GERMANY. WINTER. 2023 ͏⸺ to the stars who listen, fait avec amour
child of the sun, carnation, emotional chaos, sketch book, apricot slices, octopus, ballet, coffee, sensual, stupidly incredible sensitive, disney movies, selflove, thoughtful, preferring the stars over the moon, marine biology, porcelain, winter, crackling wood, philosophy, sculpture and painting, captain of my soul, feeling very deeply, thyborøn, writing letters, helpless romantic, polaroids, greek mythology, grapefruit tea, glittery ornaments, romcoms, master of my fate, act with purpose, cats and dogs
The rain doesn’t belong in early spring, but it shows up anyway—like it forgot it wasn’t invited and decided not to apologize, like a mistake the weather forgot to correct.
The sky is the color of unfinished thoughts.
Everything underneath it feels slightly softened at the edges: streetlights blurred into pale halos, pavement turned glossy like it’s been polished by accident, bare trees looking briefly less certain about winter’s ending.
You stand under a bus stop sign that’s too small to be meaningful as you check their bag again. Nothing. No umbrella. Just the dull realization settling in slowly, like a delayed message finally reaching its destination.
A sigh. A step back. The kind of acceptance that almost turns into resignation.
Then a voice, bright in a way that doesn’t match the weather.
“You forgot yours?”
Yuji Itadori is already halfway smiling when Y/N turns.
He’s standing a few feet away, uniform slightly damp at the shoulders like he got caught in the same surprise weather but decided not to be bothered by it. His hair is a little messier than usual, sticking slightly to his forehead in soft spikes that make him look more like he’s been outside for the joy of it than the inconvenience.
There’s an umbrella in his hand.
Closed.
Like he hadn’t even thought to use it yet.
You gestured helplessly at the sky. “It wasn’t supposed to rain.”
Yuji looks up as if personally inspecting the betrayal. Then, without hesitation, he opens the umbrella and steps forward. Right into your space.
It’s immediate. Natural. Like there was never supposed to be distance there in the first place.
“Here,” he says and you blink. “You’ll get wet.”
Yuji looks at them like this is the funniest possible concern in the world.
“I already am wet.” “That’s not—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts gently, and then adds, softer, like it’s obvious: “We can share.”
The umbrella opens with a clean snap above them, catching rain like it’s been waiting for permission. The umbrella is immediately too small for two people, that becomes clear immediately. Your shoulders are too close and the edge of Yuji’s sleeve is already collecting water. But that doesn’t seem to bother him.
He starts walking and you followed.
The city around you keeps its distance, cars passing with wet tires hissing against pavement, lights smearing into reflections, people shrinking under their own umbrellas like separate islands.
But under this one, there’s no real separation.
Yuji holds it with one hand, relaxed grip, like he trusts it to stay where it is. His other hand swings slightly as he walks, occasionally brushing yours when your steps don’t match.
Which happens more than it should.
“You’re too close,” you say after a few seconds, more out of instinct than annoyance.
Yuji tilts his head slightly. “Am I?” “Yes.”
He considers this with exaggerated seriousness, like he’s running calculations. Then he shifts, half an inch away. It changes nothing.
“…Better?” he asks. “Not really.”
The rain grows steadier, threading through the air in fine lines. It taps against the umbrella with a soft, constant rhythm. It makes the world feel like it’s breathing a little slower.
You notice Yuji’s hand adjusting the umbrella angle every few seconds. Not for himself, but for you. Subtle. Automatic. Each adjustment gives you slightly more cover.
You notice immediately. “Hey. Stop that.”
“What?” “You’re getting soaked.”
Yuji looks up at the rain like it’s just now being introduced to him.
“Oh. Yeah.” He shrugs.
It’s the kind of shrug that says he’s already decided this isn’t important enough to argue with.
“It’s just rain,” he says again, like it’s a universal law and you narrow your eyes. “You’re going to get sick.”
Yuji thinks about that.
Then smiles. “Then I’ll just get better.”
“That’s not how sickness works.” “That’s how I work.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty. Like he’s stating a personal rule the world has agreed to accommodate.
The street opens into a quieter stretch, houses instead of shops, warm windows instead of neon, the kind of neighborhood where rain sounds softer because nothing is competing with it.
Yuji hums something under his breath. It’s not a real song. Just fragments of sound that rise and fall when he stops thinking about them.
You notice he keeps glancing sideways. Not staring, but checking like he’s making sure they’re still there.
“You always this cheerful in bad weather?” you ask and Yuji tilts his head. “I don’t think it’s bad weather.”
“It’s literally raining.”
“It’s just… water doing water things,” he says, like that settles it.
Then, after a pause, a little more honest: “Plus, I like this.”
“This?”
He gestures vaguely between you two. The umbrella. The walking. The shared space that refuses to be two separate lanes.
“Yeah,” he says. “This.”
You don’t answer immediately.
The rain fills the gap again.
Yuji doesn’t seem to mind the silence. If anything, he walks into it comfortably, like it’s part of the conversation too. There’s something in the way he says it, simple, unguarded, like he hasn’t learned yet how to make moments smaller than they are.
Yuji shifts again, and his shoulder brushes yous. He doesn’t acknowledge it. But he also doesn’t move away.
You reach for the umbrella handle and your fingers brush his.
“Let me hold it.”
Yuji tilts his head again, studying them like he’s trying to decide if this is a serious request or just another version of the same argument you’ve been having since it started raining.
Then he says, “Only if you don’t steal it.”
“I’m not going to steal it.” “That’s exactly what someone who would steal it would say.”
Despite himself, he’s smiling. He shifts his grip, letting them take it. Your hands overlap for a second longer than necessary in the transfer. Then the umbrella is in your control.
You adjust the umbrella angle. It covers them both now, properly, if you stay close.
Yuji notices. Of course he does. He shifts slightly, just enough that his shoulder rests lightly against yours.
“Hey,” he says after a while.
“What?”
“If I walk you home every time it rains,” he says, casually, like he’s commenting on bus schedules or class notes or something equally ordinary, “does that count as a habit?”
He looks at you this time.
Really looks. Not waiting impatiently. Just present in the question.
The world around you keeps going, cars, rain, distant footsteps, but under the umbrella, everything feels slightly held still.
The station shutters had already come down by the time they reached Shinjuku.
Not fully, just halfway, enough to make the fluorescent lights inside look trapped. The electronic sign above the gate blinked apologetically in red: LAST TRAIN DEPARTED.
Behind you, rain hissed softly against the pavement.
Megumi stood perfectly still for a second, chest rising once beneath his damp uniform jacket. His hair was soaked flat in places, dark spikes softened by water. A bruise bloomed faintly along the line of his jaw where a curse had clipped him earlier.
“Great,” you muttered.
He glanced at the departure board again anyway, like staring at it long enough might reverse time, before he steps closer to the board instead, tilting his head slightly as if reading it differently might change the outcome. Rain beads along his eyelashes and one drops down his cheek and disappears into his collar.
“It’s six hours until the first train,” he said.
The city answered for him with the low electric hum of midnight traffic. Not silence exactly, Tokyo was never silent, but something quieter than daytime. Looser. The streets felt abandoned by obligation. Salarymen drifting home with untied ties. Cigarette smoke curling beneath convenience store lights. Neon signs reflecting liquid-pink in rainwater pooled at curbs.
The mission felt impossibly far away already.
You drag a hand down your face. “Okay,” you say slowly. “So. We’re stuck.”
Megumi looked at you for a moment.
“We’re not stuck,” he says. You look at him. He adds, after a beat: “…We’re waiting.”
You snort. “That’s just stuck with optimism.”
Megumi doesn’t argue, he just turns away from the gate.
His steps are slow, not reluctant, exactly. More like he’s recalibrating where to put his energy now that the mission’s ended and the train’s gone and there’s nothing left to follow.
You kick a loose pebble near the curb, it skitters into a puddle. You watch it ripple out in concentric circles that immediately get swallowed by the rain again.
“So what now?” you ask.
Megumi doesn’t answer right away, he’s looking down the street instead.
Neon signs flicker in the distance, soft blues and reds smeared by rain. A vending machine glows under an overhang like a small, lonely altar.
“…Food,” he says finally.
You glance at him. “That’s your plan?” “It’s a start.”
The vending machine hums when Megumi taps it.
He stands slightly to the side while you decide, arms relaxed but posture still faintly guarded, like even idle time hasn’t fully agreed to settle into his body.
Before you could choose, he reached past you and pressed a button. Hot café au lait dropped into the tray.
You bend down to pick it up, then immediately frown.
“You always pick that one.” He said it like it was obvious. Like of course he knew. “You complain black coffee tastes like burnt dirt.”
“…I’ve said that maybe twice.”
“Eight times.”
The can was warm in your hands. Megumi bought black coffee for himself with no sugar, but he doesn’t drink immediately. Just holds it in his hand, rolling it slightly between his fingers.
Rainwater runs off the edge of the overhang in a steady sheet. Cars pass behind it, headlights bending through water like stretched light.
You lean against the vending machine and pop the tab as you kick the base of the machine lightly with your heel.
It thunks back at you and you do it again. Megumi watches it once.
“You’re going to break it.” “I’m testing its resilience.”
You kick it again.
A softer thunk this time.
Megumi finally exhales through his nose, almost laughter, but not enough commitment to become it. He shifts his weight and looks away before it can fully happen.
You walk without choosing a direction. That’s how it starts. No decision point. No agreement. Just movement.
Your shoes slap lightly against wet pavement as you step through shallow water pooling at the curb. Megumi walks half a step ahead without thinking, then slows when he realizes you’re not matching him.
He adjusts, barely. The change is so small it looks like coincidence.
You notice anyway.
“So,” you say, tilting your can back. “Do you always go this quiet after missions, or is this a special treat?”
Megumi glances sideways at you.
“I’m not quiet.”
“You’ve said like twelve words in ten minutes.”
“That’s normal.” “For a monk, maybe.”
He looks forward again.
A pause. Then, quieter: “…It depends on the mission.”
You step over a puddle, misjudge it slightly, and your shoe splashes anyway.
You grimace and Megumi sees it, doesn’t comment. But he shifts a little closer on the sidewalk side, like without thinking he’s subtly adjusting the space so you don’t have to walk near the curb.
The laundromat appears almost by accident.
Bright white light spilling onto the street like a spill of cleanliness in the middle of wet neon chaos.
You slow down and Megumi notices immediately.
“What?”
You point with your chin. “Drying option.”
He follows your gaze. The glass doors fogged slightly from inside heat.
“…We don’t need—”
You’re already walking in and the bell above the door rings too loudly in the quiet.
Inside, the air hits warmer. It smells like detergent, fabric softener, and electricity. A few machines spin lazily. One older man sleeps in a chair in the corner, head tilted back like he’s forgotten gravity.
You peel off your damp jacket and shake it once.
Water flicks onto the tile.
Megumi stands near the entrance for a second, as if deciding where in the room he’s allowed to exist. Then he follows. He removes his gloves slowly, one finger at a time. His hands were rougher than people expected. Scarred knuckles. Tiny cuts along his fingers from years of fighting.
You sit on a plastic chair and stretch your legs out, watching a dryer rotate. Clothes inside tumble in slow circles, glowing faint orange every time they pass the light.
Your heel taps lightly against the floor.
Once. Twice.
Megumi sits next to you, not immediately close, but the chair beside yours creaks slightly as he lowers himself down.
He sets his coffee can on his knee and looks at it, but doesn’t drink.
Outside, a car passes. Light flickers across the window in blue streaks.
You tilt your head back.
“You ever think it’s weird,” you say, “that everything still exists like this after we almost die?”
His eyes stay on the dryers.
“…It’s better that it does,” he says finally.
Your foot stops tapping as you look at him while he doesn’t elaborate. But his shoulders are a little less tight than before.
“You were humming earlier.”
You looked over. “During the mission?”
“No. Walking here.” “Oh.”
He looked down at the coffee can between his hands.
“You always hum when you’re trying not to panic.”
Your chest tightened a little.
“…I do not.” “You do.”
“You notice weird things.”
Another almost-smile. Small and crooked, gone quickly enough that you could’ve imagined it.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly somewhere far away. Your shoulders stiffened instinctively and Megumi noticed immediately, of course he did.
“You hate thunderstorms,” he said softly.
It wasn’t a question.
The television crackled quietly in the corner.
You looked at him carefully then.
At the tired boy sitting beneath fluorescent laundromat lights at nearly three in the morning. Damp black hair falling into his eyes now that rain had weighed it down. Long lashes. The permanent exhaustion carved into him too young.
Megumi never said things accidentally.
If he remembered something, it was because he carried it with him. Carefully, privately, like stones in his pockets.
“You remember a lot about me,” you murmured.
For a second, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
His gaze shifted away almost immediately.
“…Not really.”
“You counted how many times I complain about coffee.” “You complain a lot.”
“You remembered my humming.”
Silence.
“And the thunder thing.”
Another distant rumble outside and Megumi’s jaw flexed slightly.
The laundromat hum fills the space where his words should go, dryers turning, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly like something alive trying not to be noticed.
He finally looks down at his coffee can, rolls it once between his palms.
“…It’s just observation,” he says.
You give him a look.
“That sounded rehearsed.” “It’s not.”
Another beat. A dryer thumps as clothes inside shift, heavier now, wet cotton slapping against the glass in slow rhythm and you kick your heel lightly again, but softer this time. Less restless. More automatic.
Outside, rain keeps falling in a steady curtain, washing neon into watercolor streaks.
Megumi shifts slightly in his chair, not away just… adjusting. Like he’s trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like he’s taking up too much space.
“I’m just tired.”
It’s simple. Almost too simple.
Like he’s refusing to turn it into something more complicated, even though you can see the edges of it in the way his shoulders sit too still, the way his grip on the coffee can hasn’t changed in minutes.
You swing your foot once, gently tapping the chair leg.
“You can rest, you know.”
Megumi looks at you immediately. Not because it’s surprising, because it isn’t. That’s the problem. His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in habit. Like rest is something he hasn’t quite figured out how to accept without paying for later.
“I am resting,” he says.
You give him a look that says you’re not buying it for a second.
A dryer thumps behind you, wet fabric slapping glass in slow, repetitive rhythm. The sound fills the pause he doesn’t.
You lean your head back against the chair.
“I mean actually rest,” you say, quieter. “Like… you don’t have to stay on.”
That makes him still just for a second. The words stay on land differently.
Megumi’s gaze drops to his lap. His shoulders shift again, but this time it’s less guarded. More uncertain. Like his body doesn’t know what to do without instructions.
Outside, rain keeps falling. But it’s softer now. Less like pressure. More like background noise the world forgot to turn off.
“So you can shut your brain up for like… ten minutes.”
Megumi looks at you for a long second like he’s searching for the part where this becomes a trap. It doesn’t show up.
“…You’re annoying,” he says quietly.
Megumi leans back, not fully but enough that his shoulders meet the chair. His grip on the coffee can loosens, just slightly.
You don’t look at him too directly. You just shift your foot down and stop kicking entirely.
The laundromat feels warmer now. Or maybe it’s just that you’ve stopped moving enough to notice the temperature. A dryer clicks over. A low mechanical sigh.
Megumi’s eyes close.
It happens almost reluctantly like he expects to be interrupted mid-rest by something urgent, something calling his name, something he forgot. Nothing does. Only rain outside. Only machines turning. Only you, sitting beside him without moving.
His breathing changes after a while. Longer exhales. Like his body is learning a rhythm it doesn’t usually trust.
Time passes without announcement.
At some point, Megumi’s head tilts slightly. Just enough that it finds your shoulder. It’s not intentional at first, more like gravity testing a boundary.
You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, careful not to disturb it, you settle back into the chair again and let it happen. Megumi doesn’t move away. That’s how you know he’s asleep.
Later, somewhere between night thinning and morning forming, Megumi wakes first. It’s subtle. A shift in breath. A return of weight.
His eyes open slowly, unfocused at first.
The laundromat lights feel harsher now. More awake than the world deserves.
He blinks once. Then twice. You’re still there.
Head resting against his shoulder now instead of the other way around. Hair slightly damp at the ends. Mouth slightly parted in sleep. Completely unguarded in a way you never are when you’re awake.
His chest tightens in a way he doesn’t immediately name. He doesn’t move or breathe differently, just looks.
Then slowly reaches for his phone.
The screen lights up too bright in the dark-soft room. 05:18 AM A notification beneath it. FIRST TRAIN: 05:32
Megumi stares at it for a long moment and then looks back at you.
The train becomes irrelevant in his mind before he even finishes the thought.
He lowers the phone, doesn’t wake you.
Your hair is slightly stuck to your cheek. Your breathing is even. One hand rests loosely on your lap, fingers relaxed in a way he doesn’t see often. Not guarded. Not ready.
He remembers, without trying, that you hate thunderstorms. That you hum when you’re nervous and pretend you don’t. That you always pick café au lait even when you complain about it. That you kick things when you’re thinking too hard.
Small things.
Not because they’re useful , but because they’re you.
He looks at you for a second longer than he should.
Then, barely moving his lips, so soft it barely exists in the room at all: “…I like you.”
No emphasis. No performance. No expectation. Just the truth, dropped carefully into silence like it might break something if it’s handled too loudly.
Megumi doesn’t even realize he’s waiting for a reaction.
He assumes there won’t be one.
You’re asleep. That’s what he thinks.
So he exhales slowly, almost like he’s relieved to have said it without consequences. His eyes stay on your face, softer now in a way he wouldn’t name even if asked.
A beat passes. Then another.
Your breathing changes slightly and then then, slowly, your mouth curves. A small smile.
Megumi freezes.
For the first time since the mission, since the train, since everything, he doesn’t know what to do with his own body.
“…you’re awake,” he murmurs, quieter now.
Your smile lingers, but you don’t lift your head. Don’t make it harder than it needs to be. Just stay there against his shoulder, still pretending sleep in the gentlest way possible.
Megumi looks away for half a second, ears faintly warmer than they should be.
Then, almost inaudible again, like he’s letting himself be honest only because you didn’t stop him the first time: “…that’s unfair.”
But he doesn’t move you. Doesn’t pull away. If anything, he stays exactly as he is. Like he’s already decided there’s nowhere better to be.
Tokyo looked prettiest after midnight. Not in the polished, postcard way tourists loved. No─ it was prettier like this. Wet pavement reflecting fractured neon signs and cigarette smoke curling out of alleyways. Trains groaning somewhere in the distance beneath the constant hum of the city.
Your apartment window was cracked open just enough to let in the sound of rain.
And him.
“You really need better security,” Gojo said as he climbed through the window. You didn’t look up from the kettle. “You literally bypass barriers for a living.”
“Still.”
His shoes hit the hardwood floor softly. Expensive black boots, soaked dark from the rain. The scent of cold air followed him inside immediately— rainwater, city smoke, expensive cologne hidden beneath the metallic trace of cursed energy.
You turned slightly and there he was.
Tall enough to make your apartment feel smaller. Damp white hair falling into his eyes. Black compression shirt clinging to his skin from the weather beneath his half-unzipped uniform jacket. There was a fresh split across his lower lip and your chest tightened instantly.
“You’re bleeding.” “It’s dramatic, right?”
Gojo grinned, but it lacked its usual sharpness.
That was the thing about him.
Everyone else saw the strongest sorcerer alive first and you saw the exhaustion.Saw it in the slight drop of his shoulders when he thought nobody noticed. In the way his smiles lingered half a second too short. In how silence seemed to terrify him more than curses ever could.
The kettle whistled softly and you turned away before he could catch the concern on your face.
“You want tea?”
“You always ask me that like I’m not going to say yes.” His voice came closer.
Until suddenly he was standing beside you in your tiny kitchen, all warmth and rain and overwhelming presence.
You hated how aware of him you always became. The space between your bodies felt microscopic. Your elbow brushed his sleeve reaching for mugs and his breath caught almost imperceptibly. Almost, but you noticed everything about him.
Gojo leaned against the counter, watching you quietly.
He looked at you the way exhausted people look at sunlight through a half-open curtain, careful, almost disbelieving, like something too warm might disappear if he reached for it too quickly.
His eyes followed you constantly without meaning to. The small movements as your hands wrapped around the mug and crease between your brows when you concentrated. The quiet way you existed inside a room.
There was always restraint in him when he looked at you, something tight beneath all that blue— yearning pulled taut like a wire. Like he wanted to touch you all the time and had convinced himself he shouldn’t. And sometimes, in the rare moments when you caught him off guard, his expression softened into something painfully open. Not lust. Not infatuation. Something deeper. Like he’d already built a home for you somewhere inside himself and was terrified you’d see how much space you took up there.
Outside, headlights swept across the apartment walls in streaks of gold and blue and inside the old jazz record spinning near your bookshelf crackled softly through the room.
It felt too intimate like the kind of scene in a movie where someone ruins their life by confessing.
“You stare a lot,” you muttered.
“You’re pretty.”
The response came instantly.
Your fingers tightened around the mug.
“Satoru.”
“What?” His mouth tilted slightly. “It’s true.”
You finally looked at him fully and immediately regretted it, because his blindfold was gone.
Those eyes, impossibly blue, bright even in the dim apartment lighting, rested on you with a kind of quiet hunger that made your pulse stutter. Not lust, something worse, yearning like looking at you hurt him.
Gojo noticed your expression and smiled faintly, but it looked sad around the edges.
“You always do that,” he said softly.
“Do what?” “Look at me like you’re trying to figure out if I’m a good person.”
The rain outside intensified, tapping harder against the glass.
You handed him his tea carefully. “I already know you are.”
His laugh was immediate, sharp and disbelieving.
“No, you don’t.”
Something shifted in the room, not dramatic or loud, just heavy.
Gojo lowered his gaze to the steam curling from his cup. For the first time since arriving, he looked uncertain. Human. Too young and too tired at once.
“You know what Suguru used to say?” he murmured.
You stayed quiet.
“He said the worst people are the ones who think their power makes them special.” Gojo smiled faintly without humor. “Funny, right?”
His fingers tightened around the mug.
“Because everyone looks at me like I’m some kind of god now.”
There it was. That loneliness again. It filled the apartment more completely than the rain or the music ever could.
You swallowed carefully. “You hate that.”
“I hate that I started believing them.”
The honesty of it stunned you.
Gojo rarely admitted ugly things aloud. He covered them with arrogance, humor and noise. But tonight he looked stripped raw by exhaustion.
His eyes lifted slowly to yours.
“And then I come here,” he said quietly, “and you treat me like I’m just a man.”
The words landed somewhere dangerous inside your chest.
Because he was just a man here. Not the strongest or a weapon. He was just Satoru.
A man standing barefoot in your apartment at one in the morning, soaked from the rain, looking at you like you were the only soft thing left in his life.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“You are just a man.”
Gojo’s expression faltered like you’d said something devastating.
He looked away first that was rare enough to ache.
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” he said softly.
“Why?” “Because it makes me want things.”
Your breath caught. The jazz record crackled and somewhere downstairs, a train passed beneath the city.
Gojo stared out the rain-streaked window, jaw tight.
“I keep thinking…” He exhaled slowly. “If I were better—”
“Satoru—” “No, listen.”
His voice stayed calm, but you heard the exhaustion underneath it. The self-hatred. The terrifying sincerity.
“If I were kinder. Less selfish. Less arrogant.” His throat bobbed slightly. “Less… ruined.”
Your heart physically hurt listening to him speak.
“Then maybe I could deserve you.”
The apartment went completely still not even the rain seemed loud anymore.
You looked at him carefully.
At the bruises beneath his eyes. The fresh blood drying near his mouth. The unbearable loneliness hidden underneath all that beauty and power.
And suddenly you understood something awful.
Satoru Gojo loved like someone standing outside a house in winter, afraid to knock because he was convinced he’d dirty the floors.
You stepped toward him slowly and he watched you move like he didn’t trust himself to breathe.
“You don’t have to become someone else to be loved,” you whispered.
Gojo’s eyes shut briefly.
“Yes, I do.”
The words sounded rehearsed like something he’d told himself a thousand times.
You reached up before thinking and touched the cut on his lip gently with your thumb. He froze, completely.
The entire room narrowed to that single point of contact.
Gojo inhaled shakily and his hand lifted like he wanted to touch you back, but stopped halfway, didn’t let himself. That hurt more than if he had pulled away.
“You know what the problem is?” he asked quietly, eyes fixed on yours now. “Every time I’m here…”
His voice dropped lower.
“I start believing I could actually have this.”
The confession wrapped around your ribs painfully.
Outside, lightning flashed somewhere far across the city skyline, turning the apartment silver for half a second.
And standing there in the dim kitchen light, with rainwater still clinging to his clothes and longing written all over his face, Gojo looked less like the strongest sorcerer alive and more like a man starving beside a feast he refused to touch.
Because he thought wanting it made him selfish. Because he thought loving you required earning you first. And maybe the cruelest thing was that you would’ve chosen him exactly like this.
Messy. Lonely. Trying.
His forehead nearly brushed yours now, close enough that your breathing tangled together.
“You make me want to be better,” he admitted softly.
Not like a compliment but like a confession and something terrifying.
And when his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before forcing themselves away again, you realized the strongest man alive was holding himself back with everything he had. Enough to feel the restraint in him. Tight and trembling beneath that calm expression. Enough to notice the way his fingers flexed at his side like he was physically stopping himself from reaching for you.
The rain outside blurred the city lights into streaks of blue and white across the windows, and somewhere in the distance thunder rolled low enough to vibrate through the floorboards.
Gojo stepped back first, barely half a step but still enough to hurt.
“Why do you do that?” you asked quietly. His brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”
“Pull away.”
The words hung between you immediately. Dangerous.
Gojo looked caught off guard for once. Not by the question itself by how softly you asked it, like it genuinely wounded you.
“Satoru,” you whispered, “why won’t you kiss me?”
He stared at you completely still. Then his eyes shut briefly, like the question physically exhausted him.
“You don’t wanna ask me that.” “I am asking.”
Another lightning flash lit the kitchen.
For half a second, he looked almost unreal standing there— white hair glowing silver, dark clothes damp from the rain, those impossible eyes shadowed with something painfully human.
Yearning looked ugly on him, not because it didn’t suit him. Because he felt it too deeply.
Gojo laughed softly under his breath, but there was no amusement in it.
“You know,” he murmured, “most people think I take whatever I want.”
You swallowed.
“But I don’t want to ruin this.”
His voice came quieter now. Rougher.
“If I kiss you…” He paused, jaw tightening slightly. “I won’t be able to pretend this isn’t real anymore.”
Your heart stumbled painfully against your ribs.
“It is real.” “I know.”
That was the worst part.
Gojo looked at you like a starving man trying not to reach for food.
“You think I don’t think about it?” he asked softly.
Your breath caught.
“The way you look at me.” His eyes flicked over your face slowly, helplessly. “The way you say my name.” A faint, broken smile tugged at his mouth. “You standing here in those shorts acting like you’re not trying to kill me.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh escaped you.
His expression softened instantly at the sound. God. That expression like your happiness physically undid him.
Gojo took another slow breath and looked away before he lost control of himself entirely.
“I think about kissing you constantly.”
The confession settled heavy into the room.
“I think about it when I’m on missions. When I’m trying to sleep.” His voice lowered further. “When you open the door looking half-asleep and smile at me like I’m someone worth coming home to.”
Your eyes burned suddenly.
“Satoru—” “But I can’t.”
This time the words came immediately.
Gojo’s throat moved slightly when he swallowed. Because for all his arrogance, all his confidence, all the unbearable beauty and power wrapped around him, this was the most afraid you had ever seen him.
“If I kiss you,” he said quietly, “I’m going to want a life I can’t have.”
The rain battered harder against the windows now.
“You deserve somebody good.” His eyes met yours again, devastatingly honest. “Somebody safe. Somebody who comes home at normal hours and doesn’t have blood on his hands every other night.”
“You think I care about that?”
“I care.”
The sharpness in his voice startled both of you.
Gojo exhaled immediately after, regret flashing across his face.
“You make me selfish,” he admitted softly.
His hand finally lifted, not to touch you but just close enough for his knuckles to brush lightly against your wrist. Tentative like even this felt stolen.
“And I don’t trust selfish men around things they love.”
The words hit so hard it almost hurt to breathe. Because there it was. Not fear of rejection or uncertainty. Love. Terrifying, consuming love sitting naked between the two of you.
Gojo’s gaze dropped briefly to your lips again before he forced himself to look away.
You could actually see the restraint in him now. In the tension of his shoulders. The way he kept distance like touching you might destroy whatever self-control he had left.
“You know what’s funny?” he murmured.
“What?”
“I could level this entire city without breaking a sweat.” A sad smile touched his mouth. “But standing this close to you is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
Gojo leaned forward slightly, almost unconsciously, like some exhausted part of him wanted comfort despite everything else screaming not to take it.
When he finally spoke, his voice sounded quieter than you’d ever heard it.
“You make me want things I stopped allowing myself to want a long time ago.”
Your heart twisted.
“A home,” he continued softly. “Peace.” His mouth curved faintly, sadly. “You.”
The last word nearly broke you.
Outside, headlights slid across the ceiling in pale gold streaks before disappearing again.
Gojo opened his eyes slowly.
There was something terrifyingly vulnerable in them now. No arrogance. No teasing. Just a man standing defenseless in front of someone he loved too much.
“I don’t know how to do this right,” he admitted.
“You don’t have to.” “But I want to.”
The immediate sincerity of it made your breath catch.
“I know what people become when they’re loved badly,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen it my whole life.” His thumb brushed your knuckles absentmindedly. “And I think if I had you right now… before I figured myself out…”
He swallowed hard.
“I’d love you in a way that would consume me.”
The honesty of it settled heavily between you.
“You see the version of me that comes here,” he said softly. “Not the one covered in blood at four in the morning. Not the one who keeps people at arm’s length because everybody I love ends up carrying the consequences of knowing me.”
“Satoru—” “I would destroy myself trying to keep you safe.”
His voice cracked slightly on the last word.
The strongest sorcerer alive standing in your tiny apartment looking terrified of his own feelings.
You stepped toward him again instinctively, but he stopped you this time. Not with force, just a hand against your wrist. Gentle and shaking yet the touch burned.
Gojo stared down at where he held you like even that small contact required restraint.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
The sentence landed like a bruise.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
A sad smile pulled at his mouth.
“That’s exactly why I have to.”
Your eyes stung immediately and he noticed, of course he noticed, and for one awful second, you saw him almost break.
His hand twitched against your wrist like he wanted to pull you into him and forget every good intention he had left. Instead, he let go. Slowly like it physically hurt him.
The rain outside softened again, the city humming quietly beneath it.
Gojo looked around your apartment one last time. At the tea growing cold on the counter. At your sweater tossed over the couch. At you, his gaze lingered there the longest. Like he was trying to memorize this version of you before loneliness took him back.
“When I kiss you,” he said quietly, “I want it to be because I know how to stay afterward.”
Your chest ached so badly it became hard to breathe.
He moved toward the window then. Every step felt unreal, wrong.
You watched his broad shoulders disappear back into the blue city light, watched the rain catch in his white hair again.
Then he paused with one hand on the window frame, but didn’t turn around.
“I do love you,” he said softly.
The confession barely rose above the sound of the rain.
“But right now…”
A long silence.
“I’d love you like a drowning man.”
And then he was gone. Leaving behind cold air, untouched tea, and the unbearable feeling of almost being kissed by Satoru Gojo.
Suguru Geto stood beneath the narrow awning of a tiny tea shop tucked between an old bookstore and a shuttered tailor shop, water dripping from the ends of his dark hair. The paper lantern above the door swayed softly while the rain still fell like it had nowhere else to be.
No name on the shop, just the faint scent of jasmine escaping every time the door slid open.
He almost kept walking.
Almost.
But exhaustion sat inside his bones tonight like wet cement. Another mission. Another village. Another curse born from the ugliness people spilled into the world and left others to drown in. Children crying, rotting resentment and fear thick enough to taste.
Geto closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them again, the warm amber light beyond the doorway looked less like a shop and more like survival.
So he stepped inside.
A small bell chimed overhead.
Warmth wrapped around him immediately, not overwhelming, not intrusive. The kind that asked for nothing. The shop was narrow, lined with shelves of ceramic jars and hanging bundles of drying herbs. Steam curled lazily from kettles behind the counter. Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Jasmine. Earthy steam. Burnt sugar from something left too long on heat.
Then his eyes caught you, behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, leaning slightly on your elbows as if time wasn’t something that mattered to you the way it mattered to everyone else. Your hair slightly undone as if you had just stopped caring about arranging it perfectly hours ago. A smear of ink on your thumb. A faint trace of tea steam clinging to your skin like perfume the world hadn’t earned.
Your eyes caught him immediately, not openly or rudely, but like you were reading a line of text only you could see beneath his skin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he said at last, voice low.
“Like what?” “Like you already know how I end.”
That made you stop just for a second.
The room didn’t change, but something in it did, like a thread tightening between two points that had no business being connected.
“I don’t know how you end,” you said softly. “I only know you walked in already carrying something heavy enough to decide for you.”
That made him exhale a quiet laugh through his nose as he finally stepped fully inside. The warmth swallowed him whole, replacing damp cold with something that felt too intimate to be safe.
You turned away before he could think too hard about that reaction, already reaching for a kettle. Your movements were unhurried, each step measured, almost theatrical in its quietness. Not performed for attention, but as if the act of pouring water deserved respect.
Steam rose when you lifted the lid and it curled around your fingers while Geto watched without meaning to.
There was something unsettling about how naturally you occupied space. No shrinking, hesitation, even silence seemed to lean toward you instead of away.
“You always like this with customers?” he asked.
“Only the interesting ones.”
He leaned slightly against the counter. “And I’m interesting?”
You glanced at him over your shoulder.
“Yes,” you said simply. “Unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
You smiled faintly as you poured hot water into a teapot. “Interesting people are usually exhausting.”
“That’s not very flattering.” “I wasn’t trying to flatter you.”
Geto studied you now with a different attention, the kind that notices not just what someone is, but how carefully they’ve built themselves around staying intact.
The shop was small. Intimate. Shelves of mismatched cups, dried herbs hanging like quiet secrets, a narrow window where rain traced slow lines down glass. The world outside felt distant, muffled as if it had been politely asked to wait.
You set a cup in front of him and your fingers brushed the porcelain slightly longer than necessary.
“Tea,” you said. He glanced down at it. “That’s all?”
“For now.”
He lifted it.
The first sip was warm enough to pull something loose in his chest. Earthy, slightly bitter, then unexpectedly soft at the edges, like something trying not to be remembered too sharply.
“You didn’t ask what I wanted,” he said.
“I already knew.” “That confident?”
You leaned forward a little, resting your forearms on the counter.
“I watch people,” you said. “You all tell the truth before you speak.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “And what am I saying?”
Your gaze drifted, not over him, but through him, like you were reading a language that didn’t require permission.
“That you don’t like being seen,” you said gently. “But you keep standing in places where people might look anyway.”
Outside, thunder rolled far away, like something deciding whether to approach.
“You run a strange shop,” he said as he set the cup down slowly.
“It’s very successful at making people uncomfortable.” “Is that intentional?”
Your smile returned, slightly sharper this time. “No. I aim for disappointment. The discomfort is a bonus.”
He huffed softly. “And here I thought I was special.” “Oh, you are.”
The way you said it made his gaze lift.
Not playful enough to be harmless or serious enough to be safe, just balanced perfectly on the edge where meaning becomes dangerous.
You reached for his cup then, fingers wrapping around it without asking. He let you take it, didn’t stop you, didn’t question why he didn’t. He just observe you as you tilted it, studying the leaves gathered at the bottom.
The motion was slow, almost ritualistic.
Your expression changed subtly as you looked. Not fear or surprise but interest deepening into something quieter.
“You travel a lot,” you said.
“That’s one interpretation.” “You carry things that don’t belong to you.”
His voice dropped slightly. “Most people do.”
A small hum of agreement.
Then, softer: “Yours just… follow you more loudly.”
“You know,” you continued quietly, “tea left steeping too long becomes bitter.”
Geto gave a faint hum. “That sounds obvious.”
“Yes.” A tiny smile touched your mouth. “But people still do it.”
You finally set the cup down between you both.
“Bitterness left untouched eventually poisons the container too.”
That made something in him still.
You didn’t look up yet.
“Tell me,” you continued, voice lighter again, almost teasing now, “do you always come into small tea shops looking like you’re about to ruin someone’s life, or is that just my special experience?”
A pause.
Then Geto’s mouth curved again, slower this time. “Only on weekdays.”
Rain pressed harder against the windows and the shop felt smaller than it had before or maybe he was just noticing it differently or maybe it was just him. Maybe he was the one who had shifted.
Geto watched you turn the cup again. A slow motion. Careful fingers. Steam rising between you like something alive that didn’t know where to go. You turned the cup again and then your voice lowered, softening, losing its playful edge without losing warmth.
“You are carrying something,” you said, “that wants to become hatred.”
The sentence didn’t arrive like a prediction, it arrived like recognition like you had simply named something already sitting inside him, waiting for language.
For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.
No reaction he could use. No joke to deflect into. No practiced calm to slip over it like armor just the sound of rain, just steam and your voice still lingering in the air like it belonged there more than he did.
And then something in Geto shifted. Not in any way you could immediately see but something inside. Something hot and sharp and suddenly angry at the precision of it.
Not because it was wrong because it was right without permission.
His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, too controlled.
“You say that,” he murmured, voice lower now, “like it’s something you can just see.”
Geto let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost a laugh but there was no humor in it only pressure.
“You don’t even know me,” he said.
Not harsh but sharper now. Controlled, like a blade kept just barely in place.
You tilted your head slightly.
“I know what sits around you,” you replied gently.
“That’s not the same thing.”
Rain hit the glass harder, as if agreeing.
His eyes didn’t leave yours now.
And something in them darkened, not dramatically or theatrically, but with a slow tightening, like a door quietly locking from the inside.
“You think naming something makes it true?” he asked.
Your expression softened as Geto’s jaw tightened. A small shift. Barely visible but the temperature of him changed.
Something inside him rose- not rage in the violent sense, but something more complicated. Something closer to being seen without consent. To being held in someone’s gaze like an answer instead of a person.
“You’re not afraid of me,” he had asked.
“Should I be?” “Maybe…”
The word barely made it out cleanly when the porcelain clicked softly against wood.
A final sound and a settled decision.
He looked at you once more as he reached for his coat. The movement broke the stillness like a line being drawn through water. Leather slid over his shoulders.
The room felt colder the moment he turned away from the counter, as if his presence had been part of the warmth itself.
The bell above the door trembled faintly as the wind touched it and then he let out a breath, low, almost lost under the sound of rain.
“Don’t read me again,” he said quietly. “…and don’t be right.”
The words lingered for half a second too long and then he stepped out. The bell chimed once behind him and the rain swallowed him immediately.
Rain clung to the city in thin silver threads, turning the windows of Nanami’s office into blurred watercolor smears of neon and streetlight. The building had long since emptied. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, cold and clinical, illuminating stacks of reports he had stopped reading twenty minutes ago.
His loosened tie rested crooked against his collarbone. One sleeve rolled slightly higher than the other. Exhaustion sat heavy in the lines of his posture.
Nanami is halfway through paperwork when his phone vibrates against the desk, your name appearing across the screen in that quiet, familiar way that still manages to unsettle him.
You rarely call anymore. Text, sometimes, but only sparse things. Did you finish the report? Do you still have my charger? Are you alive after that mission?
Questions shaped like excuses.
So when your name lights up his screen at 11:43pm, something inside him goes taut immediately.
He answers on the first ring.
“Hello?”
Then- a scream, sharp, horrified and loud enough that the phone distorts around it.
The sound hit him like a blade slipped cleanly between the ribs. Something shattered in the background. Your breathing came sharp and ragged, footsteps stumbling frantically across hardwood floors, another scream strangled somewhere too close to the phone. Another scream, this one closer, breathless and panicked, and Nanami is already standing before he consciously realizes it.
Chair scraping violently backward and papers scattering across the desk.
“Where are you?” His voice came out low and dangerous, every syllable sharpened by adrenaline.
No answer, only static. Quiet Breathing and another crash before silence came and the call ended.
For one awful second, the world narrows violently and suddenly the office felt monstrously still.
Nanami doesn’t remember grabbing his coat, only the elevator descending too slowly and the pressure in his chest tightening with every passing floor. The streetlights too red and the city itself seemed determined to obstruct him at every intersection.
Rain hammered against the windshield in restless waves while his fingers tightened around the steering wheel hard enough to ache. His mind moved faster than the road beneath him, assembling worst-case scenarios with brutal efficiency. Blood and Curses. Your apartment door broken open, he was too late. His jaw locked hard enough to hurt.
You had not called him in months unless it was necessary. And somewhere along the way, he had become afraid of what necessary meant. You did not call people for no reason, especially not him, not anymore.
By the time Nanami reaches your building, the storm has turned violent.
Rain falls in heavy sheets, silver beneath the streetlights, soaking through wool and cotton alike until his dress shirt clings damply to the sharp lines of his frame. The city around him feels blurred at the edges- tail lights smeared across wet asphalt, distant sirens muffled beneath thunder.
Your apartment building stands washed in pale amber light at the end of the street, old brick darkened by rain.
His blond hair, usually immaculate, has begun to curl slightly at the ends from the rain, strands fallen loose across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger. Less composed. Water drips steadily from the edge of his jaw onto the collar of his shirt, the fabric translucent enough now to reveal the tense line of muscle beneath.
His tie hangs loosened around his throat, uneven from how quickly he must have pulled at it in the car. One sleeve remains rolled to his forearm while the other sits perfectly buttoned, like he had forgotten halfway through fixing himself.
And despite the rain, despite the cold, there’s heat radiating off him in restless waves, the kind born from adrenaline from imagining too many terrible things too quickly.
His glasses are spotted faintly with water, but he doesn’t stop to wipe them clean. His hand flexes once at his side instead, fingers tightening hard enough to blanch pale at the knuckles before relaxing again.
Control. He is trying very hard to maintain it but something about him looks wrong tonight.
The hallway outside your apartment smelled faintly like dust and old carpet. One overhead light flickered weakly, buzzing in uneven intervals.
Nanami knocked once.
Nothing.
Again, harder this time as his heartbeat thudded ugly and uneven beneath his ribs.
“Open the door.”
The silence stretched just long enough to become unbearable.
Then
“…wait.” Your voice. Alive. Confused.
Warm with irritation rather than fear.
Nanami closed his eyes briefly, not relief but something worse. The kind that leaves you exhausted afterward.
Locks clicked open hurriedly from inside before the door swung inward.
And there you stood. Oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder. Blanket wrapped around your waist and popcorn bowl tucked against your chest., completely unharmed. Behind you, the television blared with distorted horror music, flashes of red light spilling across the walls of your apartment.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Rainwater dripped quietly from the ends of Nanami’s hair onto the floor between you.
You blink at him, squint slightly, then tilt your head.
“Oh,” you say. “I thought you were the food delivery guy.”
“The call.” “I did not call.”
Nanami says nothing more, which is somehow worse.
You look at your phone in confusion and the pieces connect visibly behind your eyes.
You screaming because of the movie, a call made by accident and the fact that Nanami is standing outside your apartment near midnight in the rain looking like he arrived prepared to kill someone.
“Oh no.”
You cover your mouth.
“Oh no, I am so sorry— I sat on my phone by accident,” you said softly. “The movie was loud and I—”
You stopped.
Because Nanami was staring at you with an expression so stripped raw it almost didn’t look like him. Not anger but fear, real fear. The kind someone only feels for things they cannot emotionally afford to lose.
Your chest tightened painfully.
The television behind you screamed again, some actress running through fake darkness, but it sounded distant now. Muted beneath the sound of rain and the unbearable awareness suddenly blooming between you.
“You came here,” you whispered.
Not a question.
Nanami glanced away first.
His wet hair clung slightly to his forehead. The knot of his tie sat loosened from rushing. There was something deeply intimate about seeing him undone like this—not messy, never messy, but disturbed from his careful equilibrium.
“As I said,” he answered quietly, “you sounded distressed.”
But the words felt rehearsed. Too formal for the way he had arrived breathless at your door. Too detached for the fact that his hand still flexed faintly at his side like he had been prepared to fight whatever waited inside.
You stepped backward slowly.
“…come inside before you catch a cold.”
A mistake, you knew it immediately because Nanami hesitated.
And in that hesitation lived every unsaid thing between you.
The apartment glowed gold and soft compared to the harsh hallway light outside. Warm air curled around him as he stepped in carefully, removing his shoes near the entrance with automatic politeness.
The domesticity of it nearly killed you. Because this was the cruelest part of whatever existed between you now, the unbearable ease of it.
Nanami standing in your apartment looked natural. Like something your life had unconsciously made space for long ago. You hated how much your body remembered that.
Water drips onto your floor behind him.
You notice and he notices you noticing.
“I’ll clean it,” he says immediately.
“You don’t have to—” “I do.”
The movie continued playing forgotten in the background while rain tapped steadily against the windows. Blue television light flickered softly across his face, catching on tired eyes and rainwater still lingering along his throat.
Neither of you looked at the screen.
“You really thought I was dying,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.
Nanami’s jaw tightens slightly.
“You called me screaming.” “But you came immediately.”
“I was nearby.”
It’s a lie.
You can hear it in how quickly he says it and judging from the rain soaking the edge of his slacks, he came fast. Too fast for nearby.
Tired eyes and loosened tie. The faint crease between his brows that only appears when he’s deeply stressed. You wonder if he realizes nobody else would have come this quickly for you. Then you wonder if he realizes nobody else would have mattered if they had.
The silence stretches.
There were a thousand things sitting between you now. Months of restraint. Of pretending this distance was mutual. Of carefully placing each other back into the safer category of friendship while still memorizing each other in secret. And somehow, seeing him here- rain-soaked and exhausted on your couch because he thought you were hurt- ruined all the progress you had made trying not to love him so visibly.
The doorbell rings and both of you turn.
Your eyes move to the door. “That’s the delivery.”
The knock comes again.
You’re already halfway off the couch but Nanami was already there, one hand resting on the wall as he opened the door before you could reach it. The delivery driver handed over a warm paper bag spotted dark with oil near the bottom, steam curling from the folded top.
Something in his expression shifts so subtly it would be easy to miss if you didn’t already know him too well.
The smell hit.
Rich pork broth, deep and salty, carrying the slow-cooked warmth of tonkotsu ramen. Black garlic oil drifted through the air first- smoky, sharp, almost addictive. Then came the heat of spicy miso paste blooming underneath it, mixed with toasted sesame and the unmistakable scent of chili crisp soaked into hot noodles.
And the gyoza.
Pan-fried dumplings wrapped in buttery crisp edges, heavy with garlic, ginger, and pork fat. Soy sauce packets clinked faintly inside the bag beside containers still hot enough to fog the paper.
Nanami stopped walking.
His fingers tightened around the handles as he looked down into the bag again, slower this time. Because he knew that smell.
Every time he ordered ramen after long missions, you complained dramatically about it taking over the apartment for hours. You called black garlic oil “aggressively offensive.” Once, you’d opened every window in the middle of winter while Nanami ate silently at the counter.
And yet inside the bag sat his exact order.
Extra chashu. Spicy miso broth. Black garlic oil. Gyoza with extra chili vinegar.
Nanami looked up slowly.
The tv light caught against his glasses, shadowing his eyes just enough to make his expression unreadable as he walked back toward you with deliberate steps, suit sleeves still rolled perfectly despite the rain outside. Steam drifted from the bag between you both.
Then he lifted it slightly. “I thought you hated tonkotsu ramen.”
Your throat tightened for no reason.
You crossed your arms, pretending indifference. “I do.”
Silence, a dangerous kind.
Nanami stared at you for one long second too many, and something in his expression changed- small, almost invisible, but suddenly warmer like he understood everything you hadn’t said.
You bought his comfort food after a terrible week. You remembered the exact order. You endured a smell you hated because it made him happy.
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
Then he moved.
One hand slid around your waist fast enough to pull a startled breath from you while the other still held the paper bag against his side. The warmth of it pressed faintly between you as he kissed you without warning.
Hard. Not polished. Not restrained. The kind of kiss that happens before thinking catches up.
His mouth was warm from the cold rain outside, and he kissed you like the realization physically hurt him- deep enough to steal your balance immediately. His fingers tightened at your waist when you grabbed his tie instinctively, the paper bag crinkling loudly in the quiet apartment.
You could still smell the ramen between breaths: garlic oil, rich broth, sesame, spice. Comfort.
Nanami pulled back only enough to look at you, breathing slower than you were.
His forehead rested against yours.
“You’re still my emergency contact,” he says. “And I intend to stay yours.”
A faint, almost imperceptible shift of his thumb against your wrist.
Choso learns you fragments first, not as a person more as weather.
The drag of your shoes against tile when your shift has been bad and the tiny crease between your brows when customers speak too harshly or the way you rub warmth back into your fingers after stocking refrigerator shelves because the cold inside the glass doors clings to your skin long after.
He notices everything because noticing you becomes involuntary. Something similar to breathing, or more like bleeding.
And the first thing you learnd about Choso is that he stands too still.
Most people move through the world with unconscious rhythm. They shift weight between their feet. Scratch their noses. Tap fingers against countertops while deciding between brands of cigarettes.
Choso arrives at your convenience store each night at exactly 1:07 a.m. and stands in front of the refrigerated section like someone waiting for instructions from a god that has long since abandoned him. The convenience store feels detached from reality entirely. Fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. Coffee burnt black on the hot plate. Rainwater drying in streaks across the windows while the city sleeps with one eye open outside.
Strawberries, Instant noodles, Bandages, always the same like ritual offerings.
The fluorescent lights bleach the sharpness from his face, but not enough to make him look human. He wears exhaustion like ceremonial robes. Dark circles beneath his eyes. Hair tied back messily, as if his hands were unfamiliar with gentleness. Sometimes there are bruises blooming beneath the collar of his sweatshirt like crushed violets.
You do not ask questions. Night shift teaches you there are two kinds of lonely people:
the ones who want to be found, and the ones who pray nobody looks too closely.
Choso belongs to the second kind. For weeks he says almost nothing.
“Bag?” “Yes.”
Your fingers brush his palm accidentally, it lasts less than a second but Choso recoils slightly afterward. Not in disgust, it was an alarm like his body responded before his mind could.
You stare at him and he stares at the bag in his hand as suddenly the silence between you changes shape.
“You know,” you say carefully, “most people don’t look like they’re preparing for impact when someone touches them.”
His throat moves and the fluorescent lights paint silver against the dark strands of hair falling near his face.
“I’m not used to it.”
The answer is simple, too simple. Not an "I dislike it." or a "Don’t touch me". It was just "I’m not used to it." and something inside your chest aches quietly.
After that, you begin touching him on purpose.
Your knee knocking against his beneath the counter while showing him how lottery tickets work. Fingertips brushing over his palm as you offerded him the change or receipt. Passing him coffee cups directly into his hands instead of setting them down first.
Every time, Choso stills and every time, he allows it. Like someone standing in ocean water despite never having learned how to swim.
He starts coming earlier, not to buy anything but just to exist near you.
The realization arrives slowly.
First, you notice he never interrupts your tasks. He simply follows the motion of your body with his eyes while pretending not to. You mop the floor and Choso watches the reflection of your movements in wet tile. You restock shelves and his gaze tracks your hands sliding cans into neat rows. You laugh at something on your phone and his expression softens instantly, unconsciously, like flowers turning toward sunlight.
It unsettles you at first not because it feels invasive. Because it feels intimate in a way you cannot explain.
Like being seen too clearly.
One night you catch him staring openly at your hands again.
“What is it with you and my hands?”
He looks genuinely surprised to have been caught.
“They move gently.”
You laugh softly. “That’s a weird thing to notice.”
“No,” he says immediately.
The word lands heavily. Earnestly.
His eyes lower back toward your fingers where they tap idly against the countertop.
“You touch things like they matter.”
The refrigerators hum behind you and outside, headlights smear gold across rain-slick pavement. And something about the way he says it makes heat gather beneath your ribs, because suddenly you understand: Nobody has touched Choso gently before, not really, not without wanting something or without fear.
The realization follows you home that night like a second shadow.
Outside, rainwater gathers in potholes reflecting neon signs in warped reds and blues. The city at night feels submerged. Everything humming softly underwater.
Then one evening, sometime in November, he appears at the counter holding a single yogurt cup in addition to his usual things.
You glance up while scanning it and before thinking, you say:
“Do you always look this sad buying yogurt?”
Silence. Horrible silence.
You immediately regret it. But then something happens, not quite a smile. Choso looks at you like you’ve struck a match inside his chest.
“I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I’ve never bought yogurt before.”
You laugh softly not mocking, just surprised. And Choso, who has survived blood and ruin and grief so enormous it hollowed him into something almost inhuman, feels warmth move through him for the first time in years.
For moths he has orbiting you.
He learns your schedule without asking. Appears during the slow hours when the city goes quiet and the refrigerators hum loud enough to sound like distant machinery aboard a spaceship.
You couldn’t help it– you befriended him the way you befriend something fragile without meaning to. Slowly. Accidental at first. A shared silence that stopped feeling like distance. A question here, a softer answer there. The kind of friendship that doesn’t announce itself, just quietly takes up residence in the gaps of your routine until one day you realize it’s been there for a long time, breathing gently beside you.
Sometimes he buys things he clearly does not understand.
A tiny cactus. Orange juice with pulp. A magazine about home organization.
Once he stares at fabric softener for nearly ten minutes before finally asking, with complete seriousness:
“What does lavender do to clothing?”
You blink.
“It makes it smell nice.” “…Why?”
The question is so genuine it nearly breaks your heart.
You teach him laundromats first because Choso washes his clothes by hand in his sink, wringing them out with enough force to tear seams.
The laundromat near your apartment is open all night, full of sleepy college students and old women reading romance novels beneath buzzing lights.
Choso watches the machines spin with narrowed eyes.
“It’s hypnotic,” you tell him.
“It looks violent.”
“That too.”
He sits beside you while your clothes tumble dry, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the circular windows like he’s watching another universe rotate slowly into existence.
December arrives wrapped in rain.
The city glistens constantly now. Sidewalks lacquered black beneath streetlights. Cars hissing through puddles. Steam rising from sewer grates like the earth itself is trying to breathe.
Sometimes, after your shift, Choso walks you home in silence, the kind that settles naturally between two people no longer afraid of each other. You sit together on the fire escape outside your apartment while rain falls in silver threads across the sleeping city.
Choso likes storms. You think it’s because thunder sounds similar to loneliness.
One night you find him staring at your braid while you complain about customers.
“…Can I try?”
You blink.“Try what?”
“That.”
You hand him the hair tie and his large hands move with terrifying caution like he’s defusing a bomb.
The first attempt falls apart instantly and the second tangles horribly while by the third try, his fingers begin understanding rhythm. Over, under, pull gently. You feel his concentration like heat against your spine.
“There,” he murmurs eventually, almost surprised.
You touch the braid, it’s crooked and messy. But perfect.
“Good job.”
And Choso looks away too quickly afterward, as if praise physically wounds him.
The braid becomes ritual. You sit on the floor between his knees after shifts while rain taps softly against your apartment windows and his first his fingers shake too badly. Not from nervousness but from restraint.
Choso touches you like someone handling holy things incorrectly. Every brush of fingertips through your hair carries unbearable concentration. He separates strands slowly, carefully, learning texture and weight and softness by memory.
“Too tight?” he asks constantly.
“No.” “This?” “That’s fine.”
“You’d tell me if it hurt?”
You lean back slightly until your spine rests against his legs and you can feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his clothes.
Violently fast.
“Relax,” you murmur.
His hands still in your hair.
“I am relaxed.”
You laugh so hard you nearly ruin the braid and behind you, hidden safely from sight, Choso smiles. Small and fragile.
Beautiful enough to make gods jealous.
One evening you cut your finger opening a cardboard box at work. Nothing serious just shallow slice across your knuckle but Choso notices instantly and his expression changes with frightening speed.
You barely register movement before he’s beside you and large hands wrapping carefully around your wrist.
“Does it hurt?”
The question comes rough, too intense for such a tiny wound.
You blink at him.
The proximity suddenly overwhelming.
He’s close enough now that you can feel warmth radiating from his body. Close enough to see the faint scar cutting across the bridge of his nose. Close enough that the scent of rain and detergent clings softly to his clothes.
“It’s just paper,” you whisper.
But Choso is staring at the blood gathering beneath your skin with an expression so mournful it feels ancient as if pain itself offends him when it belongs to you.
He cleans the cut in complete silence. Bandages your hand with terrifying precision and his fingers are huge compared to yours.
When he finishes, he continues holding your hand absentmindedly.
Thumb resting lightly against your pulse.
Neither of you mention it and neither of you move away. And somewhere between the humming refrigerators and midnight rain, you realize something terrible: you have started measuring safety by the shape of Choso’s hands around you.
Later, much later, maybe in april or may, after you fall asleep against his chest for the first time, Choso remains motionless for nearly four hours. Not because he’s uncomfortable but because he’s afraid the moment will disappear if he moves.
Your body fits against his like trust given physical form.
Soft breaths warming the fabric over his heart. One hand curled loosely near his ribs. Completely defenseless and unafraid.
Choso stares at the top of your head while rainwater traces silver lines down the apartment windows.
And for the first time in his life, he understands why ordinary people stay alive for ordinary things. For warm apartments. For shared silence. For someone sleep-heavy and trusting in your arms while the world softens outside.
You shift slightly in your sleep and instinctively, his hand moves to steady you. Gentle and immediate like his body already belongs to loving you.
Choso lowers his head just enough for his cheek to rest lightly against your hair. Not enough to wake you but enough to feel real, and somewhere in the quiet darkness of your apartment, the monster inside him finally realizes: he is being held too.
And in the quiet, where nothing extraordinary survives, Choso learns that loving you was never a rupture in his life at all, only the beginning of how it finally became ordinary.
How to keep your houseplants alive, megumi - jjk one shot
The first plant Megumi killed was a succulent, which according to the handwritten tag from yuji taped to the ceramic pot, was nearly impossible to kill.
The thing survived deserts, neglect and heat severe enough to blister paint from walls, and yet beneath Megumi’s care it folded inward within the month, its thick green leaves softening into translucent ruin.
Yuji had said it grinning, shoving the thing into Megumi’s hands after a mission gone too long and too bloody.
“It’s low maintenance, Fushiguro. Like you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It’s a plant. Don’t overthink it.”
Megumi had rolled his eyes then, but he remembered the warmth of the convenience store afterward, fluorescent lights humming overhead while Yuji stood beside the drink refrigerators smiling like he genuinely believed small things could make people happy.
The succulent sat by Megumi’s kitchen window for twenty-eight days.
And then it died.
He stared at it for a long time after realizing it was dead, not surprised but tired.
There was dirt beneath his fingernails from where he’d tried to fix it two nights prior- loosening the soil carefully with a chopstick after reading somewhere online that roots needed air to breathe. He had sat cross-legged on the floor of his apartment at two in the morning performing the operation with the concentration of surgery, lamp casting gold over wilted leaves while the city outside dissolved into rain.
It still died anyway.
For a moment, absurdly, Megumi wondered what Yuji would say if he saw it now. Not angry, Yuji was rarely angry in ways that lasted, that almost made it worse. But underneath that imagined conversation lived another quieter thought, one Megumi hated enough to immediately look away from it. What kind of person kills something made to survive?
The apartment was silent except for rain against glass and Megumi touched one of the translucent leaves carefully between his fingers as it collapsed under the pressure with the texture of rot.
His chest tightened strangely but not because it was a plant, because he had tried, and that was the humiliating part.
He had rotated the pot toward sunlight every morning before leaving. Checked the soil before bed. Opened articles at three a.m. about root health and drainage and seasonal dormancy as though understanding the language of living things could somehow prevent them from dying beneath his hands.
And still it had died.
Megumi wrapped the ceramic pot carefully in newspaper before throwing it away and even dead, he found himself handling it gently.
The next day, Megumi didn’t plan where he was going with the dead succulent he had fished back out of his trash.
Megumi rarely did things without structure, and yet his feet carried him anyway, past familiar streets still damp from last night’s rain, past vending machines humming softly to themselves, past people beginning their day with the casual confidence of those who did not feel personally responsible for the survival of small things.
The pot sat in a paper bag at his side like failure weighed less than it should.
At some point, without fully deciding to, he stopped in front of a flower shop. He recognized it only after he was already standing there. The glass window was fogged slightly at the edges, condensation blurring the shapes of hanging plants inside. Green spilled downward in lazy cascades. The light within was warm in a way the outside wasn’t.
Megumi stood still for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he pushed the door open and a small bell chimed above him, too bright for the morning.
Inside, the air was different immediately, humid, alive, heavy with the scent of damp soil and crushed leaves and something faintly sweet he couldn’t name. It clung to his lungs in a way that made him suddenly aware of his own breathing.
He hesitated just inside the entrance.
Aisles stretched out in soft disorder. Plants everywhere. Some small and delicate, others sprawling like they had forgotten they were indoors. Everything looked cared for in a way that felt almost excessive.
Like attention had been poured into every corner.
Megumi turned and for a moment, he forgot what he was supposed to say entirely.
You were behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands stained faintly with soil as if it had decided to stay. There was a small pair of scissors in one hand. A plant in the other. Focused, careful, like whatever you were doing mattered in a way the rest of the world didn’t.
You looked up only after a moment, as though you had felt the change in the air rather than heard the bell and your gaze landed on him.
“…I’m sorry,” you said first and Megumi blinked slightly. “For what?”
You glanced toward the door behind him. “The bell is louder than it needs to be. I keep meaning to fix it.”
That was not what he expected. “I didn’t notice,” he said, he was a terrible liar.
“You’re here for a plant,” you said. It wasn’t a question. Megumi hesitated. “…Yes.”
“Alright,” you said and walked past him into the aisle of plants. Megumi followed after a moment, slower than you and he didn’t know why.
The shop felt different when you were moving through it. Less like a display. More like something being lived in.
“Which one are you thinking of?” you ask as you tilted your head slightly with a smile, “one that won’t punish you immediately for being inexperienced?”
Megumi stared at the pots and his fingers tightened slightly around the bag as he whispered, “I killed a succulent,” he said.
The words came out flat, unnecessary and honest in a way that felt slightly inconvenient. You didn’t react the way he expected, with no sympathy and no reassurance, just a small pause, like you were considering the information properly.
“…That’s impressive,” you said finally.
Megumi looked at you, that was not the answer he had prepared for.
You continued, tone still even: “They’re usually harder to kill than people think. So either you tried very hard… or you were very unlucky.”
Outside the window, rain continued falling like it had no opinion on any of this.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said and you nodded once. “I assumed.”
Then you extended a plant toward him, but not forcing it just offering it and he hesitated before taking it. When his fingers touched the pot, it was colder than expected, alive in a way the last one hadn’t been for a while.
“If you’re going to keep trying, you should probably learn how they work.”
Megumi looked up at that, but you were already turning back toward the counter and somehow, that was the end of the conversation, not abrupt. Just complete in a way he didn’t know how to interrupt. He left with a small plant in a plain pot, carried carefully in both hands like something that might still change its mind about living.
Weeks passed.
The first one died in three days.
Overwatered.
You said it like a diagnosis, not a judgment and Megumi stared at the soil like it had personally betrayed him.
“…I only watered it twice.” You tilted your head. “In three days?” A pause. “Yes.” “…That’s a lot for a cactus.”
He didn’t buy cacti again.
The second one lasted longer. Two weeks.
Too little light.
You didn’t even look surprised anymore.
“You put it in a corner,” you said, gently adjusting the pot like you were correcting a habit, not a mistake.
“It looked fine there.” “It was dying there.” Megumi stared at it. “…I didn’t notice.”
You hummed softly, like that explained everything about people.
The third died because he forgot to rotate it.
The fourth because he rotated it too much. At some point, the pattern stopped being humiliation and became something else entirely. Routine. Arrival. Observation. You never mocked him, never praised him too loudly either, just explained things as if life was not personal, only complicated. And Megumi began to notice something strange, he stopped coming to replace plants and started coming at specific times.
Sometimes you weren’t there and he would stand in the shop longer than necessary anyway. Pretending to look at leaves, listening to the bell even when it didn’t matter. Once, he left without buying anything and still came back the next day.
“You’re getting better,” you said one afternoon with a gentle smile on your lips and Megumi looked at the plant in his hands that was still alive.
“…It hasn’t died yet,” he said.
“That counts.”
He didn’t respond, but he stayed a little longer than necessary after that.
The first plant that didn’t die happened quietly, no dramatic change or sudden revelation. Just weeks turning into months. Watering becomes less uncertain. Light becomes something he notices automatically and leaves staying green without protest.
He stood in his apartment one morning and realized- it was still alive and had been for a while. He didn’t know when that had changed, only that it had.
He went to the shop that day anyway, not because he needed anything but because he had started going anyway.
The bell chimed and you looked up before you glanced at his hands and noticed they were empty.
“…You didn’t kill it,” you said. It wasn’t a question. Megumi shook his head. “No.”
A beat.
You studied him for a moment longer than usual.
“Then you don’t need another one,” you said, already turning slightly away.
And that should have been it. It used to be it. But this time, Megumi didn’t move.
“I don’t need a plant,” he said.
The shop was quieter than it had ever felt and Megumi looked at his hands, then at you. And for once, he didn’t look away first.
“I could show you.”
You tilted your head slightly. “…Show me what?”
Megumi hesitated then, honest in a way that felt almost dangerous: “The plant…you could come see it with me.”
Silence, the kind that doesn’t feel empty, just full of everything neither of you had named yet.
You looked at him for a long moment and then your mouth curved slightly. “That,” you said softly, “sounds like an excuse.”
Megumi blinked. “…It is.”
Another pause.
Then, quieter, almost resigned to it: “But I still want you to come.”
And for the first time since he had walked into your shop with a dead succulent in a paper bag- he wasn’t asking how to keep something alive. He was asking someone to stay long enough to see it grow.
Rain had a way of making the Tokyo Jujutsu High feel older than it was, not ancient in the noble sense but older in the way grief was.
The corridors breathed dampness and the paperwalls drank in the storm as somewhere far below, water rattled through rusted pipes like bones in a throat. Satoru Gojo sat alone in his office with the lights turned off, because even invincible men sometimes grow tired of being perceived.
There were mission reports spread across his desk, untouched. He should be reading the arithmetic of tragedy, but instead he was listening to the rain and thinking with a quiet irritation that there was something missing from the world. Not dramatically, nothing obvious enough to grieve, more like a word on the tip of the tongue. A melody interrupted before its final note ot the strange ache of waking from a dram convinced someone had called your name.
The feeling that followed him for months now like an absence with fingerprints.
Gojo leaned back in his chair and tipped his head forward the ceiling.
For someone who worshiped as the strongest, loneliness came to him embarrassingly easy, not the sort poets romanticized into moonlight and cigarettes and beautiful suffering. His loneliness sat beside him during meetings while the higher-ups spoke about dead children as though discussing weather reports. It waited for him in the silence after missions, in the long corridor walks back to his quarters, in the empty spaces where another voice should have answered his own.
Students looked at him like salvation, sorcerers like a weapon and curses like the end. Nobody looked long enough to see the man underneath the mythology and perhaps that was his fault.
He loosened the collar of his uniform and stared at the untouched cup of coffee beside him, he couldn't remember making it, but his mind slipped as his phone buzzed once. A message from Yuji, something stupid enough to make Gojo smile instinctively before the expression faded.
The man closed his eyes, he was tired in ways sleep could not repair. Tired of surviving for everyone and tired of being needed more than he was loved.
Then there it was, the strange sensation and a phantom ache.
Gojo’s eyes opened instantly beneath the blindfold, the blue hidden there sharpening into something inhuman and the feeling slid down his spine like cold water. His Six Eyes flared on instinct, scanning the building, every cursed signature layered over another in endless information until there was a gap, not an absence but a wound.
Somewhere in the eastern corridor, reality bent strangely around a single presence, as though the world itself refused to focus on it.
And then his coffee cup shattered. The porcelain exploded across the desk as invisible pressure surged through the room and Gojo stared at the fragments with narrowed eyes while blood dripped slowly from his nose. It had been years since anything forced that kind of strain on the Six Eyes.
“Satoru?”
Gojo doubled over suddenly as agony tore through his skull and blood hit the floor as the room wrapped around him.
There you stood like a ghost the world refused to keep. Rainwater dripped from your clothes onto the wooden floorboards and your outline flickered strangely beneath the fluorescent light, unstable as though reality itself struggled to hold onto you. And suddenly he remembered, god he remembered.
The way you looked at him when he stopped pretending to be invincible and the nights spent talking until sunrise because neither of you could sleep after missions. The feeling of your hand slipping into his like it belonged there.
Violent in its clarity.
Gojo stood too quickly, nearly stumbling.
“You’re alive,” he whispered, like saying it louder might make you disappear.
A broken sound escaped your throat.
“Satoru, no…”
He crossed the room before you could finish and his hands reached for your face instinctively, desperate, trembling despite himself. The moment he touched you, another wave of pain ripped through him so violently his vision blackened at the edges.
But your skin was warm.
His forehead fell against yours and suddenly Satoru Gojo, the strongest, the honored one, the man untouchable by the world, looked unbearably human.
His lips were numb from all his tears. It wasn’t easy for his heart and not for his soul.
“I looked for you,” he confessed weakly. “I didn’t even know what I was looking for, but I knew something was gone.”
Tears rolling down your cheeks and somehow it made him feel worse.
“Satoru…” your fingers curled around his wrists gently, “you have to let me go.”
“No.”
Immediate. Certain. Like breathing.
Your face twisted with grief.
“The curse tied itself to memory. As long as you remember me, I can’t leave.”
Gojo’s grip tightened instinctively and outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
“I don’t care.”
“You will.”
“No.” His voice cracked this time. “No, I won’t.”
The lights flickered violently overhead and your form shimmered again. Fading and panic clawed through him instantly as he pulled you closer like he could force you to stay through sheer will alone.
“You’re hurting yourself,” you whispered.
“So let me.”
“Satoru…”
“If you take your life,” he said brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, “take mine too.”
Silence followed but not empty silence. The kind filled with dying things.
You closed your eyes and Gojo realized then that this was what terrified him most: Not death, curses or loneliness. But living in a world that had once contained you and choosing to survive after it didn’t anymore.
Your hand lifted slowly to his cheek.
“You taught me once,” you murmured softly, “that being the strongest means carrying things nobody else can.”
He laughed bitterly through tears. “Yeah? I say a lot of stupid things.”
“This one matters.”
Gojo shook his head immediately.
“I can fix this.”
“You can’t.”
“I can kill the curse again.”
“It’s already dead.“
“Then I’ll bring you back.”
Your smile broke him completely, because it was full of love and goodbye.
“Satoru,” you whispered carefully, like handling something fragile, “I think a part of me stayed alive because you remembered.”
His breath hitched.
“But I’m tired now.”
The words shattered something inside him and Gojo’s tears fell harder as he held your face between shaking hands. For the first time in his life, infinity meant nothing. Strength meant nothing. Because there was no technique in existence capable of defeating loss.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly.
Your thumb brushed beneath his eye.
“Yes, you do.”
And that was the cruelest thing of all.
Because Satoru Gojo had spent his entire life letting people go.
And when your body finally dissolved into rainlight and silence beneath his trembling hands, Satoru Gojo remained there long after the storm had passed, alone in the echo of a love the world no longer remembered.
A quiet village, swallowed by overgrowth. A spirited too small to name. You’ve handled worse on your worst days. But today, you come back carrying more than you left with.
You walk the hall like a ghost, dirt still clinging to your h form, your breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. It’s not blood you’re shaking from your fingers- it’s something older and something quieter.
You write your report in a dim room that hums with violence, fluorescent light casting shadows like cracks across the wall. Your handwriting stumbles halfway down the page and the words blur.
The curse hadn’t touched you. It didn’t need to.
It had spoken. No faces, no claws- just a voice. Your voice. Whispering back things you never said out loud but somehow still lived in your bones.
You barely hear the door creak open, when you glanced up, he’s already there- Satoru.
Not the blindfolded legend. Not the man who turns battles into footnotes. Just him. Hoodie, soft hair askew, tired blue eyes like the last light before a storm.
“Hey,” he says gently. Like you’re not crumbling. Like you’re not trying to fold yourself smaller.
You offer him the lie automatically “I’m fine.”
Satoru Gojo may be a fool from time to time, but he doesn’t take the bait at that specific moment. Not when he could see through you. Not when your heart arched underneath your chest and made his bleed.
He crosses the room with a quiet kind of care, like he’s walking through something sacred. The door shuts behind him like a held breath.
“You don’t have to do this with me, y/n,” he murmurs as he sits down, across from you. One leg bent under him, posture loose but deliberate, like he’s lowering his guard to match yours “pretending like the curse didn’t get under your skin.”
You don’t answer. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s too close to the truth. Like he’s reading something you left folded inside yourself a long time ago.
“It didn’t get to me,” you whisper, a little too late.
“You’re shaking,” he replies.
You go still and he doesn’t press. Just watches you like someone watches the horizon- expecting the rain, but never rushing it.
The silence between you stretches and you drop your gaze to your hands. They don’t look like they belong to you anymore- dirt under your nails, knuckles scraped, trembling ever so slightly in your lap. It’s not the fight that’s lingering.
It’s the voice.
“It used mine,” you say at last. “The curse. My voice.”
Gojo doesn’t move, but something in his face shifts as it softens.
“It didn’t take shape. Didn’t attack. Just… whispered. Things I didn’t want to hear. Things I didn’t know I still remembered.”
Your voice cracks near the end.
“What did it say?” he asks. Not gently, exactly—gently would feel too far away. No, he says it quietly. Closely. Like he’s already holding the answer in his hands, waiting for you to lay it down.
You hesitate. Not because you’re afraid, but because some wounds don’t want to be named.
“That I was the reason people left,” you murmur. “That I ruin things. That no one really… wants me here. That if I disappeared, it wouldn’t change anything.”
It’s not just the words. It’s the way they settle—like you’ve carried them too long, and they’ve carved out space inside you to live.
When you dare to look up, you find him still watching you. No judgment. No pity.
Only ache. Deep and blue and ancient.
His voice is low when he speaks. “That’s not the curse. That’s someone else’s voice that’s stayed in your chest for too long.”
You blink, surprised by how easily he says it. Like he’s pulled a thorn from you without asking, and somehow, it doesn’t hurt—just frees.
“And whoever told you that,” he adds, “was wrong.”
You look at him. Really look.
Satoru Gojo, who everyone thinks is untouchable. Unshaken. Who holds the world at arm’s length and laughs like it can’t get close enough to burn him. But right now, there’s no distance between you. Just the soft warmth of his honesty, held like an offering.
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and continues—his voice a little steadier now, but no less tender.
“You think I don’t notice you?” he says. “You think I don’t see the way you steady yourself when no one’s watching? The way you still smile when your eyes are screaming?”
His words land like rain on droughted earth. Gentle. Unrelenting.
“I’ve seen you, Y/N. All this time. You think you’re invisible because you’ve learned how to disappear, but I… I never stopped looking.”
Something behind your ribs crumbles.
“I care about you,” he says plainly. “And I know you don’t see it. But I do. I see everything you try to hide from the world. From yourself.”
His hand shifts, resting beside yours—not touching. Just close. Just there.
“If they never taught you how to be loved,” he says, softer now, “then let me.”
You’re crying before you realize it.
Not sobbing—just quiet tears, the kind you’ve kept dammed behind your heart for far too long.
You reach for him slowly, uncertainly, like he might disappear. Like this might all be a kindness your mind made up.
But he meets you halfway.
His hand closes around yours, warm and steady. And he holds it like you’re something precious. Something real. Something meant to be held.
͏nanami had to break this curse, as the cure for all of his ills and for the execution of his nightly prayers, so that the small splinters of musty wood in his sore knees had not been in vain and that all the days that followed after had lost his voice, because his prayers the night before that had swallowed up all of his words, had not cost his silver tongue in vain.
the night was heavy with rain, the kind that fell in relentless torrents, drowning the city in a cold, gray haze, leaving the streets deserted, the usual hum of tokyo silenced by the downpour, leaving only the rhythmic pounding of rain and the occasional flicker of a distant neon sign.
nanami stood at the foot of an apartment building, his breath fogging in the cold air as he stared at the familiar door. his usually impeccable suit was a sodden mess, the crisp lines of his jacket now clinging awkwardly to his body and the pale blue of his shirt had darkened, nearly translucent where it stuck to his skin, while his tie hung loose, the knot unraveled and defeated, much like the man himself. his once polished shoes were soaked through, squelching with every step he had taken to get here, leaving small pools of water beneath him.
his light hair, normally styled with precision, was plastered against his forehead, dripping rivulets of rain down his face and yet it didn’t matter. all that mattered was the door in front of him and what was waiting behind it.
nanami raised his hand, the movement slow and hesitant, as if the weight of his decision was dragging it down. his knuckles rapped against the wood, the sound barely cutting through the steady drumbeat of the rain. he knocked again, harder this time, and waited. his heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing the desperate hope that had driven him here.
the apartment door was a little off-center, hanging slightly crooked on its hinges, a detail he hadn’t noticed before and the paint was chipped, revealing layers of color from previous tenants, and a faint crack ran down the middle, splintering near the handle. it was a small, insignificant flaw, but now it seemed like a metaphor for everything that had gone wrong between them.
finally, the door creaked open, revealing you. you stood in the dim light of the narrow hallway, your silhouette framed by the soft glow of a lone, flickering bulb. the hallway of your apartment was cramped, cluttered with old shoes and a slightly tilted shelf burdened with books and magazines that seemed ready to spill onto the floor. the wallpaper, once a bright floral pattern, had faded and peeled at the edges, curling away from the damp corners where the rain had sneaked in over the years.
your expression was unreadable, your eyes scanning him up and down, but your eyes... your eyes still held that same depth, that same intensity that had always left him feeling unmoored.
“Kento?” your voice was soft, a mix of disbelief and something more guarded. he swallowed the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak.
“you've made it clear that you want to break your fixation on love and that you're tired of running everything straight to the ground” he began, his voice rough from the cold and the emotions choking him “but it's not fair of you to tell me I couldn't love you”
the rain seemed to intensify, hammering against the pavement, as if to emphasize the gravity of his words. water dripped from his hair, running down his face in rivulets as his hands trembled slightly before he clenched them into fists at his sides, trying to steady himself.
“I know you pushed me away, and tried not to let me get close to you, but I’m here now, and I’m begging you,...let me in” his words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, his throat tight, barely able to force the words out. “let me love you y/n”
the words hung in the air between them, raw and exposed, much like the man standing in front of you. he was already too vulnerable, too exposed. every inch of him screamed to take shelter, to flee from the cold, but his heart anchored him to this spot.
you looked at him, really looked at him, and he could see the conflict in your eyes. a small table near the door was cluttered with unopened mail and a vase with wilting flowers, petals scattered across the wood like forgotten memories. the air smelled faintly of damp, a reminder of the rain that had seeped into the building over the years, leaving its mark on the walls and the souls within.
“kento,” you began, your voice trembling as you spoke his name and his breath hitched, the words he had rehearsed a thousand times suddenly seeming inadequate. “I know I don’t deserve you...”
in that moment, something inside him broke. the fear of losing you, the weight of his love, and the desperation he felt all collided, pushing him to his knees. he dropped down onto the rain-soaked concrete, the cold, hard surface biting into him through his drenched clothes. his hands rested on his thighs, his head bowed, as if he were offering up everything he had, his pride, his heart, his very soul.
“please y/n,” he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion. “please, let me love you. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care if it’s difficult. I just… I need you to know that I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait for you. I’ll be patient. Just… don’t shut me out.”
the rain continued to pour, the sound of it pounding against the pavement, drowning out the distant hum of the city. he stayed there on his knees, the cold seeping into his bones, his heart pounding in his chest. he could feel the weight of the moment, the gravity of his words hanging in the air between them. The silence stretched on, the tension thick and suffocating.
Finally, you knelt down in front of him, your hands trembling as you reached out to touch his face. your fingers were warm against his cold, wet skin, and the contact sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the rain. you've two stayed there, kneeling in the doorway, the rain falling around you like a curtain, isolating you from the rest of the world and as he held you close, he allowed himself to believe that despite all the uncertainties, despite all the imperfections and fears, you might just find a way to make it work.
͏⸺ salty breeze danced with the sound of crashing waves, orchestrating a symphony of nature's own design. With each gust, it carried whispers of tales untold, secrets buried beneath the sands of time. Seagulls soared overhead, their cries echoing the longing in your heart as she wandered along the shore.
With bare feet sinking into the cool, wet sand, you closed your eyes and breathed in the salty air, letting the rhythm of the ocean wash over you. You felt a sense of peace settle within your soul, a reminder that even amidst life's turbulent seas, there was beauty to be found in the ebb and flow of the tide. You were wandering along the shore, searching for treasures hidden in the sand and listening to the melodies carried by the wind.
In the distance, a lone figure stood silhouetted against the setting sun, casting long shadows upon the shore. As you drew closer, you recognized the familiar outline of a man, his gaze fixed upon the horizon with a sense of quiet contemplation.
"megumi" you whispered, the name falling from your lips like a prayer carried away by the wind. Memories of your time together flooded your mind, each one a precious treasure held close to your heart.
the boy with the dark hair felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, exhilarating and terrifying all at once, like the warmth of the sun is lingering on his skin after a long winter, a sensation fills him with a sense of renewal and hope. It felt like dancing in the rain, every drop a symphony of joy against the skin of megumi, reminding him that even in the midst of chaos, there is beauty to be found.
the world seems to shimmer with an ethereal glow, as if every color is more vibrant, every sound more melodious, and every moment more precious. It's like seeing the world through a new set of eyes, where even the simplest of gestures can take on profound meaning.
falling in love with you was to fall in love for the first time and megumi never thought he would ever have, after all the time he had rejected affection.
and now where he hasn’t, when you called him pretty and kissed him all over his face, he couldn’t deny this unusual feeling under his chest, that felt like stumbling upon a treasure chest buried beneath the sands of time, each moment with you was a precious gem to be cherished and adored.
Every touch, every glance, sends sparks flying, igniting a fire within him that burns brighter with each passing day. It's like being swept up in a whirlwind of emotions, with highs that make megumi feel like he is soaring among the stars and lows that leave him feeling breathless and vulnerable.
Being in love for the first time and being in love with you was like learning to speak a new language, with every word spoken and every gesture shared a testament to the depth of his affection. It's like finding a piece of himself in you, a puzzle finally coming together to form a complete picture and he still couldn’t get over the fact that you are truly his.
Megumi was always tripping over his words, tongue tied and clumsy, as he tried to express the swirling emotions in his heart. Each interaction becomes a delicate dance of uncertainty, filled with awkward pauses and nervous laughter and yet you never doubted his love for you.
Simple gestures become daunting tasks, like holding hands for the first time or stealing a kiss beneath the stars. Megumi's hands tremble with anticipation, fingers fumbling as he tried to navigate the uncharted waters of romance.
Being in love with you was like discovering a piece of himself that he never knew was missing.
With hesitant steps, you approached him, your heart pounding with a mixture of longing and uncertainty.
As you reached his side, megumi turned to face you, his eyes alight with recognition and something more—a flicker of hope that mirrored your own. Without a word, he took your hand in his, the touch sending sparks of warmth coursing through your veins.
"everything alright?" you asked calmly and gentle as you caught his gaze, wondering where his mind traveled.
And as he look into your eyes, he saw a future filled with endless possibilities—a future where you build a life together, one filled with love, laughter, and shared dreams. Because being in love with you wasn't just about the here and now, it's about the journey you’ll embark on together, hand in hand, for all the days of your lives.
"more than alright" megumi whispers, his voice raspy, as he wrapped his arm around your waist and placed a gentle kiss on the tip of your head "happy valentine’s day, sunshine"
together, you stood in silence, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson. And in that moment, as the world around you faded into darkness, megumi knew that love, like the ocean, was boundless and eternal—a force that could weather any storm and endure the test of time.
you were his first valentine, and he swore you’d be the last.
to be honest I kinda think I’ve lost my skills of finding the right words and being good at expressing things through texts, but I wanted to thank you all with all of my heart.
since I don’t want to brother you all I’m going to warn you that the next paragraph will be a bit more personal and if you don’t want to read it I’ll just wish you a beautiful new year and pray for each of you that all of your dreams come true.
over a month I’ve been taking a break from writing and it felt extremely strange to me. I’ve been writing since 8 years and I still can’t thank my twelve year old self enough for giving me the opportunity to comprehend everything that’s been going on in my head. But now I’m nearly twenty one and time passed faster than I’ve ever imagined, not to forgot that I changed too.
Since three months I’ve struggled with having the feeling I’m completely stuck in time, not knowing where I belong and what purpose I’ve been allocated. And since two month I’ve completely shut myself down from everything, I’ve allowed myself to give me the time I needed to figure out what my soul and heart need and what they both deserved. And I never thought I would say those words, but I’m currently writing on my own book, working harder than ever for my medical school and understanding what makes me feel good.
This post is not meant to be a goodbye or a warning that I will never post anything again (I will), but it’s meant to allow you guys to see that’s it’s okay to take your time.
I’ve always been a fool and believed that loving myself should be as easy as loving others, and believe me I fall in love so quickly and everyday. Daily I consumed videos of how to glow up, how to work out, how to be more productive, how to be a better version of myself, I believed that if I was skinnier, prettier and like the other I would feel better and happier, but happiness isn’t something that appears with a day or a month, with a lower scale or plump lips.
You don’t need to search for happiness, happiness is meant to find you.
I’m a terrible and highly sensitive person, I feel truly and deeply, I’ve always thought it was my weakness and yet know I that this is the reason why I admire myself. I admire that I love so deeply, that my seeds will grow daffodils, which I will collect and give to others.
What I’m trying to say with all of this, is that the time and life is not coming at you, they accompany you. Give yourself the time you would give a plant to grow, the time the earth needs to move around the sun and show yourself the love you give others.
I truly hope you’ll find what you’re looking for. I hope you grow with each day and remember you’re the brightest star.
text me if you need it, see you again on the day I’ll post another imagine or goodbye untill over paths meet again <3
intimacy of being understood | nanamin ͏⸺ one shot
͏⸺ the intimacy of being understood, untouchable, unique and barely to understand, an hidden act of art reshaped to a favor of the gods, to crawl under the skin that is covering the depths of our hearts, we know so many things, yet we never understand ourselves, and to able to push the skin aside was so simple, yet so magnificent. Perhaps we craved more to be understood rather than being loved, to understand the vulnerability behind every confession, the growth of every movement, the association of connection and progress and the acknowledgment of existing.
and besides all your knowledge, philosophy and intelligence, you never figured out the act of being yourself, you didn't understand how you worked, why you acted like you did and why the thoughts were circling through your pretty head, but nanami did.
the way your fingertips carefully pulled on the simple bracelet around your wrist, the way you constantly yawed to get more oxygen into your lungs, the way you got quieter and your lips got tired of wearing your beautiful smile, the way your eyes followed every single movement to overanalyse every interaction and the way your cheeks blushed as you took small sips of your drink.
"mind if I steal my gorgeous woman for a moment?" Nanami interjected into the conversation of you and some other college’s with one of his charming smiles on his lips, as his he carefully placed his left hand onto your lower back, creasing the silky material of your elegant dress.
No one could ever refuse anything to nanami when he got that innocent charming smile on his lips, the kind of smile that holded his soul, the kind of smile that just needed three seconds to relieve the cruelty of the world and even if the light faded, his smile stayed.
"am I that transparent for you?" you whispered softly with an innocent smile on your lips while Nanami's hand stroked over your coccyx as he guided you outside, between the chatting people, out of the crowed room filled with stuffy air and the smell of alcohol. The other hand of Nanami rubbed over the little beard stubble, which his razor hadn’t caught and the charming grin didn’t faded as his eyes looked down to study you for a brief moment as he speaks up "you don’t need to tell me how you feel. I can see it for miles"
The loudness muffled after Nanami cautiously closed the glass patio door behind the two of you.
"I know it’s difficult for you when all these greedy looks are on you" the tall blonde man said as he watched you leaning your body slightly over the railing, admiring the landscapes and enjoying the calmness, away from all the people, letting yourself feel the comfort you needed.
Nanamin always rejected to be understood and being loved, yet he couldn’t help but fall the crucifixion of being loved by you, the torments of his mental awareness to differentiate the deed of the gods or the practical joke of the mischief devil, since you were everything he had ever prayed for, too good to be a gift of the gods and too innocent to be a sin of the devil. But if I’m between the spectacle of the world and the ever-changing state of things and the inherent fiction of everything, of the false importance exhibited by all realities, he always pleaded to wait to find you, in every myth and fiction, he dreamed among shadows and ruins, crawled through the coldest emptiness till the fullest ecstasy, just to find you.
You were terribly afraid of being known, yet desperate to be understood and Nanami was willing to learn every aspect about you.
"I know it's loud up here and way too bright for you" he mumbled against your scalp before he placed a gently kiss on top of your head, before he leans with his back against the railing studying the way the cold air blushes your cheeks and the dimmed light complimented your eyes.
Almost as if there was hiding a hint of absurdity, the tall man lost himself, forgetting who he was in this blurry reality while the intensity of sensation stunned his senses and all that was clear to him was you, the smudged dark eyeliner and rare blush on your cheeks, the fresh manicure and the elegant ring around your finger he had gifted to you as a promise, the messy hair and the little strands, which float around your face in the light wind. If you were a sin developed by the hands of the devil, Nanami would have fall on his knees and would make any agreement with the underworld, he didn't cared about how many love letters he must write for you, if he had to learn to play guitar to impress you, if he would have to read to you every night or if he had to work for the devil himself, he would do anything for you.
“sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself” a soft chuckle left your mouth, looking up through your dark lashes as your hands clenched around the cold railing and Nanami would've lied if he would denied the emotional chaos you caused inside of him as you looked at him with those eyes.
Obsessively, incessantly, perpetual and with maddering hunger he longed for your heart, manuscripts written down by his dreams about every movement you made to avoid his suffocation otherwise he would never stop talking about you, insane enough to believe it wasn´t enough to see you every moment with his clear consciousness, willing to never sleep again just so he wouldn't lose you from his sight. Nanami was never afraid of heights, yet this love seems so deep that he was afraid to fall, because you gave him something he can miss and now he knows forever what he'll miss when you leave.
A charming grin lifted the corners of his mouth as his thumb brushed over your little wrinkles around your lips “yet I don't know enough of you”
"You don't?" you mocked him jokingly, causing one of you dangerously gorgeous smiles lighting up your face, fading away these obstinate musical tones banging on the glass door as the tall blonde man nodded pensively and stroked with his thumb over your soft glossy lips, smudging a bit the lip gloss from your lips “You're full of passions and talent, yet to blind to see it in yourself, you hide so many beautiful words under your tongue, still you apologize for speaking at all and somewhere in your life someone broke your heart so deeply, that you're afraid of loving yourself, but even if I know a hundred versions of you, there are at least a thousand left to love”
The wrinkles around the corner of your lips illuminate as you placed a gentle kiss on the fingertip of his thumb before he raised his voice calmly again “You know which version I like the most till now is the one that still dances even when the song is long over and the one who, when the world is gray again, paints everything in color again with a brush, who never leaves, even when we argue”
“maybe, there is a version you won't love” you whispered while you looked through your lashes into his eyes and a raucous laugh escaped his mouth as he shook his head “it's so exaggeratedly easy to love you”
And there it was, a kiss so delicate yet vulnerable, godly with closed eyes, helplessly almost like a miserable misery, yet you both had become ravenously hungry for the taste of each other that you weren’t afraid to get burned, two mouths melted into each other, not afraid to swallow the poison of the devil.
͏⸺ Among the trees, alive with woes and heartaches, tall enough to almost reach up to the sky and something magical in the cold air as the silent forest almost seem to be enchanted, the young boy with the pink hair imagined how many adventures and stories those tall trees must have seen. A heavy sigh escaped the mouth of Yuji as his white shoes sinked into the soft grassy hill, that made the boy's breathing difficult as the calm air blowed a gentle breeze through his light hair before he muttered in another voice than usual "we should split up"
"such a stupid idea…" Yuji commented with an annoyed look on his prominent face as he kicked against the little rock, causing it to roll a couple inches away from him as he puts his hands in the pockets of his pants "have they never seen a horror movie?"
Yuji wanted his life to be an adventure, traveling far and abroad, stretching his legs out over the seas, improving that he could be more than just a vessel for the king of curses, that he wanted to help the world to be a better place and yet it only felt like he was trying to escape what was meant to be his path, to be a vessel with the destiny to be destroyed, which soul was meant to die before it found it’s place to be and the reason why everything was meant to be.
"a stupid idea…" the pink hair boy mocked but before he could finish his sentence a oddly pathetic scream teared him out of his thoughts.
The boy didn’t even hesitated as he heared the frightened cry out of help, of chivalry and sheer noblesse, he runned through the mossy grass like windborne blossoms nearing himself to the echoing scream and Yuji didn’t even thought about which dangerous curses could lingered behind those tall trees, about which strange powers they could possess. Like a haunting symphony he followed the wildflowers into the depths of the forest, adrenaline floating through his veins as he knew he couldn’t return without knowing if everyone is safe, and even if his feet’s couldn’t hold his weight any longer he would crawl on his knees to keep anyone safe.
A exhausted moan rustled behind those thick green bushes, as Yuji's hand carefully pushed a couple of the branches to the side to peak through the little gap in the bush.
The delicate hem around your ankles soaked the muddy water into the material of your purple dress as you quickly rushed over the stones under the water of the creek, your hair bounced with every step you made and as soon as your pretty eyes dared to see back over your shoulder, your feet stepped onto one of the mossy stones, causing you to slip to your knees into the water.
"Running away from me, I see" a smoky laugh made the boy's ears perk up as he saw a gigantic blue hand grabbing you by your waist and pulling you up into the air.
Roughly you slammed you hand against the back of the gigantic blue hand, that was tightly wrapped around your waist as you tried to kick him with your feet’s when you scoffed unimpressed "you ruined by dress, Nessus"
The gigantic curses chuckled as he brought you closer to his face you could already smell the decay on his grey flaky tongue and see the plaguing hunger lingering behind his black eyes, when suddenly a boy with pink hair stepped in front of one of the blueberry bushes "excuse me, would you mind to release.."
"keep moving boy" you interrupted the boy as you rolled your eyes while you relaxed yourself under the grip of the curses, as Yuji studied you with a gap between his lips and his eyes twitched "but you’re a damsel in distress"
Recursing a damsel in distress, a shining knight becoming a glorious hero, fixing hearts that are broken as his sensei Gojo taught him.
"I can handle this" you replied with a sarcastic smile on your lips, when a grin hushed over the lips of the curse as he looked down at the young sorcerer, who cleared his throat and stepped a bit closer "uhh, i think it’s my duty to.."
Another exhausted moan escaped your mouth as you lean your head into your palm "move boy"
"hey, if you didn’t noticed I’m trying…"
A rough punch against his guts made him tumble a couple steps back, letting him fall onto his butt into the cold water of the creek as his wet hair fell into his face and some of the water dripping down the corners of his lips as he split out the dirty water out of his mouth.
The glit of grueling anger filling the eyes of Yuji as he crudely pushed up the sleeves of his uniform before he muttered quitely to himself "you can do this, itadori"
"Giving up already?" the curse mocked the young sorcerer as he swinged you in the air, but before his enormous eyes could fall onto the jujutsu sorcerer he was punched roughly into his bloated stomach, causing the curse to let go of you and falling a couple inches deeper into the creek, when Yuji gently wrapped his arm around your hips, so you didn’t fell into the water again. Carefully he guided you to a rock near the edge of the bay as he sends a apologizing smile to you "I’m back in a minute"
There wasn’t a way to hide the grin on your lips as you silently watched the young jujutsu sorcerer fighting against the curse with which you still have to pay off your debts, there was something exiting within the way Yuji moved, how his muscles flexed around his armes under the wet material of his uniform and how his pink hair fell down into his tired face, while his jaw was clenched. Even though you knew you could easily win against Nessus, you let Yuji have his little win, while you leaned over the edge of the little creek drenching out your soaked hair till he finished his business.
"so you’re alright?" the boy asked a bit flustered as he watched you lean over the edge of the water, rubbing over the back of his neck with the wet palm of his neck, trying to hide the exhaustion of fighting the curse.
A seductive smile crosses your plump lips as you gently straighten your back and moved a bit closer to him, till your soft fingertips could brush away those strains in his face "I’m y/n y/l"
"yuji" he stuttered a bit and tried to hide it with a panicky laugh "Yuji Itadori"
With a amused look on your face you moved a couple steps away from him, turning your back to him to drench the hem of your dress and as soon as you turned back around, yuji had already leans his body against one of the large trees and crossed his arms over his chest "so, how got you mixed up with this…"
"Well you know how men are. They think no means yes and get lost means take me I’m yours" you rolled your eyes as studied the boys face, letting your fingers brush under his chin holding it a bit up.
You couldn’t deny that he was gorgeous, even if you should feel this way.
"well thank you for everything, Itadori" you give him a little wink and saluted before you pulled your hand carefully back and walked over the soft grass, but his desperately voice holded you back “wait.. are you sure you wanna go alone?"
Again a satisfied smile crosses over your lips as you looked over your shoulder, noticing how one of the straps of your dress had slipped down before your eyes moved onto the boy behind you "I’m big and tough and I tie my own shoes, don’t worry about me”
"Am I going to see you again?" Yuji didn’t wanted to sound as desperate as now, but he could miss the chance of seeing you again.
Like dripped in honey a laugh escaped your mouth as you moved between the trees "if you find me"
Yuji swore he would find you again, but he didn’t knew you were on of the most dangerous curses he’ll ever met.
͏⸺ time beaten to death, painful screams of tin blare out through the menacing loneliness, scoffing little holes into the eardrums and like little hungry moths they clung around the light, ready to extinguished every star, what else was left than to build the bombs in the eternal threatening silence as one didn’t even dared to breath. Speechless and cold, clinking in the wind as you tried not to freeze hidden under the wet staircase, holding your breath as your arms clinged around your legs, afraid he might catch you hidden between the dark shadows.
"I’m begging you, y/n" echoed his shallowing calm voice through the silent halls as the footsteps came closer to the staircase and the grating metal head hit against the hollow pillars "come out and play with me"
Warm blood dripping down the head of the metal baseball bat as the fingers on the other end tightened around the grip, almost as if cramped around the cold mental every time the tin screamed. Painful arching spreads under his pulsing temples as his darkening eyes looked out for you in every corner of the lurking shadows.
"I’m not going to hurt you, pretty thing" he mumbled venomous behind his ghost mask as he swiped away the blood on the bat's head while letting it streak across the floor, before his jaw tensed "not like your friend"
Excruciating your heart beats against your thighten chest as you memorized the pictures how Choso smashed the head of the metal bat into the head of one of your old school friends, you were still able to hear those bones break into small little pieces under the head of the bat while his warm blood dripping down the shining tin.
"You know I’m not the bad guy here" his voice was threatening calm as he suddenly stops walking right next to the staircase you were hiding under.
The baseball bat swinging between his long fingers, over his knuckles back into the palm of his hand and even though the flickering lights only illuminated the ghost face mask and you couldn’t see his actual face, you recognized Choso by the silver ring covered by little blood stains around his finger. A raspy laugh escaped his throat as he rubbed with his left hand over his chin under the mask "you can’t blame me for being insanely in love with you, can you?"
"no one deserves you like I do, y/n" the words escaped the mouth of Choso like he’s been waiting for saying them to you and he wasn’t even hiding the fact how madly insane he got with the time he waited.
Suddenly the masked man layed his arm over the staircase as he leans down, moving the mask over his head to look directly into your face. His eyes had a provocative dangerous glint, a smile lingering on his lips as blood marked his white teeth "Do you blame me?"
"you have such a pretty voice, let me hear it" he whispers as his finger brushed over your bottom lip, studying your face hiding behind the shadow and god, Choso tried his best to be patient and polite, but the thought of you being afraid of him caused a resentment in him.
Then, there it was, the bomb, your sharp teeth clenched around his thumb, leaving a perfect imprint of your teeth on his skin and making Choso inhale sharply, but as soon as you tried to push him away and run as fast as you could, his hand gripped around your hair, pulling him against his chest. The tin baseball bat falling onto the ground as his hand roughly choked you, an instant lack of oxygen caused a dizziness in your brain.
"choso, please.." you chocked over your own words as his grip tightly wrapped around you throat and salty tears gathering in your eyes, your back pressing against his chest as his teeth touched your earlobe "you wanna play nasty?!"
Choso closed his eyes as he takes a deep breath in, while you whimmered and a satisfied smile crosses over his lips "you wanna see how nasty I get?"
His fingers digged into your throat, his grip so tight do it’s gonna leave bruises behind, and he could feel through his palms the struggle of each of your breaths, while you shake under his touch. A hard bulge pressing against your ass as he could see the redness flushing into your cheeks and your eyes rolling back, thinking it could erase some of the pain and suddenly an enormously wave of ecstasy rushed over him, thrilling his veins with adrenaline.
Choso's leg pushed between your thighs as he carefully moved you back into the room where his chase has begun, your friend layed on the floor, his own blood lark suffocated him and he didn’t moved a single inch since you desperately tried to run for your life.
Roughly the masked man pushed you onto the floor, locking the door behind the both of you and ripping the mask of his face, a creepy smile lingering on his lips as the bat swings around his fingers "I’m going to protect you, y/n"
The tin screamed as it slammed against the already broken head bones of your dead friend as the blood splashed over his black clothes, your eyes tightened as you hold back your frightening scream and you could feel the blood running down your face. Bones breaking as you didn’t dared to open your eyes when the silence filled the room and you could feel a hand gripping around your chin "I’ll kill anyone who comes to close to you"
͏⸺ So light and soft in perfect elegance, the innocent petals danced one by one down from the swaying branches of the ancient trees into the weary breeze of the pleasant air and mingled with the sweet scent of the honey-coated peaches. Without any effort, the innocent wind chime flitted through the old stone balcony, into the cozy interior of the bedroom and whirled the wafer-thin curtains around in silent dance. What a glorious and comforting view it had been to lean its sluggish body slightly against the stony terrain and cast a daring glance down into the inevitable gardens. It was like a timeless film of sophistication in which the ripe fruits hung from the dense treetops of the orchard and the babbling waters flowed through the wide pit of the river.
Silently the dripping, grapefruit-colored sky shone in all loveliness and their special rays kissed the naked honey-shining back of you, while the golden highlights rested on your cheekbones and like gentle waves the strands of your hair bobbed around in the hourly breeze of the heated air.
"how could my eyes ever get tired of seeing your beautiful grace?” a raspy voice mumbled as footstep came closer behind you and you didn’t needed to turn around to know who it was.
Nothing could have stirred in the universe and faded into cruel darkness, yet you would shine in silence as a pearl did in the depths of the sea or the shattered shards of glass, which had fallen down on the unimaginative, murky ground that had not been worthy of such a heavenly existence and yet even if Noritoshi Kamo wasn’t afraid to speak out loud his thought, he knew he could never have you. How much he had been afraid of proximity, of being desired and loved, but all it took for him was one look for the distance at your astonishing beauty to make him beg the gods to let the hungry waves wither.
His heart already been scorched, a punishment for longing for a sin, but god did you urge him on to another crime, to make him sin again.
Two clans, both alike in dignity and glory, but completely different in personality, what a cruel faith to be born in such a clan, from ancient grudge break to new mutiny haunted and distressed by the continuance of their parents' rage. Filthy stains of blood of most distant relatives of the kamo clan sticking on your skin and on his the blood of yours and yet they were meant to be a pair of star-cross'd lovers, ready to take their life to bury with their death their parents' strife. Even the magnificent stars and the illuminated moon didn’t knew how those two lost souls have found each other, between all the hatred and resentment, but there was this fine line, the unknowing end of the both star-cross’s lovers, which prevented the moon and the stars from saving them from their sins.
"noritoshi" you whispered quitely, afraid someone could hear your gentle voice saying the name of the enemy, yet your eyes carried so much love and affection as they met his, pleating to never look at something else than him. A soft smile crosses your tinted lips as you stepped inside into your bedroom, closing the gigantic doors of the balcony behind your back as you tilted your head a bit to the side while you watched the dark haired man sneaking into your room like it wouldn’t have cost him his life "someone could’ve caught you"
The son of the kamo clan and the fallen angel from the hostile clan fell in love, they love was marked with death from the beginning, yet those lovesick hearts couldn’t been saved from drowning in the abyss of their foolish fate.
"I took precaution…" there it was the smile of a foolish lovebird, who thought the world could never touch him as long as he was you and even though he knew that he wasn’t untouchable of death, he would risk his life to burn himself by the fallen star you were.
These star-cross’d lovers, their love a secret, yet this beautiful to astonishing the moon, the sun and their children.
"god, you’re so gorgeous" he said quitely as he took a few steps closer to you, placing his hand under your chin as his other hand travels through your hair, hidden under the satin face over your head, trying to hiding yourself from the sun and the cruel rays. Your hand placed on the back of his, feeling how cold his pale skin was, as your gaze feel down to the shinning floor, letting the soft fabric over your hair fall a bit down to your face "what if someone sees you… you could’ve been disowned or killed"
Noritoshi placed his hand on your cheek and carefully leaned forwards, pushing the satin fabric out the way as his eyes glimmered in affection "I do not care. I will risk everything for you. If my ancestors can risk thousands of years of tradition… then let it be a new era"
Softly is fingers grasped your chin, lifting your head up again to look into your eyes as his thumb stroked over you lower lip, while his other hand stroked a strand of your hair behind your ear under the satin fabric, before his tumb sweeped along your cheekbones. A small satisfied smile crosses his lips as he drew you closer and his lips brushing against your as he spoke "tell me you need me like I need you, that you know that we’ll be alright"
"Noritoshi, you’re going to be the death of me" you chuckle softly as you hand placed onto his chest, feeling how his heart beats his chest, trying to crawl through his ribs into your hands.
A raspy laugh escaped from his lips while his long fingers travels to your neck carefully down along your spine, before Noritoshi sealed his lips with yours, closing his tired eyes, pretending like the world wouldn’t judge you, as if it wasn’t a sin to hold you close to him, like it wasn’t burn him down and as if you both were meant to be.
Noritoshi's heart pounded out a staccato rhythm of desire as his lips pressed against yours with a passion that could be described as a hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips with a desire to mingle with yours. His arms encircled you, drawing you even closer to himself, while his hands entangled in your hair and he deepened the kiss, even as the world around you two seemed to melt away.
His hand slipped past your waist, tracing along your side and coming to cup your bottom as his other hand went up her chest, before his fingertips teased the base of your spine, causing goosebumps to form along your skin. A a low and passionate groan escaped Noritoshi's mouth as he traced your lower lip over and over with his tongue. His hand squeezed and grasped your bottom, letting out a low groan as passion overcame him.
"Noritoshi…" you mumbled against his lips as he pulled away slightly to gaze at you in awe, his breath heavy with passion. His hands held onto you tighter, tracing the curves and lines of your body as his eyes stared into yours with pure affection, before he lets one of his hand creasing you cheek "y/n, my beautiful y/n"
Noritoshi's mouth released yours to trail soft kisses along your cheek to your ear as he nipped at your earlobe, running his tongue along the bottom of your ear before whispering in a husky whisper "I can not beat it any longer"
His fingertips danced across your skin as he trailed a line of kisses from your shoulder down to your neck "I want you to be mine"
"I am all yours" your breath was a heavily as you closed your eyes, feeling how his teeth nipped at your shoulder and his fingertips sliding down to grip the waistline of your skirt, teasingly playing with it befor he pulled on the waistband of your skirt and tugged it upwards.
"say it again" he breathed. Noritoshi looked into your eyes, a passionate fire burning there as his hand caressed the contours of your face, his thumb brushing away a strand of hair that fell across your cheek.
A low gasp escaped his lips when he saw your flushed pout after repeating your words and his fingers pushed against your chin, forcing you to look into his hungry eyes "Say it one more time, y/n"
"Be a good girl and say it like you mean it" his finger traced your bottom lip and he leaned in to kiss your pout but stoping before his lips stroked yours. You feel his long fingers gently brushing over the fabric of your panties as his lips met your neck, his tongue carefully licked over the arteries of your throat as a low chuckle rumbeling after hearing you moan quitely.
You couldn’t help but laying your head back into your neck as you feel his fingers massaging over your sweet spot, while your shaking voice quitely moans "I am subjected to you"
Suddenly a raspy groan escaped his mouth as you pulled him closer by the waistline of his pants, letting your lips meet his earlobe as you seductively whisper "do you want me to show you how much Iove you?"
Noritoshi closed his eyes as felt your fingers playing with the waistline of his pants, letting him teasing pulling on the fabric of your panties as the cold air touches your wet count. Your soft lips nibbed on his neck as you opened the clasp of his pants.
A love forbbiden by faults of the past, marked to death, so fragile and unfair, impossible to bare yet to special to hide, too wrong to be processed and yet the moon and the stars were to exited to see how far they would come.
