitcase and find those—”
His phone buzzed again.
___: Satoru. Please tell me you still have my suitcase. Because there are things in there that not even death can explain.
Satoru, still bleeding from his elbow and gripping his phone like it held the meaning of life, replied with trembling fingers.
Satoru: I think your Victoria's Secret is about to be a family legacy.
And with that, he buried his face into his hands, sighing in despair.
…
When Satoru finally limped back home, bruised and bloodied from his heroic bike stunt gone wrong, ignoring Takeru's cries of how his new bike got ruined, the living room was unnaturally quiet. Too quiet. His uncle looked at him like he was some kind of walking scandal.
“It’s okay, son,” he said solemnly. “You do have a disease. But don’t worry. You’ll get better.”
Satoru’s heart dropped. No. No, no, no, no, no—
He stumbled past everyone, ignoring the whispers, beelining straight to his mom. “Did he tell them?” he hissed under his breath. “Mom, did Dad actually tell them all that—”
She raised a palm. “Sit. Down.”
“But—!”
“Sit. Down. Now.”
He obeyed, dragging his wounded body toward his room like a war veteran. When he opened the door, his soul left his body.
His dad was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room. Right in front of the suitcase.
Your suitcase.
And half of your innerwear was very publicly decorating the floor.
Satoru gasped like a scandalized Victorian maiden and lunged forward. “D-Dad, that’s not mine—I mean, obviously, it’s not mine! That—it must’ve opened by mistake—there was a crash—and I—!”
He slammed the suitcase shut, hugging it like a bomb. But it was too late. His father was holding something even worse than lace.
A polaroid.
Of you.
Wearing his jacket. Smiling. The one from the beach, where he was kissing your forehead like you were his whole world.
He cleared his throat. “That girl. That girl I told you about. The one who said she’d marry me even if she knew—uh, that. That I couldn’t—um. Yeah.”
His father blinked. Confused. “What are you talking about?”
Satoru froze.
“…Dad. I told you this already. When I was in Florida.”
“You called me in Florida and said you were infertile. I remember I held the phone to my heart out of grief.”
Satoru’s jaw dropped. “Dad. Phones are for talking. Not for hugging them!”
“Well, you should’ve called back!”
Before they could argue more, his mom stormed in with the first-aid box and pulled him by the ear.
“Sit down,” she ordered again, this time in mother mode. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”
So he sat, sulking like a punished cat while she datted at his wounds, and his father folded his arms. “Tell us now, what's the issue? All of it. What’s going on?”
Satoru gulped. “O-Okay…”
He tells his side of the story (or lie).
“You wrapped yourself around her like a vine the moment a stranger told you she liked you?”
“No, Dad!” he snapped, but then softened. “…I knew her. From childhood.”
His father narrowed his eyes.
“I-I always liked her,” Satoru added in a small voice.
“And? Is she Japanese?”
Satoru paused.
His dad leaned forward.
Satoru swallowed hard. “…N-no.”
His father reeled back like someone had tased him. “SHE’S NOT JAPANESE?!”
Satoru winced. His mom almost dropped the cotton swab.
Then the final blow came. “Why did you even get your fertility checked?!”
“It was an agency check-up, Dad! For the project in Florida! It was mandatory!”
“Get up. We’re going to the hospital. Right now. I’m not trusting anything unless a doctor says it.”
That’s how he ended up panicking in the bathroom.
He locked the door, sat on the closed toilet lid, pulled out his phone, and dialed you with shaking fingers.
You picked up on the second ring. “Baby?”
“Baby,” he whispered urgently, “we’re dead. He’s taking me to the hospital now. I’m gonna be exposed. This is the end of me. I’ll never eat mochi in peace again.”
You were silent for a moment, then you sighed. “Satoru, breathe. I knew this might happen.”
“YOU KNEW?”
“Yes, which is why I’m texting you an address right now.”
Ping.
A message popped up.
[Name of shady hospital]
“The doctor there,” you added calmly, “I bribed him so many times. You’ll be fine.”
“…I love you.”
You said, voice soft through the speaker, “I love you too, loser.”
“Wait—what if the doctor flips? What if he tells them I’m healthy?”
“Satoru, he’ll say what you want if you pay him and compliment his hair. Trust me.”
“…So all I have to do is lie to my dad, forge medical results, and flirt with a man?”
“Yes.”
Satoru smiled, finally, despite the blood still drying on his elbow. “Hey, baby?”
“Hmm?”
Satoru exhaled and stared at the mirror.
“Ride or die?” he asked softly.
“Ride or die,” you replied.
And somewhere, outside the bathroom, his dad was already revving the car.
The hospital waiting room was cold, quiet, and sterile, not at all the kind of place you'd expect to hold such a big secret.
Satoru sat there, legs jittering, hands clenched together in his lap, refusing to look up. The air-conditioning was on full blast, but he was sweating through his t-shirt like it was midsummer. Beside him sat his father, tense and silent, eyes fixed on the row of motivational posters about prostate exams.
“Mr. Gojo?” A voice rumbled, smooth like black coffee with a kick of whiskey.
Satoru didn’t flinch. He didn’t lift his head. But his stomach flipped.
“Could I please ask the guardian to step outside for a moment? It’s a matter of patient confidentiality.”
His father's brows furrowed, offended at first. But he stood, gave Satoru a pat on the shoulder and shuffled out.
A pause.
Then, for the first time, Satoru looked up.
His jaw dropped. His whole face lit up like Christmas morning.
“Miguel?!” he gasped, blinking like he couldn’t believe it.
Miguel was in a white coat, medical ID badge clipped onto his chest, but his stylish hat was off, and his earring sparkled in the overhead lights like sin in a church.
Miguel grinned. “Wassup, bro?, long time no see?”
Satoru nearly cried on the spot. Thank heavens.
“Don’t worry,” Miguel said, his voice dropping into a comforting murmur. “___ told me everything. I gotchu. I already submitted the fake report last night—nobody’s gonna question it. Honorary infertile king.”
Satoru collapsed back into his seat like a deflated balloon, hand dragging down his face.
“You’re a goddamn legend,” he whispered, genuinely in awe.
Miguel smirked. “Don’t I know it?”
A few minutes later, Satoru’s father was called back in.
Miguel was perfectly professional.
“Yes, Mr. Gojo. We’ve confirmed the results. Unfortunately, your son’s fertility is… compromised. It may be impossible for him to biologically father children.”
His dad didn’t say anything. He just nodded, mouth tight, hands trembling slightly.
The ride home was too quiet.
Satoru sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window. He could see his own faint reflection in the glass, a liar. A fraud. A son who just made his father think his entire family line was ending with him.
From the backseat came the soft sound of sniffling. At first Satoru ignored it.
But then his dad broke.
Sobs, muffled in the crook of his elbow. Satoru turned, watching in stunned silence as the strongest man he knew cried into a tissue, face crumpled with heartbreak.
Guilt crawled up Satoru’s spine like fire ants.
That night, you and Satoru facetimed with your backs to the wall, barely speaking.
Until finally you cracked first.
“I saw the way my dad looked at me,” you whispered. Your voice was already wobbly, thick with tears. “Like I’m some… characterless girl.”
Satoru blinked fast, staring at the screen, hating the way your nose scrunched when you cried.
He said, “I ruined us. It was my idea. Ever since I was a kid, I always thought lying would fix things. I'm sorry. We probably shouldn't have. You only did this ‘cause I panicked.”
“Yeah, and I said yes!” you sobbed, swiping your sleeve across your eyes. “And now my family thinks I’m pregnant and your dad thinks your dick’s broken—”
“Technically, Miguel said compromised—”
You laughed, a snotty, wet kind of laugh.
He smiled. Softly. Sadly.
Then you heard shuffling and suddenly he was lying in bed, holding the phone above his face.
“You’re not characterless,” he whispered. “You’ve got more character than anyone I know. You know that, right? This is just a lie.”
You let your eyes close. Silent tears trickled down your cheeks.
“And your dad?” you whispered.
Satoru sighed. “He… cried in the car.”
You winced.
“Like full-on backseat breakdown. You don’t even know. I’ve never felt so evil in my life. I might go to hell.”
“You are going to hell,” you muttered.
He chuckled.
You sniffled. “Save me a seat?”
“Front row,” he said.
And somehow, between your shame and his guilt and all the lies blooming like flowers you didn’t plant, the two of you fell asleep on call, screen glowing dim, breaths syncing, guilt fading for just a little while.
Because in this ridiculous, messed up plan of yours, the one honest thing that remained…
Was each other.
…
2 days later.
NANAMI KENTO: “Report to the office. Now.”
That’s it. No punctuation. No smiley. Not even a damn period. Just pure doom.
Satoru stormed into the building wearing the boldest war attire known to mankind: A plain white t-shirt A black blazer (to try and look normal) And blue traditional hakama pants, flaring like royal silk clouds around his legs
The kind that billowed with every step like he was on his way to dethrone someone. Which, to be fair, he probably was.
The intern at the front desk dropped her coffee. The stylist in the hallway paused mid-scroll on her phone. One of the window wipers muttered, “What in the historical drama is happening?”
But Satoru had no time for peasants.
“What. Are. You. Staring. At?” he said, eyes blazing behind his dark glasses, shoulders squared. “These pants are better than your entire personality. MOVE.”
The hallway cleared like Moses parting the red sea.
He didn’t even knock. He kicked open Nanami’s office door like he was ready to throw hands.
Nanami, who had been mid-spin in his black swivel chair adjusting his signature tie, paused dramatically. His head tilted. His gaze dropped. Then rose.
“...What,” Nanami said, blinking once. Then again.
“What’s it?” Satoru snapped, arms crossed. “Why’d you call me here?”
Nanami just blinked harder. “You look like a samurai who got lost on the way to a Kyoto period drama set.”
Satoru huffed. “It’s tradition,” he snapped. “Any man in my house who’s crossed waters has to wear these for three days.”
There was a heavy silence.
Nanami blinked a third time. “That’s the dumbest—fine. I’ll take it.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So why are you back? The seminar’s two days from now. In Florida. Why are you here?”
“I’m not going,” Satoru said, jaw set.
Nanami gave a dry, exhausted laugh. “There’s no one else to do it.”
“Then cancel it. The water there didn’t suit me.”
“I’m not cancelling a paid seminar in fucking Florida because you suddenly hate water.” He scoffed. “You stayed there for a week.”
“And I used that week to rest. Because the water didn’t suit me.”
Nanami leaned back in his chair, arms folded now, one eyebrow twitching like it was possessed. “Mr. Gojo is so worried about his delicate water allergies he took a rest in Florida, huh.”
Satoru raised his chin. “So what?”
“I’m booking your ticket. You’re going back.”
“I can’t,” Satoru said, fists landing on the table.
The room went quiet.
Nanami flinched mentally. That tone, the “don’t push me, I’m two seconds from breaking this keyboard in half” tone, wasn’t normal for the usually cocky Satoru.
Nanami cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses. “Do you… need an hour?”
Satoru stared. “...Yes.”
…
The silence between Nanami and Satoru was sharp enough to slice butter.
Nanami sighed and finally leaned back in his chair, cracking his knuckles like he was preparing for some high-level corporate diplomacy.
Just as he opened his mouth to order, the waiter returned, awkward and weary from carrying both trays and trauma.
“Sir, your order?” he asked Nanami, eyeing Satoru’s hakama cautiously, like it might develop sentience and attack him, as Satoru glares back.
Nanami began politely, “I’ll have a chicke—”
“Get him some veg dumplings,” Satoru snapped, cutting across him like a sword through pork belly.
The waiter froze.
Nanami blinked. “I was gonna get—”
“VEG. Dumplings,” Satoru repeated, glaring at the menu like it owed him child support. “I can't eat non-veg for a while so not in front of me.”
The waiter scribbled quickly, scared to make eye contact. Then, to Satoru, he asked meekly, “Hot water for you, the usual, sir?”
Satoru slowly turned to him, face completely deadpan behind his dark glasses.
“Yeah. Bring me some shampoo too. I’ll take a bath in the corner.”
Nanami burst out coughing.
“Hey, hey, calm down,” Nanami said, raising a hand like a peace offering. Then to the waiter, “Just... bring him some veg dumplings too. Extra dipping sauce.”
The waiter bowed and practically sprinted away like his life depended on it.
Nanami exhaled and glanced across the table at Satoru, who looked like he’d walked out of a feudal era revenge saga.
“Look,” Nanami started carefully, like one wrong word might send chopsticks flying. “I get the cultural thing. You crossed waters. Your family’s strict. Stuff like that—it matters. It’s okay.”
Satoru’s fingers tapped the edge of the table.
“Nanami…” he said, voice flat. “You’re pitying me too early.”
Nanami tilted his head.
And that’s when Satoru told him. Everything.
Except for the fact that he’s in traditional pants because master Gakuganji told his dad that jeans were the cause of his unmanliness.
Nanami’s jaw slowly dropped like a heavy bag of rice. When Satoru finished, he took a breath and finally looked at his colleague.
Nanami just blinked. “So I’ve been lied to,” he muttered.
Satoru nodded once.
Nanami stared at the table. “...I gave Suguru Geto leave because I thought his grandma died.”
Silence.
“And I kept Shoko's leave open because you were supposed to handle Florida.”
Silence again.
Nanami sat back and exhaled long and low.
“...So I’ve been lied to.”
He repeated it like he was processing a math equation. No shouting. No dramatic storm-off. Just that stunned expression of someone who ordered beef stew and got served raw betrayal in dumpling wrappers.
Satoru had gone quiet again. He kept muttering something under his breath, eyes locked on the table.
“Two days. Two days. To ruin a life…”
Nanami tilted his head, sipping his water with caution. “What happened?”
Satoru finally exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. He looked up. “That same guy. Joseph.”
Nanami blinked. “The American one?”
“Yeah. He said... he had no issue marrying her, even if she was pregnant with someone else’s child.”
Nanami slowly set his glass down. “…What.”
Satoru’s mouth twitched in irritation. “Exactly.”
Nanami squinted. “Is he a good man or a weird man?”
“Both?” Satoru threw up his hands, then leaned in. “I met him in person. Tried talking it out. Man to man. Right? Then this guy—this bold, insane guy says—‘See man, she thought you were handsome, went a bit far with you, doesn’t mean she likes you, okay? And I don’t really mind. I’ll take good care of her. I’ll not discriminate your kid from mine. You can come every weekend to meet your daughter or son. I have absolutely no issues, okay?’”
Nanami stared like he’d just witnessed a crime.
“I—Nanami—I tried arguing more,” Satoru continued, exasperated. “Tried making him understand that she loves me and I lover her. But then he goes: ‘Tell me one thing that proves she likes you.’”
He slapped the table lightly.
Nanami raised a brow. “...And?”
“I got angry. I told him—” Satoru rubbed his temples. “I told him she’s not pregnant.”
Nanami froze.
Satoru whispered, “Then he was convinced. And left.”
Nanami opened his mouth. “You—you ruined the whole fucking plan.”
“I know.”
“She’ll be mad at you forever for that.”
“I know!” Satoru nearly yelled, slumping back in defeat. “And she is. She got mad at me immediately. Said I destroyed everything.”
Nanami groaned and slid his palm down his face. “Of course she did. You made the whole operation collapse like cheap scaffolding.”
“But wait.” Satoru lifted a finger. “It gets worse.”
“How.”
“Joseph went to her house,” he said. “Told them about the ‘rumor.’ Said it was just something he heard. Said he just wanted to confirm. Apparently asked her to swear on her mother and say whether she was pregnant.”
Nanami’s mouth dropped again.
“She told me all of this herself,” Satoru muttered. “Her dad overheard. Stopped him right there. Told him to break off the marriage. Said misunderstandings like this weren’t right for the family.”
Nanami leaned back, staring. There was a pause. A thick, wordless pause.
“...Okay,” Nanami finally said. “I mean. That’s a good thing, right? Their marriage broke off.”
Satoru’s shoulders stayed tense. “But what if he tells them I’m the one who told him? It’ll be a mess, Nanami. A real one.”
Nanami waved his hand. “Chill. That’s a bridge you’ll burn when you get to it.”
Just then, the waiter returned, tray in hand, tip-toeing like he was entering a lion’s den.
“Sorry, man,” Satoru muttered to the waiter, a little embarrassed.
The waiter smiled faintly. “It’s fine, sir. It’s a sad story.”
Satoru managed a half-smile, just a twitch of the mouth.
The waiter gently put the plates down and said with tragic, misplaced wisdom. “But, sir… I think you should’ve talked to her dad first.”
Satoru blinked. Nanami blinked. The room temperature dropped five degrees.
Satoru’s hand subtly moved toward the butter knife. His jaw locked. His eyes went red behind his glasses. And just as he picked up the knife,
Nanami grabbed his wrist. “Satoru.”
“LET ME—”
“NO. We do not throw cutlery at service staff!”
“GET. LOST!” Satoru barked at the waiter, who yelped and disappeared so fast you'd think he was teleported.
Nanami looked back at Satoru. “You need a therapist.”
The waiter had fled like a man chased by ghosts. Nanami exhaled and sat back, flicking his chopsticks open. Then he looked sideways at Satoru.
“…You know,” he said slowly, “the waiter was right.”
Satoru squinted at him. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“Then why didn’t you—?”
“I did,” Satoru cut him off, dramatic as ever. “Took her dad to a super crowded restaurant. Packed to the brim. People even standing and eating, like some black market for noodles.”
Nanami raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Okay… and?”
“And I sat him down, looked him in the eyes, and said, ‘Sir, I know you are very angry at me. There are many people here. If you want to hit me, I won’t stop you. You’ll feel satisfied, and they’ll all witness my public humiliation.’”
Nanami’s eyes widened, an excited look in his eyes. He was leaning forward like a kid at storytime. “Did he hit you?” he asked, while tapping his foot.
“No.”
Nanami gasped happily. “Did he punch you?”
“No—he just looked at me for ten seconds.”
“And then?!”
“…Then he left.”
Nanami sat back like a balloon deflating. “Tch. Sad life, huh?”
Satoru stabbed another dumpling with angst. “Don’t remind me.”
Nanami picked up a dumpling, inspecting it. “So what now? Everything seems pretty… sorted? The marriage broke. The truth didn’t come out. You’re not dead.”
Satoru paused. Put his chopsticks down. Looked at Nanami. His voice lowered.
“She—the love of my life, said that…”
Nanami looked up mid-bite.
“She said that because her father trusted her so much… because he broke the marriage off thinking Joseph was wrong to doubt her… she’s decided—he must never know that she wasn’t pregnant.”
Nanami frowned. “…Huh?”
Satoru’s gaze was dead serious. “Which means she should get pregnant. For real.”
Nanami choked on his dumpling.
“Wait—wait—before marriage? You’re planning—?!”
“No, Nanami! We’re just… thinking.”
Nanami was wheezing. “What do you mean, thinking?? That’s not a group project. That’s a life-altering multi-generational decision—!”
Satoru waved him off, red ears and all. “We’re being careful!”
Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what. Eat. Please. Shut your romantic generator for two minutes and eat.”
Satoru pouted and took a bite.
…
The parent meeting.
Rain taps against the windshield. The world outside is grey. Inside the car, you and Satoru sit. he’s biting his nails, you’re chewing your lower lip, both of you barely breathing.
Satoru's back to jeans. You hold the phone between you both. The call is on speaker, tucked into the car’s dashboard shelf, glowing like it’s about to explode with tension.
“They’re here,” your sister murmurs through the phone. “Everyone just sat down.”
Satoru swallows hard. “Did you remind your dad not to bring up the pregnancy?”
“I begged him not to bring up anything that starts with ‘P’.”
You glance at him. “Did you remind your dad to be soft?”
Satoru nods quickly. “I even told him to be heart touching.”
You sigh. “Please God. Please let this not turn into a war.”
Inside the Café, through your sister's phone, which she took to keep you informed:
Small talk starts. Stiff. Measured.
Your father: “So… your son is a model, is he?”
Satoru’s dad: “Yes. And your daughter is… artistic.”
Your mom murmurs a quiet “thank you.”
Satoru’s mom chuckles awkwardly. “She must be… strong-willed.”
Your dad: “She is honest and good.”
Silence.
Satoru’s father clears his throat. “We’re glad this marriage is happening. Though… it’s not exactly ideal.”
You freeze. Satoru grabs your hand in a death grip.
His father continues. “No girl in our family would ever… go to such lengths. But it’s fine now.”
Silence. Thick. Slapping.
Your father’s voice is ice-cold. “Excuse me?”
“I—”
“What did you say about my daughter?”
“I meant it in a good way, no one would marry my son if they knew this, she's—”
“You think she’s what? Dishonourable? Because your son couldn’t control the narrative, you blame my girl?”
You try to yell into the phone but it’s not your place anymore. You’re just the kid, sitting outside, in the rain.
You look over to Satoru who looks horrified, and he blurts—
“WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?”
Voices rise. Chairs shift.
Your sister tries to mediate. “Please let’s not raise voices—”
Satoru’s dad: “I only meant we are traditional, madam. That’s all—”
Your dad: “And I am not? Do you know the shame this caused us? You want tradition? Then teach your son not to get involved in such tricks!”
Your sister: “I—I think—”
Water hits the tiled floor. Panic.
Her voice—choking and shocked—“My water just broke—!”
Everything flips in a second.
Hospital Room – Two Hours Later
You sit outside the labor room with Satoru. His mom is inside. Your mom too. Everyone’s clothes are still damp. No one is arguing.
Your father walks up to Satoru’s dad with two coffee cups. Holds one out. Neither says anything for a second.
Then:
“If you weren't here....” your father says.
Satoru’s father smiles a little. “And your daughter… she’s stronger than any man I know. That was what I wanted to say.”
And that was that.
You and Satoru walk back to the car in silence. Rain still lingers in the clouds, but doesn’t fall.
“So… that’s how our families got close?” you whisper.
Satoru snorts. “Through a scandal, a breakdown, and your sister’s baby kicking open diplomacy.”
You laugh. But tears prick your eyes too.
“I thought everything would fall apart today,” you admit.
He looks at you, eyes soft, voice low. “Me too.”
“But they accepted it.”
“They did.”
You stop walking. “Do you think… we’ll be happy?”
He doesn’t answer for a second. Then he wraps his fingers around yours.
“With you? Even if we’re poor, jobless, and have seven kids—I’d still be happy.”
You blink up at him. “Seven?”
“Okay, okay, two.”
You both laugh.
But your chest is full. Heavy. Hopeful.
You never thought this would end in a hospital waiting room. That his father would panic, grab your sister, and carry her to the cab himself. That they'd all wait outside that labor room like one single family.
Maybe it's the rain. Or maybe it’s finally starting to make sense.
…
You kick your feet up on the coffee table, a jar of Nutella in one hand and a very suspicious-looking cucumber in the other.
Your sister walks in, nose wrinkling at the mess. “That’s not… how you’re supposed to eat that.”
You shrug, mouth full. “I’m creating new food laws.”
She laughs. “You’re literally just faking cravings so you can vomit. You know that’s not how pregnancy works, right?”
You wipe your mouth dramatically. “It’s called ‘method acting.’”
She groans.
But you have no choice. You have to keep up the lie. Vomiting helps with authenticity. If your mother sees you looking not puking, she’s going to get suspicious.
“Pass the soy sauce,” you say.
“Why? What are you dipping—” She sees the banana on your plate. “Oh my god. You're a criminal, gimme some,” she waddled towards you.
Meanwhile, Satoru is having the best morning of his life. He does a mini dance in the elevator on his way up to the office. Sends you a "mwah 😘" selfie captioned: “another day of making money for my baby”
Nanami raises an eyebrow when Satoru bursts into the office looking like sunshine.
“You seem unnaturally chirpy,” he says, peering at him suspiciously from behind his glasses. “You high on prenatal vitamins or what?”
“I’m just happy, Nanami!” Satoru grins. “Your boy is gonna be a dad!”
“You’re literally not, and can't?”
Satoru points dramatically. “Not yet.”
Nanami rolls his eyes. “Anyway. I cancelled the Florida project.”
“You’re cancelling it?” Satoru blinks. “But it was your dream project.”
“Yeah,” Nanami says, leaning back. “But you left me no choice, and I had a near-death experience last week where I was stuck in an elevator with two finance bros. Made me rethink everything.”
Satoru snorts. “Glad you saw the light, Nanami.”
Everything feels perfect.
Until.
Suguru Geto walks in.
Quiet. Eyes not quite focused. He avoids every good morning, walks past every desk, and locks himself in his office without a word.
Satoru frowns.
“That’s weird,” he mutters, knocking gently on Suguru’s door. “Hey, bro. Thought you were on leave?”
Suguru’s voice is low. “I… came back early.”
Satoru walks in. “But you had five days left—”
“My grandma died” Suguru says suddenly, not looking at him.
The smile falls right off Satoru’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have made you—”
“It’s not your fault.” Suguru breathes heavily. “I just…. I lied and said she died, and then… she actually did. This morning. Peacefully. But still.”
Satoru’s heart twists.
“I’m so sorry, Suguru…”
Suguru just nods, eyes still glassy. “I just feel sick about it. Needed to be around noise today. Not thoughts. That's why I'm here.”
Satoru doesn’t push. Suguru gives him a small nod, then turns his chair around, back facing him. A silent request for space.
Satoru walks out of the office quietly, his earlier glow dimmed. Guilt creeps into his gut like fog. He hated lying for this exact reason—how could something fake affect something so real?
His steps slow in the hallway, hands deep in his pockets, when his phone rings.
WIFEYYY ❤️ is calling…
His lips twitch. He answers. “Hey, baby.”
"Satoru—my mom is taking me to the hospital for a check-up. I'm literally outside the hospital now, this doctor is my mom's friend. We’re fucked."
Your hands are shaking as you hang up the call.
You don't even realize it until your mother gently grabs your wrist, her expression laced with concern. "___, what’s wrong? You said you’ve been to check-ups before, right?"
You nod. But not like this. Not with a real doctor. Not with someone who could destroy everything in minutes.
“I’ve only gone to private clinics with Satoru before,” you say weakly, clutching your phone like it’s oxygen. “Not like this.”
The hospital doors feel like the gates of judgment. And you’re walking right into them, with your mom’s friend, waiting to greet you, already preparing to call your bluff.
You try calling Satoru back. No answer.
So you take a deep breath, straighten your spine, and walk into hell.
Satoru's heart stutters. He doesn’t even grab his coat as he rushes to Nanami’s office.
“Nanami! I need your car! I need—I need to get somewhere now!”
“What? What happened?”
“She’s at a hospital. Her mom’s friend is a doctor. She's gonna find out she’s not actually pregnant. We’re so screwed—”
“Holy shit—”
“I don’t have time!” Satoru yells, already running.
He races to the street, unlocks Nanami’s car, throws himself behind the wheel as others stared because who the fuck is using the boss’s car? Then sees the address you texted. It’s over an hour away. With traffic. In the rain.
His hands slam the steering wheel. “Shit, shit, SHIT—”
And then, his phone rings. Dad.
He almost doesn’t pick up. He wishes he didn’t.
“Hello—?”
“YOU ABSOLUTE IDIOT.”
“Her father called me. Told me to arrange the marriage quickly. She's pregnant, it seems?” His father’s voice is practically vibrating with rage.
Satoru can barely breathe. “I’m coming home,” his father seethes. “You better be there.”
His mother lets him in.
“You ruined that girl’s life,” she says softly. “Her family’s dignity. And you lied to us. You told us you were infertile, Satoru.”
He tries to explain, hands rising, voice cracking. “Please… please just let me—”
But his father cuts him off. “I would rather cope with the fact that you were actually infertile, Satoru. At least then, it wouldn’t mean I raised a liar.”
He leaves. Slams the door behind him.
And all the noise in the world vanishes into silence.
His mother stands in the middle of the hallway, shoulders sagged, tears tracing the curve of her face.
Satoru moves closer. “Mom…”
“I gave you everything,” she whispers. “I let you choose. I trusted you. Do you know how hard it was to convince your dad that love marriages are okay?”
“Please,” he begs, voice hoarse. “It’s not what it looks like—”
She turns to him. Eyes rimmed with disappointment. Soft. But sharp.
“Where did I go wrong while raising you?”
Satoru looks at the floor, unable to meet her eyes. No answer. Because he doesn’t know. Because maybe she didn’t. Maybe he just broke under pressure. Maybe it was always destined to fall apart.
And now? Now the woman he loves is alone in a hospital. Now his parents are ashamed. Now, every lie he told to protect the future, might’ve just destroyed it.
It’s quiet. Too quiet.
Satoru sits on the sidewalk outside his building, soaked from the rain, phone clenched so tightly in his palm that his knuckles are white. Nanami had texted a dozen times. His mom hadn’t spoken a word since that question and now the sky looked like it was about to cave in.
He looks down at his phone again. No texts from you. No calls. No updates.
Which only means one thing. It’s done. They know. You’re not pregnant. The lie is exposed. And the marriage? Dead.
His hand covers his mouth as his eyes begin to burn. You’ll probably never speak to him again. Your parents will never forgive him. His parents already haven't. He lost everyone, over a lie he tried to protect you with.
He swipes his screen open one more time. Still nothing.
So, desperate for even a final goodbye, he calls you. And you… pick up.
“___—”
“Satoru,” you breathe, your voice barely audible.
There’s something strange in your tone. Like shock. Or fear. Or something beyond words.
“I—I have to tell you something.”
His heart drops. He doesn’t think he can handle more. “___, listen… I’m sorry. I’m really—”
“The test… came out positive.”
Satoru goes still. The wind stops. The rain sounds like white noise. And his brain blanks completely.
“…What?”
“I’m pregnant,” you whisper.
A beat passes. Then two.
Satoru lets out a short, broken laugh, one that sounds nothing like joy. “No. No, don’t say stuff like that. It’s already bad enough, ___. Don’t try to make me—”
“I’m serious,” you say.
And then, ping. You send him a photo. A crumpled scan of your report.
And there it is. In black and white. HCG POSITIVE. Confirmed. Pregnant.
His head starts spinning. “What the hell—what the actual—”
“We didn’t—” you choke, “I've never—Satoru, we never even did anything. Right? Not fully. We just—Satoru, do you trust me?”
You sound like you’re on the verge of tears. So does he.
“Do you trust me?” you whisper again.
Satoru stares down at the report, mind flashing back to every moment with you. No, you never crossed that line. You both always pulled away. The most intimate thing you'd done were heated kisses, touches, stolen moments, but nothing that could’ve led to this. You wanted to wait till marriage, and he respected that. Nothing that explained a pregnancy.
And yet… here it is. Here you are. And you’re crying. Because you’re scared. Because this doesn’t make sense. Because now, even you don’t understand what’s happening.
Satoru swallows. His voice cracks when he says, “I trust you.”
And he does. God, he does. More than anything. But this… this was beyond logic. Beyond timing. Beyond every safety line you’d both sworn to stay behind.
“How could this happen?” he asks, brokenly. “___, how—how the fuck is this happening?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “My mom was right there, Satoru. She saw it all. She hugged me and cried. She said she was so proud of me for being responsible and brave. And I just stood there. I stood there, watching everyone believe something I didn't even believe myself.”
His chest caves in.
You continue, quietly, through shallow breaths. “I thought maybe it was a lab mistake. Or maybe the test glitched. But I felt it, Satoru. When she hugged me. I felt like I was lying. Even though I didn’t. Even though we didn’t…”
You pause. Then ask again, shakier now, “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” Satoru whispers. “I do. Always.”
Then silence. Heavy, painful silence.
Until you finally say, “Then you have to believe me when I say I don’t know what the hell is going on. But it’s real, Satoru. And I’m scared.”
Tears slip down his cheeks. His phone trembles in his hand.
And suddenly, none of the lies matter. None of the plans. None of the family rage or the shattered image. All that matters is you.
You, scared. You, alone. You, growing something inside you that you never asked for. Something that you never planned. Something you don’t understand.
Satoru’s lips part, barely holding back a sob. “I’m coming to you.”
“You can’t—”
“I’m coming,” he insists. “Even if I have to walk. Even if mine disown me. Even if this makes no goddamn sense—I’m coming. Because you shouldn’t be alone for this.”
You breathe in sharply on the other end of the line. “I’m at home,” you whisper. “I asked her to take me back.”
And Satoru runs. Runs through the rain with his phone still pressed to his ear, heart thundering, past traffic and time and logic and fear. Because somehow, you're pregnant, and you need him. Now more than ever.
Your mom greets him like always. Your dad even offers him a small nod. Your sister is laughing with her husband on the couch, someone’s cooking something in the kitchen, and the lights are all on, warm and golden like it’s just another night.
And yet… you’re the only one sitting still. Silent. Spine straight, hands pressed against your lap like you’re holding yourself together. You don’t say hi when Satoru walks in. You just look at him. Like you’ve been waiting for only him.
He walks toward you, slowly, cautiously, as if afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.
And the second he’s close enough, you speak, voice low, desperate—
“Satoru… is it okay?”
He crouches in front of you, his eyes searching yours.
“Do you trust me?” you ask again, breath trembling.
You’re not crying. Not visibly. But he can see it, the panic behind your lashes, the tight grip of your knuckles, the broken rhythm of your breath that you’re trying so hard to keep hidden.
He smiles, gently. “You’ve asked me that five times already.”
“I’ll ask again,” you say, like it’s the only thing anchoring you. “Do you trust me?”
And he nods, so sure, so soft, it hurts to look at him.
“I do,” he says. “I trust you. I trust you more than I trust anything else right now.”
Your throat wobbles.
“And is it okay?” you whisper. “That this… this happened? Even though it doesn’t make sense?”
He reaches out then, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you up, into him, and holding you tight enough to quiet every shaking piece of your body. You gasp softly as your feet leave the ground, because he spins you. Just once. Just fast enough for your feet to dangle, for your head to dip forward against his shoulder, for the room to tilt and tilt and then stop.
Your fingers fist his jacket. You breathe in the familiar scent of him, grounding.
And he pulls back only a little, just enough to look at your stunned expression, cheeks pink, lips parted. Then he smiles again, a little crooked, a little helpless. A little like a man falling headfirst into something terrifying, and choosing it anyway.
“Even if you’re the next Virgin Mary,” Satoru Gojo says, “I’ll still marry you.”
Your breath catches. Your heart stutters. Your lips part.
And he leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to your mouth. It’s gentle. Like a promise sealed under skin. A kiss that says I know nothing makes sense right now, but I’m not going anywhere.
…
A week passes.
A week of silence and questions, of tentative laughter and phone calls late into the night. Your parents have calmed. So have his. It's not like they had much of a choice. You were going to marry anyway.
Satoru’s dad, once furious, now only sighs when he sees him, rubbing his temple and muttering, “Whatever’s happened has happened.” His mother hugs you when you visit, even puts a protective hand over your back when walking you out. And yours? Your mother won’t stop cooking for you, asking what you’re craving, like she’s suddenly remembered every love she ever had for you all at once.
And Satoru? He’s quieter now. Not in a bad way. He’s just watching you more. Carefully. Like he's always taking note.
You’ve caught him whispering to your belly once. Just once. You weren’t even sure he knew you saw him, but he’d knelt in front of you while you slept on the couch, placed a warm palm just above your navel, and whispered:
“Hi… I don’t know what you are yet, but… please don’t scare her. She’s just figuring out how to breathe again.”
You didn’t cry. But you couldn’t sleep after that either.
And now, a week later, everything feels so bizarrely calm that it’s almost unnatural. Your entire family is gathered at Satoru’s house for dinner, his parents, yours, your sister and her husband, even Nanami, who somehow found a way to sneak in, acting like a bored cousin who lives nearby.
It’s the “official” meeting. For marriage prep.
The elders sit at the long dining table, discussing traditions, ceremony customs, whether it should be a temple or a hall, and whether you’ll wear red or ivory. Your sister keeps making fun of you from the other side, texting you under the table: “You’re going to look like a balloon in all that fabric.”
You’re smiling. You're pretending. But the truth is? You feel off.
Your fingers tremble a little when you reach for water. Your lips are dry no matter how many times you sip. Your head’s been heavy since this morning, and you thought it would pass, but it didn’t. You’ve barely eaten, your stomach’s been in knots. You think maybe it’s just exhaustion. Or the fact that you’ve been lying to your parents for so long that now that they’re being kind to you again, it’s crushing. Like you don’t deserve any of this.
So you laugh along. Sit beside Satoru. Everyone's talking, the noise is warm and overlapping.
And then, your mom says something about wedding rings. She’s excited. She brings out this tiny box with a pair of gold bands, just a sample she wanted to show you. You smile. Nod. Try to reach across the table to take it from her hand.
And then the world shifts sideways.
A loud ringing floods your ears. You blink, slowly, once—twice—and then the entire room fades to black.
Satoru doesn’t even see it happen, he feels it.
One second, you're beside him, your hand reaching out. The next, your chair scrapes sharply, your shoulder slumps, and your entire body folds. He catches you just in time, his fast reflexes kicking in before you hit the floor.
“___?!”
There’s chaos. Screaming. Chairs pushed back. Your mother drops the box of rings. Satoru’s mom stands up, panicking. His father’s already on the phone, calling for a car. Nanami is already on his feet, clearing the path to the door.
You're completely unconscious in Satoru's arms. He lifts you effortlessly, but his hands are shaking, his usual calm completely shattered.
“Hey, hey, look at me,” Satoru mutters, his voice cracking as he taps your cheek gently. “What the hell—baby, please—___, wake up. Please wake up.”
You don’t.
It’s raining by the time they reach the hospital.
…
You’re asleep. Somewhere inside that sterile, humming hospital ward, your body’s resting after everything it’s endured. But the storm isn’t over. Not yet. Not outside.
Satoru, scared, tells everyone the truth.
Because out there, just past the glass doors, your sister is standing with swollen eyes and her arms wrapped tight around herself. She looks at everyone, your parents, Satoru, Nanami, Satoru’s parents, and says the one thing no one else had the strength to say.
“If he hadn’t lied,” your sister says, voice cracking, “if he didn’t say all that crap—about the pregnancy, the infertility, all those dumb plans—they would’ve never taken her for a full check-up. She would’ve never known.”
Everyone goes still.
And you aren’t there to see it, but your name might as well have echoed through the silence. Not from anyone’s mouth. Just in the air. Like your existence, your health, your body, was suddenly not just yours anymore, but a shared weight.
Nanami stands beside Satoru, lips pressed together, quietly observing your parents as they struggle to process what they’ve just heard. What Satoru just confessed. Everything. From the start.
Your fake pregnancy. His fake infertility. Joseph. The lie, the cover-up, the mistake that somehow led to a horrifying truth.
Dysgerminoma. The tumor that made every test say you were pregnant. The thing growing inside your ovary that you never, ever would’ve known about unless this entire disaster happened.
You’re asleep now, but out there, the people who love you are falling apart.
Satoru’s dad arrives last, stepping in like he has all the answers, and calls Satoru aside.
“So nothing happened, right?” he says quietly. “She’s not pregnant. Apparently, she’s probably going to be infertile. So there’s no point continuing this. Just wish her well and let it go.”
Satoru looks like someone punched him without touching him. Behind his glasses, his eyes widen in pure shock.
“Dad…”
But the older man walks away before he can finish. Walks like it didn’t cost him anything to say it.
Nanami watches it all happen, jaw tight, eyes flicking between father and son. Then he gently asks, “Want me to drop them off?”
Satoru doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no either. He just closes his eyes for a second like he’s been holding his breath too long.
“Please, Nanami,” he finally says. “I need to talk to her parents.”
And then Nanami does what he always does, steps in calmly, respectfully, and leads Satoru’s parents away, leaving just your family on the bench outside your room, 110.
Your mother looks tired. Your father is sitting still like someone pressed pause on him.
Satoru walks over, and kneels beside your dad.
Your father looks down at him, quiet. Expecting words. Maybe ready to hear them. Maybe not. But Satoru speaks anyway.
“___ is…” His voice cracks almost immediately. He clears his throat, wipes under his nose, and keeps going. “She’s not the type to give up. Even when everything else does. When people do. When fate does. She’s… she’s—sir, when we were kids, she never judged me.”
Your dad's brows crease faintly.
“Not for my blindfolds, or my weird habits, or when all the other kids called me a freak. She—she was the only person who made those worthless rituals, those ceremonies, all those expectations—feel okay. Like maybe I wasn’t stupid for believing in something.”
He sniffles, glancing down.
“I think I’ve been stuck in that phase ever since. Because nothing—nothing in my life—ever felt that good again. Except when she was in it.”
Your mother’s eyes begin to water. He looks up at them both, lips trembling but steadying his breath.
“I told my boss this story. At my job interview. I told him about her. About how I work hard because someone like her exists. That’s what I said. I’ve never really gotten over that.”
And then, quieter, almost ashamed,
“She’s told me, you know? That I’ve been important to her. That I mattered. But she’s not like me. She doesn’t stay stuck in time. She keeps going. She’s always going to surpass anything… even this.”
He wipes his face with his sleeve, stands slowly, tears still glistening in the corner of his lashes.
“This won’t stop her. She won't let it. So we shouldn’t give up either. Right?” He finally meets your father's gaze again. “Pregnancy is a choice. Not a compulsion.”
No one says a word.
Satoru apologizes in a voice so gentle it barely touches the air, and turns.
And there they are.
His parents are mid-argument, his mother’s voice sharp, his father’s voice low and angry. But they stop the moment they see him rushing toward them, breathless and red-eyed. Nanami is already in the driver’s seat, waiting.
“Get in,” his father says stiffly.
Satoru does.
The car ride home is silent. Tense. Like a truth just finished screaming and left the echoes behind. No one speaks.
The car finally pulls into the driveway. Satoru steps out, but his strength leaves him. Nanami’s arm wraps tight around Satoru’s shoulders, holding him as he breaks, quietly, breathlessly, tears finally slipping down his cheeks after holding them in too long. He wipes at them with the sleeve of his hoodie, but Nanami doesn’t say a word. He just keeps his arm around him like an anchor.
Inside the house, Satoru's mother is fighting alone. One against two.
“Are you even listening to yourselves?” she yells, voice shaking not out of fear, but fury. “You’re telling me tradition is more important than my son’s happiness?”
“It’s not that—” his father starts, but she doesn’t let him.
“No, don’t. Don’t tell me it’s different this time because she might not be able to have children. Because when it was your own child, a few days ago, who you believed was infertile, you were willing to get them married! You expected her family to be understanding. Because having children is a choice. Because that’s what humanity looks like, isn’t it? She was a self-sacrificing angel then!”
Satoru’s grandmother opens her mouth to speak, but she turns on her too.
“But when it’s the girl? Now it’s a disgrace? Now he can’t do the same thing you thought she was ready to do? A crime? A mistake that can’t be accepted?”
“Tradition—” his father says again, weaker now.
“Oh, I’m done being quiet,” she snaps, walking toward the door as the boys walk in. She grabs Satoru by the arm and then Nanami by the wrist, yanking them upright with determined strength. “Take him to the hospital,” she says. “He’s staying there until she’s better. He’ll be by her side, like he should be. And he will marry her. Do you hear me?”
She pushes them both toward the door.
Satoru turns at the threshold and hugs her, tight, long, full of tears and wordless gratitude.
“Thank you, Mom,” he whispers into her shoulder.
She holds him just as tightly, brushing his hair back. “Then go.”
He runs to the car, barefoot halfway down the driveway, Nanami already opening the door, and they drive.
Meanwhile, in the hospital, your family sits outside your room. The mood has shifted. You’re still inside, asleep, heart steady but slow. Recovering.
Your mom sighs. “In today’s world, how many people say what he did?” She glances at your father. “‘Pregnancy is a choice, not a compulsion’?”
Your father doesn’t speak. He just… nods.
Right then, the sliding doors open, and Satoru bursts in, breathless, messy hair, shoes half-tied. He’s searching like a man gone mad.
Your father stands and gently touches his shoulder. “She was shifted to room 201,” he says, softly.
Satoru's eyes widen. “Thank you, sir.”
Nanami stays back, and begins casually telling your parents about his cancelled Florida project to keep them occupied.
You’re awake.
And when he enters, chest heaving, eyes searching, you already know. You’re sitting up in the hospital bed, in a light blue uniform that drowns your figure, an IV in one arm, and a million things unsaid in your eyes.
He stares at you.
Then slowly, you say, quiet, but steady, “Satoru…”
He walks to you, sits near you on the bed.
You glance down at yourself. “How do I look?” you ask, trying to smile. “Good?”
Satoru squints at the uniform, his nose wrinkling. “They didn’t have a better color?”
“Green.”
He snorts, wiping his eyes quickly. “Oh—this is so much better.”
You laugh, soft. A tiny one.
There’s a pause. A silence between you so deep it feels like the air is listening.
Then your voice again, smaller. Realer. “Satoru…”
You look up at him, eyes brimming. “Will you marry me?”
Satoru smiles. It’s tired, aching, but entirely real. He leans down, letting you see his bare, beautiful, tear-rimmed eyes. He grabs your hand and presses it to his chest, where his heartbeat is thunder.
“You tell me,” he whispers. “You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
And you know he means it.
…
May, Amelia Island.
The breeze at Amelia Island is salty-sweet as it catches the veil still clipped loosely into your hair. You’re sitting barefoot with your legs tucked underneath you, wedding dress billowed around like a cloud, on the soft sand that’s seen more stories than it could ever tell. Satoru is next to you, shoes kicked off, black wedding suit unbuttoned and wrinkled from dancing and hugging too many people. His tie is looped around his wrist now, like a bracelet he forgot to take off.
He looks at you, all soft and squishy-eyed, completely bare of his signature glasses or blindfold. His striking, crystalline blue eyes are fixed on you like the way people look at baby animals in slow-motion videos.
You’re not even speaking, just resting your head on his shoulder as the Atlantic plays lullabies behind you.
“Baby, I was the one who gave the card,” he blurts.
You blink. “…Huh?”
He turns fully toward you, pulling his knees up like a kid telling a scary campfire secret. “That card. The one that got you so obsessed with this island...”
You look at him, completely silent.
He scratches his cheek, looking at you. “It was me.”
Your lips twitch. “I know.”
He freezes. “What—”
You burst out laughing. “I knew all along.”
Satoru blinks at you, genuinely stunned. “Wait. How?”
“It was obvious.”
You sit up straighter, shifting your dress so it doesn’t fly into the sand. The layers fluff up like whipped cream as you plant your hands on your hips. “I should tell you something too.”
He tilts his head, half admiring, half curious.
“Remember Carla?”
He nods slowly, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Yeah, you said she was the first female photographer, and the first picture she took was of this island…”
“Well, Carla was actually my math teacher from fifth grade. She used to chew on chalk and forget my name.”
Satoru stares at you. “What.”
You grin wider. “The picture thing? Made it up. I wanted to see if you'd believe me.”
Satoru's mouth falls open in complete betrayal. “…What.”
“That was the day I decided I wanted to marry you,” you say, smug.
He just… stares. “So you’re telling me I’ve spent years thinking I gave you a poetic, historically accurate, niche-romantic postcard—”
“And instead you were falling for a girl who lied to you about a lady with chalk in her mouth,” you sing.
His jaw drops. “My whole LIFE has been a LIE.”
You’re already standing up, backing away slowly, laughing, holding up your gown. He’s still sitting in stunned silence.
“I’M SERIOUS—CARLA WAS MY TRIG TEACHER—”
You’re already laughing too hard to stand straight when he bolts up.
“___! COME BACK HERE!”
You run.
Down the shore, veil flying, wedding dress lifted as your bare feet slap against the wet sand. He’s right behind you, suit jacket flapping open, breathless from laughter and disbelief.
“WHO EVEN LIES ABOUT A PHOTOGRAPHER—?!”
“ME! I DO! GET USED TO IT, YOU’RE MARRIED TO ME NOW!”
“You scammed me!”
“You married the scammer!”
He nearly grabs your waist and you twist just in time, shrieking as you both tumble into the sand, breathless and dizzy and tangled in lace and limbs.
And there, in the golden blush of an Amelia Island sunset, he looks down at you, sand in his white hair, shirt sticking to his chest, ring on his finger, and smiles like he’s got everything he’s ever prayed for, all at once.
“You know,” he whispers, brushing your hair back, those boundless blue eyes reflecting the fading light. “Even if Carla wasn’t a photographer…”
“Hm?”
“You still changed my world by existing.”
You kiss. The kind of kiss where time falls asleep for a second.
…
Somewhere in Florida, weeks later, it’s raining cats and dogs.
Satoru’s going through fuzzy handcuffs for experimenting, when his phone rings. Satoru answers.
He squints out the window, takes a deep breath, and says loudly, obnoxiously, “I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd!!”
Suguru Geto, who called, almost cries.
Dreams do come true. Even for weird ad models with strange accents.
End.
…
Bonus:
"Nanami! My savior! My guiding light!"
Nanami didn't even look up from his spreadsheet. "No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to ask!" Satoru whined, leaning over the desk until his face was directly in Nanami’s line of sight. "I need a favor. A tiny, lifecycle-altering favor."
Nanami sighed, finally taking off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "Go on. Make it quick. My lunch break starts in exactly fourteen minutes."
"I need you to send me to Florida. On the business trip. The one you canceled."
Nanami’s eyebrow twitched violently. "The Florida project that I just spent three days dismantling because you claimed the water 'didn't suit you'? Absolutely not. Hell nah."
"You don't understand!" Satoru threw his hands up dramatically. "For my visa to get approved, I need an active international business assignment. We want to get married there, Nanami! Amelia Island! The sand, the waves, the romantic ambiance! If I don't get sent on this trip, the bureaucrats win, romance dies, and it’s entirely your fault."
"Then romance dies," Nanami said flatly, putting his glasses back on. "I am not reinstating a multi-million dollar corporate seminar because you want a destination wedding."
"Pleaseeeee, Nanami! Look into my eyes!" Satoru blinked rapidly. "Look at the sheer desperation! I'll do anything. I'll cover your weekend shifts. I'll stop stealing your expensive artisan bread from the breakroom fridge. Please!"
"Anything?" Nanami asked, his voice dangerously smooth.
"Anything!"
"Fine," Nanami leaned back in his swivel chair, crossing his arms. "If you want that trip reinstated, you have to secure the emergency funding yourself. Which means you will have to go down to the third floor, sit in a room, and talk to those two finance bros from the elevator."
Satoru didn't even flinch. He slammed his hand on the desk again. "Done deal."
"Done deal?" Nanami repeated, squinting. "How?? They've been rejecting our budget proposals for three months straight. You don't even know what a quarterly fiscal review is."
Satoru grinned, a brilliant, cocky, completely unbothered smirk as he slid his dark glasses over his eyes.
"Simple" Satoru said, turning on his heel toward the door. "I'll just walk in there, look them in the eyes, and ask them for an hour."
The agency wasn’t always what people assumed it to be. To the outside world, it was a sleek, powerhouse advertising agency dotted across Tokyo’s business district, with too many interns and not enough espresso. But inside, it was chaos. And inside that chaos, there was AWs, Abroad Works, a sub-division that specialized in foreign campaigns, international collaborations, and very weird visa paperwork.
The CEO of AWs was Nanami Kento. Terrifying in his management style, pounce without warning, disappear without explanation.
Suguru Geto was the editor. sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and constantly muttering about how coffee should be a basic right, not a privilege.
Satoru Gojo was the model with chiseled features, dramatic sighs, and allergic to punctuality. Shoko Ieiri handled business talks but today, she wasn’t around. Something about a family emergency, a cousin’s wedding, and a goat.
Which brought us to the meeting room on a Tuesday afternoon that smelled like rain and ramen.
Nanami slid a folder across the table to Suguru.
“You’re going to the US next month. Florida. Big project. Only you and Satoru are here today, and you already know…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
Everyone knew. If the earth split open and Satoru fell in, Nanami might ask for receipts before helping.
Suguru blinked. “Okay. Thanks?”
Two hours later, Suguru was editing a banner of Satoru standing next to a suitcase for an ad titled “Pack Light, Travel Bright.” He smirked and added a mosquito near his perfect jawline. Payback for last week’s snide comment.
Suddenly, the door creaked.
Satoru. Big eyes. Very big eyes. The kind you make when your pride has been crushed, marinated, sauteed, and served on a plate with grass.
“Can I have… one hour?”
Suguru blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one”
“…why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
They ended up at a tiny dumpling shop near the station. Satoru didn't touch the menu. Just leaned forward like he was about to propose.
“I want to go to the US.”
Suguru narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“And… if you decline the offer, since Shoko is out, I’ll be next in line. Nanami won’t have a choice.”
“...Why should I give that up?”
Satoru’s lips twitched. There it was. The ego crack.
He leaned back, groaned once, rubbed his face like this physically hurt him.
Then launched forward.
"Okay, listen. All my friends went abroad, okay? All of them. USC, NYU, some went to San Francisco, I didn’t even know that was a real place! Every single one of them posts stories in their dumb little fake American accents like “It’s snowingg guyssss!” and “Starbucks hits different here.”
“You know what I post? Selfies with cutouts of detergent brands!! I have ONE wish in life, Suguru Geto. Just ONE!!"
He paused dramatically. Then said, slowly,
“I want to pick up the phone and say in the most forced American accent ever: ‘I'm in Florida. It’s raining like hell. Ohhh ma gawwwd.’”
Suguru’s face remained unimpressed. “No.”
Satoru blinked. “No?”
“Why would I give up this opportunity for a.....joke?”
Satoru’s face contorted. His hands clenched. His jaw twitched.
And he whisper-screamed, desperate, the rarest word in his vocabulary.
“PLEASE.”
…
The next month was approaching fast, and with it, Suguru’s all-expenses-paid trip to Florida, complete with fancy accommodations, American coffee, and a glorious break from office drama.
Unfortunately, “drama” had legs, a jawline, and an endless supply of turtlenecks.
Satoru had entered full pestering mode. Like Suguru’s success was a war crime.
He started small, delivering Suguru’s coffee exactly the way he liked it (which was suspicious in itself), complimenting his editing work “Wow, this is almost art, Suguru” (he cropped the picture), and even offering to carry his tripod bag. Suguru did not own a tripod bag. So Satoru bought him one.
By Friday, Suguru had enough. He slammed his sandwich onto the desk and turned, half-bread, half-murder in his eyes.
“You know what? If you wanna go to the US so bad, just buy a damn ticket and leave! Not that hard!”
Satoru stared at him like he’d just said “jump off a bridge.”
“I can’t,” he said, voice dropping like tragic violins in the background. “I literally can’t.”
Suguru squinted. “What, do you owe someone money?”
“No.”
Sigh.
“My clan elders,” Satoru began, “are deeply superstitious. Like...‘calls a shaman before ordering takeout’ superstitious.”
Suguru blinked.
“My parents too. And my grandmother— don’t even get me started, she calls me ‘curse magnet.’ Anyway, this one fortune teller my clan adores— some guy named Master Gakuganji or something, apparently saw my face in a tea bowl and said I have bad travel omens.”
“A tea bowl?”
“Yeah, and since then, they are convinced I shouldn’t cross the Japanese border. They cancelled my trip to kyoto in high school, they deleted my US college applications. Said, and I quote, ‘the wind outside Japan will swallow his luck and spit him back without eyebrows.’”
Suguru stared at him like he’d just aged 15 years. “You have GOT to be joking.”
“I WISH,” Satoru cried, hands flailing. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your school friends post beach pictures from Malibu while you’re stuck doing toilet flush product commercials in front of a green screen rain cloud?!”
Suguru squinted his eyes, then exhaled deeply. “Satoru, you think I’m that dumb?” Suguru asked.
There was silence. Then, “Because...Nanami only listens to you,” Satoru blurted. “You say the sky’s green, he believes it! Say your grandmother died, and boom— you’re free.”
Suguru paused, jaw twitching. “You want me to say...my grandmother died?”
Satoru grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “YES! If I said it, he’d call the hospital to check if I was lying. You say it, he’ll send flowers, plus a free trip to Fiji for your mental well-being.”
Suguru yanked himself free, appalled. “Hell no! What’s wrong with you?!”
But Satoru wasn’t stopping. He was already on his knees, quite literally begging on the carpet Nanami once declared “imported Italian,” hands clasped like he was auditioning for a soap opera.
“PLEASE!”
Suguru sighed.
“Enough diversions and lying,” Suguru snapped, getting up.
“I WASN'T LYING!”
“Okay, half-lying.”
Satoru pulled out a small blue notebook.
Opened it. Then… lifted it up. And hid his face behind it. Peeking from behind the page… were two guilty blue eyes. Wide. Dramatic. Trapped.
“See, man. Be honest with me. We’ve had unnecessary beef for, like, forever. You mocked my editing, I insulted your hair—that’s history. But now, suddenly, you throw away all your pride just for a wish to go to the US?”
Satoru let out a dramatic sigh and took a mighty slurp of the cold drink before him, one of those neon-colored, sugar-overloaded concoctions that looked more dangerous than cursed energy. The moment the freezing hit the roof of his mouth, he jerked in his seat.
“Brainfreeze—owowowow—okay, listen,” he whimpered, eyes squeezed shut like he was physically preparing to relive a decade-old heartbreak. “I’ll tell you.”
He placed the drink down, straightened his shoulders, and began:
“There was a girl.”
Suguru blinked. “A girl?” he echoed, already unimpressed.
“She transferred to our school when I was thirteen. A foreigner, one of the two foreign transfer students. Always carried this clunky DSLR, like a third arm. Nobody talked to her much. But one day, my bicycle, which was a girl's one, was parked next to hers and—”
“Wait.” Suguru frowned. “Why were you riding a girl’s bicycle?”
Satoru looked mortified. “…The fortune teller. He said the top tube on boy's cycles was dangerous for the Gojo family lineage.”
Suguru snorted so hard his straw jumped. “Bro, WHAT.”
“I didn’t question it! I was twelve!”
Suguru was full-on laughing now. “What, it was gonna erase your family tree or something?”
“Yes!” Satoru cried in frustration. “They said I’d never have children and the family name would end!”
Wheezing, Suguru wiped his eyes, doubling up. “Oh my God, man.”
Satoru glared but pushed on, determined. “Anyway. She didn’t laugh at my bike. That mattered. Most people did. Like you. She didn't laugh even when I told her.”
“She and I became… accidental friends. We never hung out alone or anything. She would laugh at everything I said. And one Christmas, I wrote her this card. It had a picture of Amelia Island on it, super random, no snow or anything, just a beach. But I don’t know, it reminded me of her. I gave it anonymously.”
Suguru tilted his head. “That’s kinda sweet.”
“She read it during recess. No expression. Blank. Next day, she comes to me, asks, ‘Did you write this?’”
Satoru scoffed. “I panicked. Said no. Then mocked the card I made. Called it lame. Said it looked like a brochure for lost tourists.”
Suguru winced. “Smooth.”
“She didn’t laugh. Just… stared at me and said, ‘That card made me feel something for the first time this winter.’ Then she walked away.”
Suguru, now slightly invested, raised a brow. “Oof.”
“I never told her I wrote it,” Satoru admitted.
Suguru squinted. “And what does this possibly have to do with you going to the US?”
Satoru waved his hand. “Let me finish.”
…
Suguru looked at the half-drunk cold drink, then back at Satoru.
“Okay,” he said slowly. “I can reject the offer. You’ll get the slot instead. But then... how will you convince your family?”
Satoru sipped the last of his drink slowly.
Looked out the window. And grinned.
Satoru leaned back in his chair, that infuriatingly smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes sparkled with something Suguru could only describe as unearned confidence.
“I already took care of it.”
Suguru narrowed his eyes. “Took care of what, Romeo?”
Satoru simply crossed his arms and nodded to himself like a villain finishing a chess game he started in his own head.
“Clarity,” Suguru said. “Give it. Now.”
…
In the building, another sub-branch office buzzed with quiet chaos. HR. Finance. And there she was, Gakuganji’s granddaughter. Mid-twenties, blunt-cut bangs, and permanently unimpressed with the universe.
She worked in HR, or maybe Legal, Satoru hadn’t actually checked. All he knew was that she existed.
He’d found his window.
Satoru stood outside a quiet break room with the phone against his ear, pacing in dramatic arcs like he was rehearsing for a movie.
He called.
Ring.
Ring.
Click. “Hello?” came the aged voice on the other end. The old elder himself. His enemy. His nemesis since age seven.
Satoru’s voice dropped into sugar-laced sarcasm.
“Hello, Master Gakuganji. This is Satoru Gojo. Your favorite clan's son.”
“Oh, it’s Satoru! What is it, son?”
“I just had a little doubt,” Satoru said, sweetly.
“A doubt?” the man chuckled. “Ask away, child.”
Satoru’s voice changed. From fake-sweet to quiet-deadly. “You know, your grand daughter and i work for the same company right? If I kidnap her…”
“…Eh?”
“…And elope with her…”
“WHAT?”
“…Then marry her…”
“Are you—”
“…And two months later… dump her, throw her out of the house, emotionally ruin her, and disappear from the family registry…”
The silence on the line grew nuclear.
“…Then, master,” Satoru asked, voice as cold as a weather app warning, “Whose horoscope do the bad omens belong to? Mine, your daughter's, or yours?”
“What do you want.”
…
Suguru stared, blinking. “You blackmailed a seventy-year-old spiritual consultant.”
“Gently intimidated” Satoru corrected.
“With the emotional threat of fake marriage and divorce.”
“Wasn’t fake in the moment,” Satoru said, sipping from the straw like a man who just solved world peace. “I committed to the bit.”
Suguru just stared.
“I didn’t actually do anything! I just... helped him consider some new astrological angles,” Satoru said. “Now, apparently the stars have changed or something. A fresh wind of fortune has entered my celestial corridor.”
“I can’t believe you dragged a whole girl into this—”
“She doesn’t even know. It’s fine. Her Insta bio says ‘Engaged to coffee’ anyway.”
“…What does that even mean—”
Satoru suddenly stood up and raised his arms like he’d won a national award.
“San Francisco! It’s rainin' like hell, OH MAH GAWD!!!”
The cafe went quiet. Everyone turned. A kid started crying. The waiter dropped a glass.
Suguru sank into his chair, hiding his face and muttering, “It's Florida.”
…
You were thirteen when you landed in Japan, still jetlagged, still unsure how far Tokyo was from anything familiar, your school, your grandma.
Your dad had one rule. “No Japanese boys.” You blinked.
He leaned in like he was whispering ancient wisdom. “They’re into shady stuff. Like... gambling and host clubs.”
You nodded. Not because you believed it, but because the jetlag had won, and your brain had clocked out somewhere over the Pacific.
You started school in March, jetlagged and freezing, with only two phrases in Japanese.
"Hello" and "I don't understand."
The only other foreign transferee was a boy named Miguel, who looked like he’d been born with a passport in his hand. Always a bit detached but practical, he spoke Japanese in scattered syllables and english with a heavy accent that made teachers squint.
You and Miguel became a team by necessity. You copied each other’s homework, traded cafeteria pickles for extra milk, and sat side by side during any group project, acting as one two-headed confused foreigner.
Then there was Satoru Gojo.
The Japanese boy who looked like he walked off a high-end shampoo ad, with his floppy white hair, moody aura, and that stupid girl’s bicycle he parked next to yours every morning.
He tried to speak to you.
“Hi. Me, am… Satoru… boy… I am goose pinples. No.—wait—I mean, I have the goose pinples.”
You and Miguel burst into laughter so loud, the homeroom teacher glared.
Satoru, unbothered, nodded proudly. "Funny. You laugh. You like me."
“No,” Miguel wheezed. “Because you said you are goose pimples.”
“Goose pinples happen when heart is... too loud!” Satoru declared, without understanding a thing.
“My English is very… constipation.”
“I feel you, I have many… hormone today.”
“This snack is… how do you say? Explode in mouth? Like… popsex?”
“Today is Constipation Day in Japan!” and what not.
You and Miguel lost it every single time.
You never corrected him.
Because he always looked so damn confident. Like the world should revolve around his pronunciation.
Miguel would record some of it. You’d play it back in the dorm at night, wheezing into your pillows, whispering,
“Popsex. He really said popsex.”
But there was something endearing about him. Or maybe something tragic. You couldn’t tell.
The sun was setting. You were taking a photo of the schoolyard. He walked up, fiddling with something behind his back.
He didn’t say anything. Just dropped a card on the bench and left.
The cover was of an island. Amelia Island.
Inside, written in broken English:
“You make my heart like dance. Happy marry Christmas.”
You didn’t smile.
Because it was sweet. And embarrassing. And probably from him.
The next day, you asked him, straight-faced:
You: “Did you leave this?”
Satoru: “What? Me? This??”
(Laughs too hard. Slaps his knee.)
“This very funny! Haha. Island card! Very joke.”
You told him you liked it very much. That for once you felt like someone gave you something worth keeping. His eyes widened and he was about to say something when you walked away, a bit hurt.
“No dating Japanese boys,” your dad said again, while reheating soup and watching historical dramas like a hypocrite. “Keep that in mind.”
You’d just nodded.
He didn’t know about Satoru. Not really. He was your friend. Mostly. Kind of. Not technically anything that violated international treaties or fatherly warnings.
Even when he gave you that Amelia Island card, anonymous but obvious, you said nothing. He denied it. Called it lame.
So you shrugged, hurt a little, and moved on.
Eventually, your parents moved again. Another town. Same country, but a new school, new skyline, new loneliness.
You never saw Satoru after that.
…
Your sister was the golden one.
She smiled brighter. Spoke softer. Her eyes watered during shampoo commercials and she once cried when a stray cat let her hold it for a minute.
So when she came to you, eyes big and trembling, and said, “Can you tell them? Please? I don’t think I can. He’s Japanese. You know how Dad’ll be.”
You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want her to be happy. But because the moment she asked, you felt it, that old familiar weight settling on your shoulders again. The one you carried through your teens, through immigration, through every rule your father ever carved into stone.
You sat on the edge of the living room couch, your fingers digging crescents into your thighs, while your father’s silence sharpened the air like a blade.
Your mother’s voice cut in, pleading, but soft, rehearsed, like she already knew the end.
“She’s never asked for anything her whole life. Let her marry him, please. We have ___, don’t we? When have you ever said no to her? She’ll marry whomever you ask her to, it's the least she can do.”
You blinked. Felt the ground vanish a little under your feet.
But you didn’t say anything.
You smiled. A small one. A polite one.
You didn’t know then that smile would cost you something.
The wedding was small. Rushed. A white dress borrowed. A groom with tired eyes and a job in tech. Your sister looked happy, though. For a while. With you as the photographer.
Eight months later, you were at the hospital. Premature baby.
“She’s in labor. Come if you can.”
You went. You held her hand when her husband was at work. You remember the way she looked at you, sweaty, scared, but still somehow calm, like you were the only solid thing in the room.
Then the baby didn’t cry.
And everything after that blurred into this cold, sterile memory of machines and silence and a doctor’s voice trying to be gentle.
They named him Noah. He was perfect. For ten minutes.
Then he was gone.
The funeral was the kind of heartbreak people don’t talk about because there are no right words for something that brief and permanent.
Her husband blamed her for not taking care of herself while pregnant.
“You said you didn’t want kids. You remember? You told me a year ago. That maybe... you’d regret it.”
And your sister just stood there. They never recovered.
You held her until her breathing evened out. Until her voice cracked open.
And you just kept rubbing her back, trying to hold her together with hands that were already so used to holding other people’s pain.
Later, your mom pulled you aside while helping pack up some things for her.
“At least you… you should listen to your father. You don’t want to end up like your sister.”
You didn’t respond because she was right.
Years later, you’re still in Japan. Still taking jobs from strangers who don’t know your language but trust your eye. You have clients. You have your quiet little life.
…
It started with a hand graze.
James had bumped into you at a small book café in the quieter part of the city, apologizing so earnestly for a moment you barely noticed. “Sorry—wasn’t watching,” he said, British lilt and coffee-stained fingers holding onto a stack of art books. You glanced up briefly from your own pile of screenwriting guides, nodding once, distracted.
He returned a few minutes later, leaned against your table, and offered you a smile that held no arrogance, no performance. “You like writing, I guess?” he asked. “Or maybe just collecting intimidating books?”
You smirked at that. He sat. He talked. He stayed.
And you didn’t expect that you’d like him so much.
He was sweet. Not in the manufactured way you’d grown used to, he didn’t send flowers, didn’t quote poems he didn’t understand. But he remembered the books you liked, bought a matching notebook when you mentioned needing one, and waited outside the film school for two hours on rainy days with an umbrella and half a chocolate bar.
He met your sister. Made her laugh, even. Played card games with her in the cramped corners of the house when your father wasn’t around.
But when you finally told him, quietly, anxiously, that you wanted him to meet your father, he hesitated.
“Give me a month,” he said, voice low. “Just one month. I want to have a job by then. I want to come to him with something in hand. I know what your dad is like.”
You frowned. Not because he was wrong, but because that month already sounded like an escape route.
Still, you nodded.
You always wanted to believe the best of people.
One month turned into two. Then four.
He kept trying, he said. But you were the only one holding onto his promises anymore.
…
2 years later.
Your father came into your room. He had a printed photograph in his hand. A boy in a navy blue shirt, smiling politely.
“His name is Joseph,” your father said. “Son of Thomas. Good job, salary, family, and most importantly, nice and respectful.”
You stared at the picture. You knew Joseph from church. But it wasn’t even Joseph you were reacting to, it was the sudden realization of what this meant.
He thought you were ready for marriage.
“Dad,” you said slowly. “I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him.
It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
There was a long pause. He didn’t react for a full minute. Just stared.
Then, finally, he placed the photograph of Joseph on the table and sat back.
“You know I’ve never denied you anything,” he said quietly. Not angry. “Don’t take it for granted.”
“I’m not,” you said. “I promise I’m not. I just… I really think this will help. With the way the industry’s changing, and—”
He raised a hand, stopping your excuses mid-way. You felt like you were shrinking.
He nodded once, a little stiff. Then, after a moment, rested his callused hand on your head the way he always did when you were little. Gentle, warm, still.
“Go,” he said. “Make sure you do it properly.”
You smiled, but your eyes had guilt.
Packing didn’t take long. neither did the goodbyes.
You kept your room clean. Hugged your sister a little tighter. Stared too long at your walls and the half-torn posters you’d never get to finish decorating.
Then came the early morning of departure. The airport lights felt too white. Too quiet. Your sister walked next to you, carrying your hand luggage while you tugged along the suitcase. You were wearing a hoodie.
“Is that him?” your sister asked softly, referring to the guy who sat on the waiting lounge, very far away, the matching hoodie you wore was a hint.
You told her everything last night.
You nod and stop. Right outside the terminal glass doors, you turned toward her. And your face crumpled.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly, voice cracking, your breath stuttering. “I didn’t mean this, I didn’t—”
You swallowed. Clenched your teeth. Covered your mouth with your hand for a second, trying not to let it shake. Your sister didn’t say anything. She just looked at you the way she always did, waiting, quiet, gentle.
“Please,” you whispered, “don’t tell them.”
And that was all. You picked up your bag again. And walked through the doors.
You made it through security in silence, your hoodie pulled low over your eyes, your steps heavy. The air inside the airport felt sterile, metal chairs, quiet voices, the hum of announcements you weren’t really listening to. You held onto your passport like a lifeline.
And then you saw it.
A lone suitcase just a few feet ahead, with a grayish denim jacket draped lazily over it. The chair beside it was empty.
You paused. Tilted your head slightly. Maybe the guy had gone to the washroom. You didn’t care.
You didn’t even want to care. You sat down with a gap of one chair in between, resting your small handbag on top of your own suitcase. The weight of the flight, the course, your family, James, and everything you didn’t say sat on your chest like bricks.
A headache was already blooming behind your eyes.
You stood again, rubbing your forehead, and made your way to the tiny pharmacy stall just across from the waiting area. Bought a strip of pills, a small water bottle, and pressed your palm to your temple as you walked back.
And then you saw him.
Long legs stretched out. Foot tapping on his suitcase and kicking it forward like a bored child playing air hockey with himself. And then pulling it back with his heel, only to do it again.
You stared at him for a solid ten seconds.
He didn’t even notice you, he was too busy whistling a terrible, off-key rendition of some unknown classical tune. Probably something he made up.
Your brows twitched. You moved to sit down anyway, deciding to just pretend he didn’t exist.
But the moment your hand touched your suitcase handle, he looked up.
And his face lit up like he was actually five.
A slow, mischievous grin crept onto his face. He tilted his head, blinked dramatically, then, because he had no self-preservation instinct, shifted one chair closer, leaned into your face from the side.
He pointed a finger and poked your shoulder. With far too much confidence.
“Ma’am,” he said, in the most suspiciously fake tone you’d ever heard, “have we met before? Or… are you just the reason the stars look dim tonight?”
You blinked.
And then smacked his shoulder with a loud thwap.
“Satoru Gojo!” you snapped. “Stop overacting! What the hell?! I’ve been searching the entire airport like a lunatic—!”
“I told you I was inside—!”
“You were not! You left your suitcase here like you live here. Is this a goddamn palace?! Were you taking a heritage walk or what?!”
“It’s my first time in this terminal!” he defended, eyes wide and innocent, “I got excited, okay?! It’s like a mall but worse!”
You glared. “You’re unbelievable.”
He leaned in closer, voice full of pride. “But also really good-looking.”
You deadpan-stared at him. “I’m this close to checking in my morals and leaving you in the cargo.”
“Noted.” He nodded solemnly, then grinned again. “Oh, by the way—Florida’s gonna be awesome, baby. Imagine all the white sand and palm trees and—ow, ow—okay, sorry, stop hitting me—!”
You had shoved him lightly on the chest, but he reacted like he was dying.
“Oh my God,” you groaned. “Grow a spine.”
“Oh my God,” he mimicked in a high voice, holding his chest. “Grow a spine—You hit me! I might never emotionally recover from this moment.”
You turned away, cheeks puffed in exasperation.
He leaned in again, wrapped an arm around your shoulder without asking, and pulled you in close like a clingy koala. You squirmed, tried to push him off, but he was already launching into another act.
“Milady,” he said in a terrible british accent, “I humbly beg your forgiveness. I was so very bewitched by the splendid architecture of this steel-and-concrete airport that I momentarily forgot I had a beautiful lover waiting for me.”
“‘Beautiful lover’?” you raised a brow.
He straightened, chest out like a knight. “I would doth die a thousand deaths to bask in thy gaze.”
“…Are you high?”
“I took two mints. Close enough.”
You started laughing despite yourself.
You hated that he always knew how to twist your mood, how to flip the script, to go from heavy and aching to ridiculous and warm. Like he could sense exactly when you were on the edge.
And even though you were still mad… you rested your head on his shoulder for a second before standing up.
“Come on,” you muttered, grabbing your boarding pass. “Let’s go. Before you get distracted by another vending machine and try to marry it.”
Satoru gasped, following you with exaggerated shock. “That was one time! And it said limited-edition strawberry milk—!”
You walked ahead, shaking your head.
And behind you, suitcase rolling, Satoru trailed after you with that same stupid smile, already reaching out to hold your hand like it was muscle memory.
This is a notice from the heavens: what in the ever-loving hell just happened ?
…
Flashback.
Satoru barely sat down at his desk when the dreaded voice pierced the air.
“Satoru Gojo. Office. Now.”
His eyes lifted like a man being summoned to court. Nanami never calls. Nanami appears like a spirit of mild annoyance and sarcastic judgment. But this? This was serious.
He stood, heart hammering, already mentally cycling through everything he might’ve done wrong, was it the extra-long lunch break last Tuesday? The incident with the bubble tea explosion in the studio? That one time he accidentally hit ‘Reply All’ and sent a crying cat meme to the entire office?
No time to wonder. He walked in.
Nanami sat at his desk, arms crossed, face unreadable. Very Nanami. Behind him, the screen glowed with a blank spreadsheet, deadly in its own way.
“We’re changing the face of the AWs campaign,” Nanami said, without even looking up.
Satoru blinked. “...Okay?”
Nanami leaned back. “We can’t afford celebrity models. The budget is ass. So. New idea—we pick someone from the team.”
Satoru tilted his head. “Oh… That’s actually kinda genius. Like… relatable marketing. ‘We are you’ type vibe.”
He nodded, warming up. “If we do a shoot with banners and everything, it’ll look organic. Sales will go up.”
“Exactly,” Nanami said, drumming his fingers. “So now comes the real question…”
He stared straight into Satoru’s soul.
“Who should be the model?”
And in that moment… Satoru knew he was absolutely screwed.
Nanami never asks for opinions. Which meant, he already had someone in mind. And Satoru was called here, which meant, it was him.
An intrusive image assaulted his brain: A massive banner over a subway station. Satoru. Smiling. Thumbs up. Next to a toilet seat.
“AWs: Flushing Problems Away.”
He swallowed thickly.
“Suguru,” he blurted. “Suguru Geto's got that—like, you know—model energy. Face like a drama second lead, right? Like the nice one that dies?”
“Satoru,” Nanami said flatly. “You’ll do it.”
“No—no no no,” Satoru stammered, waving his hands. “Nanami, listen—my family’s got… issues. Yes. Terrible issues. There’s a… a spiritual curse, actually. We can’t be on printed material. It invites curses. My grandmother said—”
Nanami didn’t even blink. He turned to his monitor.
“Do it or resign.”
There it was. Classic Nanami. Dropping ultimatums like it was Monday morning Sudoku.
Satoru stood frozen. He sighed. Long. Dramatic. Almost award-worthy.
He turned to the door. Put a hand on the handle. Then paused.
“Give me one hour,” he said, turning back.
Nanami didn’t glance up. “Take it.”
“Your time, sir,” Satoru added with unnecessary formality, voice full of noble defeat.
Nanami finally looked at him, eyes squinting with the exhausted patience of a man being begged to let a golden retriever run a government agency.
“What now?”
…
The lighting is warm, jazzy music hums faintly, and there's a rustic charm to the place. The only thing out of place is the sheer tension radiating from one side of the booth.
Nanami sits like a man about to order his final meal before heading into a warzone.
Satoru sits like a man who is the warzone.
The waiter approaches with a notepad.
Nanami: “Dakgalbi. Extra spicy. Add cheese. Double portion.”
Satoru: “...A glass of hot water. Please.”
The waiter blinks. Looks at Satoru. Then at Nanami. Then back at Satoru, silently judging his life choices.
“Hot… water?”
“Yes. Plain. Hot.”
“Lemon?”
“No. I’m not here to feel joy.”
The waiter backs away slowly.
Nanami sighs. “Are you starting or should I just punch myself in the head and save time?”
Satoru takes a dainty sip of his steaming hot water, wincing like it burned his soul. Then places the cup down like he’s just returned from a war front.
“I asked you here tonight because I needed to explain why I absolutely cannot be the face of this campaign.”
Nanami: “Uh huh.”
“There’s a girl. She never judged me. Not when I was in my girl's cycle.”
Nanami freezes mid-napkin-unfold, he remembers something.
“We were 13—”
Nanami cuts in, deadpan:
“You gave her a card for Christmas and it had an island on it and blah blah blah?”
Satoru freezes. “Wait… how do you know that?”
Nanami sips his water now, mocking.
“You also asked for one hour during your job interview and told me the same sob story.”
Satoru seals his lips, humbled into silence. For a moment.
“There’s… more! But I’ll have to go with the flow—”
Nanami cuts in again, already halfway through his meal.
“Come to the fucking point. I’ll only be here till this plate’s empty.”
Satoru mutters under his breath:
“Didn’t know you were gonna inhale the damn dish…”
“One night… I opened Instagram. And there she was. With another guy. Matching hoodies. Holding hands. At the zoo. I saw the giraffes in the background, Nanami. Our giraffes.”
“You had giraffes?”
“We once watched a giraffe documentary together. That was OUR moment.”
Nanami slows down. Just a little.
“And she was dating a guy who was a small-time struggling photographer, looking for another job, and hence, I quit getting photographed out of spite.”
Nanami paused eating. “What.”
“I archived my entire gallery. Stopped taking selfies. I haven’t touched my camera in half a year. The guy at canon messaged me to check if I died.”
Nanami tosses his chopsticks down.
“Gojo. During your interview, you also told me you quit riding bikes because your family bought you a girls one. Are you the son of the agency’s founder that we should excuse your behavior like it’s performance art?!”
Satoru looks mildly insulted. “It had a bell shaped like a bunny. It traumatized me.”
“Okay. Shut up. You’re coming tomorrow at 7 AM sharp. You’re shooting a campaign for room spray. If you cry, I’ll make you do deodorant and drain cleaner next.”
“—my aura is not compatible with room spray.”
“Neither is your soul compatible with employment, apparently.”
Satoru looks like a dying goldfish.
“But Nanami, I’m emotionally unavailable. I won’t be able to concentrate!”
“It’s not like you ever achieved anything while fully concentrated anyway.”
He stands. Leaves.
Satoru sits there, stunned, insulted, and still clutching his hot water like a widow.
The waiter brings the bill.
Satoru also starts to get up, following Nanami… when—
“Satoru,” Nanami calls without turning.
“Pay the bill.”
He disappears around the corner.
Satoru opens the bill and his soul leaves his body.
“Of course. I love being financially exploited right after emotional trauma.”
…
The lights are dim. Not in an artistic, mood-lit way. In a “someone forgot to turn on the switches” way. The studio smells faintly of coffee, industrial cleaning spray, and vague regret.
Satoru Gojo stands in the middle of it.
Half-dressed in an orange jumpsuit with “AROMA WHISPER” stitched in cursive over the chest. Someone handed it to him like it was a privilege. Like he wasn’t just betrayed by the concept of personal dignity.
He’s brushing something off his shoulder. A bit of lint. A speck of despair. Maybe both.
The shirt underneath doesn’t sit right. Too stiff. The kind of material that squeaks when you move. Corporate cosplay.
His white hair’s been half-slicked back, the way Nanami said it would “photograph clean.” His soul, however, remains smeared across the floor.
He adjusts his collar. Winces.
The fabric is itchy. The zipper is mocking him.
Every fiber of the jumpsuit screams, “You used to be an artist. Now you are a mascot for air particles.”
Satoru mutters under his breath, eyes down. “Room spray… Room slay. Whatever makes it hurt less.”
And then,
“...Satoru?”
A voice. A very specific voice.
He freezes. Not like a subtle stiffening. No. He freezes like a man whose worst emotional enemy just pulled the fire alarm inside his chest. His heart flinches so hard, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.
Slowly, like in a drama that’s low on budget but high on intensity, he lifts his head.
And there you are.
You. The girl. The she of all his tragic Instagram stalking. The one who never judged him during his girl cycle era. The one he once sent a pressed hydrangea and poetry-level card to.
You’re standing there, slightly confused, holding a clipboard, wearing the company vest. You’re dressed like a part-timer in production, but to him, you look like the goddess of febreze herself descended from Olympus to ask why he stopped posting mirror selfies.
And then,
CLICK.
Suddenly, someone hits the main camera lights. They beam on like interrogation spotlights. White. Blinding. Glorious.
Satoru flinches as it hits him in the face, full beam. But he doesn’t close his eyes. Because yours are on him. Just your eyes. On just him.
And even though he’s dressed like a traffic cone, even though his ego is currently six feet under a pile of product sponsorship, even though his knees feel like a newborn deer’s and he knows he’s about to be told to hold a fake daisy-scented bottle next to a toilet prop, all he can think is, “Damn. I’m in love again.”
And this time, worse than before.
A few moments after the blinding lights switched on and his soul left his body temporarily, Satoru starts piecing things together.
You’re not just standing around. You’re not observing. You’re holding a camera.
No. No. No, no, no—
“____,” Nanami’s voice cuts through the silence like a very smug dagger, “Let’s start the shoot. Just get a couple of green mat shots for the catalogue, we’ll fix the color grading later.”
Green mat. Green mat. Green mat.
Satoru’s eyes twitch toward the green rectangle of synthetic shame rolled out like a yoga mat meant for humiliation. A little fake potted plant sits next to it. He’s told to hold the "Rain breeze blossom" spray bottle and “smile with your eyes.” He doesn't even know what that means.
You’re behind the camera, adjusting the lens. Professional. Focused. The way you bite the inside of your cheek while testing the lighting makes him want to throw himself out of a very medium-height window.
He’s smiling in the photos. But only his teeth are participating. The rest of him is trying not to dissolve into a puddle on the floor and flow straight into the studio’s drainage system.
Click. Click. Click.
He poses. You shoot. They don’t say a word.
Nanami walks up, grabs the camera from your hands casually, scrolls through the display. He stops at a photo of Satoru holding the room spray like it’s the antidote to his broken heart.
“Good job,” Nanami mutters.
Satoru exhales. “Thanks,” he says quickly, too quickly, heart blooming just a little—until Nanami looks at him like he’s grown a second head.
“Not to you,” Nanami says, not even hiding his disgust. “To her.”
Satoru wilts.
“Thanks,” you say, smiling lightly, taking the camera back.
It’s worse than rejection. It’s non-existence.
…
You’re not sure how you ended up here. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s the only room still lit up in the whole building, like it remembered you both still had things to say. Or maybe it’s the way he looked after the photoshoot. Like he was trying not to look at you. Like looking might hurt. Like not looking already was.
You sit across from him, the table between you unnaturally clean, like the both of you are too polite to leave even a teaspoon of mess anymore.
He’s wearing a plain shirt now. Something soft and pale and very him. His white hair is messier. Looser. You wrap your fingers around your tea mug. It’s hot, but the warmth doesn’t quite reach your chest yet.
“You’re really a photographer now,” he says, half-laughing, like it snuck up on him.
You shrug. “You’re really a model now,” you say back, with a smile that almost counts as teasing.
He groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t say that. That’s the worst moment of my professional life. I’ve peaked in a citrus jumpsuit.”
You laugh a little. Not because it’s particularly funny, but because he’s always been good at saying things just wrong enough to be endearing.
There’s a pause. The kind you used to fill with banter, or stolen fries, or your fingers brushing his across a couch cushion when no one was looking. Now it just hums.
“So…” he starts, drumming his fingers lightly against the table, “You’ve been good?”
You nod. Slowly. But he notices. You don’t say yes. And he doesn’t press. Because he knows you.
The same way you know his silence is always louder after 10 PM. The way he brushes the back of his neck when he’s anxious. The way he always shifts his gaze to the corner of the room when he’s afraid of hearing something he wants.
He’s doing it now. Looking away. Like he’s scared you’ll say something real.
“So… uh. You and that guy from Instagram. You broke up?”
You raise a brow slowly, suspiciously. “What, are you stalking me now?”
“No—I mean, no! I just—it was on your story. Publicly. With, like, the couple hashtags and everything,” he mumbles, his cheeks turning a light pink. “I just saw it.”
“Stalker,” you whisper behind the rim of your mug, lips twitching.
He groans. “I’m not—! Ugh. Whatever.”
You tilt your head, eyes sharpening just slightly. “Yeah. We broke up.”
“Oh,” he says, a little too quickly. “Good—I mean—uh. Not good. I meant… interesting.”
Your lips quirk. “He cheated on me.”
That wipes the color from his face in less than a second. He stiffens. Hands clenched into weak little fists on the table. His blue eyes darken like storm clouds, like he was just given permission to go commit arson.
“Satoru,” you say lightly, “You look like you’re gonna punch someone.”
“No,” he says, deadly serious, “Just… imagining kicking him into a trash can and sealing the lid shut.”
“Tempting.”
“If you give me his workplace location, I swear I can pull up with a bat and an apology card.”
You laugh again, softly. Only a little. But his eyes flick up instantly.
And then, suddenly, he goes dramatic. He straightens, hands gesturing wildly now, dead serious like he’s about to drop the philosophy of the decade.
“So—when you go to a salon, right? And you get a new haircut, it feels… weird at first. Like, who is this? You stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering if you just ruined your entire look. Right?”
You nod slowly, amused.
“But then,” he continues, “the next day, you see yourself again and go, hey. Wait. It’s not that bad.” His eyes widen for emphasis. “And then, one week later, you look in the mirror like—damn. I'm kinda cute. Actually, wait. This is the best haircut ever.”
He places both hands on the table like he’s just proven a major theory. “That. That’s what your breakup is.”
You stare. He waits. You narrow your eyes, biting your lip to stop yourself from cracking a smile.
He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly grinning now. “I mean… I did go to the salon yesterday, sooo…”
You blink again. And then you actually laugh.
Satoru freezes, his mouth parting slightly. “Wait. Did you just laugh?”
He gasps dramatically, standing halfway up from his seat like he’s discovered light. “Manager—turn off the lights! We’ve got enough sunshine here! let’s save the planet!”
You roll your eyes, laughing, reaching out your hands to pull him down. “Sit down, idiot.”
“Hey, hey, turn that side and smile a little. We could take a photo and put it in the lobby. You just solved the building’s electricity crisis.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too much. But it’s too late. He sees it. And for a second, he just stares. Like that one smile of yours could pull him back into orbit.
…
The room is packed.
Slides are changing slowly on the projector as Nanami paces at the front, pointer in hand, talking about fragrance variants of the new room spray product like it’s a matter of national security.
Satoru’s eyes, however, are glued to his phone. Not the screen on the wall. Not the notes in front of him.
Your text thread. Your name, sitting there in his messages like a tiny piece of serotonin.
He types under the desk with the subtlety of a kid cheating on a test.
Satoru:
where are you
you weren’t at the shoot
you didn’t reply this morning
are you okay
is nanami making you quit
blink twice if you need rescuing
Three dots pop up. Then:
You:
Going to a friend’s wedding!
Wanna come?
His thumb freezes. Then moves so fast he almost stabs the touchscreen.
Satoru:
I’M COMING
I’M COMING OMG
Then, a GASP. An actual, audible gasp in the dead-quiet room.
Nanami pauses his monologue mid-sentence. Everyone looks up like they just heard a fire alarm.
Satoru is on his feet, clutching his phone like he’s just received life-altering news. “No… no, no, no—this can’t—this can’t be happening…”
Nanami narrows his eyes. “Gojo.”
Satoru staggers dramatically toward the door, hand to his mouth like he’s going to faint. “I… I have to go. I—It’s—It’s personal. Very personal. Family. Emergency. Sad things. Crying things.”
He wipes an invisible tear from his cheek and sniffles audibly. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Nanami stares at him, completely unmoved. “You’re not even crying.”
Satoru forces a high-pitched sob. “NOW I AM.”
Nanami doesn’t blink. Just folds his arms, sighs, deadpans. “Go.”
Satoru immediately drops the act and grins. “Thanks, boss!! Love you!”
He darts out the door in a blur of limbs, nearly knocking over the intern carrying sample bottles.
Nanami sighs deeply, clicking the pointer with the weariness of a man who has seen too much. “Okay. Back to lavender mist and cinnamon-sugar sorrow. Slide twelve, please.”
…
The sun’s dipping low, painting a deep, heavy gold across the windshield and casting long shadows over the dashboard. The soft hum of the AC fills the space, a steady rhythm against the quiet that has been building between you both all afternoon.
He’s sitting in the passenger seat, his hoodie slightly wrinkled, his white hair a little messy from how the wind was playing with it through the open window five minutes ago. His bag is still in his lap, untouched, his fingers lightly gripping the fabric as if he’s trying to anchor himself. Your car is parked right outside his house, the engine switched off, neither of you saying a word.
Neither of you are.
It’s the kind of silence that doesn't feel empty; it feels loaded. It carries the weight of thirteen-year-old accents and ridiculous girls' bicycles, of years spent apart in different cities, of tragic Instagram stalking and orange jumpsuits in dimly lit studios. It carries the unspoken truth that you both have known for a very long time. no matter how much distance grew between you, or how many barriers your families built, the thread between you never actually snapped.
You had tried to play by the rules, tried to accept the loneliness, but seeing him again had ruined all of that. He was still the only person who knew exactly how to twist your mood from heavy to light, and you were still the only language he actually wanted to learn.
Suddenly, you reach across the console and hold his hand. Your grip is firm, warm, and entirely intentional.
Satoru blinks. He looks down at your fingers laced through his, tracking the line of your wrist up to your sleeve. Then, slowly, he looks up at you.
You’re completely serious. Your expression doesn’t wobble even slightly, your eyes holding his with absolute certainty as you ask,
“Will you marry me?”
He freezes. The breath leaves him all at once, his chest dropping as if someone just told him he won the lottery and the prize is entirely you. The usual dramatic shield he wears, the jokes, the overacting, the loud declarations, vanishes instantly, leaving him entirely exposed.
“Wait—wait. Hold on,” he breathes, his voice cracking slightly around the edges. His fingers twitch against yours. “What.”
You nod. Still serious. Still holding his hand tight enough that he can feel your steady pulse against his palm. “You. Me. Marriage. What do you think?”
He stares at you. The silence stretches, but this time his mind is visibly racing, sorting through the years of pining, the frustration of the clan elders, the absolute certainty that he has never looked at anyone else the way he looks at you. He swallows hard, his jaw tightening as he tries to process the fact that the girl who walked away from him in the schoolyard all those years ago is now sitting in a parked car, offering him everything he ever wanted.
He stares some more, his blue eyes searching yours for even a hint of hesitation. Finding none, the corners of his mouth soften, the tension leaving his shoulders as a quiet, genuine smile takes over his face. He grips your hand tightly.
Finally, very softly, he speaks. “You tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
…
He’s lying in bed. Lights off. Blanket up to his chest like he’s in a horror movie.
Only the horror is… His parents.
Satoru Gojo sighs dramatically into the void. “My dad is going to kill me.”
His eyes widen. “No—worse. He’ll kill me. Then resurrect me just to execute me again.”
He turns to his side. Opens his phone. Stares at your name in the messages. Doesn't dare text. You’re probably thinking about the same thing.
“A foreigner. An artist. A photographer. With opinions. Style. Confidence. Love. And—God forbid—humor.”
“I’m dating everything my family prayed against during clan rituals.”
He throws the blanket over his face.
You're lying flat on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling fan. It’s been spinning for hours. It has no answers. Neither do you.
“How do I explain this? Mom’s going to be confused. Dad’s going to have a nosebleed.”
You pull the blanket over your face. Scream into it.
“I’m marrying a Japanese guy. A model. An AD model.”
You sit up.
They’re lying in their beds, phones still in hand, both sighing at the ceiling. Then simultaneously:
“Maybe we should elope.”
Beat.
“But we can’t. My mom would find me in whatever continent I hide in.”
“So would my clan. With a specialized tracking ritual.”
…
You’re already there when Satoru shows up. You're pacing. Hands shaking. Mind spinning.
He sees you from across the street, crosses quickly, no goofy wave today. You're chewing your lip. Hard.
"Hey," he says gently. "Let’s sit inside?"
You shake your head. Eyes sharp, voice sharp-er. “Why did you call me here?”
“Plan,” he says, raising a finger. “I have a plan.”
You squint. He opens the door. You walk in with him, reluctantly.
Small booth. Two cups between you, one coffee, one untouched hot water. You're silent. Satoru keeps fidgeting with the sugar packets. Then:
“Let’s elope.”
You stare at him. Like stare stare. As if he just said “let’s skydive into a pit of sharks.”
“Are you actually serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Satoru—my parents—” You slam your palm on the table, rattling the spoons. “Do you know how many hopes they have for me?! Do you know what kind of deal it was for them to send me here? Do you know what my sister’s going through? Do you think I’m just going to throw everything away and—elope?! With a guy who models room spray?!”
Satoru’s mouth opens. Then shuts. He nods slowly. “Cool, cool, cool. I see where the disrespect is.”
“What?”
“No, no, continue. Ruin my entire bloodline.”
“Oh my god—”
“As if my parents have ever looked at me and thought: wow, our prized baby is going to make wise, marriageable decisions. No! My dad told me I should have been born a turnip. At least turnips don’t take photos in orange jumpsuits.”
You blink. “Turnip?”
“YES, TURNIP. That’s what I’m dealing with. So don’t come at me like you’re the only one with cultural pressure, alright?”
You stand up suddenly, chair scraping loudly. “I won’t run away like a coward. I won’t mess up everything my parents worked for!”
…
It’s dark, except for the soft amber glow from your bedside lamp. The world feels slower at this hour, still, almost forgiving.
You’re curled up in bed beside him. One leg thrown lazily over his, your cheek resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart. It’s comforting. So is the weight of his arm around your waist, his fingers tracing thoughtless circles over your back.
But your thoughts won’t stop. They keep chewing at you like cold air under a thin blanket. You’re stressed. You don’t even have to say it, he can feel it.
“Hey,” he whispers, mouth brushing your forehead. “You’re still thinking about it.”
You don’t answer. Just nestle in closer like maybe silence will erase the pressure sitting on your chest. He shifts, just enough to tilt your chin up and look at you.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, eyes soft, voice even softer. “We don’t have to get married tomorrow, baby. Chill.”
You blink at him, mouth parting like you might argue, but you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like you hung the moon.
“We’ll figure it out. Okay?”
Still, you frown. “But what if they hate me? Your parents—my mom—my sister—”
“They probably will,” he replies without missing a beat, grinning. “That’s fine. Let them. They can start hating me and end up loving me. Happens all the time.”
You let out a quiet laugh, but the nerves don’t go away entirely. He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he murmurs again, voice low and warm like honey. “You and me, we’re good. We’ve got time. No one’s waiting at the altar yet.”
You nod slowly against his chest. “Okay,” you whisper.
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Besides,” he adds with a smug smile you don’t even have to see to know, “your mom’s gonna love me.”
You shove his chest, laughing for real this time. “You’re so full of it.”
He tightens his grip on you. “Full of love, actually.”
“Satoru.”
“What? Let me have my poetic moment.”
Your fingers are lazily tangled in Satoru’s hair.
The sun’s barely up. Golden light spills through the curtains in sleepy ribbons. Satoru’s breathing is deep and even, his face turned into the crook of your neck, lips slightly parted. He’s fast asleep, smiling faintly like his dreams are filled with you and snacks.
…
You’ve got one arm on him and your phone pressed to your ear with the other. Your sister’s voice is soft and cheerful on the other end of the line.
“I’m pregnant again.”
You blink. “Wow.”
“Mhm! Found out last week! Everyone’s so happy.”
You glance down at Satoru’s messy white hair, then back up at the ceiling with a small smile. “Congratulations… that’s amazing!”
“Yeah, well… now that I’m knocked up again, he’s pampering me like crazy. Foot rubs, back rubs, breakfast in bed... as if my value exists only by a fetus.”
You snort softly.
“You have to talk about kids with Joseph before marriage, though, just so you don’t end up like me.”
You freeze. “…Who?”
“Joseph.”
“…Who the hell is Joseph?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Wait… Dad didn’t tell you?”
Your heart rate spikes.
“Oh no. Oh my god. He’s probably planning to surprise you. ___, don’t tell him I told you, okay?! Promise me—promise! I don’t want to be the reason you get overwhelmed.”
“What the fu—”
“BYE! Love you!”
Click. The call ends. You stare at your phone in horror. A full three seconds pass before you whip the blanket off like it personally betrayed you. You shake Satoru by the shoulder, gently at first.
“Satoru.”
He groans sleepily. You slap his arm.
“Satoru!”
“Mmmphh—five more minutes, sunshine…”
You yank the pillow out from under his head. He shoots up like he’s been drafted into war.
“WHAT?! WHAT?! Are we being robbed? Did I leave the stove on? DID I ACCIDENTALLY LIKE YOUR MOM’S INSTAGRAM PHOTO FROM 2017?!”
You grab his face. “My dad is trying to arrange my marriage to some guy named Joseph.”
He stares at you. Blank. Blinks once. “…Who the fuck is Joseph?”
“EXACTLY.”
You’re already stumbling out of bed, throwing on whatever sweatshirt you find. Satoru finally wakes up for real. He throws off the blanket.
“Get me my pants. We ride at dawn.”
THE PLAN.
You’re curled up at the foot of your bed, knees pulled to your chest, your arms wrapped tight around them. Satoru’s sitting nearby, hands in his lap, eyes locked on you like the whole world’s balance depends on your next word.
You’ve been silent for almost twenty minutes. He finally speaks.
“You haven’t said anything since you ran out of the kitchen. Talk to me.”
You look up, your voice tight and soft. “We’re talking about lying to our parents, Satoru.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
You bury your face into your knees. “I already feel disgusting for knowing Joseph exists and not confronting my dad yet. And now I’m supposed to say I’m pregnant—just so they’ll let me marry you?”
He stays quiet, waiting.
You lift your head, eyes watery. “My sister went through hell after her first baby died. My whole family’s grief was shaped around that loss. It’s why they’re treating this new baby like a gift from God. And now I’m supposed to use that pain? To manipulate their hearts?”
A tear escapes without permission. “I’m the worst person alive.”
He moves to the edge of the bed, his knees nearly brushing yours. “Then I’m worse. Because I’ll lie by saying I’m infertile just so my family treats you like some self-sacrificing angel.”
You laugh through your tears. He pulls you gently into his arms.
“I’m scared too,” he whispers into your hair. “But if we tell the truth, they’ll try to tear us apart. I’m not sure I’ll survive watching you walk away again.”
You press your cheek to his chest, heart aching at the way his voice shakes. “I don’t want to lose you either.”
A pause. Then, very quietly, he says, “We can lie. Just… for now. Until they know us. Until we’re so much a part of their lives that they forget the lies ever mattered.”
You don’t reply for a long time. He breathes in like he was waiting for your approval to live again.
“I’m in love with you,” he says. He cups your face gently, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. “So much it’s ruining my organs.”
Your mouth trembles. “I still hate this plan.”
“I know,” he whispers. “So do I.”
“But we’re doing it anyway?”
He nods, forehead resting against yours. “Till death—or Joseph—do us part.”
You let out a weak laugh, and for the first time that night, it doesn’t feel like your whole world is collapsing. Just… rearranging. Messily. Painfully. But with him.
You decide to go to Florida, because lying from a distance is so much less scary. And Amelia Island was there. You always wanted to get married there, you told him once, and hence it was decided that you both exchange rings there, just for formality.
“But how the hell do we go to Florida?”
He grinned.
And hence……
To Suguru Geto:
“Can I have… one hour?”
Suguru blinked once. “What?”
“One hour. Just one. Please.”
“…Why?”
“Just… come. I’ll pay.”
To your dad:
“Dad,” you said slowly.
“I… I want to show you something.”
You opened your phone. Scrolled to the gallery. Your thumb hovered for just a second before you turned the screen toward him. It was an image of a printed brochure for a photography course abroad.
“I want to apply for this,” you said. “I think it’ll help with my work.”
You were exactly five seconds away from ripping the collar of his robes right down the middle, propriety and the midday sun be damned, when the harsh, echoing strike of a wooden block clattered through the courtyard.
"Lord Sukuna calls for a family assembly!" a retainer announced, bowing low near the edge of the gardens. "Immediate attendance is required in the main hall!"
You froze, your hands still clutching Choso's wrists. Choso, oblivious to the fact that he had just narrowly escaped being devoured, immediately softened his grip and helped you stand, brushing a stray leaf from your yukata.
"We must not keep Uncle waiting" he murmured, pressing a deeply affectionate, entirely chaste kiss to your forehead. "Do not worry, my love. I will ensure you have a comfortable cushion for the meeting. You have had a taxing morning."
Taxing, you thought, letting out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. You have no idea.
The atmosphere in the main hall was heavy, oppressive, and thick with the terrifying cursed energy of the clan head. Ryomen Sukuna sat upon the raised dais, resting his chin on his fist, looking utterly bored as various elders droned on about tax collections and border disputes with minor sorcerer families.
You were seated on the mats, directly across from Choso.
You were not paying attention to the taxes. You were paying attention to the way Choso’s broad shoulders filled out his formal robes, and how his dark hair fell perfectly framing those sharp, sleepy eyes.
If he wasn't going to get the hint in private, you were going to make it impossible for him to ignore in public.
You bit your bottom lip, dragging your teeth over the flesh before letting it pop back, slipping your tongue out to wet it.
Choso blinked. His brow furrowed in that beautiful, earnest way. He subtly mouthed across the room, Are you thirsty?
You rolled your eyes to the heavens, letting out a quiet huff. Fine. Time for drastic measures.
Under the cover of the low, wooden table separating the two sides of the room, you slipped your foot out. Extending your leg, your toes found the edge of his hakama pants. You slowly, deliberately dragged your bare foot up his calf, feeling the firm muscle tense beneath the fabric, before hooking your ankle behind his knee and gently stroking the sensitive back of his leg.
Around the room, several clan members suddenly cleared their throats, shifting uncomfortably. Yuji, sitting next to choso, suddenly found the ceiling grain fascinating, his face glowing bright red. Everyone in this room knew exactly what you were doing.
Everyone except your husband.
Choso’s posture straightened, a look of profound, gentle concern washing over his face. He leaned slightly over the table and whispered, his deep voice carrying over an elder's speech about rice yields.
"My love, there must be a draft on your side of the hall. Your foot is freezing. Should I ask the servants for a blanket?"
A suffocating silence descended on the hall. The elder stopped speaking. Yuji choked on his own spit.
From the dais, a long, heavy, and immensely exhausted sigh echoed through the room.
Sukuna slowly dragged his hand down his face, the four ruby red eyes narrowing in absolute irritation. He looked like a man who commanded the forces of hell but could not conquer the sheer stupidity of his nephew's marital life.
"Enough" Sukuna rumbled, his voice shaking the dust from the rafters. He waved a dismissive hand at the stammering elder. "I care not for the rice. If it rot, tell them to eat dirt."
Sukuna shifted his terrifying gaze directly to you. You didn't flinch, you were too busy mentally screaming into a pillow.
"Brat," Sukuna barked.
Yuji looked up at him.
"The worse one." sukuna clarified.
"Yes, Uncle?" you replied, sliding your foot back and offering him a sarcastic smile.
"Thy little… antics give me a migraine" he sneered. He hated you, but he also hated being broke, and your 'black tongue' had doubled the clan's net worth in a month. So, tactical tolerance it was.
"I am going to mount hiei tomorrow to consecrate a new shrine. The last three priests who tried were cursed into piles of ash. Thou art coming with me. Thou shalt look upon the shrine, gaslight it into not collapsing, and that shall be the end of it."
"A mountain retreat?" You perked up. The capital was sweltering, and the mountain air sounded lovely. Plus, getting away from the stifling rules of the estate might be exactly what was needed. "Of course, I’d love nothing more than to play tour guide to your latest murder hut."
Before Sukuna could nod and banish you from his sight, a large, calloused hand shot into the air like an overeager schoolboy.
"Uncle" Choso declared, his voice ringing with absolute, unwavering resolve.
Sukuna’s eyelids twitched violently. "What is it now, brat's husband?"
"I must accompany the expedition" Choso stated, bowing his head a little, but his tone brooked no argument. He turned his dark, adoring eyes toward you. "The mountain paths are steep and treacherous. My wife is a delicate, fragile flower."
sukuna scoffed quietly, though your heart did an involuntary flutter. Delicate?
"The altitude will make her dizzy" Choso continued, entirely serious, listing his reasons on his fingers.
"She will require someone to carry her parasol, her extra layers, and her provisions. Furthermore, the terrain is uneven. I will need to be at her side to hold her and guide her steps so she does not stumble, and to rub her legs when they grow weary from the climb. It is my duty as her husband to bear her burdens."
The imagery of Choso holding your waist from behind on a secluded mountain trail, his large hands rubbing your tired calves... your breath hitched, a fresh wave of heat pooling in your stomach.
Sukuna stared at Choso for a long, agonizing moment. The king of curses looked like he was wondering if he could curse himself out of this conversation.
"Fine" Sukuna grunted. "Thou mayest come. Just keep her mouth shut on the journey up unless she is altering reality. Dismissed."
As the room cleared, Choso immediately crossed the floor, kneeling beside you. He took your hand, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles.
"Do not fear the mountain climb, my love" he promised, his eyes shining with pure devotion. "I will not let go of you for a single second. I will carry you myself if I must."
You looked at his beautiful, oblivious face, feeling the warmth of his large hands wrapped securely around yours.
Oh, you thought, a wicked, grin spreading across your face. I'm counting on it.
...
The journey to mount hiei began in a massive, enclosed wooden carriage, and within twenty minutes, the atmosphere inside was volatile enough to level a village.
Choso had somehow managed to smuggle eight silk pillows, three flasks of chilled pear juice, and a hand-carved fan into the tight space. He currently had you pulled flush against his chest, one massive arm wrapped securely around your shoulder while his other hand gently fanned your face.
"The rocking of the carriage can bring about the vapors" Choso murmured earnestly, his breath warm against your ear. "Rest your head on my shoulder."
You let out a shaky sigh, pressing your hip firmly against his thigh. He was a solid wall of muscle, and the close quarters were doing agonizing things to your self control. You shot a glance across the carriage.
Sitting directly opposite you was the king of curses himself. Sukuna was crammed into the corner, his top two arms crossed over his chest, his bottom arm pinching the bridge of his nose. The sheer density of his irritation was practically vibrating through the wood.
"If the two of thee cease not this nauseating display," Sukuna rumbled, his voice dropping to a terrifying, gravelly octave, "I shall rip this carriage in twain and force thee to walk through the thorn bushes."
You popped your eyes open, entirely unfazed. "Oh, please, Uncle. If you’re lonely, just say so. I’m sure Yuji would have held your hand if you asked nicely before we left."
Outside the carriage, the head retainer traveling on horseback audibly choked on his own saliva. A guard’s spear clattered loudly against the wheel. Through the thin curtains, you could practically see the entire escort sweating through their armor, silently praying to the gods that they wouldn't get caught in the blast radius when Sukuna inevitably turned you into modern art.
Sukuna’s upper eyes snapped open, glowing a dangerous, bloody crimson. "Watch thy mouth, girl. thy hereditary quirk is the sole reason thy head is yet attached to thy neck."
"And thy complete lack of a social life is why thou art riding in a carriage with thy nephew's horny—uh, delicate wife," you snapped right back, leaning forward out of Choso's grip to glare at him.
"Thou arrogant little parasite" Sukuna snarled, his teeth baring. "I have slaughtered entire generations for lesser insults!"
Choso immediately shifted, placing himself directly between you and Sukuna’s terrifying aura. "Uncle, please do not raise your voice at my wife. The stress will ruin her digestion."
Sukuna looked like he wanted to swallow a sword. He slowly closed all four of his eyes, letting out a long, ragged breath. "Thou art, without a doubt, the worst brat in the history of this lineage."
...
By the time the carriage hit the base of the mountain, the road mercifully ended, forcing the party to ascend on foot. The trail was a steep, jagged nightmare of wet stone and overgrown roots, a wonderful place to die.
Sukuna took the lead, moving up the incline with the terrifying speed of an apex predator, his heavy wooden sandals crushing stones into dust with every step.
"Make haste," he barked back over his shoulder. "The sun setteth, and the curse at the peak is mutating by the minute. I have no time to wait for weaklings."
You were already winded, wiping sweat from your forehead, amused by his language. "Maybe if you didn't walk like a giant spider on a sugar rush, we could keep up!" you yelled up the path.
The retainers behind you actively began reciting their funeral rites. One of them actually fell to his knees, weeping silently for your impending demise.
"What did thou say?" Sukuna stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around slowly, his cursed energy flaring so violently that the surrounding trees began to shed their leaves. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and death. He took a predatory step down toward you. "Say it again. I dare thee."
"I said thou art a giant spider!!" you yelled. he'd probably understand if you rephrased it his way, your temper flaring from the heat and the sheer, unadulterated frustration of having a hot husband who wouldn't touch you.
"You think you're so tough because you can slice things up? You know what? I hope you have a wonderful, peaceful walk up this mountain!"
You stepped forward, your black tongue taking hold, your voice carrying that strange echo.
"In fact, I bless thee with the most relaxing trek of thy miserable life! I hope the mountain air is so perfectly crisp and refreshing that you just cannot help but take deep, calming breaths! I hope your shoulders completely lose all their tension, and I hope thou feelest an overwhelming sense of inner tranquility that maketh thee want to skip through the meadows!"
Thoom.
The air pressure shifted instantly. The oppressive, suffocating weight of Sukuna’s cursed energy vanished in a snap.
His four eyes widened in absolute horror as his massive, heavily muscled shoulders forcibly dropped three inches. His chest expanded against his will, drawing in a massive, deep breath of mountain air. A look of profound, serene relaxation washed over his terrifying features.
He tried to lift his arm to cast a cleave, but his hand just flopped uselessly at his side, completely devoid of any violent intent. The sheer weight of mandatory inner peace had paralyzed his malice. He looked like a man who had just spent three weeks at a luxury hot spring, but his eyes were screaming with pure, unadulterated--love?
"What… hast thou done… to me..." Sukuna wheezed, his voice sounding shockingly light and mellow, completely lacking its usual terrifying edge.
"I blessed thee!" you cheered sarcastically, crossing your arms. "Thou lookest great, Uncle. Very demure. Very mindful."
The retainers stared in absolute, dumbfounded silence. The legendary king of curses, the calamity of the age, was currently standing on a dirt path, looking entirely helpless and radiating the aura of a satisfied capybara.
"Thou…" Sukuna muttered, his legs automatically taking a slow, rhythmic, entirely peaceful step up the mountain. He couldn't stop walking, forced by the blessing to enjoy the nature hike. "When this weareth off… I shall..."
"Yeah, yeah, go look at the trees, namaste" you waved him off.
...
With Sukuna successfully lobotomized by mandatory inner peace, Choso immediately turned his attention back to you, his face glowing with the kind of awe usually reserved for religious apparitions.
"Sweetheart," he beamed. "Your heart is just so pure. You saw his wrath and chose to heal his troubled soul."
"Choso, I did it to shut him up," you sighed, rubbing your temples.
"Regardless, you are clearly on the verge of physical collapse," he said firmly. Before you could protest, Choso stepped in close, his large hands sliding under your thighs and behind your back, scooping you up.
Your breath hitched as your chest pressed against his. Because of the steep incline, Choso had to hold you incredibly close to keep his balance, meaning every single step he took sent a highly inconvenient, borderline lethal jolt of electricity straight down your spine. His calloused fingers dug firmly into the fabric of your yukata right at the curve of your thigh, anchoring you against his hip with zero spatial awareness of what this was doing to your sanity.
"Choso," you squeaked, your fingers desperately clutching his collar. "You really don't have to carry me. I have legs. They function."
"I insist," he rumbled, his dark eyes looking down at you with that maddening, sweet devotion. "The terrain is treacherous. If you so much as stub your toe, I shall never forgive myself. Simply hold onto me tightly."
You looked ahead. Twenty paces in front of you, Sukuna was walking with perfect posture, occasionally stopping to take a deep, involuntary sniff of a pine tree, his face twisted in a silent scream of rage because he couldn't stop appreciating nature.
"Dost thou find the flora to thy liking, o mighty king?" you call out to him.
Sukuna didn't even turn around, his voice vibrating with suppressed, tranquil fury. "Hold thy tongue, wench!"
"Aha! Glad to see the therapy is working!" you yelled back.
...
"Drink," Choso insisted, pressing yet another bamboo flask of chilled pear juice to your lips. "You are losing fluids. The mountain sun is relentless."
You choked it down, the sweet liquid doing absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire currently burning in your lower stomach. Between the sweltering mid summer humidity and Choso’s massive, warm hands securely anchoring you against his chest as he carried you up again after you finished drinking, you were genuinely convinced you were going to combust right there on the trail.
A few paces ahead, Sukuna took another deep, involuntary breath of pine-scented air. His four eyes were wide, blinking slowly at a passing bumblebee. The absolute, mandatory serenity you had cursed him with was still going strong, and honestly, it was creeping you out. he looked like he was about to start hugging the trees.
"Alright, this is dynamic is unholy," you muttered, wriggling out of Choso’s grip until he gently set you on your feet. You marched up behind the clan leader. "Hey! Four eyes! Look, a beautiful butterfly. Why don't you write a haiku about it?"
Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his veins bulging as his mandatory peace fought against his rising, organic fury. "If thou dost not…... silence yourself, girl... I will..." He took another deep, relaxing breath against his will. "...I shall admire the scenery at thee!!!!"
"uncle, stop screaming at my wife!" Choso rumbled. "And sweetheart, please, your throat will get sore if you yell so loudly."
Eventually, the path leveled out near a small, mountain clearing where a lone food vendor had set up a stall for travelers. The smell of savory noodles and roasted meat filled the air, making your stomach growl.
"Rest here," Choso said gently, guiding you to a wooden bench under the shade of a large tree. "I will fetch us sustenance. Do not move, the ground is uneven." He shot a quick, warning glare at Sukuna before dashing off toward the vendor.
You slumped against the bench, fanning yourself miserably. Sukuna sat down on the opposite end of the bench, crossing his arms and letting out a heavy, irritated growl. He looked at you, then looked toward the food stall where Choso was eagerly pointing at different ingredients, clearly trying to pick the best ones for you.
Sukuna dragged a hand down his face. "thou art pathetic," he stated bluntly.
"Excuse me?" you scoffed, glaring at him. "I'm not the one who just got sniped by a crow."
"I speak of thy pathetic attempts to crawl into my nephew's breeches." Sukuna sneered, his tone dripping with absolute exhaustion. "The entire estate must endure thy ridiculous pining. Thou dost rub thy bare feet upon his legs during clan assemblies, throwing thyself at him upon the veranda, whilst he possesseth the structural awareness of a brick wall."
You froze, your face flushing bright red. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, spare me," Sukuna rolled all four of his eyes. "He deemeth thee a fragile doll that shall shatter if he looketh upon thee too hard. If thou wishest for the idiot to finally strip thee of thy garments, cease thy foolish games."
You blinked, utterly stunned. your world's greatest hater was currently giving you relationship advice. "...are you telling me--"
"I am telling thee to make haste so I may endure a single family gathering without thy desperate pheromones suffocating the room,"
Sukuna snapped. "Be direct, brat. Command him. He liveth but to obey his kin. Tell him exactly what to do unto thee, or I swear to the gods, I shall exile both of thee to a different province."
Before you could process the sheer absurdity of Sukuna being your wingman out of pure spite, Choso was back. He practically floated over, carrying two steaming bowls of udon.
"Here you are, my love," Choso beamed, handing you a bowl and sitting down right next to you, his thigh pressing firmly against yours. "I made sure they added extra broth to keep you hydrated." He took his own bowl, looking entirely pleased with himself.
A terrified guard gingerly approached from behind, setting a third bowl down next to Sukuna before sprinting away as if his life depended on it.
You looked over at Sukuna's bowl. Your eyes narrowed.
Sukuna’s udon was practically overflowing. He had thick, juicy slices of roasted pork belly, a perfectly soft-boiled egg cut in half to reveal a rich, gooey golden yolk, and several beautifully patterned fish cakes. Your bowl, on the other hand, well, did have many delicious toppings than usual, mostly veggies and a little meat, no eggs.
"Hold on a minute," you pointed a chopstick at Sukuna's bowl. "Why does he get the premium toppings? We paid for this!"
Sukuna picked up his chopsticks, deliberately lifting a perfectly glazed piece of pork belly and letting the savory juice drip back into the bowl. He caught your eye and smirked, his upper eyes narrowing in pure, smug satisfaction.
"Because I am the head of the clan, brat," Sukuna rumbled, popping the meat into his mouth and chewing slowly. "The world rewardeth power. You get the grass. I get the meat."
"Choso!" you wailed, turning to your husband and shaking his arm. "Look at him! He's flexing his pork belly at me! Tell him his food looks basic!"
Choso, completely missing the competitive tension, looked at your bowl with earnest, doting eyes. "If you desire pork, my love, you do not need to beg from him. As soon as we return to the estate, I will breed a litter of pigs, raise them with the finest grains, and roast them for your dinner."
Before you could react--
Sukuna choked on his noodle, letting out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. "He is to build thee a farm because thou throwest a tantrum over an egg. Incredible. Ye truly deserve each other."
"Shut up and eat your bird soup, Uncle!" you yelled across the bench.
"Watch thy tongue, girl, or I shall bless thy noodles to taste of ash!" Sukuna snapped back, shoving another piece of egg into his mouth just to spite you.
You shoved a clump of noodles into your mouth, glaring daggers at him while Choso gently wiped a stray drop of broth from the corner of your lip.
...
The carriage ride back to the capital was blissfully quiet, mostly because Sukuna spent the entire journey ignoring your existence, and Choso was busy mapping out the exact dimensions of the pig pen he intended to build in the eastern courtyard. the cursed mountain shrine was successfully stabilized, and your sanity was hanging by a single, microscopic thread.
Choso immediately hurried off toward the kitchens, utterly determined to oversee the preparation of a feast to "restore your vital energies" after the grueling trek.
You were left standing alone in the grand, polished corridor of the inner pavilion, leaning against a pillar and stretching your aching back. You were just about to head to your quarters to take a bath when a massive, looming shadow completely blocked out the late afternoon sun.
You looked up. Sukuna was standing there, his top two arms tucked into the sleeves of his dark kimono, looking down at you with a profound, lingering expression of disgust.
"Still breathing, I see," Sukuna rumbled, his voice low.
"Barely," you huffed, crossing your arms. "No thanks to your speednwalking. What do you want?"
Without a word, Sukuna reached into his robes. He didn't pull out a cursed tool or a burst of dismantle energy. Instead, he tossed a small, tightly folded paper packet at your chest. Your reflexes kicked in, and you snatched it out of the air, staring down at the unmarked white parchment.
"What's this?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "Arsenic? If you want to poison me, at least have the decency to put it in a nice pastry."
"It's a powder. A highly potent aphrodisiac," Sukuna stated flatly, his voice utterly devoid of shame, though his expression looked like he was forcing himself to swallow glass. "Mix it into his tea. Slip it into his broth. I care not how thou administrate it."
You froze, your eyes darting from the packet to him. Your jaw practically hit the polished floorboards. "You... you bought me a horn dog potion?"
"I am giving thou what thee need, brat," Sukuna sneered, crossing his lower arms as well. "And more importantly, I secure my own peace of mind. The servants of this estate deem themselves incredibly clever with their coded gossip. They think I hear them not whispering of the 'peacock' and her will to devour her meat."
Your face went entirely nuclear. Peacock. That was the ridiculous code word the maids and guards had been using to refer to you, to spread information amongst themselves.
Sukuna took a step closer, his terrifying aura flaring just enough to make your hair stand on end. He leaned down slightly, his four eyes narrowing in a dangerous, dark glint.
"I expect results," Sukuna warned, his voice a low, gravelly threat. "I hope the peacock shall finally be satisfied with her meat tonight. For if I must endure one more family gathering wherein thou playest footsie beneath the table like a desperate beast, I shall cast both of thee into a well."
Before you could even form a coherent, sarcastic comeback, Sukuna reached out. His massive, clawed hand descended onto the crown of your head. He didn't crush your skull. Instead, he gave you a heavy, rough, thoroughly grudging pat on the head, the kind of gesture a resentful older relative gives a particularly annoying dog, before turning on his heel and sweeping down the hallway, his robes billowing behind him.
You stood there, completely paralyzed by whiplash, clutching a packet of aphrodisiac while staring at the empty corridor.
"My lady! Stand perfectly still! Do not make any sudden movements!"
Suddenly, your personal maiden, who had been waiting to assist you with your bath, practically flew across the tatami mats. Her face was pale with absolute horror. She lunged at you, her hands flying straight to your hair.
"What—hey! Let go!" you yelled as she began frantically parting your hair, tugging at the strands.
"I am checking for poison, my lady!" the maid wailed, her fingers violently inspecting your scalp. "Or acid! Or a delayed onset death curse! The lord just touched your head without immediately decapitating you! There must be a biological agent smeared on your brow! Is your skin melting?! Do you feel a burning sensation?!"
"I'm fine! My skin is intact!" you shouted, swatting her hands away and smoothing down your rumpled hair. "He didn't poison me!"
"But... he patted your head. Affectionately. Like a human being. It is unprecedented, my lady. The elders will think it is an omen of the apocalypse."
"Trust me, it's not an omen," you muttered, looking down at the little paper packet hidden tightly in your fist, a slow, wicked grin beginning to curl the corners of your lips. "It's just an eviction notice from a guy who really, really hates celibacy."
...
That evening, you decided to gamble with your life.
When choso proudly presented a massive dinner spread, complete with a plate of roasted pork belly he had personally ordered from the capital’s finest kitchen just to spite his uncle, you waited until he turned his back to fetch the matching ceramic cups. With a trembling hand, you tore open Sukuna’s packet and dumped every last grain of the powder into Choso’s steaming cup of barley tea. It dissolved instantly, leaving absolutely no scent or color behind.
"For you," you slid the cup across the low table as he sat down.
Choso’s eyes practically melted with affection. "Thank you, sweetheart. You are always thinking of my well being." He picked it up and drained the entire cup in three massive gulps.
You stared at him, holding your breath, waiting for the instantaneous transformation. Maybe his eyes would turn wild?
Instead, Choso just smiled, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and began meticulously picking out the best cuts of pork to place directly onto your rice. "Eat up. You need your strength."
An hour later, you were lying flat on your back on the shared futon, staring blankly at the dark ceiling timbers. Choso was lying right beside you, breathing softly, sleeping like an absolute baby. He had tucked you in, kissed your cheek, and immediately drifted off into peaceful, wholesome slumber.
that fraud, you thought bitterly, rolling onto your side. I probably just fed my husband a tablespoon of powdered sugar.
Defeated and thoroughly exhausted from the day's psychological warfare, you finally closed your eyes and let sleep take you.
You woke up exactly one hour later because you couldn't breathe.
The air in the bedroom was suddenly sweltering, thick with a suffocating, intoxicating heat that had nothing to do with the summer weather. A massive, solid weight was pinning you flush against the tatami mats.
Your eyes snapped open in the dark. Choso was hovering directly over you. He was still half asleep, his eyes heavily lidded and glassy, but his instincts had clearly taken the driver's seat. His large, heavy hands were planted firmly on either side of your head, and his muscular chest was pressing flat against yours, trapping you completely.
Before you could even utter a word, Choso shifted. He let out a low, gravelly groan from the depths of his throat, a sound so raw it sent a violent jolt of lightning straight between your thighs, and began to slowly, deliberately grind his heavy hips directly over yours.
The friction through your thin night yukata was immediate and blinding. You let out a sharp, breathless gasp, your hands flying up to grip his broad shoulders.
"Choso...?" you wheezed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
The sound of your voice seemed to snap whatever cord of restraint he had left. His dark eyes flared, focusing on your face with a terrifying, consuming intensity. The gentle, doting, careful block of wood was entirely gone.
"You're so loud" Choso groaned, his voice dropping into a deep, rasping register that made your knees instantly weak. He didn't sound sweet anymore. He sounded starved. "Every time I look at you. Every time you touch me, you're driving me insane."
"I—"
"Quiet" he commanded, his large hand snapping down to catch both of your wrists, pinning them easily above your head with a single, unyielding grip.
His other hand slid down your body, the calloused palm hot enough to burn right through the silk of your robes. He didn't gently guide your steps or lightly brush your hair this time. His fingers bunched into the fabric of your yukata and yanked, the sound of the stitching tearing echoing loudly in the quiet room as he bared your shoulders and chest to the cool night air.
He leaned down, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right over your pulse point. You let out a loud, pathetic whine, tossing your head back as his hips locked firmly against yours, pinning you down with a heavy, unyielding rhythm that made your brain short circuit.
"So beautiful..." Choso muttered against your skin, his breath scorching as his tongue swiped over your collarbone. He lifted his head just enough to look down at you, his dark eyes absolutely blazing with a hunger that has nothing to do with food.
"How ravishing you are, wife."
...
Choso hovered over you like a man possessed, his broad chest flushed crimson from his neck all the way down to his toned abdomen. His cock, impossibly thick, veined, and leaking, rested heavy and throbbing against your soaked pussy, twitching with every shaky breath he took.
He was fighting it. You could see the internal war in his glassy eyes, the sweet, gentle husband still trying to hold back.
“I… I shouldn’t,” he rasped, voice cracking. His hips gave one involuntary roll, grinding his massive length between your slick folds. The fat head bumped your clit and you both moaned. “You’re too precious… I don’t want to break you—”
You cupped his burning face, pulling him down. “Choso, please. I want you. All of you. I can take it.”
That was the final snap.
A low, sound tore from his throat as something inside him finally broke. His control shattered completely.
“Fuck,” he snarled, and suddenly he was everywhere.
His mouth crashed into yours in a messy, desperate kiss, all tongue and teeth and spit. He kissed you like a starving man, deep and sloppy, devouring every whimper that escaped you. At the same time his hips started humping against you with frantic need. The thick, heavy length of his cock slid repeatedly through your drenched folds, grinding hard against your clit with every desperate roll of his hips.
“Mine” he groaned into your mouth. “My wife. My beautiful, gorgeous little wife. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
He sucked harsh, bruising marks across your neck, your collarbones, the swell of your breasts, biting down hard enough to make you cry out before soothing each mark with his tongue.
“I love you—fuck, I love you so much,” he panted against your skin, voice loud and raw. “You’re everything. My everything.”
He released your wrists only to grab your hips, yanking you down the futon so he could grind harder. The wet, filthy sound of his thick cock sliding through your pussy lips filled the room as he humped you desperately, the head catching on your entrance with every forward thrust but not pushing in yet.
He takes off his own robes and throws them somewhere in the room.
“I’m going to try,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
He pushed.
Only the fat head popped inside and you moaned loudly at the burn. He was so thick. Choso’s whole body trembled, flushed, muscles flexing as he fought the urge to slam home.
“Fuck— you’re so tight” he groaned, voice strained.
“Relax for me, good girl. Let me in.”
He kissed you through it, slow, deep, loving kisses that made your head spin while he rocked forward inch by inch. Every time you whimpered he got even slower, petting your hair, whispering praise.
“That’s it… doing so well for your husband. Taking my cock so beautifully. I love you. I love you so much.”
When he finally bottomed out, both of you were panting, sweating, moaning. He was so deep it felt like he was rearranging your insides.
Then he started moving.
Slow, deep thrusts at first, pulling out until just the tip remained, then sliding back in with a wet squelch. The stimulation was overwhelming. His pelvis ground against your clit with every thrust, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you.
Your moans grew louder, shameless. He drank them down with more kisses.
Choso folded you, and put your legs over his shoulders, pushing your knees all the way to your chest. His massive body blanketed yours, forehead pressed to forehead, sweat slick skin sliding together as he stayed buried to the hilt inside you. Your hands were intertwined with above your head, fingers locked tightly, his grip strong and possessive, thumbs caressing yours.
“Look at me, my love” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling with restraint. His long black hair fell around both of you like a curtain, tickling your cheeks.
But the eye contact felt too intense. The overwhelming stretch, the way he filled every inch of you, the raw emotion in his eyes, it made you shy. You turned your head aside, biting your lip as another soft, embarrassed whimper escaped you.
Choso buried himself deep, stopped thursting and made a low, disapproving sound in his throat. He leaned in and kissed your flushed cheek, then bit it gently, nibbling, caressing your cheek with his own before moving down to your neck. His teeth grazed your pulse point, followed by wet, open mouthed kisses that made you squirm around his cock.
“Don’t hide from me, love,” he murmured against your skin, voice deep. “Let me--hah--see those pretty eyes while I fuck you.”
When you still hesitated, he nipped your jaw, then your earlobe, kissing every inch of your face until you finally turned back to him, giving a small thurst as a warning of his waning patience. The moment your dazed, glassy eyes met his, something in him snapped again.
He groaned loudly and started thrusting harder, deep strokes that made you gasp and moan loudly. His hips snapped forward with wet, filthy sounds, driving his thick cock even deeper in this folded position. Every thrust ground his pelvis perfectly against your clit, sending sparks of overwhelming pleasure through your body.
“That’s it… good girl” he panted, forehead still pressed to yours. “Keep looking at me.”
He suddenly leaned back slightly, breaking the forehead contact so he could look down at where you were joined. The sight of his massive cock disappearing into your stretched, dripping pussy made him moan. Then he turned his head sideways, still pounding into you, and started kissing along your leg that was hooked over his shoulder, soft kisses turning into bites on your calf before he reached your ankle, sucking the delicate skin there while his hips never stopped moving.
You moaned loudly, overwhelmed, and bit down hard on your lower lip to try and stay grounded.
Choso noticed immediately.
He released one of his tight grips on your hands only to slide two fingers into your mouth, pressing down gently on your tongue. “Don’t bite yourself, baby,” he rasped, eyes dark with lust.
You moaned around his fingers, sucking on them desperately as he kept fucking you. He pulled them out only to replace them with his tongue, another messy, sloppy kiss that left spit dripping down your chin. His free hand moved to your tits, squeezing and kneading them roughly, pinching and rolling your nipples until you were crying out into his mouth, your one free hand scratching his back.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he growled against your lips, voice loud and broken, releasing your other hand from his hold to wrap both his arms around your arched back and pull you closer, pressing chest to chest while your now free hand joins the first at scratching his back.
“Every day. Every smile. Every time you look at me like that. I can’t hold back anymore.”
his hips snapped relentlessly, cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. The stretch made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
When your orgasm hit, it crashed through you like a wave. Your walls clenched hard around him, gushing slick down his cock as you moaned his name loud enough for the whole wing of the estate to probably hear. Choso didn’t slow down. He rubbed tight, fast circles on your swollen clit while you came, drawing it out, forcing you to feel every second of it.
He guided your trembling hand to his abs, letting you feel the hard muscles flexing with every thrust. Your fingers traced the ridges as he fucked you through your orgasm.
When the peak finally faded, you reached up and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him back down. Your foreheads met again as you held him close, eyes locked, sharing every panting breath.
“I’m close” he groaned, voice strained and desperate. “Where do you want me, pretty?”
“Inside,” you whimpered immediately. “cum inside me.”
His eyes filled with raw need. “Open your eyes. Look at me. I can only cum when you’re looking at me.”
You forced your hazy, pleasure drunk eyes open and stared straight into his. The eye contact was devastatingly intimate. Choso’s thrusts grew erratic, harder, deeper, slamming into you with wet, loud smacks as he chased his release.
“That’s it… just like that, my pretty wife,” he moaned, forehead pressed to yours again. “I love you— fuck, I love you so much—”
With a loud, broken groan that echoed through the room, Choso buried himself as deep as he could go and came hard. Thick, hot pulses of cum flooded deep inside you, filling you up until you could feel your belly slightly swell with it. He kept grinding through his orgasm, pushing every drop deeper, eyes never leaving yours for a second.
Even after he finished, he stayed buried inside you, panting, kissing you softly between shaky breaths, hands still intertwined.
“My love…” he whispered tenderly, voice hoarse. “I’m never letting you go.”
...
The frantic, desperate heat that had consumed the room finally broke, leaving behind a heavy, profound silence.
Choso lay perfectly still for a long moment, his chest heaving as he stared down at you in the dark. The glassy, haze in his eyes had entirely cleared, replaced by an expression of sharp, overwhelming realization. He looked at your flushed face, your tangled hair, and the torn silk of your yukata, and a look of sheer, panicked guilt flashed across his handsome features.
"Sweetheart," he rasped, his voice rough and cracked. "I... did I hurt you?"
You could barely form words, your body feeling like melted wax against the tatami mats, but you managed a weak, breathless laugh, pulling one of your hands free to rest against his jaw. "I'm more than alive, cho."
He let out a ragged sigh of relief that shuddered through his entire frame. Gently, with an agonizing amount of care that contrasted wildly with how he had just handled you, he lifted his weight off you.
"Stay here. Don't move," he murmured, his voice laced with that familiar, fierce protectiveness.
He slipped out of the room, after putting on his robes in a hurry, returning a minute later with a basin of warm water and a soft, clean cloth. He knelt beside you on the futon, and with slow, meticulous movements, he parted the ruined fabric of your robes. His large, calloused hands were incredibly steady as he began to wipe you down, cleaning away the sweat and the slick, messy aftermath of what you had just done.
Every time you winced slightly from the friction, Choso paused, his brow furrowing with deep concern, leaning down to press a soft, apologetic kiss to your shoulder or the column of your neck.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your skin. "I will be gentler. I promise."
Once he was satisfied that you were clean and comfortable, he tossed the cloth and his robes aside and slid back into the futon beside you, pulling the heavy quilt over both of your naked bodies. He didn't leave a single inch of space between you. He gathered you up into his arms, tucking your head securely beneath his chin and wrapping his long legs around yours, anchoring you to his chest.
As he shifted one, his back to you to adjust the pillow, the pale moonlight filtering through the paper screens caught the skin of his back. You blinked, reaching out to trace the surface. His back was an absolute disaster, a solid map of raw, angry red scratches where your fingernails had repeatedly dug into his muscles to hold on for dear life.
you ran a thumb over a particular deep mark.
He turns back to you.
"It doesn't hurt," he said instantly, his arms tightening around your waist. "If anything, I deserve it. I lost control."
"I didn't want you to have control," you countered honestly, tilting your head back to look at him.
That was when you noticed the rest of the damage. His collarbones and shoulders were covered in dark, distinct teeth marks, courtesy of you trying to muffle your own voice during the loudest moments.
And when you looked down at yourself, you saw the exact same things blooming across your own skin. Dark, purple red bruises and bite marks where he had practically tried to consume you. By tomorrow morning, those marks would be on full display.
Choso leaned down, his lips finding yours again. This kiss wasn't demanding or starved, it was slow, deep, and incredibly sweet, his tongue sliding lazily against yours as if he were tasting you for the very first time. He pulled back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours.
"It was your first time..?" he said softly, stating it not as a question, but as a realization that made his chest ache with a strange, fierce emotion.
"Yours too, clearly," you teased lightly, though your voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "For a guy who acts like a seasoned warrior, you were practically vibrating."
A faint, handsome flush crept up Choso’s neck. He rubbed his forehead gently against yours, his gravelly voice dropping into a quiet, vulnerable confession.
"I didn't know what to do. I have spent my entire life learning how to protect my brothers, how to use my blood as a weapon. I never learned how to be a husband. I never learned how to handle someone so precious to me."
He trailed his fingers down your spine, his touch sending a soft, comforting shiver through you.
"I have wanted you," Choso whispered, the honesty in his words raw and heavy. "From the very first day Uncle brought you to the estate and told me i was to marry you, every time you smiled at me, every time you complained about the heat, I wanted to hold you like this. But I was terrified."
"Terrified of what? I'm the one with the scary mouth."
"Terrified of rushing you," he admitted, his eyes holding yours with absolute sincerity. "You were forced into this marriage because of your lineage. I did not want to be another burden forced upon you. I thought... if I pushed you, if I changed the dynamic of what we were building, I would scare you away. I wanted you to trust me first. I wanted to be your sanctuary, not your captor."
Your heart did a strange, violent flip in your chest. All this time, you thought he was just a dense block of wood, but he had been holding himself back out of pure, unadulterated respect for you.
you leaned up and bit his jawline, a sharp, playful little nip that made him let out a low rumble. "I was literally playing footsie with you in front of the entire clan leadership. I wasn't scared. I was desperate."
Choso let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound vibrating against his chest. He leaned down and bit you right back, a gentle, teasing pressure on your shoulder that made you whine softly. "I know that now. My uncle made it very clear that I was being blind."
"Wait, he actually told you?"
"He said if I did not feed the peacock tonight, he would throw us both into a provincial well," Choso smiled faintly, kissing the spot he had just bitten. "But I did not do this because of him. I did this because I love you. I love you so much it frightens me."
The declaration was so sudden, so entirely earnest, that it left you speechless. Choso didn't wait for a response, he just squeezed you tighter, his massive frame completely enveloping yours, shielding you from the rest of the world.
He slid his muscular arm beneath your head, adjusting the pillow so your neck was perfectly supported. His other hand rested flat against the small of your back, pulling you so close that your hearts beat in a synchronized, heavy rhythm.
"Sleep now, my love," Choso murmured into your hair, his breath slowing down as exhaustion finally caught up to him. "I am right here. I will not let go."
Clutching his marred shoulders, you closed your eyes, completely safe, completely spent, and finally, entirely satisfied within the protective circle of your husband's arms.
...
Waking up the next morning was a heavy, slow motion affair. Every single muscle in your lower body was singing a very specific, deeply achey song, the kind of sweet soreness that let you know exactly what you’d done the night before. You shifted under the quilt, a low groan escaping your lips, and realized you were swallowed whole by Choso’s formal robe. It was massive on you, smelling heavily of cedar, copper, and his skin, the hem pooling around your ankles.
Beside you, the futon rustled.
Choso blinked his large, dark eyes open, looking thoroughly disheveled with his hair pointing in every direction. He took one look at your pinched expression, the way you winced as you tried to roll over, and his instincts instantly kicked into overdrive.
"Don't move," he mumbled, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep.
Before you could ask what he was doing, he crawled over, settling himself directly between your legs. his large, warm hands sliding right under the heavy fabric of his robe to find your hips. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, he began to firmly, rhythmically massage the aching joints of your pelvis and lower back, his thumbs digging into the precise spots where the tension had pooled.
He was so infuriatingly sweet. He just hovered there, naked from the waist up, his back and shoulders proudly displaying the map of angry red scratches you’d left behind, entirely focused on kneading the soreness out of your muscles.
"Does that help?" he murmured, leaning down to press a soft, sleepy kiss to the inside of your knee.
"Mmmmm... yes," you sighed, burying your face in the pillow. "You're a miracle worker, husband."
Choso’s hands paused. He looked down at the dark purple bruises and bite marks scattered across your neck and collarbone, marks he had personally left there in his frenzy. A look of profound, solemn determination washed over his face.
"We are not doing that again," Choso declared softly but firmly.
Your head snapped up from the pillow. "What? Excuse me?"
"Not for a very long time," he repeated, his brow furrowing with doting worry as he resumed his gentle massaging. "Look at you. You are in pain. You can barely move, and it is entirely my fault... I forget that you are human, my love. I cannot allow myself to cause you such suffering again until you are completely healed and rested. We will practice restraint."
You let out a long, defeated whine, slamming your face back into the pillow. Much to your absolute dismay, the overprotective block of wood was back, and this time, his chivalry was going to be the death of you. You had finally broken the seal, only for him to sentence you to mandatory celibacy out of love.
The rest of the day was an exercise in public embarrassment.
You couldn't walk right. Every time you tried to take a normal step down the polished corridors of the Itadori estate, your hips reminded you of your sins, causing you to limp noticeably.
Choso, naturally, refused to leave your side for a single second. For the entire afternoon, he walked half a step behind you, his massive, calloused hand clamped firmly around your waist. He was physically guiding your every movement, lifting you slightly over the raised door frames and steering you through the courtyard as if you were made of spun glass.
"Choso, people are staring," you muttered out of the corner of your mouth as you crossed the training grounds.
"Let them," Choso rumbled defensively, his grip tightening protectively around your waist. "You need stability. I am your husband. It is my duty to hold you up."
A few yards away, Yuji was sitting on a wooden bench, lazily spinning a training curse in his hand. He looked up as the two of you hobbled past. Instantly, the boy’s face fell into a massive, exaggerated pout.
"Sister-in-law!" Yuji complained, crossing his arms and huffing. "You didn't try to trip me over the gravel today, and you completely ignored the morning playtime with me! You're usually way more fun than this."
You flushed, unable to look your teenage brother-in-law in the eye. "I'm just... having a slow day, Yuji."
...
The Itadori clan had very few rules that everyone actually followed, but the mandatory sunday morning family breakfast was absolute. Sukuna demanded it, mostly because he enjoyed watching his descendants sit in terrified silence while he ate the finest cuts of imported beef, well that was before you came, at least.
Today, however, the silence was broken before anyone even touched their chopsticks.
Choso carried you into the dining hall. Not because you couldn't walk, your limp had actually improved to a slight wobble, but because he had decided the polished wooden floors were "too slick for a recovering body." He lowered you onto your tatami mat with the agonizing slowness of a man handling live explosives, carefully adjusting a stack of three extra plush silk pillows beneath you.
"Is that acceptable, my love?" Choso murmured, smoothing down the collar of your yukata, which you had deliberately pinned high to hide the absolute galaxy of bite marks on your neck. "Does your lower back require another cushion?"
"I'm fine, Choso, thank you," you whispered, your face burning as you felt three distinct gazes lock onto you.
Across the low table, Yuji was staring at your pile of cushions, his face a mix of profound confusion and mild annoyance. "Sister-in-law, did you sprain your hip or something? Why is brother treating you like you're made of glass?"
Beside him, Jin Itadori took a slow, deliberate sip of his green tea. He didn't say a word, but the massive, blindingly proud grin on his face spoke volumes. He looked at Choso, then at you, and gave a slow, respectful nod of fatherly approval.
From the head of the table, a loud, deeply irritated click of the tongue echoed through the room.
Sukuna sat with his top two arms crossed, his lower two hands resting on his knees. His four eyes dragged down to your collarbone, easily spotting a dark purple mark that had slipped past your pins. A slow, deeply smug sneer curled his lips.
"So," Sukuna rumbled, his voice dripping with pure malice. "The peacock finally ceased its squawking and ate its meat. Thou art welcome, brat."
Your eye twitched.
"The minor sorcerer families in the eastern valley are failing their quotas," Sukuna rumbled, his voice shaking the heavy wooden beams of the ceiling. "I shall send a contingent to burn their primary storehouses by the next full moon. A display of absolute dominance is required to remind them of their place."
"By the next full moon?" you chimed in, entirely unfazed by the terrifying aura radiating from the head of the table. You casually reached across the low table to steal a sweet pastry from Choso’s plate. "In the middle of the harvest season? The logistics alone are completely stupid, Uncle. If you burn their storehouses now, you ruin the winter tax yield. Unless you plan on carrying the grain sacks back to the capital yourself with those extra arms."
From the shadows behind Sukuna, Uraume’s eyes narrowed into ice cold slits. Their hands twitched inside their sleeves, radiating a sudden, freezing frost, absolutely losing their mind at your sheer disrespect toward their master.
"Lord Sukuna's strategic judgment is absolute. His wrath requireth no accounting from one who spendeth her mornings complaining of the heat."
"Watch your tone when speaking to my wife," Choso warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. "Her insight into the clan's prosperity is unmatched. If she says the logistics are flawed, then the plan is flawed. If my uncle requires a display of dominance, I will personally go and collect the taxes myself, but I will not have her intelligence insulted at the breakfast table."
Choso’s sleepy eyes snapping toward the servant. A terrifying gaze locking onto Uraume.
But Uraume didn't back down. Even with Choso’s aura choking the air, they held their ground, the frost creeping further across the floorboards.
"an insolent girl thinks she can dictate—"
"Oh, put the frost away, frosty the snowman" you interrupted, completely cutting them off and rolling your eyes. You leaned around Choso, pointing your chopsticks directly at them.
"Seriously, look at you. Since you're just sitting back there acting like a high end cooler anyway, why don't you make yourself useful and chill my juice? It's lukewarm, and your terrible attitude is already dropping the room temperature. Go on, crisp up my drinks."
Yuji violently choked on his soup, coughing into his sleeve, while Jin rubbed his son's back to keep him from laughing out loud.
Sukuna let out a short, heavy huff at the absolute, unparalleled rudeness of your words. He lifted a lazy upper hand, giving a brief, dismissive wave to signal Uraume to back off.
"Enough," he rumbled quietly.
Uraume, compelled by your tongue, comes to your side to take your glass and chill up your juice. though their eyes still promised your ultimate demise.
choso and they locked into a fierce, unspoken glare off across the tatami mats, entirely ready to tear each other apart while you and Sukuna kept talking.
Sukuna let out a long, heavy sigh, resting his upper chin on his fist while his lower two hands remained crossed over his chest, completely ignoring his servant and his nephew's silent war. He looked at you, looking thoroughly exhausted by your immediate, unshakable confidence.
"Thou art a plague upon this household, brat," Sukuna sneered, though the murderous edge in his voice had morphed into deep, familiar irritation. "Thou questionest every decree, thou critiquest the kitchen staff, and thou treatest me like an inconvenient landlord."
"Because thou actest like one," you add on. "You’re a terrifying monster, sure, we all get it. Very spooky. But you’re also terrible at macroeconomics. Eat your rice and let me look over the valley ledgers later before you accidentally starve half your workforce."
Yuji choked on his tea again.
Sukuna stared at you for a long, quiet moment. The heavy weight of his presence filled the room. you just held his gaze, entirely stubborn, leaning comfortably against your husband's shoulder.
Slowly, the tension in Sukuna's shoulders dissipated. He let out a dry, short huff, a rare, microscopic soften to his sharp features.
"Thou truly hast the biggest mouth in history," Sukuna muttered, turning his gaze back to his food. "A completely insufferable, ungrateful parasite. But… I suppose thou hast grown beneath my skin, brat. This hall would be entirely too quiet if thou didst cease making a nuisance of thyself.."
Uraume sets your drink down and their train of thoughts stop.
A sarcastic retort died right in your throat. You blinked, staring at the terrifying clan leader as the weight of his words settled in. It was the closest thing to an affectionate compliment he was ever capable of giving.
Before you could stop yourself, a soft, involuntary fucking aww slipped past your lips. Your chest swelled with a sudden, ridiculous warmth. "Did... did you just say something nice to me? Snowman, write the date down. Mark it on the calendar. The monster has a heart."
"Do not make me regret it," Sukuna snapped, though he didn't raise his voice, entirely focused on his breakfast.
Choso finally broke his glare with Uraume, his face softening instantly into a blindingly proud smile as he pressed a deep, lingering kiss to the crown of your head. "I knew he would see your worth, my love. Everyone bows to your grace eventually."
Uraume blankly wonders how many chapters they've missed.
From the side of the table, Jin Itadori set his teacup down with a quiet, solid click. He looked around the room, at Yuji’s muffled laughter, at Choso carefully feeding you something, at your completely shameless, bratty self opening wide, at Uraume looking at your face, full of critical thinking, and even at his brother, who was currently eating his breakfast without a single thought of slaughtering the room.
For centuries, the Itadori name had been synonymous with fear, blood, and military dominance. But looking at the chaotic, bickering table in front of him, Jin smiled to himself, a profound sense of peace settling deep into his chest.
Kaori would love to see this when she returns in a few months.
It didn't feel like a regime anymore. It finally, truly, felt like a family.
You rest your hand on the gentle swell of your belly, a soft smile playing on your lips as Satoru’s fingers trace lazy circles over the fabric of your yukata. The estate feels warmer these days, bathed in the late afternoon light filtering through the screens. the two of you have carved out something almost peaceful in the midst of jujutsu world chaos.
“You’re glowing” he murmurs, voice low and teasing, but his eyes are soft. “Our little heir is already spoiling you rotten.”
You laugh, leaning into his chest. The pregnancy has been smooth so far, a quiet joy after years of missions and danger. The baby kicks sometimes, faint but insistent, and Satoru never misses a chance to press his ear to your stomach, whispering nonsense promises about clouds and sweets and the world he’ll reshape for them.
“I never thought I’d get this” you admit one evening, curled against him in the engawa. “Not after everything.”
He kisses your temple. “You deserve it, hime. We both do.”
For a while, it seemed like victory.
But old men with ancient grudges do not forget, and they do not forgive. Bitter, exiled, and desperate to strip Satoru of his future legacy, the disgruntled elders used their remaining, shadowy connections.
they didn't need to overpower the strongest sorcerer alive, they just needed to wait until he was called away on an emergency mission.
They bribed a servant.
By the time Satoru felt his cursed energy alarm trigger and teleported back into the bedroom, the room smelled of copper and despair. You were on the floor, clutching your stomach, gasping through a pain that wasn't just physical, it was the agonizing realization that the faint, pulsing cursed energy inside you had completely vanished.
...
He held you as the clan medics shook their heads, their faces pale. The baby was gone. You survived, but a part of you died right there. Satoru didn't cry. Instead, a suffocating silence settled over him. The limitless around him vibrated with a cold, absolute rage.
"Stay with her" he told shoko, not trusting anyone else, his voice a flat, dead whisper. "I have a debt to collect."
...
His vibrant blue eyes were wide, unblinking, and entirely devoid of humanity.
"gojo!" one of the elders shrieked, scrambling backward. "You have no right—"
"I told you old corpses once before. I gave you a chance to live out your pathetic, miserable lives in the dirt. But you just couldn't help yourselves, could you?"
Ogi, his hand still bound in a heavy cast from their last encounter, reached for his sword, his face contorted in fear and pride. "She was a nobody! A flaw in the lineage! The clan needed to be cleansed of—"
Satoru was suddenly standing directly in front of him. The speed was incomprehensible. He caught Ogi by his broken hand, squeezing until the bones ground into powder. Ogi screamed, a raw, agonizing sound.
"A flaw?" Satoru whispered, leaning in close, his breath ghosting over Ogi's terrified face. "You dare talk about her? You trash think you understand power? You think you understand legacy? You are nothing. You're bugs I forgot to step on."
He ripped Ogi’s arm completely free from the shoulder. Blood sprayed across the shrine's altar.
"Look at me" Satoru commanded the remaining elders, who were on their knees, begging, weeping, covering their ears. "Look at the eyes you wanted so badly to control. Did you think a bit of poison would hide your scent? I track cursed energy down to the atom. I know exactly which one of your dirty, corrupt hands paid off the servant. I know exactly who bought the toxin."
He raised a single hand, ready to deliver a hit,
"You took everything from her," Satoru said, a shred of emotion finally escaping his voice, though his expression remained a mask of pure, unadulterated malice. "You took my child. So I am going to take your lives."
"Please! Satoru, the balance of the jujutsu world—!"
"I am the balance" Satoru snarled.
His fist smashed into the man’s face with a sickening crunch, bone giving way like wet paper. blood sprayed across the wall as the man flew back, skull cracking against the wall.
The second tried to run. Satoru caught him by the back of the neck and slammed him face first into the floor. Once, twice, three times. Each impact wetter than the last.
“You dared poison my wife. My child.” His voice cracked, but his grip didn’t. He twisted the man’s head with a sharp, brutal jerk. The body went limp.
The third elder, cowered in the corner. “G-Gojo-sama, please—mercy—”
Satoru laughed. It was a hollow, terrible sound. “Mercy?” He grabbed the elder by his robes and lifted him clean off the ground with one hand. “Did you show mercy when you mixed that poison into her food? When you killed my baby?”
He drove his fist into the man’s stomach. Once. The elder vomited blood. ribs shattered. on the third punch, something inside ruptured. Satoru dropped him like trash and stomped down on his throat until the gurgling stopped.
“You thought you could kill my wife and child and I would just let you breathe?”
When it was done, he dropped the bodies and stood there, chest heaving, hands dripping red.
It still wasn’t enough.
it didn’t stop when their hearts did.
He grabbed the corpse by the robes and slammed its head against the wooden floor again and again. The dull, wet thuds echoed through the silent room. When the head finally lolled uselessly, he stood and started kicking, savage, stomping kicks to the ribs, the stomach, the skull. Each impact sent the lifeless body jerking across the floor like a broken doll.
He burned every hideout. He hunted down the last two elders who had fled further. One he beat to death with his bare fists until his knuckles split and the man’s face was no longer recognizable.
Satoru looked down at their bodies.
“You took my future” he said quietly. “So I took yours.”
He was crying now, tears cutting clean lines through the blood on his face, but he didn’t stop. Not until his legs shook and his arms burned and the bodies were no longer recognizable as human.
the elders were gone, reduced to broken meat and shattered bones under the weight of a father’s grief and a husband’s rage.
Only then did the frenzy slowly ebb, leaving him standing in the middle of the carnage, breathing hard, covered head to toe in gore. His hands trembled. His eyes were wild and hollow.
It still wasn’t enough.
Nothing would ever be enough.
Satoru turned away from the slaughter, blood dripping from his fingertips, and began the long walk back to you.
Back to the only thing left that mattered.
...
Two weeks had passed, but time had stopped meaning anything.
The swelling in your stomach was entirely gone, leaving you hollow and painfully thin. You were a ghost haunting the corridors of the Gojo estate. You couldn't sleep anymore, the vast emptiness of the mattress only reminded you of the life that should have been growing between you. You didn't sleep. Instead, you spent the nights crying silently, when exhaustion finally claimed you for an hour, or wandering the dark halls barefoot, your toes numb against the cold wooden floors.
Satoru didn't sleep either. He couldn't wash the faint scent of copper from his skin for days, his eyes perpetually bloodshot, his white hair hanging limp and blocking his eyes. The rage that had consumed him hadn't died, it had turned inward, rotting him from the inside out. He watched you fade, unable to fix the one thing that mattered.
Then came the midnight when you couldn't breathe inside those walls anymore.
You ran barefoot, the sharp gravel of the estate path cutting into your soles, but you didn't care. You sprinted toward the black, glassy lake at the edge of the property, the cold wind whipping your hair across your face, your tears sideways.
Behind you, satoru was there in an instant, running right behind you, desperately, his own face tracked with tears he hadn't stopped shedding for days, bleeding through his nails, a consequence of his prior actions.
"Hime! Please, stop! Please!" he begged, his voice cracking, a sound so utterly pathetic it didn't belong to the strongest sorcerer alive.
You stopped at the edge of the water, the wet sand squelching between your bare toes. You spun around to face him, your chest heaving, your eyes wild and bloodshot.
"What did I ever do wrong in my life to deserve this?!" you screamed into the night air, your voice tearing at your throat. "What did I do, Satoru?! Tell me!"
Satoru came forward, closing the distance, and threw his arms around you. He pulled you against his chest, hugging you so tight it hurt, his body shaking with quiet cries.
"Nothing, hime. You did nothing wrong. I’m here. I’ve got you" he choked out, his lips pressing against your hair.
But the grief was a wild, poisonous animal, and it needed someone to tear apart. You pushed at his chest, your hands digging into his clothes, your voice turning sharp, laced with a bitter, agonizing venom.
"It’s you" you sobbed, looking up at him through a blurred screen of tears.
"All of this started after I married you! You’ve caused nothing but pain in my life! I wasn't ready, Satoru! I told you I wasn't ready for a baby, and you convinced me! you told me we’d be safe, you told me you were the strongest!"
Each word was a physical blow. He let the words hit him, let them cut him to pieces, because in the corners of his mind, he had already been thinking the exact same thing.
He remembered the cursed old proverb, a woman's loss is always caused by the men they love. It was true. His absolute strength was a curse that had bled into you. And you loved him more than life itself.
"I'm sorry" he wept frantically, his voice a broken whisper as he leaned down, his lips moving blindly over your face. He kissed your forehead, your wet eyelids, your cheeks, chasing your skin even as you twisted your face away in bitter anger, sobbing and fighting his touch.
He was losing his mind, his brain firing in panic with only one directive, keep her safe, keep her sane, fix this, fix her... "I'm so sorry, my love. I’m sorry, I’m sorry..."
Suddenly, your eyes widen, leaving only a terrifying, gaping void. You stopped thrashing. You just stared at him, your hands falling limp against his chest. For a whole minute, the only sound was the lap of the lake water against the shore and Satoru’s ragged breathing.
Then, a fresh wave of violent sobs broke through you. You reached up, your trembling hands roughly grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, smeared with the sand from your own fingers.
"I'm so sorry" you sobbed, terrified of your own grief. your voice cracking with a desperate horror at your own words. "I didn't mean it! Satoru, I didn't mean any of it, oh god, I'm so sorry—"
"No" Satoru interrupted, his blue eyes overflowing with tears, staring down at you with an expression of pure, agonizing defeat. "You're right. It’s my fault, hime. It’s all my fault. I should have protected you. I should have killed them the moment they looked at you. I brought you into this filth."
"No!" you shrieked, squeezing his face, shaking him violently. "Stop it! It's not your fault! Everything beautiful in my life has come only because of you! Don't you dare say that!"
"It's not true" he cried out, he's incapable of bringing anything beautiful with him. "I’ve only ruined your life! All I ever wanted was for you to be happy, but I bound you to me, and now you're miserable! All because of me!"
"No, that's not it!" you sobbed, your knees buckling completely. "It's my fault! It's my fault in the first place! I should have been more careful with what I ate, I should have known, I should have—"
"It is not your fault!" Satoru shouted, catching your waist as you both collapsed into the sand. He frantically pulled his long sleeves over his hands, using the fabric to violently, desperately wipe the tears and the sand from your face.
He saw a smudge of the blood from his hands transfer to your shirt and he lost control, frantically scrubbing at your clothes, his breathing hitching. No more of his filth on you. Never again, never.
"You couldn't have known, sweetheart. But I have these goddamn eyes! I should have known! I should have taken care of you!"
The two of you were on your knees now, sinking into the wet shore. Satoru’s hair blocked his face, sand sticking to his wet cheeks.
"It's my fault" Satoru whispered, his forehead dropping to touch yours. "I shouldn't have married you. If I had just left you alone, you'd be safe. You'd have a family. You wouldn't be hurting like this."
CRACK.
The sound echoed over the quiet lake.
You had struck him. You had slapped him so hard, with every single ounce of desperate, terrified strength left in your frail body, that his head snapped to the side. the sheer force of the impact caused the pressure in his ear to spike, a thin trickle of dark blood immediately starting to leak down his lobe. Your palm burned like fire, turning a brilliant, angry red.
You collided backward into the sand, your fists slamming into the wet earth, clenching it, the wetness cooling your hand, kicking up grains that stuck to your skin and clothes. Your eyes were blood red, your chest heaving violently.
"Don't you say that!" you screamed, your voice hoarse, raw, and trembling. "Don't you ever dare say that!!!!"
Then, the anger shattered into a fragile, terrifying panic. You stopped breathing, your gaze fixing on the blood dripping from his ear, then rising to his wide, shocked blue eyes.
I've only ever hurt him
"Is it true?" you whispered, your voice suddenly so small, so broken. "Do you... do you wish you never married me?"
Satoru’s head was spinning from the strike, the physical disorientation matching the emotional wreckage inside him, the blood dripping down his neck. But his immediate reaction wasn't anger.
He lunged forward through the sand, throwing his upper body over yours, crushing you into the shore as he wrapped his arms around you in a bruising, iron grip, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his blood smearing against your collarbone.
"No, love, no. god, no." he wept openly, his body heaving against yours as the two of you lay tangled in the sand. "Never. You're the best thing to have ever happened to me. You're the only good thing I have. The only thing that’s ever made sense in this cursed world. I’m sorry... I'm so sorry, my girl, my sweet girl..."
Your fists, still buried in the sand, slowly unclenched. You brought your slippery, sand streken hands up around his neck tightly, holding onto his trembling shoulders.
There, on the dark, freezing shore, beneath the indifferent stars, the strongest sorcerer and his hollowed out wife held each other as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist.
Slowly, the sobs screams turned into ragged whimpers, and the whimpers turned into a heavy, suffocating exhaustion. Wrapped in each other's arms, drenched in sweat, tears, blood and sand, you both finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep of pure exhaustion, anchored to the earth only by the tight, bruising grip of each other's hands.
It was twenty minutes past the scheduled departure time. The plane hadn't budged an inch, the jet bridge was still attached, and a hundred-plus passengers were shifting in their seats, sighing loudly, and checking their watches. Isn't the pilot supposed to be the first person on the plane? Where the hell was he?
Then, the click of a lock echoed from the backward restroom.
Every head in first class, and a good chunk of the main cabin, snapped toward the sound. The door swung open, and out stepped you, the flight's assistant. You looked completely flushed, hurriedly smoothing down your skirt and adjusting your collar with a perfectly practiced, "nothing to see here" smile. You gave a polite nod to the irritated passengers and started walking briskly down the narrow aisle.
The collective irritation resumed. Fine, an assistant was on board, but where was the captain?
Bam.
The same bathroom door swung open so hard it rattled the bulkhead.
Out stumbled Captain Gojo Satoru.
All 6’3” of him was a chaotic blur of midnight-blue uniform and white hair. Because you were still moving down the narrow aisle, you were technically blocking his path. Without breaking his stride, Gojo caught up to you in a second. He leaned in, planting a hurried, loud smack of a kiss right on your cheek. At the exact same time, his hand dropped, giving your rear a quick, firm squeeze, completely hidden from the passengers' line of sight by his massive frame, but leaving you gasping softly in shock.
"Excuse me, gorgeous" he whispered with a wink, before sprinting past.
He was practically sprinting down the aisle toward the cockpit, frantically buttoning up the last two buttons of his white inner shirt. His tie was draped loosely around his neck like a scarf, and right there, plain as day on his lips, was a glaring smudge of your exact shade of lipstick.
The cabin went dead silent.
As Gojo zoomed past row 3, Yuji had his jaw on the floor. Next to him, Megumi slowly raised his hand, his expression completely blank.
"Damn" Megumi muttered.
Without missing a beat, Gojo flashed a blinding grin, reached out, and smacked a perfect mid-air high-five with Megumi's hand. "My boy!" Gojo called back, before diving straight into the cockpit and slamming the door behind him.
Not even ten seconds later, the intercom crackled to life. There was no professional chime. Instead, the entire cabin was filled with the heavy, uneven breathing of a man who had just run a marathon, or something else entirely.
"Good afternoon... (heavy breath)... ladies, gentlemen, and my buds in row three. This is your... (deep inhale)... dashing pilot, Captain Satoru Gojo speaking."
He paused, a smug, completely unbothered chuckle vibrating through the speakers. He knew exactly what everyone was thinking. He knew they saw the lipstick.
"First off, apologies for the slight delay—let’s just say the pre-flight check... ran a little long, and the captain was getting thoroughly, thoroughly briefed on standard operating procedures. Weather looks beautiful, flight time is going to be a breeze....
...and I promise to make up for lost time because, well, I’m just that good. Strap in, relax, and thank you for flying with the strongest airline crew in the sky."
The intercom went quiet for a second, save for the sound of him clearing his throat, his voice dropping into a breathless, dramatic murmur.
"...please wait just a moment before we taxi, everyone. Your captain needs a second to... um... comedownfromthehigh. Hang tight."
In the galley, you covered your burning face with both hands, dying of embarrassment as the flight attendants next to you practically doubled over laughing, giving you teasing looks.
a poor passenger who was recording incase of an emergency, worried of the flight's situation got it all on camera, and the clip went where all clips go to embarass you, the internet. By the next day, it was the number one trending topic online.
@ getalifenga: The kid saying "damn" represents the entire internet right now.
@ user7392: THE HEAVY BREATHING ON THE INTERCOM?! Someone check on the assistant, she fought for her life in there
@ dazaid1glazer: The way he high-fived him while running for his life LMFAO
@ whydonttheyglowirl: "Come down from the high" GIRL WHAT DID YA DO TO HIM?!?
@ sea_urchin_megumi: I'm washing my hand. pls delete this video.
You stared at your phone in horror. Gojo just leaned over your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and resting his chin on your shoulder, entirely proud of himself. "Look at that, babe," he purred against your ear. "We're viral."
your face was burning. “You could’ve at least tried to sound professional.”
“Baby” he laughed, voice still rough, “I was breathing like I just ran a marathon. Professionalism left the second you dragged me in there by my tie.”
He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
"Now… where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by a flight schedule?"
I read ur fic where the elders touched reader and forced her to clean on her knees I was wondering where you do angst like very sad where she lost the baby because y'know they put their dirty ugly hands on her forcing her and everything (of course you don't have to do it I love ur fics also please stay safe queen 🫶🏼👑)
thats a great idea i'm willing to write, but do you mind if i change it a bit, like, you know since they're kicked out, they try to use connections and get the child and mother killed, maybe by mixing something in the food or something like that?? and loses the baby that way?
megumi gets himself sick so you'll pay more attention to him.
...
yandere reader x megumi
...
A year is more than enough time for a house to become a universe.
For megumi, the world had shrunk to four locked walls, reinforced windows, and the precise, heavy rhythm of your footsteps. He didn’t know about the hidden cameras seamlessly integrated into the molding, feeding live footage straight to an app on your phone. He didn’t need to.
He already felt your eyes on him every second of the day, even when you weren't there. It was a suffocating, intoxicating weight that he had learned to crave with a desperation that terrified what little was left of his old self.
He was twenty now. In the twelve months you had kept him hidden away, his frame had stretched, his shoulders broadening just enough to make the clothes you bought him last summer look absurd. The hems of his pants rode up his ankles, the shoulders of his shirts pulled taut against his back.
He had grown taller than you, a fact that filled him with a quiet, possessive thrill, even if he was still entirely at your mercy.
Lately, though, the universe had gone quiet.
You were busy. A grueling project at work had turned you into a ghost in your own home, plagued by sleepless nights and endless paperwork. You still locked the doors, you still checked the perimeter, but the attention had waned. You weren't looking at him. You were looking at screens. You hadn't brushed his hair in four days. You hadn't sat and watched him eat.
Megumi couldn't handle fifteen minutes of silence before the intrusive thoughts began to claw at his skull, whispering that you were bored of him, that you were going to leave the door unlocked on purpose just to rid yourself of the burden.
So, he planned. He didn’t say a word, Megumi was never one for loud complaints, but his mind worked with a sharp toxicity that perfectly mirrored your own.
If he couldn't have your love through your spare time, he would steal it through your panic.
For three days, he executed his script. When you left for your office in the mornings, he went into the bathroom and turned the shower knob completely to the right, standing under the freezing, icy deluge until his skin turned blue and his teeth rattled against his jaw. When you left meals for him in the fridge, he didn't microwave them. He ate the dense, cold rice and stiff proteins straight from the tupperware, washing it down with glasses of tap water chilled with handfuls of ice.
By the fourth morning, his body gave in.
The heavy click of the front door unlocking signaled your return. You stumbled into the hallway, bags under your eyes, exhausted to the bone. Your routine was mechanical, check the phone app to ensure the camera feeds were stable, then check on your prize.
But when you pushed open the bedroom door, the usual sight of Megumi sitting quietly on the bed was gone. Instead, he was curled into a tight, shivering ball on the floor, buried beneath a thin blanket that did nothing to stop his violent tremors.
"megumi?"
Your voice cracked, the exhaustion vanishing instantly, replaced by a sharp, jagged spike of adrenaline.
He didn't answer. He couldn't. His skin was flushed a deep, feverish crimson across his nose and cheekbones, contrasting sharply with the deathly pale tint of his lips. When you dropped to your knees and pressed your palm to his forehead, the heat radiating off him felt like a furnace.
103, easily.
A low, pathetic whine left his throat at the touch of your cool hand. He leaned his face heavily into your palm, his long, dark lashes fluttering open to reveal glazed, unfocused eyes. He looked up at you as if you were the only solid thing left in a dissolving world.
"Look at you" you breathed, a toxic mix of furious panic and distorted adoration swelling in your chest. You grabbed his chin, tilting his face up. "What did you do to yourself, sweetheart? Why are you burning up like this?"
Megumi didn’t say anything outright. He didn’t confess to the cold showers or the deliberate neglect of his own health. He merely let his head drop against your shoulder, his heavy, hot breath puffing against your neck. It worked, his mind hummed through the fog of the fever. She’s looking at me. She’s touching me.
"Come here. Up."
You hoisted him up, gritting your teeth as you realized just how much heavier he had gotten. His long legs dragged slightly as you guided him into the bathroom. You stripped him of his damp, sweat-soaked clothes, your eyes narrowing as you noticed how short the shirt had become on him, exposing his lower stomach. You’d have to order him new things tonight. A whole new wardrobe for your growing boy.
You filled the bathtub with lukewarm water, testing it carefully before helping him sink into it.
The moment his skin hit the water, Megumi gasped, his hands instantly flying out to grip your wrists with a startling, iron-tight strength. His knuckles were white.
"Shh, I've got you. It's just to lower the fever, Megumi. Let go," you cooed, your voice dropping into that sweet, psychotic tone you only used when he was entirely compliant.
He didn't let go. His eyes widened, dark and wild with a sudden, violent flash of separation anxiety. To Megumi, the world was ending because your hands weren't directly on him. He didn't want the water, he wanted you.
He lunged forward again when you swat off his hands gently, trying to scramble backward out of the tub, his long legs kicking up a harsh, frantic spray of water that instantly soaked the front of your clothes. But he was too weak, his muscles shaking violently from the fever.
he grabbed you. His fingers, wet and trembling, locked around your wrists with a terrifying, crushing desperation. His nails dug into your skin, leaving deep, crescent marks that would undoubtedly turn to bruises.
"I've got you, gumi, shh... look at me, I'm right here" you cooed. You leaned over the edge of the tub, using your weight to gently press his broad, shivering shoulders back down into the water. "It’s just water, sweetheart. It’s going to make you feel better. Let me take care of you."
But his mind was fracturing under the heat.
When he looked up through his blurred, tear-pricked vision, he didn't just see you kneeling beside the tub.
He saw another you, in the tub with him, sitting opposite to him, staring at him with those wide, unblinking eyes. you were everywhere. You were the walls, you were the water, you were the air he couldn't breathe. He was completely lost, not just in the house, but inside the very concept of you.
"Don't look away" he choked out, his eyes darting frantically between the real you kneeling by his side and the phantom version of you his mind had conjured.
"Please... don't go. Don't leave me"
"I'm right here, sweets. I'm not going away" you murmured, entirely captivated by his utter ruin.
You took a soft washcloth, soaking it in the water, and began to run it down his chest and arms. Megumi flinched at the initial contact, a whimper tearing from his throat, but as you continued to stroke his skin, cooing praises and sweet nonsense into his ear, his resistance melted into a pathetic, desperate compliance.
He leaned his heavy, burning, soaking wet head against your shoulder, his face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling the sharp scent of your perfume and the underlying tang of your sweat from your sleepless nights, biting and kissing sloppily. He was soaking your clothes, ruining your posture, but you didn't care. You loved him too much. You loved how ruined he was for you.
With one hand, you worked a bottle of shampoo into his dark, spiked hair, massaging his scalp with long, firm strokes. Megumi let out a low, shuddering sigh, his eyes closing, though his hand never once loosened its iron grip on your wrist.
Even submerged in the water, he kept you anchored to him. If you tried to pull away even an inch to reach for a towel, his grip would instantly tighten, his knuckles turning stark white, a panicked, warning hiss leaving his lips.
"So clingy today" you whispered, kissing his wet, burning temple, your lips lingering on his flush skin. "You really can't exist without me, can you?"
Yes. Believe I'm weak so you never take your eyes off me again.
Never, his mind echoed through the fog of sickness, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Never again.
He didn't care about himself. He cared about the fact that your sleepless nights were now dedicated to him, not your laptop. He cared that your hands were trembling with worry for him.
When you finally turned off the water and pulled the plug, he was practically a dead weight. You had to drape his long, damp arms around your neck, hoisting his altered, taller frame out of the tub. His wet skin slid against yours, a suffocating heat that bonded you together in the quiet bathroom.
You dried him off with slow, thorough strokes of the towel, marking every inch of the body that belonged entirely to you, before dragging him back to the safety of the bedroom.
satoru's attempt to get back at you for the prank...
part 2 of, this.
...
satoru x reader
...
The late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds in warm, lazy golden stripes, painting the living room in a cozy, post nap haze. It had been a perfect day. You two had spent the morning walking through the city, eating way too many street snacks, and literally laughing until your stomachs hurt. When you got back, you’d crashed into bed for a glorious, heavy afternoon nap, tangled up in the sheets and the comforting, radiating warmth of him.
you woke up, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and shuffled into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. You were still half asleep, your hair a bird’s nest, completely at peace.
Until you walked back into the living room.
Standing by the window, backlit by the dramatic evening sun, was a figure. He was wearing Satoru’s clothes, the oversized black hoodie and sweatpants, but everything else was horribly, catastrophically wrong. The glorious, fluffy, gravity defying white hair that you loved to run your fingers through?
Gone.
In its place was a smooth, reflective, blindingly flesh toned dome.
He looked like a giant, pale, incredibly muscular thumb. Or a very buff, very tall hard boiled egg.
You froze. The water glass slipped from your hand, shattering on the hardwood floor with a dramatic splash.
The figure turned around. His bright blue eyes blinked at you. He looked completely, utterly bald.
"Oh, hey babe, you're awake" he said, his voice entirely casual, though his chest was secretly shaking with suppressed laughter. "I, uh... I think I had an allergic reaction to that shampoo."
Your brain didn't just short circuit, it blew a fuse, caught fire, and exploded. The sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the image before you overrode all logic. You let out a ancestral shriek that echoed off the walls.
"WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!" you screamed, turning on your heel and sprinting away, your socks sliding wildly on the hardwood. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! SATORU! SATORU, THERE'S A GIANT EGG IN THE LIVING ROOM! SATORU, HELP!"
"Nooo, it's meee!" Satoru cried, chasing after you, his massive steps easily catching up as you tried to barricade yourself behind the kitchen island. "Babe, shut up, it's literally me! Look at the eyes!"
"NO WAY! NO WAY!" you wailed, covering your face, your voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear.
"Satoru has hair! You look like a Lex Luthor action figure! Don't look at me with those eyes, you stole his eyes!"
"I didn't steal my own eyes!" Satoru yelped, though he was already beginning to break, a massive, obnoxious, shirtless-anime-villain giggle escaping his throat. He touched his smooth head, rubbing it in a circle. "I don't know what this shit is, honestly! I woke up and it was just... like this! But... I mean, come on, do I still look good? Be honest. Do I have a good head shape? Is it aerodynamic?"
"OMG. WTF!" You were practically hyperventilating, tears of pure, unhinged terror leaking from your eyes. You started pacing the kitchen, gripping your hair. "This is a curse. A special grade curse did this! Oh my god, we're gonna die! You've lost your powers! You're just a very tall, vulnerable thumb!"
"Baby, baby, hey, look at me—" Satoru took a step toward the kitchen, arms open. "Don't cry, it's okay, let me hug you—"
"DON'T COME CLOSER!" you shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at him, backing away into the living room.
Satoru was going all out now, desperately trying to console you while holding back tears of laughter. "Babe, look at my face! It's Satoru! I'm the Strongest! Please stop crying!"
Suddenly, you stopped pacing. Your entire demeanor changed. The frantic, crying girlfriend evaporated.
Your face went completely, terrifyingly stiff. Your mouth snapped open wide, stretching into a unnatural, gaping, hollow void, and your eyes went completely wild, unblinking, and vacant. It was a look ripped straight out of a psychological horror movie.
You stood up completely straight, your posture snapping like a twig. You abruptly stepped toward him, and Satoru actually flinched back, startled by the sheer velocity of your movement and the demonic expression on your face.
"No. no, no, no, no," you muttered loudly, staring right through his soul with those wide, unhinged eyes.
"What?" Satoru asked, his blue eyes widening in genuine confusion. The laughter in his throat died a quick death.
"Don't do that!" you snapped, your voice bursting with raw, theatrical horror, your stiff face never wavering. "Don't do that!"
"What?! Sit down, please, please sit down, you're scaring me," Satoru pleaded. Your pure horror tone and that wide mouthed, dead eyed stare were so realistic it was actually starting to creep him out. He held his hands up like he was dealing with a bomb.
"Why are you looking at me like that? Seriously, sit down!"
"I thought we were having a nice day!!" you shouted, eyes wide, shaking your head with him in focus, your face still completely wild as you stomped around the coffee table. "I thought we were having a nice day!!!"
"We are! Baby, we are, we are, we are!" he chanted, completely thrown off his game, flinching back like a, bald, worried puppy.
"I thought. we were having. A NICE DAY!!" you roared again, facing him, your mouth stretching even wider, your eyes practically popping out of your head.
"IT'S A PRANK! IT'S A PRANK!" Satoru screamed, now officially scared shitless by your oscar level psychological breakdown. He reached up to his temple, caught the edge of the latex cap, and violently ripped it backward.
His glorious, thick, snowy white hair instantly cascaded down, exploding out in all its fluffy, messy perfection. He threw the bald cap onto the floor like it was radioactive and lunged forward, wrapping his long arms around you to comfort you, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Look! Hair! It's hair! It's a prank! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't have a psychotic break! I'm not a thumb!!"
The moment his arms locked around you, your frantic breathing instantly stopped. Your stiff, horrifying face relaxed into a smug grin.
You let out a long, casual, deeply frustrated sigh. You wiped the fake tears from your eyes with the back of your hand and patted his back.
"Yeah, I kind of knew you were pranking me" you said, your voice completely flat and normal.
Satoru froze. He slowly pulled back, staring down at you, his white hair messy and his blue eyes absolutely blown wide with shock. "...Really?"
"Duh" you scoffed, rolling your eyes and crossing your arms. "You think I didn't see the liquid latex wrapper in the bathroom trash earlier? Also, you look like a giant hard boiled egg."
Satoru stood there, completely dumbfounded, his brain trying to process the absolute whiplash. Then, his face twisted into an offended pout.
"Wait. If you knew... then what the hell was that?! 'Don't do that! I thought we were having a nice day!' Your face! Your mouth was open so wide I thought a curse was crawling out of your throat! You literally looked like you were going to skin me alive and wear my face! You looked like that crazy chick from that movie!!"
You let out a loud, chaotic laugh.
"I was matching your freak, Satoru! You wanna do a movie grade prank? I'm gonna give you a movie grade reaction. Admit it, you were scared shitless!"
"I thought you'd kill me, this aint far from it though."
"You wouldn't shave your hair anyway, you love yourself too much" you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck.
"Wouldn't I?" Satoru teased, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Seriously, how did you make your eyes go that wide?"
The things you did for views. Or rather, the things you did because you were bored, had a front row seat to the strongest sorcerer alive, and possessed zero survival instincts.
You set up your phone on the bathroom counter, propping it against the soap dispenser. The camera was angled perfectly to catch the door and your face. You hit record, took a deep breath, and summoned every ounce of acting talent you possessed.
"Okay," you whispered to the camera. "my boyfriend, is in the living room playing video games. I am going to convince him that my tampon is stuck and I can’t get it out. He has literally no idea how anatomy works, so let’s see what happens."
You took another deep breath, forced your face into a mask of pure, unadulterated panic, and let out a sharp, choked gasp.
"Satoru!" you wailed, making your voice tremble. "Satoru, please come here right now!"
For a second, there was silence. Then, a massive crash from the living room, the unmistakable sound of a gaming controller being hurled onto a coffee table, followed by heavy, frantic footsteps.
The bathroom door flew open so hard it bounced off the wall.
Gojo Satoru stood in the doorway, looking ready to dismantle a special grade curse with his bare hands. His shoulders were tense, his hands already twitching toward a cursed technique.
"What?! What is it? Is there a curse? Did someone break in? Are you bleeding?!" He paused, his head tilting. "Wait, your cursed energy is normal. Why are you crying?"
You were huddled over the sink, clutching your stomach, squeezing out a couple of real, genuine tears of stress. "Satoru... I have a really, really big problem. You can't laugh at me. Promise me you won't laugh."
"Okay, babe, you're crying a river here, you're genuinely terrifying me" he said, stepping into the small bathroom. He slid his blindfold up just enough for his striking, bright blue eyes to lock onto yours. The absolute gravity on his face was comical, but you held it together. "What's wrong? Did you drop your phone in the toilet again?"
"No," you sniffled, burying your face in your hands. "It's... it's my tampon."
Gojo blinked. The intense, battle-ready aura instantly evaporated, replaced by a look of profound, childlike confusion. "Your... what?"
"My tampon, Satoru! It's stuck!" you cried, letting out a pathetic little squeak. "The string broke! It’s trapped inside me! I can’t get it out and I think it’s going to infect my blood and I'm going to get toxic shock syndrome and die!"
Gojo stood frozen. The six eyes, capable of perceiving the literal atomic structure of the universe and tracking the flow of cursed energy down to the molecule, were currently staring at you in absolute, catastrophic overload.
"Wait. Hold on. Rewind," he said, holding up his hands like a referee calling a timeout. A grin suddenly broke across his face, that classic, arrogant, I-know-everything smirk. "Is this a bit? Are you doing a bit? Because if the string broke, just... call it back? Like a yo yo?"
"It doesn't work like a yo yo, Satoru!" you shrieked, stamping your foot. "It's stuck! I tried to reach it and I can't! It’s lost!"
His smirk vanished. The reality of your "panic" was setting in, and Gojo Satoru, the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery, was rapidly losing his mind.
"What do you mean it's lost?!" he barked, his voice rising an octave. He gripped his own hair. "How does it get lost?! Is there an echo in there?! Is it a cave?! Where did it go?!"
"I don't know! It's up there!"
"Okay, okay, don't panic. The strongest is here." He took a deep, dramatic breath, puffing out his chest, trying to regain his cool. He slapped his hands together. "Alright, logically. Can I use Blue to create a micro vacuum and just... shloop it out?"
You stared at him, genuinely horrified for a split second. "Are you insane?! You'll pull my organs out!"
"Okay, no blue! No blue!" he yelled, waving his hands frantically. "What about limitless? Can I slide my hand in with limitless active so I don't touch anything sensitive, and just grab it? Wait, no, if I use Limitless I won't actually be touching it, so I can't pull it. Damn it!!"
He began pacing the tiny bathroom, a blur of black clothing and white hair, muttering to himself like a mad scientist.
"Think, Satoru, think. You've killed hundreds of curses. You can handle a cotton cylinder." He stopped and pointed a finger at you. "Can you cough? Like, really hard? If you sneeze, does it shoot out like a cannonball?"
"No!" you sobbed, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact that you were starting to violently shake from holding in your laughter.
“Okay. Okay. Don’t panic. I’ve got this. I’m the strongest, right? Tampon retrieval is just a smaller scale domain expansion. Infinite void but for… feminine hygiene products.” He snaps his fingers. “I’ll call Shoko. No—wait, she’ll laugh at me. Or worse, lecture me on consent and boundaries. I’ll handle it myself. I’m very hands on.”
“Satoru,” you whine, clutching your stomach for effect, “it hurts a little and I feel it but I can’t—”
He’s back in your space instantly, forehead pressed to yours, blue eyes wide and sparkling with a terrifying combination of panic and mischief. “Shhh, shhh. Daddy’s here.” (He says it completely unironically, like it’s a normal pet name.)
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding—unless you’re into that today, in which case we can circle back.” He winks, then his face goes comically serious again.
“Alright, mission parameters: get the evil cotton intruder out of my girlfriend’s sacred temple. First, we need better lighting. And maybe music. Something empowering. Doja Cat? doja cat can do it, i'm sure”
then he starts rummaging through the cabinets like a man on a quest. “Where’s the lube? We need to reduce friction.” He finds the bottle and waves it triumphantly.
“Satoru, I don’t think—”
“Trust the process, baby.” He’s kneeling again, hands on your knees, looking up at you with those devastating eyes. The dramatic flair drops for a split second and you catch the real layer underneath, the observant, emotionally intelligent one who actually cares.
“Hey. For real, you okay? If it actually hurts I’ll stop being a clown and we’ll go to the doctor right now. No jokes. I hate when you’re in pain.”
Your heart does a stupid little flip.
“It’s just stuck...”
"Okay, look at me" Gojo said, his voice suddenly dropping into a ridiculously soft, dramatic 'doctor' tone. He knelt down in front of you, putting his hands on your knees. His blue eyes were wide, intensely serious. "I'm going to have to look. I'll use the six eyes. I will scan you. I will find the rogue cotton."
"Satoru, you can't see a tampon with the six eyes, it doesn't have cursed energy!"
"Everything has a structural mass! I can see the lack of space where it shouldn't be!" He practically cheered, looking incredibly proud of his own brain. "Yes! I'll do a structural scan of your pelvis! Hold still!"
He leaned in, his face getting way too close to your hip bone, squinting like he was trying to read a very small menu.
"I see... bones. I see blood flow. I see... wait, is that a half-digested chicken nugget? Babe, your metabolism is crazy. Hold on, let me look deeper—"
He actually starts putting on gloves. Medical gloves. Where the hell did he even get those?
“Gojo, what are you—”
“Safety first, princess! I’m a professional. Well, not really, but I watched one tiktok about it once.” He snaps the glove dramatically.
"Satoru, stop!" You pushed his forehead away, your chest heaving. You couldn't do it anymore. The mental image of Gojo Satoru x raying your pelvic floor to find a phantom tampon was too much.
You burst out laughing.
Gojo froze, still on his knees. He looked up at you, his eyes narrowing slightly as your frantic sobs turned into loud, snorting giggles. He slowly stood up, towering over you, crossing his arms.
"Why are you laughing?" he asked, his voice dangerously level. "Are you experiencing hysterical madness from the toxic shock? Do I need to carry you to Shoko? I will jump across the city rooftops right now, I swear to God—"
You pointed a shaking hand toward the soap dispenser.
Gojo slowly turned his head. He looked at the phone. He looked at the screen, which clearly showed a red recording dot and of him kneeling on the bathroom floor looking for a tampon with god like vision.
The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.
Then, Gojo’s face underwent a magnificent transformation. The panic gave way to utter disbelief, which immediately morphed into the most dramatic, offended pout known to mankind.
"A prank?" he whispered, clenching his fists. He looked at the camera, then back at you. "A TIK TOK PRANK?!"
"You—you asked if it shot out like a cannonball!" you gasped, tears of actual laughter streaming down your face now. You slumped against the counter, clutching your ribs. "You wanted to use Blue!"
"I was trying to save your life!" Gojo yelled, though a massive, ridiculous grin was breaking through his fake anger. He lunged forward, grabbing you by the waist and hoisting you effortlessly over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
"I was prepared to fight the concept of biology for you! I was going to call Shoko and say 'Hey, my girlfriend's internal yo yo broke, send backup!'"
“Mwah—traitor. Mwah—menace. Mwah—love of my ridiculous life.”
You’re wheezing, pushing at his chest but not really trying. “You were so ready to go in there with lube and a flashlight!”
“Because I’m a supportive boyfriend!” he declares, voice booming. “I support you through curses, through bad takeout, and through tampon tragedies! I was about to make that cotton bastard my bitch for you!”
“Say you’re sorry! Say your big strong boyfriend is the best tampon rescuer in the world even though it was fake!”
“I’m not sorry!” you gasp between laughs. “It was hilarious! You called it a ‘cotton cylinder’!”
Gojo gasps in mock offense, clutching his chest. “I was being poetic! Romantic, even! That could’ve been our meet cute in an alternate universe where I’m a sexy gynecologist and you’re my damsel in period distress.”
He suddenly grabs your phone from where you dropped it, flipping the camera to selfie mode. “Hey everyone, it’s Gojo Satoru. My girlfriend just tried to murder me emotionally with the world’s most committed prank. Say hi to the future mother of my six kids who is also a professional liar.”
You wave at the camera, face flushed and tear streaked from laughing.
He turns and plants a big sloppy kiss on your cheek for the video. “If any of you try pranking your partners like this, make sure they’re as hot and capable as me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have revenge to plan.”
He ends the recording, tosses the phone aside.
You thread your fingers through his hair, still giggling. “You’re such a dramatic idiot.”
“Your dramatic idiot” he corrects, tilting his head up to give you that signature cocky smirk. “Now. About that lube…”
You smack his shoulder and he just laughs, that loud, bright, infectious sound that fills the whole room.
The arrangement had been simple, the great Itadori clan, currently ruled with a terrifying, heavy hand by your uncle-in-law, Ryomen Sukuna, wanted the "black tongue" secured in their lineage. You didn’t possess a grand, destructive cursed technique. Instead, you possessed a hereditary quirk, a mouth that reality seemed to listen to just a little too closely.
Because of this, people constantly sneaked to your quarters, begging for your accidental blessings for their harvests or business ventures. And because of this, Sukuna had decreed you’d marry the eldest son of his younger brother, Jin.
Enter Choso. The supposedly next clan head. A man who was fiercely protective, incredibly doting, and utterly, hopelessly oblivious.
Three months into the marriage, and you hadn't moved past sharing a futon. Which was a crying shame, because the man was a walking sin.
...
You sat on the engawa, fan fluttering lazily against the afternoon heat, watching your brother-in-law, Yuji, train. The boy was treading so lightly across the gravel, trying not to disturb the dust, that he looked like a newborn deer.
"Oof," you called out, resting your chin on your hand. "walk proper, else you might just take a dive."
Thwack.
Yuji instantly tripped over absolutely nothing, face-planting directly into the dirt. He groaned, pulling his face out of the ground with a sheepish grin.
"Ow! Sister-in-law, did you do that on purpose?!" Yuji groaned from the floor, rubbing his nose.
"It’s a blessing, Yuji! The gods just listen to me!" you called back, entirely unbothered.
This was exactly why the Itadori clan wanted you. A woman whose casual observations became law was a tactical asset. Villagers and minor sorcerers practically queued up at the estate gates every Tuesday just to have you say, “Hope your rice harvest doesn't rot,” or “You’ll probably survive that curse hunt.”
But right now, the only thing rotting was your sanity. Because out from the shadow of the courtyard stepped your husband.
arge, calloused hands slid naturally over your shoulders, squeezing gently. Choso leaned down, his face pressing briefly against the crown of your head. He smelled of cedar and the faint, metallic tang of his blood manipulation technique.
"Yuji" Choso said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine and between your thighs. "You must be more careful. Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine, brother! Just... standard bad luck around the lady of the house" Yuji laughed, gathering his scrolls and scurrying off before you could accidentally curse him with baldness.
Choso watched him go, a tiny, frown on his face. He loved his brothers fiercely. It was his most endearing trait. It was also incredibly annoying because you wanted him to direct that fierce, consuming energy into tearing your yukata off.
He turned his heavy gaze to you, his expression softening instantly. "You shouldn't tease him so much, my love. But you look flushed. Is something bothering you?"
You’re bothering me, you thought wildly.
"Are you cold?" Choso murmured, his fingers rubbing soothing circles into your collarbones. "The wind picked up. I should fetch your cloak."
"Choso, my love, it is mid-summer" you sighed, leaning back into his broad chest. His hands were always on you, braiding your hair, holding your wrist to guide you through the estate, pulling you against his side whenever Sukuna walked past looking bored. He was incredibly touchy, a trait born from his deep seated instinct to protect and comfort his family.
The problem? It was doing terrible things to your underwear.
You were, to put it mildly, painfully wet. Every time those heavy, warm hands slid down to anchor on your hips just to "ensure you didn't slip" your internal thermometer spiked.
"I am warm" you purred, tilting your head back to look at his sharp, handsome face. You let your gaze drop significantly down to his lips, then further down his chest. "In fact, I am practically dripping."
Choso’s brow furrowed in immediate, earnest concern. He shifted his hands to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Dripping? Is the humidity causing you discomfort? I will have the servants bring chilled water to wash your face. I cannot have my wife suffering."
You stared at him. He was looking at you with such pure, doting devotion that you felt a pang of guilt. Almost.
"Not exactly the kind of water I was referring to, husband," you whispered, deliberately letting your tongue swipe across your bottom lip. "I was thinking of something a bit more... stimulating."
Choso blinked, entirely missing the subtext. He beamed, a rare, soft expression that made him look breathtakingly cute. "Ah! You want to practice poetry? Or perhaps watch the sunset from the eastern tower? I will arrange it."
You let out a long, defeated breath. He is a block of wood. A gorgeous, doting block of wood.
"The summer in the capital is harsh," he said softly, his brow furrowing with genuine, doting worry. "Let me help."
Before you could suggest a way he could actually help, Choso reached out. His hands were large, calloused from training, and utterly unhesitant. He slid them up your arms, his palms warm against your skin, before settling them firmly on your shoulders, again.
He began to knead the tension out of your muscles, his thumbs digging into the base of your neck with slow, deliberate pressure. It wasn't a sexual gesture, it was the instinctive, grounding touch of a man who simply liked to comfort his wife. He was a handsy creature by nature, always needing to touch, to anchor, to ensure you were safe.
"Ah... nhnn..." You’d let out a pathetic, breathless moan, your head rolling back.
Choso would just smile, entirely oblivious, leaning in so close his breath fanned your ear. "You work so hard, my beautiful wife. Your skin is like silk. I am the luckiest man in all of Japan to have you by my side."
A loud, thoroughly inappropriate whine slipped past your lips. Your knees buckled slightly. The sheer sensation of his thumbs pressing into your skin, combined with your weeks of built-in desperation, made your head spin. You felt dizzy, your vision blurring as a wave of heat pooled heavily in your lower stomach.
"Does that feel good?" Choso asked, completely oblivious to the fact that you were currently fighting for your life. He leaned closer, his chest brushing against your front as he shifted his grip, his breath fanning across your ear. "You're very tense. You carry so much weight on your shoulders with the clan visitors."
"Am I pressing too hard?" he asked, instantly pulling back a fraction, his eyes frantic with concern. "I apologize. I forget my own strength."
"No!" you practically wailed, grabbing his wrists to keep his hands on your body. "Don't stop."
Choso tilted his head, a soft, incredibly sweet smile gracing his lips. He thought you were just being complimentary. "wife, I am glad you find comfort in my touch."
Comfort. He thought it was comfort. You were practically drowning in your own undergarments, ready to risk it all in broad daylight on the veranda of the Itadori main house, and he thought he was doing the equivalent of patting a sad puppy.
"Yes. Comfort," you wheezed, closing your eyes as he rested his forehead gently against yours, his hands now resting gently on your waist. He was so close you could taste the air he exhaled.
"We should rest inside," Choso murmured, his voice a gentle caress. "The sun is getting high."
you turned around abruptly, he tilts his head.
"Are you teasing me? Is this a game to you? Are you trying to see how long I’ll survive before I combust?"
Choso blinked, his dark eyes wide and utterly bewildered. "What do you mean, sweetheart? I only wish to comfort you."
That was it. You were taking matters into your own hands.
The moonlit sky over yokohama is always dramatic, but tonight, Nikolai Gogol is putting on a performance that could rival a Broadway opening night.
He’s pacing back and forth on the abandoned rooftop, his white hair whipping in the wind, and his signature cloak billowing like a theater curtain. You’re just standing there, hands in your pockets, waiting for him to finally get to the point.
“Say, my dear spectator” he begins, voice dropping into that lilting, playful drawl he uses when he’s about to perform. “You’ve been watching my little acts for quite some time now. The grand performance of Nikolai Gogol… and yet, I suspect you haven’t realized the truth behind the curtain.”
You blink. "Nikolai, are you trying to—"
"I am confessing!" he shouts, dropping to one knee with theatrical flair, pressing a hand to his chest.
"You might not know it, my spectacular dove! You might think Nikolai is just a chaotic jester with no room in his heart for tethering emotions! You probably had absolutely no idea that every card trick, every vanished flower, and every life threatening puzzle I've thrown your way was actually a symphony of my adoration! How could you? I’ve been so very discreet!! sneaking glances only when your back was turned, hiding my doves’ messages in plain sight as mere jokes, ensuring my heart only does those ridiculous somersaults when no one else is looking…”
He looks up at you, breathless, waiting for the look of pure, unadulterated shock on your face.
Instead, you just sigh, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips. "I do know, Nikolai. Actually, the whole planet does at this point."
You can’t help it. A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
Nikolai freezes. The dramatic posture deflates by a fraction of an inch. His jaw drops, and his eye goes incredibly wide.
"How?!" he gasps, genuinely scandalized, slamming his hands onto his cheeks. "I’ve been so discreet!!! A shadow in the night! A ghost of romance!—never once did I break character! Never once did I say the quiet part loud! How could the entire planet possibly—?"
"Discreet?" You burst out laughing, stepping closer to him. "Nikolai, last week you literally used your ability to drop a literal banner from the sky that said 'YOU ARE THE EXCEPTION TO MY NIHILISTIC EXISTENCE' right over my apartment building. fyodor had to physically drag you away before the military police noticed."
"That was high art!" he defends loudly, springing back to his feet, gesturing wildly with his hands. "a subtle, metaphorical expression of my psyche, wait, was it the doves? The cloak? The time I replaced your boring files with heart shaped explosives that didn’t even explode because I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting a paper cut? No, no, those were genius levels of covert affection! Untraceable! Unmistakable only to the most perceptive of souls, which you are, of course, but still—"
He paces a frantic circle on the rooftop, boots clicking against concrete, gesturing so wildly you’re worried he’ll accidentally yeet himself off the edge.
He stops dead in front of you, dropping dramatically to one knee like a jester proposing at court. His grin returns, sharper now, laced with delight and a hint of genuine bewilderment, soft.
“explain yourself, my beloved audience” he demands, voice pitching into that sing song chaos you’ve grown weirdly fond of. “How did my flawless performance get exposed? Did someone leak the script? Was it dos kun? Or… did my heart simply beat too loudly one night?”
“Well,” you say softly, brushing a stray feather from his coat
“actions speak louder than words. It was kind of obvious.”
he tilts his head so sharply you hear the faint pop of his neck. “How so???? How?!” He flops back down beside you, legs crossed like an excited child at storytime, chin propped on his fists. “Enlighten this poor fool, my dearest audience! I demand the full breakdown of my spectacular failure at secrecy!”
You laugh under your breath, warmth blooming in your chest at how utterly him he is.
“Like… every single day, no matter how insane things get, I make sure you’ve actually eaten something that isn’t just pure sugar or whatever chaos you call ‘snacks.’ I swap out those half-eaten bags of marshmallows for actual meals when you’re not looking. Or how I always leave an extra cloak in the safehouse because I know you’ll forget yours after you dramatically discard it mid-battle. Or the way I pretend not to notice when you hover a little too close during missions, just so you can feel like you’re protecting me without me calling you out on it.”
You pause, cheeks warming as you continue. “Instead of telling you outright that I like you, I show up. Every time. Even when you’re being impossible. Even when you’re covered in blood and laughing like a madman. I stay.”
Nikolai’s eyes go wide, pupils blown in that dramatic way that makes him look half feral, half starstruck. A slow, dawning “Ohhhh—” escapes him, rising in pitch until it becomes a delighted “—ohhhHHH!” He clutches his chest like he’s been shot by cupid himself.
"Well" he huffs, looking away with a dramatic sniff. "I suppose my genius is simply too vast to be contained by mere secrecy. But... wait."
He snaps his head back to you, his expression shifting from pouting to intensely curious, a spark of hope lighting up his gaze. "If you knew... and the whole world knew... why haven't you run away from this dangerous, unpredictable clown yet?"
You step right into his space, reaching out to gently tug on the edge of his white top hat.
"Because," you say softly, "I kind of like the fireworks."
He points a trembling, gloved finger at you, his voice hitting a comedic, high-pitched octave, also thinking about what you said earlier, and peicing it together like the genius he is. "So... you like me?!"
"Yes" you say, unable to hide the warmth in your voice. "I like you."
For a second, the universe seems to stop. Then, Nikolai absolutely erupts.
"Wonderful! THAT IS WONDERFUL!" He leaps into the air, clicking his heels together with a joyful shout. He grabs your hands, spinning you around in a dizzying, waltz.
"Ah, the stars are singing! The moon is weeping! dos kun owes me fifty yen! This is the greatest plot twist in theater history! The audience loves the show! The performer is loved in return! My heart—ah, it’s doing cartwheels! Somersaults! Triple axels!"
He drops back down in front of you, kneeling again, but this time he catches your hand between his gloved ones with surprising gentleness. The chaos dims for a moment as he presses a lingering kiss to your knuckles, eyes half lidded and sparkling with something dangerously fond.
“Careful now” he murmurs, voice velvet and mischief all at once, “if you keep feeding this jester’s heart so sweetly, I might just decide to chain myself to you… though I’d make it the most beautiful prison imaginable.”
Then, just as quickly, the grin returns full force. He boops your nose with a playing card that definitely wasn’t in his hand a second ago.
"You know, they say gravity is what keeps us anchored to the earth," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, velvety purr as he gazes at you.
"But looking at you right now, I think it's actually your smile keeping me from floating straight into the stratosphere. It's terribly inconvenient for a bird who loves flight, you know."
Your heart does a frantic little flip, but before you can even blush, Nikolai snaps right back into his usual theatrical self, winking playfully. "Though, if I did float away, I'd make sure to steal your bento first! A starving jester is a tragic jester!"
"You're ridiculous" you laugh.
"I am a man of many talents!" he declares proudly.
...
The cool night air of Yokohama does absolutely nothing to quiet Nikolai down as you both finally leave the rooftop. In fact, the confirmation that you actually return his feelings has only supercharged his engine.
As you walk side by side down the quiet street, he is blabbing away at a mile a minute. His hands are flying through the air, gesturing wildly to the sleeping city.
"And then I told him, 'Dos-kun, you simply must understand the profound nature of a homemade bento!' But he just stared at me with those dead, sleep-deprived eyes of his! Honestly, the man has no appreciation for the culinary arts of affection! And to think, all this time I thought I was being a masterful, elusive phantom of secrecy, when really I was just—"
You stop walking. Nikolai, completely caught up in his own monologue, takes two more steps ahead before realizing you’ve paused. He spins around on his heel, his cloak flaring out, his mouth already open to launch into the next sentence. "What is it, my dazzling—"
You don't let him finish. You step forward, catch the lapels of his coat, and pull him down into a kiss.
Silence.
And damn, doesn't he get quiet?
It’s an instant system override. The endless stream of theatrical nonsense completely shorts out. Nikolai freezes entirely, his eyes wide with shock, his gloved hands hovering mid air exactly where they were when he was gesturing. For a few beautiful, breathless seconds, the chaotic, uncontainable Nikolai Gogol is rendered perfectly, utterly still.
You pull back with a satisfied smirk, patting his chest lightly. "That’s better" you tease softly.
Leaving him standing there like a statue, you turn and casually start walking ahead, your boots clicking softly against the pavement.
One step. Two steps. Three steps.
Behind you, Nikolai’s brain finally reboots. A low, sharp gasp escapes him, and then you hear the frantic scuffle of his boots against the concrete.
Nikolai catches up in a rush, long fingers wrapping around your wrist and spinning you back toward him with theatrical flair. “Oh no you don’t” he breathes, voice suddenly low and rough with delight.
Before you can tease him, he pulls you flush against him. One arm snakes around your waist, the other cradling the back of your neck as he dips you dramatically, classic movie style, knee-bending, back-arching perfection. His lips crash into yours, wild and hungry and starving, like he’s been holding back for centuries instead of minutes.
If your first kiss was a gentle pause button, this one is an absolute storm. It’s passionate, desperate, and breathtakingly deep, full of all the manic, consuming devotion he’s been hoarding in his chest for months.
He cradles you close, swaying soflty side by side, the hand on your neck seeping into your hair, his heart hammering violently against your chest, kissing you like a man who has finally found his gravity and never wants to let go.
his hat is crooked, his hair is beautifully messy, and his cheeks are flushed a bright, undeniable crimson. He keeps his arms securely locked around your waist, his eye blazing with a fierce, brilliant light as he stares down at you, completely out of breath.
You blink dizzily, was that a dream?
"Ah..." he breathes, a dazed, helplessly smitten smile spreading across his face. "The bird has been shot right out of the sky. Dead on impact. You are a terribly dangerous assassin, my love."
He straightens you both up but doesn’t let go, still holdin you close as if afraid you’ll vanish like one of his stage tricks. A playful grin tugs at his swollen lips.
“You’ve ruined me, you know” he murmurs, pressing a quick, feather light kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now every performance will feel empty without your lips. How cruel. How wonderful.”
You smile, reaching out to adjust his crooked hat. His shoulders relax instantly at the touch, though his eyes still sparkle with manic love.
That’s Nikolai for you.
And he’s yours, if you’ll have the circus that comes with him.
The bass guitar didn’t just make noise, it made a vibration that started in the soles of your feet and ended somewhere deep in your pelvis, right where the ache usually sat.
From your spot on the battered green velvet couch in the corner of the green room, you watched Choso. The venue smelled like stale beer, ozone, and the chemical sharp tang of the crushable amphetamine pill you’d snorted off the back of a cracked compact mirror ten minutes before the doors opened. Your heart was doing a frantic, fluttering tap dance against your ribs, but outwardly, you were just a puddle of loose limbs and dilated pupils.
Choso was unplugged, practicing a finger picking sequence that looked entirely too complex for a man with hands that big. The harsh fluorescent lights of the backstage room caught the silver glinting in his face. He’d changed since the early days of this messy, undefined arrangement.
The standard-issue rock-and-roll look had mutated into something specific to your vices, a sharp hoop through his left eyebrow, a stud in his bottom lip that he constantly clicked against his teeth when he was thinking, and a thick silver barbell through his tongue.
He didn’t look up from the fretboard, but his voice carried over the ambient hum of the venue’s ventilation. "You're shaking over there. How much did you take?"
"Just enough to stay awake through the set," you lied, your voice a little too airy, a little too thin.
Choso’s thumb stopped dead on the string. He looked up, his dark eyes heavy. He set the bass down with a heavy, deliberate thud against its stand and walked over to you. He didn’t look angry, he looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the tour schedule.
He sat on the edge of the low table in front of you, crowding your space, smelling of leather, tobacco, and the expensive laundry detergent he used to try and wash the smell of venues out of his hoodies. He reached out, his thumb catching your chin, tilting your head up. His thumb roughened your skin, tracing your jawline before his fingers moved down, pressing firmly against the pulse point in your neck.
"Your heart is running a marathon" he murmured, his thumb rubbing a slow, rhythmic circle against your skin. "You promised me you’d scale it back this week."
"I did scale it back" you mumbled, leaning your face into his palm because the skin of his hand was cool against your flushed, feverish cheek. "You're just being dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic. I'm keeping you alive." He sighed, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. His eyes dropped to your collarbone, then drifted down to his own.
He was wearing a tank top, the low neckline revealing the fresh, red-tinged ink script running right along the ridge of his left collarbone. Your name. It was stark, elegant, and entirely inappropriate for two people who were supposed to just be "friends who fucked when the tour bus stopped."
When you’d first seen it three weeks ago, you’d laughed, a high, panicked sound.
He’d just shrugged his broad shoulders, his expression deadpan. “I like the font. And I like the reminder.”
Now, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. The cold metal of his eyebrow piercing nipped at your skin. "The test is in my bag" he whispered. "Did you take it yet?"
The reminder made your stomach do a sickening drop that had nothing to do with the drugs. The second time in four months. The first time had been a frantic, tear filled midnight run to a 24 hour pharmacy in Chicago, both of you staring at a plastic stick on the edge of a hotel sink while the television blared an infomercial.
That one had been negative, but the terror had lingered. This time, the late period had coincided with a particularly bad bender on the west coast, and the guilt had been eating you from the inside out. A baby? With your blood chemistry? You were a walking hazard.
"No" you breathed. "I was waiting for you."
Choso got up, walked over to his duffel bag, and pulled out the cardboard box. He didn't hand it to you. He took your hand, pulling you up from the couch, your knees were a little weak, and he caught your waist to steady you, and led you into the cramped, single occupancy bathroom attached to the green room.
He sat on the closed toilet seat while you stood in the tub, turning his back to give you a semblance of privacy, though privacy had expired between you two a long time ago.
Five minutes later, the little plastic window showed a single, solitary pink line.
A heavy, shuddering breath escaped your lips, your shoulders slumping so hard you nearly hit the wall. Choso stood up immediately, taking the test from your hand and tossing it into the trash. He didn’t say I told you so, and he didn’t look relieved in the way a guy who wanted to escape a trap would look.
He looked... complicated. Almost mournful.
He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his long arms around your shoulders, burying his face in your hair. He rocked you back and forth in the tiny bathroom.
"Okay" he muttered into your hair. "Okay. We're clear. You're okay."
"I'm sorry" you whispered against his shirt. "I'm sorry, Cho. I know I'm a mess."
"You're my mess," he corrected, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register he only used when the doors were locked. "But we have to change this. I can't keep watching you disappear into yourself. I want... I want more than this. I want the whole thing. With you."
You pulled back, looking at him. "Cho."
"The deal is stupid" he said bluntly, his lip piercing catching the light as he sneered at the word. "I have your name on my body. I have a piece of metal in my dick because you said you liked the look of it on a guy in a magazine. Do you think I do that for every girl who comes backstage?"
The reminder made a heat bloom low in your stomach. It was true, months ago, high on some terrible hotel wine, you’d pointed at an altmodel in a magazine and offhandedly remarked that an apadravya piercing was the sexiest thing a man could get. Two weeks later, Choso had shown up at your apartment, walking a little stiffly, with a silver bar split through the head of his shaft, purely because he wanted to see the look on your face when he dropped his trousers.
...
The hotel room was small, but it had a king sized bed with white sheets that were about to get ruined.
The adrenaline from the show was still rolling off Choso in waves his skin was hot, his hair damp with sweat where he’d pulled it out of its usual twin topknots. He hadn’t even taken off his leather boots before he threw you onto the mattress, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.
The drugs were wearing off, leaving you in that jittery, hyper sensitive comedown state where every touch felt like an electric shock.
"You're too quiet" Choso growled, leaning down to bite at your jawline, his lip stud dragging against your skin. "Talk to me."
"I want you" you gasped, arching your hips up against his.
He let out a satisfied sound. He released your wrists, his hands traveling down to rip your clothes away with an urgency that bordered on feral. When he stripped out of his own pants, the heavy silver jewelry between his thighs caught the dim light of the bedside lamp.
He didn't go for the standard routine. Tonight, he wanted to look at you. He pulled you to the edge of the bed, sitting back on his calves, leaving you elevated.
"Climb on" he commanded, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "Ride it"
You didn't hesitate. You slid forward, shifting until you were straddling his lap, your thighs gripping his hips. As you lowered yourself onto him, the cold, heavy sensation of the metal bar inside him hit your internal walls, followed immediately by the thick, stretching heat of him. You let out a loud, ragged sob of pleasure, your fingers burying into his damp hair to hold yourself steady.
Choso’s hands clamped onto your hips, not to lift you, but to hold you down, pinning you against his groin. He began to move his hips in small, rolling circles from below, the metal piercing sliding against your gspot with a friction that made your vision go blurry at the edges.
"Look at me" he commanded, his voice tight with restraint.
You forced your eyes open, looking down at him. His face was flushed, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. Right there, inches from your face, was his collarbone, your name moving up and down with his ragged breathing.
He leaned up, his mouth catching yours. The kiss was heavy, and wet. Every movement was deliberate, designed to overwhelm your senses until the craving for anything chemical was completely washed out by the sheer weight of him.
You began to rock against him, your pace frantic, your head throwing back as the climax began to build like a wave. Choso reached down, his thumb finding your clit, pressing hard.
"Choso—Choso, please—"
"I’m right here" he moaned, his thumb working in fast, merciless circles. "I'm not going anywhere."
The orgasm hit you so hard your back arched, your internal muscles clamping down around him in tight, violent spasms. The friction of his thumb sent you over the edge into a screaming release, your tears hot against his neck as you collapsed forward, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.
Choso let out a low groan, his own pace quickening for three hard, deep thrusts before he came inside you, his body shuddering beneath yours, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs until it would leave bruises tomorrow.
Afterward, he didn't pull away. He shifted, lifting you with him as he crawled further onto the bed, pulling the duvet over both of your sticky, sweating bodies. He tucked your head under his chin, one large hand rubbing slow, soothing circles into your lower back.
"We're going to clean you up" he whispered into the dark room, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "Tomorrow, I’m calling a manager. We're taking a break after this leg. I'm getting you clean, and then I'm buying a house. With a yard."
You were too tired, too spent to fight him. "Choso... that sounds like a lot of work."
"I don't care" he said, his lips pressing a firm, lingering kiss against the top of your head. "You're my family now. I don't lose family."
Jake’s hand is almost always on your waist or lower back when you walk together. It’s not just protective. Every time you turn or shift direction, his large palm slides with you, fingers splaying wide enough to nearly wrap halfway around your body. He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it half the time.
He’s obnoxiously protective. If you so much as stumble on a root or the ground is uneven, he’s instantly scooping you up against his chest with a low chuckle and a “Careful, baby.” He glares at anyone who gets too close, until you gently pat his arm and tell him to behave.
Jake loves when you play with his extra fingers. You’ll sit in his lap (which always makes him grin because you practically disappear against him) and trace the extra digit on each hand, comparing it to your own smaller ones. He’ll flex them slowly just to watch your eyes widen at the size difference.
He’ll lift you effortlessly onto high branches just to hear your surprised gasp, pull you onto his thigh like it’s nothing, or simply rest his chin on top of your head while standing. He constantly comments (in that husky voice) how tiny and perfect you feel against him.
He lets you do whatever you want to his body. If you want to kiss, lick, or trace his abs, he’ll lean back with his arms behind his head, tail flicking lazily, and watch you with half lidded golden eyes and a lazy smirk. “Go on, sweetheart. They’re all yours.”
You love adding your own beads to his braids. Jake sits patiently (though sometimes he teases you by nuzzling your stomach or blowing raspberries against your skin while you work) and lets you weave in little shells or feathers you collected. He wears them proudly, running his fingers over them later with a soft smile.
In return, he braids your hair with surprising gentleness for someone so large. His big hands are careful, thick fingers separating strands delicately. He’ll press soft kisses to the back of your neck while he works, murmuring how beautiful you look with his style mixed into yours.
Jake loves sleeping with his head on your thighs, ear pressed to your leg, purring lowly in his sleep. You can play with his hair or ears and he just sighs happily.
Randomly, in quiet moments, he’ll cup his huge hand over your groin area. Not to start anything, just because he likes the warmth, the possessiveness of it, the way you fit perfectly against his palm. He’ll do it while you’re both just sitting, talking, or watching the stars, thumb stroking lazily over your hip.
Jake will lean in and drag his rough tongue slowly along your shoulders, then gently bite the soft skin there just enough to leave a faint mark. He also loves nipping at your cheeks, playful little bites followed by soothing kisses.
Kissing your belly button is one of his favorite lazy activities. He’ll lay his head on your stomach and press open mouthed kisses right there, sometimes letting his teeth graze your lower belly or the tops of your thighs. The biting on your thighs is always gentle but firm, little love bites that make you squirm while he chuckles against your skin.
After any rougher play (or even just a long day of riding ikran or running through the forest), Jake massages your calves with those big, strong hands. He’s surprisingly good at it, thumbs pressing into sore muscles, working out knots while he kisses your knees and listens to you tell about your day.
You two can make out for hours. Jake will pin you gently against his chest or lay you down and just kiss you slow and deep, hands roaming but never pushing too far. His tail wraps around your ankle or thigh to keep you close. He loves the way you get breathless and clingy.
He often holds your neck, just cupping it possessively with his large hand, thumb stroking your pulse point while he kisses you or simply looks at you.
You love biting his biceps and squeezing them. Jake flexes them on purpose when you do, grinning wickedly as you try (and fail) to get your hands fully around the muscle. He’ll let you gnaw on his arm like a little kitten while he laughs softly.
nfsw:
Jake is huge everywhere, and he knows it. The first rounds, he always goes slow, one massive hand splayed across your lower belly so he can feel the bulge forming as he pushes deeper. “Fuck… look at that” he growls, voice wrecked. “So tight around me, baby. Taking me so well.”
He loves folding you in half, knees pressed to your chest, while he thrusts deep and slow. His body completely cages yours, you can barely move except to take what he gives you. He’ll groan every time he bottoms out and your stomach visibly distends with the shape of him.
Jake fucks like he hunts. patient, powerful, and relentless. He can go for hours, switching between deep, grinding rolls of his hips and hard, punishing thrusts that make your eyes roll back. Once he’s inside you, he rarely pulls out completely, he loves staying buried while he kisses you, bites your neck, or just holds you.
Thigh riding is a foreplay that almost always ends with him flipping you over and sinking into you from behind. He’ll make you soak his thigh first, then slide his cock through your folds teasingly before pushing in with one smooth thrust.
Breeding kink hits him hard after mating. He growls low in your ear while he fucks you deep. “Gonna fill you up… gonna put a baby in this tight little cunt. You’re mine now.” He cums in thick, heavy loads and loves pushing it back inside you with his fingers afterward, keeping you plugged.
fav positions: Missionary with your legs over his shoulders (he can watch your face and the bulge in your belly), You on top (he lets you ride him until your thighs burn, then takes over, holding your waist and fucking up into you).
He loves marking you. Bites on your inner thighs, collarbones, and the soft flesh where your neck meets your shoulder. He’ll suck dark hickeys onto your breasts and stomach, then trace them later with his tongue while he’s still inside you.
After rough sessions, Jake turns incredibly soft. He massages your sore thighs and calves with those big hands, kisses every mark he left, and lets you lay on his chest while he purrs.
Jake loves when you bite and scratch him. The harder you mark his biceps, chest, or back, the more it turns him on. He’ll flex under your teeth, “That’s my girl… mark me up. Show everyone who I belong to.”
Morning sex is slow and lazy. He’ll slide into you from behind while you’re both half-asleep, one arm wrapped around your waist, murmuring sleepy praises as he rocks into you until you both come undone.
He has insane stamina. One round is never enough.
when you're going down on him:
The first time you sink to your knees and take him in your mouth, Jake’s reaction is pure shock mixed with raw hunger. His golden eyes blow wide, pupils slit, and a low, guttural sound rips from his chest. “Fuck… baby,” he rasps, voice already wrecked. One of his big hands immediately comes to the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there heavy and warm.
You can only manage the head and a few inches, but Jake doesn’t care. The sight of your small mouth stretched wide around him, lips shiny and struggling, makes his thighs tense and his tail lash wildly behind him.
He tries so hard to stay still at first. His abs flex hard under your hands, hips twitching with the effort not to thrust. Every time you swirl your tongue around the sensitive head or suck harder, his breath hitches and he lets out these deep, broken moans that vibrate through his whole chest.
Jake is loud. He doesn’t hold back. You’ll hear rough human curses “Shit— just like that… god, your mouth feels too good…” His voice drops into that husky growl when you take him deeper or hollow your cheeks.
He loves watching. Jake will lean back slightly, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your stretched cheek so he can feel himself moving inside your mouth. His eyes stay locked on you the entire time, half lidded, dark, and completely feral. If you look up at him through your lashes, he groans loud and his cock twitches hard against your tongue.
When you start bobbing your head or sucking with more rhythm, Jake’s fingers tighten in your hair, braids tangling around his knuckles. He doesn’t yank, but he grips like you’re his lifeline. Sometimes he guides your pace gently, showing you exactly how he likes it.
His extra fingers come into play. While one hand is in your hair, the other will stroke your cheek, trace your stretched lips, or reach down to cup your throat so he can feel you swallowing around him.
“Yeah… suck just the head like that. Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last if you keep— ahh—”
Sometimes he’ll guide your hand to wrap around the base while you suck the head, showing you how to work him together.
If you tease him, licking slowly, pulling off to kiss just the tip, playing with his extra fingers while you blow him, he’ll say your name like a warning, ears flat, before eventually snapping and fucking your throat.
When he gets close, His tail wraps around your waist or thigh to keep you close. His breathing turns ragged, hips starting to shallowly thrust as he chases it. “Gonna cum— fuck, where do you want it, sweetheart?”
He usually warns you, but if you keep sucking and look up at him like you want it, he loses it. Jake cums hard, thick, hot spurts that fill your mouth faster than you can swallow. Some always leaks out the corners of your lips. He watches it drip down your chin with a wrecked groan, thumb wiping it up and pushing it back between your lips.
After he finishes, Jake is soft and gentle. He immediately pulls you up into his lap, kissing you deep even if you still taste like him. He’ll wipe your chin, stroke your hair, and murmur how perfect you are, how much he loves you, how no one else could ever make him feel like that.
cockwarming:
Jake loves cockwarming because it lets him stay buried deep inside you for as long as he wants without rushing into fucking. To him, it’s the ultimate form of closeness, being connected, feeling every little flutter and pulse of your walls around his thick cock while you’re both just… together.
the stretch is always intense. When he first pushes in and settles you on his lap, you feel impossibly full. The bulge in your lower belly is obvious, and Jake can’t stop staring at it. He’ll press one large hand over your stomach, feeling himself inside you, and groan low, “Fuck… look how deep I am, baby. You’re taking all of me so well.”
favorite positions for cockwarming: You sitting in his lap, facing him (his favorite). Your legs are spread wide over his thighs, chest to chest, his arms wrapped around your back. He can look into your eyes, kiss you lazily, and feel every tiny shift of your hips.
He won’t thrust hard, but he loves making small, lazy rolls of his hips, just enough to grind against that spot inside you and make you clench around him. Every time you twitch or whimper, he chuckles against your ear, “Easy, sweetheart… just feel me.
“Gonna stay right here until you’re dripping down my balls, yeah?”
if you clench around him on purpose, he’ll hiss through his teeth and give one slow, deep thrust as a warning.
He can last a long time like this. Sometimes you’ll both fall asleep with him still inside you, his cock softening only slightly, then hardening again when you shift in your sleep. Waking up still connected is one of his favorite things.
His ears will pin back, tail lashing slowly, and he’ll start murmuring filthy Na’vi words mixed with praise. When he finally starts moving properly, it’s because you’re both soaked and desperate.
After a long cockwarming session (especially if you’ve been teasing each other for hours), when he does start thrusting, it’s deep and intense. He fucks you like he’s making up for all the time he stayed still hard, claiming strokes that make the bulge in your belly more obvious with every thrust.
Sweet moments:
He’ll braid your hair or let you play with his beads while he’s buried inside you.
He rests his forehead against yours, saying “I see you”
Sometimes he’ll lick slow stripes along your collarbones or gently bite your shoulder while you’re both just breathing together.
If you get too needy and start grinding, Jake will pin your hips down with his big hands and whisper, “Not yet, baby. I want to feel you throb around me a little longer.” He loves edging both of you this way until you’re both shaking.
when he's going down on you:
Jake lives for eating you out. Once he’s between your thighs, he treats it like a sacred ritual and a filthy game at the same time. He’s big, so he has to spread your legs wide, knees pushed back toward your chest or hooked over his massive shoulders so you’re completely open for him.
He starts slow and teasing, just to watch you squirm. Long, broad licks from your entrance all the way up to your clit with that rough tongue. He’ll hum against you when you gasp, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “Taste so fucking good, baby… could stay here all night.”
Edging is one of his favorite tortures. Jake quickly learns exactly what makes you fall apart, the way you tug his braids, the little whimpers when he sucks your clit, how your thighs tremble when he fucks you with his tongue. He’ll bring you right to the edge with perfect rhythm… then pull back, licking lazily around your folds or kissing your inner thighs until you’re begging.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he’ll say against your soaked pussy, golden eyes flicking up to watch your face. “I want you dripping and shaking before I let you come.” He’ll edge you three, four, five times in a row, each denial making your next peak more intense.
When he finally lets you tip over, he doesn’t stop. Jake locks his mouth over your clit and sucks hard while two thick fingers curl deep inside you, pressing against that spongy spot that makes your vision white out. He keeps going through your orgasm, licking and sucking until you’re crying, hips jerking, trying to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure.
The more you wriggle, hit his shoulders, or try to crawl backward, the rougher he gets.
The moment your hands push at his head or slap his shoulders, and your hips try to twist away, he tightens his grip and pulls you back down. One massive arm bands across your lower belly like a steel bar, the other hand yanks your thigh back open.
“Where you goin’, hmm?” he drawls against your soaked folds, voice low and teasing, lips brushing your swollen clit with every word. “You think you can just run from me, baby? After begging me to eat this pretty pussy?”
he forces the next orgasm out of you in minutes. He locks his mouth around your clit, sucks hard, and fucks you with two thick fingers without mercy. even while you’re sobbing “no, no, too much—” and hitting his back, you cum hard, gushing on his tongue while your legs shake violently.
After your second or third orgasm, when you’re oversensitive and sobbing, he’ll switch between soft, soothing licks and harsh sucks on your swollen clit. Sometimes he’ll pull back just enough to blow cool air on your heated flesh before diving back in, making you scream.
Jake is messy when he eats you out. His face gets shiny with your slick, dripping down his chin and onto his chest. He loves it, moans happily when you gush around his tongue, lapping up every drop like he’s starving. The wet, obscene sounds fill the hammock or the forest floor.
He loves when you lose control and start grinding against his face. Jake will moan loudly against you, encouraging it, “Yeah… use me. Come on my tongue again.” His tail lashes behind him, ears pinned back in pure pleasure at how wrecked he’s making you.
After you cum (especially the overstimming ones), he doesn’t pull away. He switches to slow, wet, open mouthed kisses all over your throbbing, oversensitive pussy, literally making out with it. Soft, lazy licks through your folds, gentle sucks on your clit, kissing your entrance like he’s kissing your lips. He groans happily the whole time, savoring every twitch and flutter.
“There we go… good girl. See? You needed that.”
“I got you, baby. Just let me kiss it better.”
aftercare:
Jake is hyper aware of how raw and fragile you become. The second he sees the your breathing turns shaky in a different way and your eyes get that distant, uncertain look, he immediately shifts from the feral, teasing Jake to the gentle, protective mate who would burn the world for you.
He never rushes out of the moment. he carefully pulls away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and gathers you into his arms in one smooth motion. You’re tiny against his massive chest, and he cradles you like you’re made of glass.
Jake wraps you completely in his warmth. One thick arm bands around your back, the other hand cups the back of your head, pressing your face gently into the crook of his neck. His tail curls tightly around your thigh or waist, anchoring you to him. His body heat and steady purring rumble through you, grounding you instantly.
He starts with soft, repetitive reassurance in that low, soothing voice. “Hey… hey, I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
“You did so good for me, baby. So perfect. I’m so proud of you.”
“Nothing you do could ever make me leave. I’m yours. Always.”
He knows exactly what your vulnerable thoughts sound like. When you start whispering or crying about whether you’re “worthy” if this is too much, or if you’re sure about being with him, Jake listens without interrupting at first. He lets you get it out, stroking your hair and pressing gentle kisses to your temple, forehead, and tear streaked cheeks.
“We’re doing the right thing. Every single time. Because I chose you, and you chose me. That bond is real. It’s ours.”
“I’ll always be here. No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much you cry or doubt or push me away in the moment. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, sweetheart.”
Jake rocks you slowly in his lap, big hands rubbing soothing circles on your back and massaging your trembling thighs and calves.
If you need to talk it out more, he’ll stay up all night listening. He’ll braid your hair with those careful big fingers, let you trace his abs or play with his fingers, anything that helps you feel connected and safe again.
Jake’s favorite thing is when you finally relax against him and the doubt fades. He’ll smile softly and murmur caressing your back up and down, “There she is… my girl. See? We’re okay. We’re always gonna be okay.”
He knows the rough play leaves you emotionally exposed, so his aftercare is just as intense as the scene itself, but in the gentlest, most reassuring way possible. To Jake, taking care of your heart afterward is just as important as wrecking your body during.
He’ll hold you for hours if that’s what you need, whispering over and over that he’s never letting you go, that you’re enough, that you’re everything to him.
clan leader!Gojo Satoru x reader
the 'elders' lay their hands on you.
tw: pregnant reader
part-1
part-2
...
everytime you look at his footwear, you remember the first time you ever tried cleaning them.
“Sweetheart” Gojo Satoru’s voice rolled like summer thunder, low and indulgent. “What did I say about touching those?”
You looked up, after two months of marriage, the sight of him stole your breath. his eyes, glowing softly in the daylight. The haori of the clan head rested over his broad shoulders, the fabric whispering as he crouched before you.
“I was only going to wipe the dust” you murmured, cheeks warming. “You have the elders’ meeting after breakfast, and—”
“And nothing.” His large hands, hands that had ended curses with casual flicks, gently took the cloth from you. He lifted your chin with two fingers, thumb brushing your lower lip.
“The only thing these hands should be doing is resting on my chest while I kiss you senseless.”
Before you could protest, he rose, pulling you up with him as if you weighed nothing. In one smooth motion he swept you into his arms, carrying you back inside the main house. The servants bowed and vanished around corners. they had long grown used to their lord’s open affection.
...
the elders were already gathered. You moved to serve tea, old habit, but Satoru’s hand caught yours.
“Sit” he said simply, guiding you to the cushion beside his own.
The elders’ eyes widened when he asked them to pour thier own tea. One elder, an old man with a face like weathered stone, cleared his throat.
“You should not be idle, daughter” Elder Haruto intoned, sipping his tea while his gaze flicked disapprovingly to the way Satoru lounged nearby, one hand resting possessively on your knee. “The floors must be polished. The lord’s footwear cleaned and set properly. A wife’s hands are never still, child or no.”
“Her hands will rest when I say they rest.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “If the floors need polishing, the servants will handle it. As for my geta—” He glanced at the wooden sandals by the door, the ones you had never been allowed to touch, even before you were pregnant, “—I never let her near them. Why would I start now?”
“My lord… the lady is perfectly capable of light duties, tradi—”
“Tradition? now observing education for higher students is enough work for her.” Satoru cut in, voice pleasant yet edged with Infinity’s chill, “She worked herself to exhaustion at home before I wed her. I will not allow it now.” He glanced at you, eyes warm. “Besides… I like doing things for her.”
You stared at him again, long, unblinking.
The elder looked displeased, but said nothing more.
...
It happened on the third afternoon of his absence. The sky hung heavy with late spring clouds, and the air inside the main hall smelled of aged wood and incense. You were kneeling by the low table, arranging fresh white camellias and pine branches, when elder Haruto and two others entered without announcement.
“Daughter in law of the Gojo house” Haruto began, his voice like dry leaves scraping stone. His gaze flicked to your middle with clear disdain.
“Carrying the heir does not exempt you from your duties. It is a wife’s role to maintain the household’s dignity. Do not think your condition makes you special.”
Tradition bound you, as a non sorcerer brought into the clan through marriage, your place was one of service and quiet strength. Defiance against the elders could ripple through the entire household.
“But… my husband said—”
“His indulgence is temporary,” another elder cut in sharply. “The child is not yet born. Clean them, thoroughly.”
A servant boy hovered anxiously nearby, eyes wide with worry, but he dared not intervene.
...
The sliding shoji screens of the estate did not merely open, they rattled on their wooden tracks, vibrating with the sheer force of the cursed energy bleeding off Satoru as he stepped into the main pavilion.
The air in the compound always grew heavier when the clan head returned, but tonight, it felt suffocating. It tasted of ozone and impending lightning.
You were already asleep in the main room, exhausted from a day that had fractured your spirit far more than your body. Beneath the heavy, silk futon, your hand rested protectively over the slight swell of your belly, a few months along, still delicate, a fragile miracle you and Satoru had wept over in the privacy of your quarters.
Satoru shed his haori, his six eyes instantly cataloging the state of the house. He had been gone for three days on an emergency deployment in the north. Three days too long.
"Gojo sama."
A small, breathless voice broke the silence of the corridor. It was a servant boy whose family had served Satoru’s personal branch for generations. The boy was with some information.
Satoru paused.
"Tatsuya" he murmured, his voice deceptively low. "Why are you still up? And why does the courtyard smell like damp earth?"
Tatsuya swallowed hard, looking toward the closed doors of your bedroom before continuing. "While you were away... the council of elders called upon the lady."
Satoru’s posture didn't change, but the ambient temperature seemed to drop. "Did they?"
"They... they claimed she was becoming arrogant. They said a housewife of the Gojo clan must know her place, less she 'grow into her mind' and believe herself above the bloodline." Tatsuya’s voice hitched. "They dragged her to the northern wash-basin. They forced her to clean the clan’s formal geta and zori. With the well water."
The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the crickets in the garden dared to make a sound.
"They forced her?" Satoru repeated. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a collapsing star.
"She refused at first, reminding them of her condition," Tatsuya whispered, tears leaking onto the floorboards. "But Elder Ogi... he grabbed her arm. He forced her down to her knees on the stone path. She tripped. Her knee... her knee was scraped. She spent three hours in the cold, scrubbing their filth. She asked them to let her rest, but they told her she needed to be 'disciplined'."
Satoru didn't say another word, nor did he storm off. He simply vanished from the hallway, leaving behind a draft of freezing air.
In the dimly lit inner sanctuary of the estate, three of the clan’s oldest elders sat around a low table, sipping roasted green tea. They were discussing the upcoming seasonal rituals, completely self assured in their ancient, stagnant authority.
The heavy oak doors of the sanctuary didn't just open, they shattered inward, exploding into wooden splinters that embedded themselves into the priceless hanging scrolls on the walls.
The elders scrambled backward, but before they could even draw a breath to protest, Satoru was there.
He didn't use Limitless to crush them from afar. This required the brutal, visceral reality of his bare hands.
"What" he begins, voice deceptively soft, "in the name of all the ancestors, possessed you to order my pregnant wife to wash filth?"
"Satoru! What is the meaning of—"
Ogi, the eldest among them, didn't get to finish his sentence. Satoru lunged forward, his movement a blur of lethal grace. He grabbed Ogi’s right wrist and twisted.
A sickening, wet pop echoed through the room as the bones in Ogi's wrist shattered under Satoru's grip. The old man screamed, a high, reedy sound of pure agony, as Satoru slammed him face first onto the tatami mats.
"You touched her" Satoru whispered. The sound of his voice was worse than any shout. It was dead. Completely devoid of the playful sorcerer they thought they could manage.
Satoru brought his heavy, geta down directly onto Ogi’s outstretched hand, grinding his heel into the old man's knuckles. The sound of fracturing finger bones filled the room. Ogi choked on his own vomit, pinning himself to the floor under the immense, crushing weight of Satoru’s physical strength.
"Satoru! Step back! This is a violation of clan law! She is a woman! She must be disciplined to understand the weight of the Gojo name!" another elder shrieked, his hands shaking as he tried to form a cursed technique sign.
Satoru turned his head, his brilliant blue eyes glowing with a terrifying, unhinged light in the shadows. He had never been this angry in his entire life.
"Disciplined?" Satoru's voice rose, vibrating with a rage that made the very foundations of the estate groan. "You dynamic pieces of garbage. You dare talk about discipline to me? About my wife?"
He stepped off Ogi, leaving the old man weeping into the ruined tatami, and advanced on the second elder.
"I don't let her touch a single piece of anything when she is perfectly healthy" Satoru snarled, the raw emotion finally breaking through his terrifying calm.
"the servants wash my damn boots. I carry her across the courtyard when the gravel is too sharp. And you... you useless, disgusting, vile, rotting fossils... you dragged my pregnant woman out into the cold? To scrub your filth? Her knee bleeds because of your exclusive skill of not using a brain"
He grabbed the second elder by the front of his expensive silk kimono, lifting the grown man entirely off the ground with one hand.
"She is the future of this entire fucking world, and you risked her safety—you risked my child—because your fragile, pathetic egos were threatened by her existence?!" Satoru roared, his voice shaking the roof tiles.
"She will think she's the best of all? She is the best of all! She is mine! Which makes her untouchable to the likes of you!"
He threw the elder across the room, smashing him into a heavy wooden cabinet that collapsed under the impact.
"Satoru... the--the hierarchy... her place-" the third elder stammered, backing into the corner, clutching his prayer beads as if they could save him from a god.
“Her place?” The air crackled. “Her place is to be cherished. To be protected. I have torn apart special grade curses with less effort than it takes me to tolerate your outdated nonsense. You dare speak to my wife as if she is a common servant? As if the life she nurtures is insignificant?”
Satoru stood in the center of the ruined room, his breathing heavy, his chest heaving under his clothes. The sheer pressure of his cursed energy was cracking the plaster on the walls. He looked down at them with a disgust so profound it was sickening.
"Listen to me very carefully" Satoru said, his voice dropping back to a lethal, quiet hiss. "Tradition dies when it threatens what is mine."
"I have never asked her to perform such tasks. Not once. Not before she carried my child, and certainly not now. Do you have any idea what pregnancy entails? The strain? The risk? My wife is not a servant. She is the heart of this clan. She carries the future."
His voice rises, never before this uncontrolled. "You forced her to kneel by a basin while I was away securing this clan's power? While she should be resting, being cared for? If any of you so much as suggest she lift a finger for menial labor again, I will personally ensure your retirement is... permanent. and I will remind you exactly why I am the clan head. Not because of bloodlines or dusty customs. Because I am the strongest. And I will not hesitate to make examples.”
He stepped closer, his shadow engulfing the final elder, deciding it was enough.
"Get out. All of you. Pack your robes, your tea sets, and your useless books, and fuck yourselves out of my estate before the sun rises. If I see a single one of your faces within the clan boundaries tomorrow morning, I won't just break your hands. I will erase your entire branches from the registry. Try me. See if the jujutsu authorities can stop me."
None of them doubted him. The strongest sorcerer in the world was standing before them, completely unhinged. They nodded frantically, Ogi clutching his ruined arm as they dragged themselves out of the room, terrified for their very lives, knowing the strongest's word was law, and his wrath absolute.
The slide of the shoji screen was a mere sigh in the quiet night, a soft friction of wood on wood. The moment Satoru crossed the threshold into the master bedroom, the terrifying, static heavy aura of his rage dissolved entirely, locked away behind the absolute precision of his control. He didn't want even a stray spark of his cursed energy to disrupt your sleep.
The room smelled of sweet tatami, dried lavender, and the faint, bitter tang of the medicinal salve Tatsuya had helped you apply.
Satoru shed his socks, his bare feet sinking into the woven mats as he approached the futon with agonizing care. He knelt beside you, the sheer size of his frame casting a protective shadow over your sleeping form. Without his blindfold, his six eyes tracked every rhythm of your breathing, noting the slight, tense line between your brows even in slumber.
You stirred, your senses waking up before your eyes did. The air in the room suddenly grew warmer, sweeter, thick with the distinct, dizzying scent of him.
"Satoru...?" you mumbled, your voice heavy and thick with sleep. You began to shift, your palms pressing into the futon to push yourself up, but a large, impossibly warm hand slid over your shoulder, gently anchoring you down.
"Shh... stay down, hime" he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against the quiet of the room. "Don't get up for me. Never get up for me."
He slid under the heavy silk duvet, but he didn't pull you into his arms just yet. Instead, he worked his way down to the foot of the futon. His touch was feather light as he peeled back the edge of the blanket, exposing your bare legs to the cool night air.
Your heart pinched, a sudden flush of anxiety warming your cheeks. You remembered the heavy, frozen stone of the northern wash basin, the harsh, disapproving glares of the elders, the way the coarse bristles of the brush had scraped against your skin. You had desperately wanted to hide it from him, to spare him the headache of clan politics when he already carried the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.
But Satoru was already staring at your right knee. The neat, white bandage Tatsuya had carefully wrapped was stark against your skin.
A tiny, involuntary tremor ran through Satoru’s hands. The very fingers that had just shattered bones and ground old men's knuckles into dust were now trembling with a terrifying fragility as he slid his palms beneath your calf, lifting your leg just an inch to cradle it against his chest.
He leaned down, his silver hair spilling over your skin like silk. He didn't just look, he pressed his lips gently against the side of your knee, just beside the gauze, kissing the uninjured skin with a soft, lingering reverence. Then, his lips tracked a slow, agonizingly tender path up your thigh, his breath hot against your skin.
"I'm sorry" he murmured, his forehead resting against your thigh as his voice cracked, raw and bleeding with a guilt he couldn't hide. "I'm so sorry I left you alone. I'm so sorry I wasn't here, sweetness."
The sheer vulnerability in his tone made your throat tight. You reached down, your fingers weaving into the thick, ridiculously soft tufts of his white hair, gently tugging until he shifted upward. He crawled back up the length of your body, sliding his frame beneath the covers until he was flush against you.
"It's okay" you whispered, your thumb catching a stray tear that threatened to spill from the corner of his brilliant, crystalline eyes. "It's just a little scrape, Satoru. Truly. They... they just wanted me to learn the household duties. They said it was tradition for the women of the house. I just didn't want to cause trouble for you."
Satoru let out a ragged, shaky breath that stuttered against your collarbone. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, his nose scenting your skin, inhaling you as if he were a starving man. His lips pressed a frantic, hot sequence of kisses along your jaw, up to your cheek, and finally against your lips, a soft, bruising, desperate kiss that tasted of a possessiveness so deep it bordered on worship.
His large hands slid down your back, molding your spine to his chest, before one palm found its permanent home, flat and warm against the slight, delicate swell of your belly. His fingers splayed wide over your abdomen, a protective shield of flesh and boundless power.
"You don't have duties to anyone but yourself" Satoru swore against your lips, his chest heaving as his heart thudded rapidly, a frantic, wild rhythm against your own ribs. He pulled you so close you could barely tell where your body ended and his began. "You are the lady of this house. My lady. You don't bow to anyone, you don't clean for anyone, and you don't break yourself for their rotting ideas of tradition."
He kissed the crown of your head, his hand on your stomach gently rubbing in tiny, soothing circles, his thumb caressing the soft fabric of your sleepwear.
"Let them talk. Let them rot" he whispered, his voice turning dark for a fraction of a second before softening as he pressed another kiss to your eyelid. "You just stay safe. Stay soft and warm right here. Let me handle the rest. Please, hime... just stay safe for me."
You smiled softly in the dark, your senses clouded by his immense, radiating warmth and the intoxicating rhythm of his breathing. You let your eyes close, completely melting into him, entirely unaware of the bloodied, broken elders currently packing their things in the dead of night, fleeing the estate in absolute terror.
You didn't need to know. As Satoru tightened his arms around you, pulling the duvet up to your chins and burying his face back into your hair, he held you like you were the only piece of reality that mattered in the universe.
And as his thumb continued to trace slow, adoring lines over your belly, you knew that to him, you absolutely were.
