Teaser: Childhood best friend!Suguru who has always looked like an emo, closed off loser in your eyes ever since you were awkward middle schoolers suddenly grows to be a womaniser you can’t seem to move on from.
Tags: [MDNI/18+] Porn with a whole lotta plot, smut, fluff and angst w comfort, pining, yearning and pathetic geto, blowjob, riding, f recieving, messy sex, hotel sex, doggy style… When will I actually write pure smut without feelings?
Satoru and Suguru are the two most inseparable but different boys you have had the misfortune to meet.
Suguru is the kind of man straight out of your kinkiest most freaky dreams that would have you floored if they were to ever escape the confines of your mind.
He’s all black clothes, ear gauges that suit him criminally well, long and shiny locks that took years of growing to achieve, subtle yet dangerous piercings that make you spiral whenever you catch glimpses of them.
Suguru is hot.
You know it.
Your body knows it.
But your mind refuses to resonate with that perfectly obvious fact.
Because you’ve known Suguru before the tattoos and the cigarettes he carries in his pockets.
You know the boy with less than shoulder-length jet black hair that was dry before he learnt to take care of it junior year of highschool to try and impress some preppy bitch that used to get on your nerves too quickly.
You know the version of him who threw his guts out in your bathroom toilet after his first party, and the one who collapsed with his then-boney figure on your bed and called it a night—only to wake up 16 hours later.
Groggy as shit, voice deeper than a broken speaker, eyes swollen as if he were crying but it was really just from the first time he smoked mary and had a bad reaction to it.
That is the Suguru you know.
The one who isn’t the muscular and seductive man he has turned into. You love him in the present either way, but your mind can’t process that little virgin Geto is now the same man that has thousands of girls wrapped around his pretty pale, long fingers without doing anything about it.
Maybe it’s a secret defence mechanism of sorts that your body set up for you after you noticed how popular he got first year of college.
Or it could be that deep down you hate not being the only girl around him anymore. The only one he could find comfort in after getting rejected by yet another girl because of Satoru.
Which brings us back.
Satoru is a complete 360 from Suguru. He’s bubbly, bright, dramatic, overly friendly and extroverted for his own good.
With no sense of personal space or privacy, Satoru jumps around life surprisingly with no repercussions—flunking all of his classes in high school due to his fucking around with girls but somehow ending up at the same prestigious school you, Suguru and Shoko got into by working hard.
Though none of you dare to say it out loud, you’re all aware it’s because of his connections. The Gojos are quite well off.
Which makes the three of you resent the little albino shit at times.
But you wouldn’t change him for anything.
Within your group of 4 though, Suguru and Satoru have always stuck out like sore thumbs. Being glued by the hip since babies, of course they share a bond deeper than you and Shoko do with them.
The difference is, you entered the picture a bit after Shoko did in middle school to kind of “replace” Satoru during that time as he discovered the world of girls and parties after only living in the comfort of video games and his best friend for the previous 15 years.
So while Gojo ran around flaunting his awkward charm and pick-up lines—living off the thrill of being able to get any girl he wanted because of his looks—you and Suguru naturally got closer as your short-haired friend was always buried in her books.
Weekends at Satoru’s turned into weekends at yours with cookies in the oven and chess pieces fighting eachother.
Somewhere along the lines, you stopped seing Suguru as someone else in the background and more like your own best friend.
He seemed to see it the same way. Soon confiding in you more and more—sharing plans about his future and how he wanted to pursue philosophy while his parents pushed him into a business-oriented career.
Back then, you supported him, convinced him that he didn’t have to listen to his parents nagging because he was his own person, forcefully drilled confidence into that innocent teenager until he finally grasped it.
Everything was going smoothly.
Satoru was in his own world.
Shoko was doing great in school and after-hours clubs, anything for extra credit so she could get better grades for uni.
You and Suguru shared dreams over tea.
Everything was fine until that party.
Suguru’s first.
Satoru had invited him, saying that his frat friends—the ones he had recently met and somehow managed to befriend despite being younger by a few years—promised fun and a good time.
You didn’t expect hard-headed Suguru to cave and go. But he did.
Shoko stayed with you that night while the boys were out until her mom picked her up at 11 P.M. as she had piano practice in the morning.
Fridays were usually the quietest days for you. Your parents took weekend trips to your grandparents house religiously and you usually skipped on visiting to study.
Which was what you were doing when at 1 in the morning, the front door was being unlocked and the sound sent a bone-chilling shiver down your spine.
An old baseball bat in hand and with hesitant steps, you slowly moved down the stairs to catch sight of messy black hair over a tall body slouching against the entry.
Your heart recognised him before your eyes caught up in the dark. And you managed to drop the bat, cross the distance and reach him before he fell over.
Later, you found out as he threw his guts out in the toilet bowl, that he was batshit drunk.
You remember holding his hair back, the dry locks in between your fingers as he retched on and on.
And then.
The hickeys.
The small purple and faint red marked along his side that peaked out from under his loosely fitted black shirt all across his collarbones.
Your breath had hitched without you even noticing it. But your world shattered.
Because you’d grown feelings for the man that you knew would cause you more harm than good. But who were you at the hands of love? Only 16 and already feeling betrayed when there was nothing promised between the both of you.
You never acted like you liked him, never spoke about love, never showed interest. So who were you trying to blame?
Who were you going to blame for being such a pussy when Suguru got on the same train Satoru was and started changing again.
Learned how to do his hair, got piercings, gauges and his first tattoos in no time. Suddenly turning into a woman magnet that had your heart clenching painfully in your chest.
Yet, throughout the years. No girl ever stuck. No woman made it past the texting stage, not a single one of them slept in his bed the way you did at times when you’d crash at his place.
And you never stuck to any man either. A relationship here and there to get Suguru off your mind with some asshole that only messed with your head even further before you’d ditch him and swim in regret over never having confessed to your best friend before the words carved themselves into your bones.
So Suguru, at 24, has been your crush for seven round years by now.
And you’re one sorry excuse of a supportive best friend when he mentions dates and girls. You want so badly to rip your ears out, stuff his mouth with cotton till he chokes on the skinny blondes and Coke addicted bitches he ends up with at random bars.
Your raspy, beer-ghosted voice cuts him off as he tries to scramble together where he met his latest situationship.
“I’m tired, Suguru. We should continue this tomorrow.”
It’s not often you cut him off so brutally but the few times you do, Suguru sees the sirens going off in his head.
Head lolling to the side, left hand holding his drink in between his fingertips, he subtly lifts an eyebrow as his eyes rake over every inch of your beautiful skin.
Covered in a sheet coat of shine, probably from a body oil that he will remember tonight as he pumps his cock in his hands like he does almost everytime he sees you because you always come so pretty for him.
Well, he hopes it’s for him.
But 7 years of acting like he’s fine with being your best friend with his feelings wrapped under bandages and buried under cement, and he’s fearing that soon he won’t be able to hold it in anymore.
You’ve never shown interest in him. He’s never caught a sliver of love swimming in your eyes when his onyx ones prayed to find it in them.
What was he supposed to do? Risk your friendship? No.
Instead, he put himself out there. For every other person to see, hoping that you realise someday he is actually selling himself open for you to snatch off the market.
Yet, time passes and time passed. Nothing.
You stay quiet.
When in the present, your jaw is working and you’re mumbling something along the lines of “I’m really worn out, not really in the mood for talking right now.”
Suguru softly sighs, eyes crinkling at the corners as his they soften under the dim yellow-light lit bar you’re both at after work.
“I’ll take you home.”
He can’t remember the amount of times he’s done it for you. Taken you home tipsy, carried you up your apartments stairs because the hellhole you live in has an elevator that works once a month, tucked you into bed after tugging most of your clothes on because he’s done it ever since you were young from times when you were too tired to change but refused to sleep in dirty clothes, kissed your forehead goodnight and let his chest tighten.
Because he wishes he could say “let’s go home.”.
And he wishes he would stay over, wake up with you in his arms in the morning where he’d kiss the soft corner of your shoulder before the pecks would turn warmer.
But he buries those thoughts deep down and walks out the front door, steps heavy and shoulders weighing a ton.
You wake up feeling like a truck slammed into you sometime in the night—muscles aching, head banging, eyes burning. Though last night you swore you didn’t drink too much, your morning dizziness is really screaming for a rain check on how many beers you actually had.
Were you turning into Shoko?
Catching sight of your phone plugged to charge on the nightstand, you open it to find a mess of texts from your coworkers in the group chat talking about some event they’re trying to set up.
A plethora of messages from Shoko stressed out because of her latest karen patient. A checking in text from Suguru you’ll reply to in a bit. And a thousand texts from Satoru..?
You click on his icon and swipe past the hundred of messages where he’s literally just screaming your name in order for you to reply and get straight to the point.
The favor he’s asking you seems almost ridiculous as it stares back at you.
You, me, Shoko and Suguru. Friday at my company, need u all there for a major event. But I don’t have a date, I need you to act like my girlfriend. 🙏🏻😭
Please help, can’t take Shoko ‘cause she’s already been here and everyone knows her.
I’ll literally buy you anything you want, you know I got the means, boo.
And unfortunately, that last text is what sells it for you.
Friday you waltz hand in hand into one of six eyes’ hotel branches with Satoru who paid for your custom Chanel outfit—elegant silk dress with the tiniest most intricate details around the hemming, a nice cream shade that brings out all the right places—and you wear your new Manolo Blahniks that he got you like the deal promised.
Feeling good, you barely notice how the hall holds you it’s breath when you come in. People’s spines straighten up, how certain women that aren’t really comfortable with being outshined with simplicity and elegance, narrow their eyes.
But the tiny gasps go straight to your blood vessels and straight into your heart. You feel good and nothing can stop you tonight.
Satoru whispers in your ear—hair gelled back, crisp cream suit to match your dress with subtle brown outlining, black slacks.
“Careful, Suguru is about to jump at anyone who stares at you for longer than three seconds.”
Your breath hitches, head swinging back to him. You’re supposed to feign innocence over your little huge crush on your best friend, but all along, Satoru has known.
“How do you know?”
He smirks, that cocky and know-it-all one that makes you want to slap him square sometimes. “You’re not so slick, Y/N. I am also your best friend after all.”
Well shit..?
Before you even have time to debunk his claim—which was already confirmed by your subconscious look of surprise, caught red handed in the worst possible moment—a figure you hadn’t noticed creeping up cleared their throat.
Your heartbeat jumps to the hundreds at the sight of Suguru. Clad in everything dark—black blazer with no lining or details, just the dark void of the color complimenting him dangerously well—silver piercings shining under the bright hall light, helix in place, gauges sitting in their right spots, three small studs on his lobes.
And that tongue piercing you know he has is tucked away behind his teeth.
Shoko monotonously stands by his side, expression dull, looking every bit unhappy to be here. Though you know she’s about to hop onto the bar and flip that look right around.
You exhale for the first time in what feels like the five excruciatingly tense minutes beneath Suguru’s piercing quiet gaze.
“Oh, hey, Suguru.”
Suguru.
You’ve been calling him a lot that recently and he’s not liking the sound of it. Where is the nickname you usually use on him?— Sugu?
It’s his name. He knows. But god does he hate to hear it coming from your pretty lips.
The words “What the fuck are you doing wrapped around Satoru?” and “You look gorgeous.” drop straight into his stomach acid as he swallows them and says instead a brief, oddly cold “Hey.” back.
Truth is, you look divine. But the sight of you clinging onto his best friend kicks him in the wrong way even though he knows you’re both just friends and this is just an act.
He’s been let on the plan.
Yet he can’t stand to watch it unfold.
Satoru sweeps you away to network with you on his arm because it gives him a good look. A nice lady on his side and smooth words could get him deals after deals tonight.
You pretend that you’re enjoying yourself when all you can think about is how you felt and feel Suguru eating you up with his eyes.
It feels illegal. The way his eyes are so hungry for you, shooting bullets through your skin from where he is with Shoko at the bar.
From your side, Satoru mutters something you barely catch from having your mind somewhere else, and your arm drops from his forearm suddenly.
You find yourself alone at a small circular table in the gathering, swirling your drink in your cup and patiently waiting for him to come back till a cold, possessive hand settles on the small of your back.
Chills immediately overtake your body.
The air in your lungs gets kicked out once the figure circles you and reveals Toji Zenin. You know him from the bullshit smeared over his name everywhere.
The business industry’s biggest rival. Every season he’s out for some company’s neck again. The Zenin’s have their claws deep in everyone’s business.
He’s weirdly tall, looming over you with his wispy bangs covering the half-lidded eyes he has. Dark like someone else’s, still different.
But the hair on your skin stands up despite the fire in your eyes. His touch feels like poison to you.
“Toji Zenin.” You recognise. He smirks, sending a small nod your way.
“Y/N L/N.”
Huh? How does he know your name?
“I’ve had my eye on you all night.” He casually points out, putting your questions to rest for the moment.
His touch is long gone from your back but it lingers there in an uncomfortable way that still has the hairs on your arms prickling.
He’s every bit intimidating, from his looks to his gaze. The tattoos on his skin that don’t offer a single ounce of comfort to you like Suguru’s does.
Shit, why can’t you ever get him out of your head no matter how many times you throw yourself in-front of other men?
“Yeah? Am I that intriguing?” You ask, a sly smirk mirroring his on your face. Deciding to play into his game, you rest your drink on the table and relax your previously tense stature.
Briefly, he takes a good look at you again before replying confidently. “Very.”
You fake a giggle to keep the chat going.
“Let me buy you a drink?”
The freshly ordered cosmopolitan you were sipping on suddenly seems good enough to abandon, so you nod.
In the blink of an eye, before the man can even open his mouth, you’re yanked away. A strong grip on your wrist and your body getting dragged through the multitude of people in the room by someone you don’t catch sight of until you reach outside of the hall.
"Suguru." He finally stops dead in his tracks at the sound of your sweet and confused voice ringing in his ear.
Body on fire, soul frusturated, he holds it in to not lash out over seeing Toji even think you're on his level.
“Suguru.” You try again to rip him out of his head.
Only when your hands find his bicep does he physically jerk out of his thoughts.
Deep onyx eyes stare back at yours under the dimly lit sidewalk where the only thing wrapping around the both of you is the faint noise coming from behind the closed wooden hall doors and the night’s coldness.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, worry lacing your tone.
“Nothing.” He spits out, too quick to be thought through.
You push back, knowing him. “There is something wrong. Come on, you’ve always been clear with me.”
One of his hands run down his face to try and lessen the growing turmoil inside of him.
Defeated, resolve chipping little by little by your warm concern, he sighs. “No, I haven’t.”
“What?” A shaky breathe escapes you, maybe from the cold or because of the tension.
Unlike himself, he dodges your question. “I didn’t like seeing you with Satoru.”
“Or with Toji.”
Confusion replaces your initial worry. Eyebrows knitting together, your hands twitch by your side.
“What? Toji?”
Suguru doesn’t dare to look into your eyes, glueing his sight to the empty street behind him.
Nevertheless, you continue. “Why did you pull me away from him? I was getting to know him.” Bothered by how he stepped in when he had no right to.
“You could’ve just asked me to come with you like a normal person does. There was no need to cause a scene.”
You catch the way his fists ball into fists by his side, the way his shoulders square up under your words.
“Suguru. Say something.”
“Stop calling me that.” He cuts you through.
Something splits in your chest. “What? Why? It’s your name.”
Without missing a beat, he continues while dodging your face. “You never call me by my name.”
“I do.”
“You didn’t.”
Silence takes the wheel.
And you realise where you both have gotten.
When did it ever turn so cold between the two of you? Was it when it started to hurt too much to keep your feelings in check while he fucked around?
Maybe.
“I don’t get what’s your problem.” You breathe out, shoulders slumping.
He finally turns to you. “You are my problem.”
Another beat passes.
A knife is jabbed between your heartbeats.
“Then leave.”
His eyes thin out, unaffected by you. “I won’t.”
Voice shaky, you pry again. “Then what do you want from me, Suguru?”
What does he want?
What does he not want is the question.
“I want you to see me for once.”
Your heart turns to stone immediately. Every vein in you freezing.
“I want you to look at me and not those other men. Fuck.” He pivots on his heels, slacks clicking against the cement as he turns around and runs his hand through his pulled back hair again. Frustration bleeding from him.
“I’ve been in love with you for seven fucking years, Y/N. What don’t you understand?”
What?
Your eyes burn with tears you’re not sure are supposed to be brimming.
Seven years?
Since the chess matches? The afternoon study sessions? The nights you’d both spend stargazing?
“In middle school you told me to start taking care of myself if I wanted girls to like me so I did. And you thought I did it for them when it was all for you.”
“In high-school I got my first piercing because I overheard you tell Shoko that men who had them were hotter.”
“Then the tattoos too. I’m a pathetic loser who has done everything to try and get you to look at me. Yet you don’t.”
“I went around to try and find you in someone else but I couldn’t. And i’m at my wits end, Y/N. I don’t know what else to do.”
The air is too thick for you to swallow, but its even harder to process his words as they pierce painful holes in your chest.
He did all of that for you?
Every single detail carved into his body is for you?
“God, you’re such an idiot.” You whisper, feeling a warm tear slip past your waterline and fall down your cheek.
“I’ve always loved you, asshole. You never looked at me.”
He swings back to you, to see the streaks falling down your angelical features. And something fractures inside of him too.
Fuck, you’re both such idiots.
His arms wrap around your trembling figure before you can calculate your next sentence. Warmth and his signature smell of faint vanilla and musk cradling you to calmness.
Your head softly hits his chest, listening to his heartbeat for a second before pulling it upwards and searching for his eyes.
He tilts his head down and loses himself in your doe-eyed look. Feeling his rough corners go smooth.
Neither of you need to communicate anything as your souls search for each other, bringing your lips in a deep kiss.
One that took too long to play out.
The kiss lasts an eternity longer than it actually did, but you’re experiencing such euphoria that you don’t pay mind to the way your lungs pray for air.
Eventually, you do break the kiss.
The fragile moment feels like it’s a fragment of your imagination.
It shatters when the front door of the hall opens, a plethora of people spilling out in a hurry.
You freeze in Suguru’s hold. His head is already running though. Once more, this time gently, he gets a hold of your wrist and takes you with him back inside.
You’re confused as you cross the swarm of people inside still working. From the corner of your eye, you see Satoru, and you see Toji following you from the other side of the room too—hand in hand with Suguru—and him with a drink pressed to his lips.
Subconsciously, you swallow the awkwardness before you enter a different room.
Standing before a corridor full of elevators, you turn with the intention to question Suguru—but before you can, a lift’s door opens and he pulls you inside where you land against the mirror.
He locks you there beneath him, palms pressing into the mirror that sees you both. And he catches your gaze so much you don’t even dare to think about looking anywhere else.
Feeling butterflies explode in your stomach, crawling up your throat and spreading through your chest, you can only look up at him with the galaxy in your eyes.
Suguru is breathing heavily, eyes clouded with possession and love while he looms. Chest lifting and falling in the quietness.
The elevator doors close with a ding! and your lips meet once more. Hungrier this time. You feel his desperation clinging onto every surface of you as his hands drop from the mirror and circle your waist.
A small moan escapes you when he parts from the kiss and pecks a sensitive spot beneath your ear. Something needy has overtaken him and you won’t complain at all.
His long fingers press into your ribs, keeping you in place and not enough to harm, but enough to make your panties wetter by the second.
You didn’t even hear the lift stop or the doors opening, fortunately, he did and slowly he guided you out the elevator. Mouth still on your neck, one hand on the small of your back while his other shuffles around for something in his pocket.
You’re pressed against a foreign door that unlocks when he presses a keycard to the lock while still kissing you madly.
Cold, cold kisses your bare shoulders the second you’re gently pushed inside into the darkness of the empty room.
Before you can catch a glimpse of the place, you’re meeting the closing front door again, Suguru’s hands roaming more freely than before.
The cold tips of his fingers meet the exposed skin of your back as his lips press soft kisses to your collarbones. Ghosting around your neck every now and then.
Every coherent thought is fleeing your mind—Is this how it feels like to be touched by your best friend? What have you been missing out almost for a whole decade?
“Y/N.” Barely hearing his muffled call, you try to hum a yes but accidentally let a small whimper escape when he briefly bites your carotid gently.
He kisses the red spot once his teeth detach and you feel his lips in a smirk as they meet your throat.
“Do you really want to do this?” He asks, nipping on your sensitive skin—searching for where you’re most delicate and where you fall apart the easiest.
Teeth grazing a particularly sensitive spot, you shudder and he fights back the urge to chuckle at his effect on you.
“Yes.” You breathe out after getting a grip on your mind again.
He hums against you, the vibration travelling all the way down to your soaked panties begging to be pulled off.
“Really?” He muses, a slender hand tracing the curve of your waist unhurriedly, landing on your hip before giving it a firm squeeze and continuing it’s way down.
Hand on your ass, he starts to knead the plush skin of it over your silky dress once your lips combine again in a sloppy, half-minded kiss.
Fed up and so needy, your hands fist his silk shirt—black like most of his closet which you’ve learned over the years—and bring his lips close enough till they brush yours again.
“I’ve waited enough.”
And he crashes against you, lips colliding, hips closing in on you and making you feel the hard outline of his boner pressing against your stomach.
Moving on your own while your mind is absent, your sly fingers find the hem of his pants and slip past to palm him over the thin material of his boxers.
You almost groan at the feeling of his cock—at the shape of his prominent vein under your touch, and the tiny bit of liquid spilling from his tip.
Not even noticing it, you’re so beyond dripping that when Suguru hooks a leg between yours and presses up into your cunt, you leave a wet patch on the cotton of his pants.
He continues to explore your mouth as you subconsciously grind your hips on his muscular leg, steadily supported with the help of his hands on your waist to the wall.
Under your hand, you feel his length twitching—every time his cock jerks weakly in your hand, struggling to move much by the restriction of being in his boxers and because of its weight—you wonder why he feels so big.
And if he will even… fit.
The thought consumes you quicker than you have the time to stop it. Suguru feels you stopping your dry humping and your hands settle on his chest before pushing him back.
Curiously bites at him but disintegrates when he sees you drop to your knees, pupils blown wide open and your hair falling perfectly on the sides of your face. Framing those perfect features of yours.
Without ever admitting it, Suguru feels himself being able to already cum at the mere sight of you like this—but he holds it in the best he can as he feels your hands crawl up.
Hook around his belt, slowly pull the leather out of the secure, pull it off and throw it somewhere on the side, bundle the fabric at his upper thigh and pull down till the only thing in your sight is his aching cock pulsing against his underwear.
You bring your hands excruciatingly slow like everything else you’ve done in the last few moments to his dick. Seeing the thick ridges of him throw the light gray and practically salivating at the mouth.
The material smoothly glides off his skin once you pull it by the edges and…
Suguru might look like he always messes up somewhere along the way with girls, never able to get an actual girlfriend and settle down—resulting in him looking like he gets no bitches.
But boy, that dick is eleven inches.
Those girls have no idea what they are missing on.
And you’re the lucky winner.
It slaps loudly against his firm abs once it’s set free, tempting you already with its looks.
Pale, dusty pink tipped, veiny all around, girthy and criminally long. For a second, your eyes flicker to Suguru.
And he’s smirking. Looking down at you like you wished for this upon yourself and now there’s nowhere to run to.
Swallowing, you bring saliva onto the floor of your mouth and prepare to take him in. Wrapping your hand around his shaft, you part the connection between his chest and his dick before licking the tiny pearl of pre-cum that was on the top.
Suguru quietly hisses, and that’s all you need to immediately take him in your mouth.
Starting by the tip, you feel your mind already exploding at the salty and tangy feeling of his juices, smearing the sensitive end on your textured tongue while peering up at him.
Desperate to catch every reaction.
His fists ball into tight fists once you wrap your pretty lipstick-smudged lips around him.
Immediately wrapping him in the warmth your mouth it.
Then your tongue comes into action and Suguru starts counting his blessings, praying he has room for one more so he doesn’t immediately lose it already.
Skillfully swirling your tongue around him, you map every surface of his dick and memorise every dip of his veins—every length of them, the ones that go all the way to the base and the ones who only pop up at the very top.
Only being able to take him halfway before choking, you try to stroke the rest with your hand until you feel him place a hand on your head and start to choke you on his dick.
Your eyes shut closed as his tip hits the back of your throat, saliva spilling from the corners of your mouth as he breaches your oesophagus—hauling himself somewhere tighter.
Flattened tongue resting on the bottom of his heavy cock, you fight the urge to gag as he fucks himself harder.
Only when you feel yourself about to collapse from the lack of oxygen do you tap out and he immediately pulls out.
Your throat burns with that delicious ache you’ve just discovered.
Voice hoarse and raspy, you let out a curse under your bed before he’s moving again.
Back meeting the soft mattress of the hotel bed, you let out a breath before seeing that Suguru is already sitting between your legs, spreading them so far that your dress rides up and displays your wet panties clearly for him.
The low chuckle he gives reaches your ear in a soft melody. Long fingers hook around the flimsy material and you’re already jerking at the feeling of his knuckle brushing your clit.
There’s not an ounce of shame in your body when you let out a throaty moan as his fingers dip inside of your hole, mouth latching onto your twitching clit instantly after.
He takes two licks with a flattened tongue and your touch-deprived self already starts to collect tears on your waterline.
The cold metal of his tongue piercing adding more to the blissful sensation.
Mewls start to subconsciously spill out of you.
“Sugu~ Ah!”
You feel him smirk against you as your sensitive bud makes out with his mouth. Quickly, your vision starts to go blotchy when he curves his long fingers inside, finding that spot that makes you gummy in his hands.
You’re so close to the edge, so ready for the orgasm to crash over you when he pulls away in the blink of an eye.
You whimper at the loss of contact, near damn crying at the escape of your climax.
And he smirks, he fucking smirks.
Pulling his shirt over his head and climbing back, saying.
“That’s for leading on Zenin, and for even accepting being Satoru’s for the night.”
Eyebrows knitting and your eye catching the possessive side of him, you circle back to the first name.
“Leading on Zenin?” There’s curiosity in your scratchy voice.
But he doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t let you ponder any further while his hands hook around your waist and flip you on your stomach.
“You’re mine.”
And his cock breaches the first muscle of resistance, making you scream out both in pain and pleasure as the first few inches mercilessly dip inside of you.
Feeling like you’re being split in half, your hands start fishing the sheets, anything to lessen the pain.
Suguru presses slow, open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder and back, soothing you through the ache that soon turns delicious.
Once the pain subdues, you feel him move again—only being able to fit half of him inside of you, but he takes it nonetheless.
Pulling your hips upwards and arching your back—Suguru finally starts hitting mean thrusts to your poor overwhelmed pussy.
Not caring at all how the whole building can hear you scream out, moan his name like it’s the only thing you know how to do.
The headrest groans in an uneven rhythm as Suguru plunges deep into your velvety walls, creating a frothy ring at the base where your bodies meet.
“Come on, Y/N, relax so I can fit.”
“N-No—You won’t-haah.” You can barely get your words out, panting and shaking while tears run down your face. “Fit.”
But Suguru is a level of stubborn and hard-headed you’ve known since middle school.
“I’ll make it fit, dear.”
And you’re flipped on your back again, wincing at the loss of him nuzzling his tip into your womb, but getting hauled up before being able to catch your breath.
His back meets the leather of the headrest as his hands guide your shaky legs to each side, your knees digging into the soft cotton sheets, and you pussy hovering right over who she wants inside.
“Take me.”
And you do.
You succumb to his order like a body with no mind. Legs collapsing on you from the lack of strength and lowering your cunt to meet his glistening tip again.
He hungrily watches himself disappear up until where you physically cannot take him anymore—halfway through.
Seeing how your hands tremble on his shoulder, how your breathing is shaky and your body unsteady, he hooks an arm around your back and places a warm hand on your hip.
And pushes down.
Down.
And down.
Till he’s buried to the hilt and you’re groaning so much that they are bouncing off the walls and settling in his bones.
You can’t believe Suguru has been hiding this monster for god knows how long. It almost makes you wish you never had sex with anyone else just to experience this as your one and only.
But some things can’t he changed.
Just like you know that he has been with other girls because you didn’t notice he was in love with you the whole time.
Like you have been.
What a mess.
What a mess it is between your bodies too—sweat clinging to Suguru’s forehead and moistening the front pieces of his silky jet-black hair that cling to his forehead.
The straps of your dress have long fallen and revealed your chest once you sat down on him, giving Suguru the perfect angle to nip and suck on your breasts as you focus on riding him.
He takes control once more when he rams up at you, feeling your walls fluttering around him and spasming closer to the edge you were previously stripped of.
You feel your jaw going slack, the air in the room impossibly hot and the coil in your tummy at its end.
And it takes him a few more thrusts, angry and desperate till you come down crashing on him.
Body violently shaking, high-pitched mewls coming out of you and your weight going dead on him.
At the very last second, he pulls you up, almost cumming inside of you—but his dick slips between your bodies—shooting his seed over your dress and chest.
Ruining your attire, shamelessly so.
And the room goes dead silent save for your heavy breathing and his.
Fingers twitching against your sex-slicked skin, Suguru finally relaxes against the bed. Draping your body over his—the aftermath of him finishing sticky between your bodies but neither of you care.
It’s quiet for a second while the memories and the weight of the moment settle between the both of you.
“We are so stupid.” You whisper after another beat, cuddling your head further into his chest, searching for the steady beat of his heart beneath the muscles and bones.
“Yeah. So stupid.”
Stupid in love.
Not proofread yet, maybe my longest work as of now (def in the smut category.) this is my 1k special as a thank you to all of you for being so kind with me and genuinely making writing so fun <3
𝐘𝐎𝐔'𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 the world of love & deepspace. great! one thing: you’re not the main character.
so, what the hell are you supposed to do when you wake up in his bed, the man is hugely affectionate, despite you not being his canonical love interest?!
⟢ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 ⨾ [n]sfw(??? kinda?? i wouldn't recommend reading this in a public space is all) / implied sexual content (nothing actually happens) / however MDNI / canon universe / (attempts at) humour / reader is very self-deprecating / i will probably expand on this idea with the other leads, lmk if you'd like to see that / uh really playing to that classic manhwa trope we all know and love and are kinda tired of now with this / this is probably the risqué-est stuff i've written ahaha 🧍♀️ anyways enjoy!!
⟢ ao3.
For context, and to clear your name, you’ve long grown out of that silly, adolescent desire to be transmigrated into your favourite fictional universe, because you know, and have accepted, that it could never happen.
The unobtainability of fiction, if that’s a word, is probably what makes it the most appealing. An escape from reality, because reality could never be so sweet, and just something to occupy your mind when you’re idle and missing out on sleep again. Thankfully, people don’t bother you too much. You liken yourself greatly to Rhiannon from Sweetpea. You like that show a lot.
Love & Deepspace was just one of your many distractions from life. Pushing thirty and still stuck in that low-end assistant job to your unhelpful manager, you hadn’t even had your first kiss yet, let alone dated. Your mother told you it was high time to settle down with someone nice and handsome and preferably rich. Every annual family event you attended, that you were actually invited to, it was her and your aunts and grandmother who nagged you about it.
It had gotten to the point where, man or woman, you weren’t going to bother with romance at all. You didn’t stand out, you see. You weren’t pretty like Libby from public relations, you weren’t sociable like Rick from customer service, and you weren’t brilliant like Katherine from accounting. You were just…there, running around after everyone like you were still an intern, and the prospect of a promotion to where you actually had autonomy in that tedious job had long fizzled out of existence.
At least you could feel a little appreciated when you opened the app and that theme song started playing again. It was then that you realised you were grasping at straws, quite literally. Becoming reliant on some pixels and coding stuck in a screen, fictitious? Where the character you play as is pretty, is sociable, and is brilliant? Truly laughable.
So, what the hell is this?
About three minutes ago, you’re pretty sure, you opened your eyes. Your sheets are soft-blue and flannel, because it’s winter. These sheets are wine-red and silken, perfect for the summer, or late-spring. The duvet isn’t too thick, either, and it distinctly smells of sandalwood and expensive cologne, utterly unfamiliar, masculine. Your arm’s up over it, chilled in the early-morning air, and bare. Your pajama top is long-sleeved because, as aforementioned, it’s supposed to be winter. You don’t really wear spaghetti straps unless it’s summer, and in the short one-hundred-and-eighty-and-counting seconds since your eyes sprang open, you’ve long realised you’re not wearing a top at all.
It all slowly comes to you in quick successions of realisation. One, you’re in someone else’s bed. This one’s a superking, you’re pretty sure, considering the good distance from you to the edge of it. Your bed is a king-single, barely. Your dingy apartment can only fit so much. Two, you haven’t got any clothes on. Your legs are sticking uncomfortably to each other, which is why, whether summer or winter, you usually wear long pajama pants, and dislike being in the nude anyway. And three, someone has their arms wrapped around you, and their chest is pressed to your back.
They are asleep; warm, soft breaths puffing into your ear and neck, crotch slotted snugly to your behind, and hair tickling your cheek. You’ve tried moving, tentatively, and found their grip around you to be quite solid. You are caged in this man’s arms. Your heart is beating out of your chest at this point, like a trapped bird, breathing growing laboured.
Oh god. Oh god. Oh. God. What did I do? What have I done? Why am I here? Who even is this? I’m not hungover, and I did not go out drinking last night—I think I went to bed after my shower at the usual time… Your mind is racing a million miles a second. Trying to piece this all together, trying to work it out, trying to recall the very big blunder you must’ve made and the sticky situation you’ve gotten yourself into here—it’s all getting quite overwhelming very quickly. What did I do?
There is some kind of gap in your memory, there has to be, because you distinctly remember exhaustedly crawling into bed just last night, alone, barely even possessing the energy to complete your dailies on Love & Deepspace, or any other games you played. Somehow, you managed, but you went out like a light shortly after that. You remember feeling very happy at the knowledge that tomorrow—today?—would be Sunday, your day off, and you could finally sleep in for the first time in a good millennia.
Carefully, as slowly and as gently as you can, you slip your uncovered arm under the blanket, both hands now moving to pry the man’s from around your waist, eyes darting around your limited vision to try and spot any kind of clothing you could cover yourself with once free. You need to get out of here. You don’t dare look over your shoulder at whoever it is that’s holding you. You just need to leave.
You listen closely to his breathing patterns—they’re soft, rhythmic, deep, a sure sign of complete slumber. It’s painstakingly slow, the way you move then pause then move then pause, but, bit by bit, you ease his hold off you, and you carefully shift to separate yourself from him.
Whoever this man is, you know you don’t know him, and you know that you have no business being here. Never in your life would you have ever dreamed of having a one-night stand—well, maybe when you were younger and more starry-eyed and naïve and excited for the future, but now, you are utterly indifferent. You don’t think you’re the sort of woman men look twice at, anyway, even when piss-drunk.
It would be for the best if you were to take your leave before things get severely awkward. Just by casting one glance around the place is more than telling enough about this individual’s financial status. If you had less dignity and more ulterior motives, you’d stick around, but all your dignity is already long gone now anyway, and you want to salvage the last few remnants left by high-tailing it out of here.
You softly exhale in relief when you successfully get his hands off you, stopping to listen to his breathing again. Still asleep. A bit more encouraged now, you slowly sit up, holding the blankets close over your chest, and look around a bit more closely.
Much to your chagrin, there is no item of clothing suitable enough within reach to grab and shuck on—you lean to the side, if a bit strained, to peer over the edge of the rather magnificent bed, where you lay eyes on the carpeted floor. Heat flares up your neck immediately.
Shirts and bottoms and a jacket and a coat and a bra, your size, along with a few other…bits of clothing, lie strewn across the ground, tossed haphazardly, evidence of impassioned rush and obvious…enthusiasm. You blink. You gulp. Oh, I’m in the shit now, aren’t I?
The nearest thing to you is a belt. A man’s belt. It looks expensive, too. You pointedly look away from it. The room is dim, with a high, beamed ceiling, a cold fireplace, a sofa, a massive TV, two armchairs, a large dresser, vanity, and an ajar door to, presumably, the closet. The other, average door, is shut closed, its knob gold, and there is a sliver of sunlight splayed across the floor, working its way along the room, stopping somewhere halfway up the wall to your right. The wallpaper also looks expensive. Everything looks expensive. Not anywhere the likes of you have any business being around.
Now it’s time to brave it all and look over your shoulder at your companion. You’d really rather just get out of here, but fearful curiosity has you rooted to the spot, duvet clutched to your front, bare back rippling with goosebumps from the chill. It would be the polite thing to do to wake him up and let him know of your departure, but you have this terrible feeling that getting any more embroiled in this mess you literally just opened your eyes to, not ten minutes ago, would be a very bad idea.
Slowly, you look to your left and set eyes on the drawn curtains, towering high over the room, where a narrow gap lets in the early-morning sunlight. In your periphery, you see a shoulder, a bicep, and a jawline. You suck it up and look at him fully. And then you almost scream.
Silver hair, mussed and dropped low over a brow. Broad shoulders. His arms lay limp where you just were, empty of you, toned and bulky and very familiar. And then there is his face.
Unfortunately, considering the circumstances, you’d know those lips and that nose anywhere. There is also the issue of his criminal jawline. It’s getting harder not to shriek in horror.
With a barely-concealed gasp, you whip back around and stare wide-eyed at the wall in front of you. There is no way. There is just no way. I’m dreaming. I’m still asleep and dreaming, aren’t I? Wouldn’t this kind of thing be a nice dream, though, and not one that feels like a nightmare? What the hell is going on?! Why am I so scared?!
Probably because the man you just woke up next to is a) a fictional character, b) far too familiar for this to bode anything well and c) kind of a villain. As in, he’s the head of a fictional crime syndicate in a fictional universe that is not real. No one is that good-looking and perfect in real life. This is truly it. I’ve really lost my marbles now, haven’t I?
Perhaps you were driven to the brink of insanity because of that horrid nine-to-five (well, nine-to-eight, really—yay for overtime!) you finally got a break from, even if for only a very short while, and the mistreatment of your coworkers.
Suddenly, you have the urge to laugh. Gosh, this is just so ridiculous. Me, waking up in bed with some Love & Deepspace character? Please! That’s when you grin a little, pinch yourself, hard, and expect to awaken in the real world, in your bed, in your apartment, not here.
But you don’t. It leaves nothing more than a mark on your skin from your nails. All over again, panic washes through you. You physically feel yourself blanching. God, no. Please, no, it can’t be.
Deciding against wasting any more time, you quietly and carefully, and with great self-consciousness, peel off the covers, and swing your legs over the side of the bed, dearly wishing his back was to you. But he’s asleep, so it’s not like he’ll see anything, anyway. You just need to leave.
You’re almost standing when an arm winds itself around your waist.
With a yelp, you’re tugged back into the sheets, back pressed up against a wide, muscled chest, clutched to him tightly in a firm, but tender, embrace, quite inescapable. There’s a chuckle—and, by god, in any other situation, you would’ve loved to have heard that laugh spill right into your ear—and then he’s sleepily nuzzling his face into your neck. “That eager to leave, are you, my dear?”
You have no idea what the hell to say, or do. Completely frozen, you’re too stunned to do anything else other than just let him press kisses to your jaw and squeeze you close. He’s…very affectionate? You’d revel in it, too, if it was meant for you, that is.
“Um…” you croak out, grimacing at the crack of your voice. What the hell do I say to get him off me? “I just…needed to go to the bathroom.”
He’s now nibbling on your ear, and you try not to cringe away. “Ah. Considering how all sneaky you were being, I was starting to fear you were trying to run off.”
You rest one of your hands over his, its wide expanse splayed over your hip, shrewdly trying to slip it off you. “Uh—haha, now, why would I do that?”
“You tell me,” he breathes, turning you over so he’s hovering before you, gazing down, and you’re well and truly trapped. That face you’d only ever admired from in front of a phone screen, so flawless and roguishly handsome and smug, looms above you; a pair of eyes, almandine in this lighting, are staring with an intensity you find too hard to hold. The man tilts his head playfully, full lips curling up at the corners—not into a smirk, but into a soft smile replete with devotion. The sight shocks you. “It was this time yesterday evening when you were insisting that I was strictly off-limits for you, apparently.”
As subtly as you can, you tug the sheets up and over your chest, forcing a smile and averting your gaze. Yeah, what the hell is he talking about? “Oh, well…that was…yesterday.”
“Oh? You’re saying that you’ve had a change of heart now?”
Your eyes snap back to him at his words, stunned—and you’re only further astounded by his expression. Something you can only describe as hope lightens the shadows of his face, and then he dips back down to push his face into your collar and the crook of your neck, practically purring. “That almost hurts me, beloved. It’s like you only care now that you’ve gotten a taste.”
“I…” You really, really want to go home now. You want to get away from this guy, get away from whatever this whole mess is, and return to your usual mundane routine that does not involve waking up next to a man that only exists in an idiotic dating sim.
“No matter. We’ve got this whole place to ourselves, remember? I think I’ve got plenty of time to convince you to stay.”
“Er…” If you’re acting out-of-character, he doesn’t seem to notice; he’s currently too busy snuggling up to you like some overly-smoochy housecat that’s starved for affection, and it only serves to further solidify the fact that you’re definitely in the wrong place, with the wrong person, and probably in the wrong body.
The very thought makes your stomach drop and swoop in dread. Knowing this man, what will he do if he finds out? Sooner or later, he and his annoying astuteness will figure out that you’re missing a lot of your memories—in fact, you don’t have any at all—and that you are currently very uncomfortable with having some guy invade your space so closely, apparently unable to keep his mouth off the skin of your throat for more than thirty seconds.
But the thing is—he isn’t just some guy. This is Sylus, one of the six love interests of Love & Deepspace, and you are not supposed to be in bed with him right now.
It’s starting to dawn on you now. There is no way. It’s supposed to be fiction!
“Are you sore?” he suddenly asks, finally emerging from your nape, silver fringe falling low over his carnelian eyes. They’re a deeper red, and far more striking, than depicted through 3D graphics and semi-realism. You were expecting him to move to continue the obvious…deeds of the previous evening you don’t have any recollection of, but then you remember what kind of man he is. That relaxes you a little.
“Uh, not too much,” you lie, because you’re suddenly conscious of your lower region. Your face flares with heat. What a joke. I apparently spend the night with a man any woman would kill to fall into the arms of, and I can’t even remember it? Again, it only serves to reaffirm the point of how you’re not supposed to be here.
“I’ll clean you up,” Sylus says, shifting to rise—but you’re instantly flinching upright, covers held firm to your front, shaking your head vehemently. “No! No, that’s alright. I’ll have a shower and worry about myself. You—uh, don’t have to be concerned. I, um, need to go to the bathroom, anyway.”
Sylus is staring at you with lifted brows, probably a bit surprised over your small outburst, his eyes wandering over your face. It’s then that you realise he’s risen up to knees, leaning back against his heels, looming over you in all his glory. All his glory. You don’t even give yourself time to steal an admiring glance before you snap your eyes away, entire frame now burning white-hot with embarrassment.
“Hm,” is all the man lets out, voice rumbling low. He remains there, as if considering you, before he fully moves off the bed to stand—and promptly leans over you to hike you up into his arms. “If I knew you’d be so shy, I would’ve gone easier.”
“What the—!” With a yelp, you flail a bit and lose your balance, leaving you no other option apart from tightly grasping his neck, as Sylus wastes no time in making his way for the ensuite, presumably. “I—I don’t think this is necessary! It’s not like I can’t walk!”
“And how do you know that?” he quips. “Want me to put you down and let you have a try?”
“Yes!” So I can get my clothes on and bolt, thank you very much! “Just—let me shower and brush my teeth and make myself presentable, so I can leave.”
“Leave?” Instantly, Sylus halts in his tracks. You can feel his eyes on your face. “You…want to leave?”
“Yes,” you say again, shaking your head and refusing to meet his eyes. You’re too frazzled to be polite and act as you probably should. “Look, it’s probably best if I’m blunt about this, Sylus. That was all—everything last night was—I…I don’t know. I don’t think either of us were in our right minds. This is harsh of me, I know, but—I really don’t—it’s not…”
You trail off, helpless, unable to find the right words. This is certainly one hell of a mess you’ve been dumped into. How in the world are you going to explain yourself to him? Your current behaviour is probably extremely peculiar to him—especially if, as you fear, you’re inhabiting the original MC’s body.
Somehow, you don’t think so, which is even worse. If you’ve just been shoved right between them, where the story dictates his love for her, you’re in deep shit. You’re an anomaly, and you need to leave.
“Perhaps I was…” he suddenly begins, after a good long, torturous stretch of silence, “hasty.”
“I—I think we both were.” Am I getting through to him? He’s more yielding than I thought he’d be. Good. You’re still in a panic—and when you’re in a panic, you’re far less genial. “Let me down now. I’ll clean myself up on my own.”
Sylus immediately protests, “But I want to take care of y—”
“No,” is your testy answer. Then you shut your eyes tight in regret, seeking to control yourself. So you force a smile. “…Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. Just…Just please put me down, Sylus.”
You aren’t fond of his expression. It’s a mixture of confusion, dismay, and hurt. Why? You don’t have a clue, and you’re not interested in finding out. The fact is, you know too little about your current situation to stay relaxed and rational about this, to the point where you can calmly humour this man and his (weirdly affectionate) whims, and you don’t want him figuring out what, to him, would be a very strange bout of amnesia.
With visible reluctance, Sylus finally complies and sets you down on the ground. Then you instruct him to turn around as you find something to cover yourself with.
The smirk he gives is a clear attempt at concealing how awkward he’s probably feeling inwardly. “I’ve already seen everything, sweethea—”
You grasp his shoulders to physically turn him around. “Doesn’t matter. Look away.”
You’d never possess the strength to force him away yourself, so he allows himself to be rotated with a shake of his head. You can just sense his bewilderment. You feel sorry. None of this is his fault, really. It’s whatever ended you up here, and you’re still about eighty-percent sure you’re having some absurd dream.
“I’ll shower and call a cab,” you remark, snatching up a nearby robe—his, unfortunately—and hurriedly wrap it around yourself. As expected, it’s far too big to fit on you properly, but you, too out of sorts to care, deal with it. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience. This is probably one big mess for y—”
“No cab will come out here, sweetie.” Sweetie. You jump at his use of that pet name and half-snap your neck to look up at him from over your shoulder. Sylus is facing you again, arms now crossed, not a trace of amusement on his face. A glaring contrast to the sarcastic lilt of his voice. “Too far.”
Your stomach drops, and you try to ignore the sensation. So he had to pick one of his safe houses right in the middle of nowhere for a bit of nighttime fun? Are you kidding? “W-Well, I’ll have to make do, then. Could I, uh, trouble one of your men to escort me back into town?”
He gazes at you wordlessly. It’s almost enough to make you forget he’s unashamedly, definitely-not-purposefully, directly in front of you, contentedly sporting his birthday suit right now—with the gall to even jut out a hip. Suddenly, your eyes have this uncontrollable urge to move downwards—but, out of your own, admittedly fragile, fortitude, you manage to keep them on his face, and forbid them from straying any lower. Now is not the time for sightseeing, anyway. You should probably give him his robe back.
“What if I say no?”
And that immediately shoos those thoughts away, making you straighten, the hackles on the back of your neck standing on end. “Then I’d find a way to leave of my own accord.”
A pause. Sylus’s full lips purse. “May I…ask why you wish to leave so badly?”
“Because I shouldn’t really be here,” you reply, sizing him up. No point. The bastard dwarfs you by a good mile. “Last night was—was a mistake.”
It’s not fun having to pull out the classic angsty rom-com line you’ve heard far too many times in books and movies, but you have a point to get across. You manage to refrain from physically cringing, though; he doesn’t. But his grimace is of a different kind—visible dejection. It makes your stomach drop all over again.
“…I see.” Sylus’s Adam’s apple bobs. “Well, then.”
Your conscience screams at you, especially from the sight of that appallingly crushed expression, but you muster the courage to drive in the final nail. This is so weird. What the hell’s got him so worked up? “Yes. So, uh, may I go now?”
The man isn’t looking at you anymore—he’s cast his stare aside, and you’re further perturbed by the evident conflict and uncharacteristic rue on his face. Seriously, what the hell? I certainly am not the main character, so why’s he making that expression over this? We shouldn’t be in this situation in the first place! Such forlorn eyes are reserved for his soulmate only. Something is definitely wrong here.
“Fine,” is his eventual answer, as he heaves a sigh of obvious defeat. “I’ll…call for a driver.”
“Wonderful.” Pushing those questions aside, you’re heartened by his acquiescence and immediately stoop to snatch up your strewn clothing. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“You don’t want to stay for breakfast, at least?” That inflection of desperation in his voice weirds you out even more. “I’ll brew your coffee just the way you like it.”
Yes, this certainly is Sylus Qin. So gracious and attentive and loving—too bad you’re the wrong recipient of such affections. And how would he even know the way I take my coffee? “No, thank you. But I appreciate the offer. I’ve already overstayed my welcome, you know? Look at the mess I’ve made here! We really were foolish.”
He elicits something like a scoff at that. It sounds brittle. “…Ha. Suppose we were.”
All that your clothing is are your undergarments, a tossed necklace that glimmers with gems so large, you almost blow your cover and gape at them—and an evening gown. A lovely evening gown. You put a hand to an ear and find an earring, modestly pensile—not heavy enough for you to have previously noticed smacking against your cheek. It likely matches the necklace. Would it be a stretch to presume that these are…gifts from him?
Most likely. You’d never be able to afford such jewellery even if you were making over a hundred-grand a year. You should probably give them back. No strings attached. You need to draw a very clear, bold, and uncrossable line here—for your own safety.
You gingerly take up the necklace and decide to act on your hunch, praying it doesn’t backfire. “…Here, I’ll return this to you. I have no further use for it. Do you still have the box it came in? I’ll need it for these earrings, too.”
Sylus is practically glaring at you now—but those brows aren’t knotted in hate, you find. His eyes pierce with undisguised anguish. “…No.”
“No, what?” you press, wandering into dangerous territory. You’re doing your best to conceal your intimidation with this clueless act. “You won’t give me the boxes?”
“I don’t have the boxes,” he clarifies, jaw set. “They are yours.”
“For one evening,” you continue, shaking your head, struggling with this pretense on the inside. “In what world will I ever need to wear these again? Besides, if anyone found out I had such valuable jewellery in my possession, I’d be set right up to be robbed.”
Sylus doesn’t respond, merely settling to stare at you in what appears to be incredulity. His going nonverbal serves to only disconcert you further; there is far more to all of this than what’s already meeting the eye here, and you’re worried you’re being very stupid right now. Still, you must continue to push the envelope so all ties are cut once you leave. “…Same with the dress. I’ll return that to you as well. And the shoes.”
“You…” he breathes after a long pause, uncrossing his arms. They fall limp at his sides. You manage to stay in place and not take a step back at the look in his eyes. “How… Why?”
Resolve steadily beginning to crumble now, you somehow squeak out, “Wh-Why what?”
“Why would you do this to me?” Sylus approaches you, visibly agonised. “Was it something I did? Said? Tell me.”
You press the items in hand to your chest and back away. “Hey—what? I don’t understand—”
“Why are you leaving? So help me, if this is about the Hunter again—” Pausing in his tracks, he runs a hand down over his face, and then up through his hair, head tilted back, peering down at you. The sight serves to inadvertently erupt your stomach into butterflies, which has you immensely uncomfortable. Oh, lord. This is bad. This is very, very bad. He said ‘Hunter’. That cannot bode well. “Listen. I told you last night of my sentiments for her. It has complicated things immensely, yes, and that was my fault. But, please, you must give me a chance, sweetheart. Please. I promise you, there is nothing more I have to do with her—”
The words are out of your mouth before you know it. “I don’t care about that. It was a fling. Shouldn’t we part ways now?”
Yep. Precisely the wrong thing to say. Well done, you! Now, why don’t you go ahead and sign your death certificate while you still can for us? Because that look on his face right now might just mean an early grave.
Or not. He goes pale, and then he flushes red. What he doesn’t understand, can’t understand, and won’t understand is that, as much as it pains you terribly to treat and speak to him in such a way, laying cutting words on thick so he’ll fold and let you go permanently is crucial at present. You do not want anything to do with a crime lord. You do not want anything to do with any of this. In fact, you’d take your awful nine-to-five and condescending coworkers and verbally abusive clients over all of this any day.
“Is that…truly…?” The poor man can’t even seem to find the words. What have you done? Have you just succeeded in knocking the prideful head of Onychinus down a peg or two? Well, if that’s how it’s going to have to be. Perhaps it’ll do him some good to be humbled—but you don’t want to break his heart.
If it can be broken by you. You almost laugh out loud at the notion. Me? Right, and pigs can fly! “Look, Sylus—I don’t want to, uh, hurt you here, but I really don’t think any of this is very sensible. I, uh, am…aware of your sentiments for the Hunter, and that—”
“I told you, I feel nothing for her.” Now Sylus grasps your upper arms, and you immediately flinch at the unexpected physical contact. Upon seeing you jolt in his hold, though, Sylus’s expression twists and he lets you go, turning away. He runs a hand down his face. “I just—have I not proven myself to you countless times? Why must you—why must you continue to toy with me so?”
You blink in shock. “T-Toy with you?”
“Yes, toy with me.” Never would you have thought you’d see such a wretched expression on this man’s face. And it appears Sylus can barely even look at you, too. Oh, god, I am missing so much context here. “You—You know of my feelings. Was last night not a statement enough? Was baring myself to you completely and taking you to my bed not enough of a physical demonstration of my affections?”
Speechless, you can only gawk at him and try to collect your thoughts—try and make heads or tails of all this. You can hardly even remember to blink. Is he…well, is he confessing his love right now?
For, from the little you can tell, what seems to be the nth time?
Just what kind of person am I in the shoes of now? What in the world has been going on here? Why is the original storyline not being followed?
“I…I once said that I wouldn’t care if you never reciprocated my feelings,” Sylus continues, heaving a sigh. “But now…now I am unsure if I can stand this any more. Especially not when you turn around and do—this. To me.”
“…Okay, now, look,” you try, forcing yourself to relax where you stand and take a tentative step forward. How do I ask him to explain all this to me without looking like some blockhead who’s mysteriously lost her memories? “The thing is, Sylus, is that…well…let’s say I’ve had some, you know, second thoughts? You get me? You see, I’m not sure if—”
“And yet you humour me anyway.” The man turns and faces you again, eyes flaring. “You let me take you out for dinner and wear all the dresses I pick out for you and attend the various events I ask you to be my plus-one for. Can’t you see? Don’t you understand? You’re…You are being so cruel.”
“…Cruel?” you echo, voice small and pathetically puzzled.
But he doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, cruel. You are leading me on, despite knowing of my desire to enter into a relationship with you. And last night—when you kissed me back, and—”
Sylus cuts himself off and turns away again, back fully to you now, both hands rising to his face. Those wide shoulders lift and sag with a heavy exhale, and then, after a moment of onerous silence, he shakes his head. “…I couldn’t care less if you’re just using me for my money, but now…now, I’ve begun to dislike being taken advantage of—even by you.”
The diamond necklace and dress in your hold right now suddenly feel terribly burdensome; you’re left at a complete loss because you have no idea what to do or say to rectify this. To rectify this mess you’ve somehow gotten yourself into that, frankly, has absolutely nothing to do with you.
The woman he seems to love is not me, you think, squeezing your eyes shut. And it doesn’t appear to be the MC either. Seriously, what kind of freak show is this? What am I going to do?
“…Do you truly feel nothing?” You start at the sound of his low voice, as Sylus half-turns to peer at you side-long, from over a shoulder. His expression spears you through. “Will you not even give me a chance? Even after—after everything?”
What do I say? How do you reply? This abrupt, unforeseen situation has not gone the way you expected it to at all. First, it began with sheer panic on your end and warm affection on his, and then the first obstacle of just wanting to get away—and then this, some bizarre escalation into a love confession, of all things.
What is this, seriously? Pride & Prejudice? Only, Elizabeth Bennet had her memories—you do not, and you haven’t been given even five minutes to think about all this and figure it out and ascertain a way to go home. That’s part of the reason why you wanted to use the bathroom—so you could sit on the toilet seat and have your panic attack in there, in peace.
So how are you supposed to reply to this? How, other than disappointing him again—at least, what appears to be ‘again’? Perhaps it would all work out for the better, though. It really looks like that…with whatever’s been going on here, he might need closure.
And if he has to get it from you, a woman he has no idea is a stranger inhabiting (what you can only rationalise to be) another woman’s body, then so be it. Wouldn’t it be a win-win, either way? Then, you could perhaps have the assurance that he won’t be bothering you after this.
You still feel awful though, even though none of this is your fault. It really does look like he’s got some serious, er, sentiments for ‘you’ here, which he should really only have for the MC—and how it all started in the first place, you don’t think you really want to know. It sounds very messy. And melodramatic. And probably eye-roll-and-yawn-worthy, if that makes sense.
This is a love interest from a dating sim, remember. What else could one expect from such an individual and, well, world, other than silly theatrics?
“Well…” Falteringly, you try again to get the right words out, and deliver them best and as kindly as you can. I really, really don’t know what to say here. “I can see now that I’ve…hurt you, Sylus, and I should—apologise for that. I’m, uh, sorry. It’s clear I’ve been careless with—your feelings, despite being knowledgeable about them, and…essentially, er, cashing in on them, so to speak.” You wince; ‘cashing in on them’? Are you serious? Are you trying to rub salt in his apparent wounds here? “It was…terribly wrong and, as you said, cruel of me. So, well, it’s largely because of that, guilt has been eating at me, and…after last night…after, you know, um, having relations, I think I’ve—taken this too far.” Clutching the items in hand to your chest closely has a weak way of self-encouragement and shielding, you smile up at him feebly. Then you promptly avert your eyes at the look in his. Oh, lord. “…I really am sorry. I was selfish. It was unfair to you and, well, inexcusable.”
Left with nothing much else to add, you fall silent, hoping your ‘apology’ came across sincere enough. You’ve never been much of an actress. And this man, for all your familiarity with his character in-game, was never an easy one to fool—and certainly not one to suffer them.
“…I see,” Sylus finally utters, after a long, long moment of silence. His hands are on his hips and he’s still only half-facing you. He’s also, unfortunately, still quite unclothed. Not that he’s no sight for sore eyes, you ponder appreciatively, before wrenching yourself back to the present, scolding yourself. Idiot! Focus on the issue at hand, not his—assets!
“So that’s why…” you begin once more, just as haltingly, “it would be better if we went our separate ways, you know…?”
Again, nothing. He makes no reply. You stare down at your bare feet and wonder at how this is all going to end—how you’re going to get back to your world. Is there even a way back? Will I ever find out just what’s going on here? Like, why the hell I’m in the realm of Love & Deepspace?
With your other hand, you clutch at the robe around you, half-considering slipping it off and giving it back to him—after changing in the bathroom, of course. What a weird dream, whatever this is. Or way to wake up, I don’t know. I really haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on here. I’m in way over my head, aren’t I?
“Then, you don’t love me?” Sylus’s voice is quiet, but it makes you jump a bit again, nonetheless. Your head snaps up to stare at him, at his disconsolate, yet strangely resigned, expression. “You feel nothing?”
If you were in any other situation, in any other context? Sure. But right now? Not in the slightest. Being thrown into such a compromising—and dangerous, if he were any other man—position as this out of nowhere has effectively erased any and all feelings you may have initially had for what you believed to be nothing more than a bunch of pixels, of code and programming, on a screen. Objectively, he’s a total dreamboat, and even now, you’re actively trying not to stare—but that’s about as deep and far as it goes. Other than that, you feel nothing. Nothing other than dread and a need to flee, that is, even if you’re pretty certain he’d never intentionally hurt you. He may run a crime syndicate, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s the type who enjoys inflicting indiscriminate harm upon others.
So, with a contrite, awkward, slow shake of your head, you finally deliver, what you hope is, the softest final blow. “…No, I do not. I’m sorry.”
Again, silence. Penitently, you cautiously set about gathering ‘your’ things from the carpet, far more than eager to finally take your leave. I’d better find those boxes he gave me for this jewellery, so I can return them. Same with this dress—oh, and these shoes—
“Leave it,” comes his voice from above, and you jerk back in fright to peer up at him. And it’s clear Sylus noticed your reaction, too, which you feel immediately sorry for, because his expression just looks even more wounded. “…I’ll summon someone to clean this up for you in a bit. Just…if you need a shower, feel free.”
“Thank you.” Leaping at the chance, you straighten and bob a grateful bow in the meantime. It earns you a flimsy scoff from the man. “I’ll have one now. Er…I apologise for taking your robe, I—wasn’t thinking—”
“It’s fine.” Sylus waves a dismissive hand, still not looking at you. He instead strides for the wardrobe, pulling it open, selecting another robe inside for himself. The room is oppressive with his clear melancholy. I really didn’t mean to hurt him. “There are…plenty of your size in here, if you need one. Also, there are clothes. Take what you need.”
Heart squeezing at the allusion in his words, you beat it down and do your utmost to tell yourself that you have nothing to feel bad for—it’s whoever, well, ‘I’ was before I arrived who’s at fault here! “…You, um, have my thanks. I’ll be quick, and out the door before you even know it! Haha…”
No response, and you shrink in on yourself in shame, inwardly cursing. The man merely dons the robe with his back to you, shoves his feet into his slippers, and barely spares you a glance as he turns to retrieve his phone from the bedside table. “…Your driver will be here in half an hour. There’s no hurry.”
With that, Sylus crosses the room, presses his phone to his ear, pulls open the door, and curtly clicks it shut behind him. Now, you are left completely alone in this vast room, where his clothes from the previous night still lay strewn on the floor, the bedsheets all twisted and haphazard on the expansive mattress, the analog clock on the wall faintly ticking away. It’s getting on to about nine in the morning. Wouldn’t this be Sylus’s bedtime? Well, you suppose that’s not your issue anymore—as if it ever was. Selecting the clothes you will wear from the wardrobe, you step into the ensuite, lock the door behind you, and get into the shower.
Well, what the fuck. It’s not everyday one ends up in a whole other dimension with a whole other life, let alone said dimension being an otome game and ending up in your favourite love interest’s bed. And then having a whole angsty dispute with him that would be quite soap opera worthy. Seriously, I have to be dreaming.
Oh, well. Once you get in the car awaiting you and depart the premises and never lay eyes on that man again, you suppose you’ll be able to adjust somehow to your new environment, and then get to figuring out a way to get back home. If that’s possible. I should hope it is.
ѕυммαяу： ♡ having a sex dream about your best friend is incredibly embarrassing but when he drags the information out of you and delivers something better than your dreams, it's hard to remember why you were feeling that way. . .
Having a sex dream about your best friend—Gojo Satoru—was not on your bingo card for this year but it happened and the result of it is you avoiding any and all eye contact with him. This would be significantly easier if he wasn’t always hanging around you, it would also be easier if his favourite pastime wasn’t invading your personal space.
Your odd behaviour must’ve reached a breaking point for him because he’s sat next to you on your couch, pouting out, “Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not,” you deny despite your very obvious weird behaviour, still not properly looking at him.
Suddenly, his head is on your lap, eyes analysing your reaction to him, “You’re a bad liar.”
“Wha– What are you doing?” He has you fumbling and it only embarrasses you further. “Get off me.”
“Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me or I’ll literally never get off you, in fact… I will only get closer,” one of his hands moves to grab at your waist but you slap him away.
His head weighted on your thighs has you remembering your explicit dream of him and you can’t help but grow a few degrees warmer in temperature. “I can’t tell you.”
Gojo frowns at that and you hate how you’re noticing just how attractive he is even though he’s growing annoyed, “It involves me directly, but you can’t tell me?”
“That’s right,” you cement, like it shouldn’t even be an issue.
He sits up again and stares at you dead on, “Tell me or I’ll tell all our friends about… the incident.”
A small breath of disbelief leaving you, “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me,” his eyes stern, he’s completely serious.
You try bargaining, “It’s not that deep, Satoru… give me another week or two and I’ll be completely over it.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“So, you’re blackmailing me?!”
“I wouldn’t call it that, that’s such an ugly word,” he shakes his head.
Your brow raises at him, “What would you call it then?”
“I don’t know but not that,” he shrugs easily.
“You’re so annoying, I can’t believe I even—” you cut yourself off, realising you were about to freely give away that you couldn’t believe you had a sex dream about him. It’s frustrating that it was such a good dream too because he’s so annoying in real life.
Despite you stopping yourself, he clings to your words, “‘You can’t believe you even’ what?”
Playing dumb is your only defence but to be fair, you aren’t entirely convinced you’re playing anymore, “I don’t know.”
He stares at you for a moment before speaking again, “Okay, well, I’m calling it blackmail now, I’m officially blackmailing you.”
“Evil, evil man,” you accuse.
He motions at himself with his hands, dismissing your words, “Mhm, now tell ‘Toru all your problems.”
“Ew,” you grimace at him, “that was almost as bad as when you referred to yourself as ‘daddy’.”
Smirk on his face at your response, “Would you prefer that? I didn’t know you were into—”
“—I said almost as bad!”
“Sure, whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “now tell me what’s going on, I won’t let you wiggle your way out of the main issue at hand.”
“Fine,” you groan, giving in, “but you have to promise to not be weird or make it a big deal.”
His head tilts at you, “What? Like you mean how you’ve been doing?”
“Just promise, stupid,” you grumble at him.
“I promise,” he pauses, “sort of.”
“Seriously?”
“I said I promise, now come on,” he leans in, ready to listen, “lay it on me.”
Ignoring his giddy attitude, you take in a deep breath before carefully letting it out, “Well… the other night, I was sleeping—”
“—Truly groundbreaking stuff.”
“Don’t interrupt me or I will never tell you,” you glare at him.
“My bad,” he raises his hands in surrender.
“Anyways,” your heart is hammering in your chest because it’s so embarrassing to be looking at him as you try to confess. It feels like you’re being crushed under his intense gaze, it’s making you even more nervous.
He must be able to tell you’re working yourself up, “Geez, calm down, sweetheart, whatever it is it’s not that big of a deal.” He moves to pat your head as a means to comfort you, but you flinch away.
And before you can control it, you’re suddenly blurting out, “I had a sex dream about you the other night and now I feel really funny around you.”
The reaction from him isn’t immediate, only blinking back at you for a moment before suddenly turning his head to the side as he tries to hide his laugh but the snort he lets out gives it away. Your lips are downturned as you suffer through the agonising moments of mostly silence, the embarrassment you’d already been feeling growing tenfold at his reaction.
Wordlessly, you rise from the couch and go to walk away, to go away to anywhere but here in this moment. Gojo stops you though, his hand on your wrist pulling you back to the sofa. Now closer to him than you had been before, something you’re overly conscious over. Keeping your head turned from him, annoyed at his reaction and also your lack of tact.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologises, “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”
“You need to get out of my apartment.”
“Don’t be so harsh,” he whines, “I have follow up questions.”
You pull your wrist from his grasp, still refusing to look at him, “I don’t wanna answer them, you only want to torture me.”
“Not true!”
He tries to get back in your line of sight, but you keep turning your head away. Your arms cross over your chest, almost like you’re trying to shrink in on yourself.
“I’m curious about a few things now though,” he hums at you, “since your reaction to having sex with me has been so cute.”
His phrasing is so poor that it has your head whipping to look at him and his overly pleased expression, “I did not have sex with you.”
“Right, right,” he waves off, “you dreamt about having sex with me.”
“I dislike you so deeply right now.”
“If you agree to answer my questions, I will literally never bring up the fact that you had a wet dream about me ever again.”
You point at him angrily, “It was not a wet dream! What the hell is wrong with your phrasing of things?!”
He smiles sweetly as he grabs your finger, using the hold he has on you to unfurl your hand and loop your fingers together to hold hands, “Are you gonna answer my questions or not?”
“If I do… you’ll never speak about this again, right?” You try pulling your hand from his but his hold on you is firm.
“Sure,” he agrees all too easily.
You glance down and away from him, “Fine.”
“Perfect!”
And at his incredibly joyful tone, you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a misstep somewhere along the way. Maybe you shouldn’t have told him… or maybe you should’ve concealed your reactions more effectively… or better yet, your stupid brain shouldn’t have conjured the image of you and him having sex to begin with.
Glancing at your interlocked fingers, you ask, “Can you let go of my hand now?”
“Why? Is it making you uncomfortable?” His tone isn’t upset or accusatory, only curious.
Sighing at him in response, “I’m embarrassed to even look at you right now, of course it’s making me uncomfortable.”
He, thankfully, releases his grip on you. Choosing not to taunt you any further but you have a feeling it’s only a small reprieve. Just as your heartrate is finally calming, he asks, “Was I good?”
You’re completely taken aback, knowing what he’s asking but still confused by his bluntness, “What?”
“Was I good?” He repeats shamelessly. “I’d be a little offended if I weren’t.”
If you have to answer his ridiculous questions then you’re going to be purposefully vague, “You were… fine.”
He hums thoughtfully, “You won’t even look me in my eyes, and you said you’re feeling funny around me so I was either horrendously bad or really great, which is it?”
“I don’t like your questions,” you grumble at him.
“I wanna know though,” he whines, “It’s your fault for being so weird about it.”
Your body droops into the couch, head resting against the back of it, “A normal person and good friend would take this information at face value and let me live quietly with my shame.”
“I disagree,” you can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him, your own eyes closed. He continues on, “I’ll let you live quietly after you tell me everything I want to know… probably.”
You squint your eyes open at him, “There is literally nothing in this for me, you’re blackmailing this information out of me.”
He grins at you, “Are you saying you’d respond better to positive reinforcement?”
“I’m saying I’m still reluctant to answer your embarrassing questions and it’s starting to feel like if I do, I’m only giving you future blackmail material.”
“This is untrue, I’m blackmailing you, yes but I also agreed to never bring it up again if you answer my questions.”
“Oh my god!” this is getting annoying, steeling your nerves, you decide you’re just going to answer everything so you can end this quickly, “You were good, it was a good dream.”
A stupid and happy smile takes over his face, you don’t bother reading too far into it. “You said you were feeling ‘funny’, what do you mean by that?”
“Huh?”
“Funny could mean any number of things, I’m asking for specifics here,” he’s still too happy and it’s annoying you because you don’t really understand why.
“Hmm, like…” you look at him intently to better think about how you feel, your heart fluttering as you do, causing you to close your eyes as if you’re in thought, “…I feel embarrassed to have had a dream like that about you.”
He pushes back on your answer, “That’s all?”
Cracking an eye open at him as you chirp, “Yep.”
His gaze is already trained on you, apparently never having stopped looking at you, “You’re such a bad liar.”
You deflate at your failed deception, “I think we’ve just known each other too long…”
“You’ve always been a bad liar though?” He claps his hands together suddenly and it makes your heart skip a beat, “Now, out with it.”
Quiet as you start your explanation, “Every time I look at you…” he nods his head as if to encourage you, “…I think about the dream and it makes me feel funny, that’s all, can you leave me alone now?”
His lips purse as he mulls over what you’ve just said, “You sure you’re not just horny?”
“Satoru!” you chastise him, shocked and also frustrated that he’s pretty much hit the nail on the head. Ever since your dream you can’t help but look at him differently. Mind feeding you images of what having sex with him might be like—what having sex with him was like.
“I’m being genuine.”
“That makes it worse,” kicking your legs a little about it all.
He starts giggling, “You had a dream about getting fucked by me so good that just being around me turns you on.”
“Stop!” you move to sit in front of him properly, face clearly unhappy, “I did not say that.”
“You basically did,” he dismisses, “So… what did I do to you?”
It’s a bit ridiculous that he’s going in this direction, but you should’ve known he was going to do this. You need to shut him down because just his words alone are affecting you more than you care to admit, “I’m done answering your questions.”
It’s his turn to groan and grumble, “Aww, but it was just getting good.”
Rolling your eyes at him, you say with the intention of ending this interaction, “Satoru… It doesn’t matter what you did in my dream because there’s no way you’d be that good in real life.”
The smile on his face drops, “I can’t help but take that personally.”
“Take it how you will,” you shrug, “there’s no way you could live up to the dream version of you, it’s not logical.”
“Wanna find out?”
“Don’t be childish,” you brush him off, overlooking the way those words send a shock through you.
He pushes, “Treat it like an experiment, I wanna know what’s better.”
Blinking back at him, “You’re so weird.”
Quickly pointing out, “Maybe, but you’re the one who dreamt about fucking this weirdo.”
“Yeah, dreamt, it was a dream.” You shake your head in disbelief at him, “Why are you acting like you’re jealous of dream you?”
“Maybe I am jealous of dream me.”
“That’d be stupid.”
“You’re always telling me I’m stupid.”
Gojo’s eyes keep flitting to your lips every time you speak, the look in them suddenly much darker than the glee that was held in them when he was teasing you earlier. Trying to be stern but not entirely convincing when you state, “I’m not going to have sex with you for a reason as stupid as that, grow up.”
“But you’ll have sex with me for a good reason?”
“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you tilt your head at him in exasperation, “why are you even acting like this?”
Ignoring your question and instead posing his own, “You sure you’re not curious, not even a little bit?” His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb pulling down on your lower lip, “I know I am.”
That simple touch has your heart leaping bounds, suddenly so hyper aware of how deep the effect he has on you is. It scares you, how much you want him, how much you want to say yes. You shouldn’t get carried away, he’s being ridiculous, this is all so ridiculous. Your years long and best friendship could be ruined because of this moment.
All things you’re worried about, all valid concerns, all thoughts that slip from you so quickly when he leans in and licks teasingly at your lower lip. The gasp you let out is his entrance into your mouth, his lips plush and demanding against yours. Eyes falling shut as you let yourself get lost in his kiss, full and delightful and something you’ve never felt before.
It’s messy and uncoordinated, like he’s not really focusing on how to kiss you and more on the fact that he gets to kiss you. You’re getting dizzy, body buzzing pleasantly at how he sucks on your tongue. String of saliva keeping your lips connected when he pulls back, snapping as he wipes his lower lip with his thumb, only to then push it into your mouth. Your immediate response to suck, feeling depraved but enjoying the look on his face you get when you do.
He speaks under his breath, eyes a little dazed, “Fuck.”
As soon as your tongue licks against the tip of his thumb, he’s pulling it from your mouth and hurriedly slotting his mouth over yours again. Barely giving you a moment to think before he’s kissing you so completely, consumed by his need and the delicious way he partakes in your lips.
It’s so overwhelming, to be desired like this is foreign and has your thighs clenching together. Gaining confidence when you finally wrap your arms around his neck, a move he appreciates if his groan and grabby hands are anything to go off of.
The way he parts from you is full of huffed and short breaths that only ends in him kissing you again, like he’s fighting with himself to say something, to do something more but ending up not strong enough to move on from your lips.
A pathetic moan that you don’t even recognise as your own leaving you, the sound only spurring Gojo on. Using his body to push against yours until your back is on the couch, not bothering to explain what he’s doing, far too busy and far too fixated on how you taste.
Filled to the brim with thoughts about how good his kiss is, how kissing can’t possibly be this good, how you’d let him do more. Fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that pulls a shudder from him.
What feels like far too soon he’s properly pulling back, quickly putting distance between you both so he’s not immediately gravitating back. Arms holding himself up, hovering over you, taking his sweet time to appreciate the look on your face. Pride exuding from him at what he’s reduced you to with a few kisses.
“Stop staring, Satoru,” your voice comes out more whinged and unfortunate than you were hoping.
“No.”
It’s a simple response, one that’s weighted with meaning and intention. Maybe if you weren’t only concerned with how good of a kisser he is, of how you want more, of how he looks indescribably good over you, you’d ask him why he’s acting this way. Maybe you’d even ask what this means for your friendship but when you’re in this deep and enjoying it this much, thinking that deep slips from you all too easily.
“I’m gonna touch you,” his gaze wanders over your body before looking back to you, “okay?”
Already nodding back at him, “Okay.”
And only when you verbally affirm him does he let his greedy hands travel your body, sitting back on his knees so he can grope at your thighs and hips. You can tell he’s enjoying your squirming immensely, eyes simultaneously lidded low and lit up.
Quickly glancing to meet your eyes when he asks, “What did I do to you?”
It takes your brain a second to catch up to his words, stuck on his big hands resting against your hips, his fingers digging into your plush skin. “You mean…”
“In your dream,” he slips into your waistband and starts to slowly pull your pants off, “what did I do to you in your dream, sweetheart?”
You feel your skin heat, his fingers tickling against your thighs. “I’m not answering that.”
A low hum sounds from him as your pants are finally removed and tossed to the side, “Why not?”
Keeping your legs together, self-conscious of the fact you’re in your underwear below him. Though he’s not bothered at all, groping and massaging at your thighs, “What happened in that dream is private.”
“That hardly seems fair,” his eyes bore into your own, “since I was there and all.” Paying no mind to your small protests as he manoeuvres one of your legs to rest against his side, feeling much more exposed now that he’s spread your legs.
“Satoru, you can’t just!– mmph—”
Further protesting cut off abruptly when he places his palm on your lower stomach, thumb drawing over your covered slit. His touch there was unexpected but not unwelcome, small shocks of pleasure thrumming through you.
“Did I use my fingers?” he keeps stroking your cunt, touch light and nowhere near enough to satisfy. “How about my mouth?” pausing to blatantly stare at your pussy, not even really addressing you when he adds, “please tell me I used my mouth,” his last words come out pitchy, almost like he’s begging for it to be true.
“I don’t know why you keep bothering to lie to me,” he murmurs low, using both thumbs to pull apart your folds, pressing into your hole only to be stopped by the material of your panties.
His action has you shooting up, face to his chest, your hands grab onto his shirt and all he does is chuckle at you. “Stop playing with me,” you huff at him.
Leaning down, he drags his lips over your skin gently. Leaving behind soft kisses all over your neck and chest, blowing air by your ear just to make you twitch. Voice almost a whisper when he asks again, “What did I do to you?”
“You’re embarrassing me,” you look through your lashes at him.
His smile is pleased, “Yeah, well, you’re turning me on.” Grabbing you by your hips and pulling you into his lap, your cunt pressing right into his erection, “Feel that?” He can’t help the way he gives small grinds into you, your warmth too enticing, “All your fault, so tell me what I did to you.”
The grinds he’s giving you feel too good, he’s big and so hard and couldn’t he just, “Can’t you just put it in?”
He laughs airily, surprised by your need and shifted focus, “I think you can feel enough to know that I can’t.”
“You were nicer to me in my dream,” you pout at him.
“Somehow, I doubt that—” his head drops back and a soft groan leaves him, getting lost in how you’ve started to rut down into him.
Thinking back to your dream, you decide to mention, “You did.”
Distracted reply coming from him, “Hmm?”
“Use your mouth, I mean—”
Just as you’d gotten the words out, he’s pushing you flat on your back again, not even pausing to think as he pulls your panties off in one movement. Settling between your thighs impatiently, eyeing up your cunt, “You been holding out on me.”
Your legs thrown haphazardly over his broad shoulders, “Wait just a sec—”
“—Why?” Tongue already hanging from his mouth and hovering over your pussy, just about drooling onto it.
The sight of him has your brain rebooting, “No– nothing.”
Keeping his eyes intently on you when he licks your whole pussy, smiling at how your mouth drops opens and hips squirm, “You’re cute.”
“You– you’re– hnn—” you don’t get to retort properly, his tongue flicking at your clit each time you try to say something.
“Mhm,” he’s enjoying this, you can tell, his tone too amused. “You’re so wet, practically begging for me to put my mouth on you.”
And then he shoves his tongue inside you, holding your hips down so he can fuck you with it. Delighting in the moans tumbling from your lips, cunt syrupy sweet and begging for him to stuff it full. Swallowing down all you have to give him, shudders running down his spine as his cock jerks in his pants. He’s been horny ever since you admitted to having had a sex dream about him. And if he’s being completely honest, maybe since he had his head in your lap.
It feels a little cruel that you kept it from him for so long, he would’ve gotten on his knees for you the second you asked him to. Groaning into your pussy when your hole tightens around his tongue, pressing his face closer to you. Nose stimulating your clit with how desperate he is to taste your cunt.
He’s messy in how he’s devouring you, sloppily making out with your pussy. Small groans leaving him as he relishes in it, like he’s getting just as much out of this as you are. It’s too good, back arching and thighs fighting to close, held open by his wide frame between your legs. This is the first time someone has gotten you so close so quickly, it’s almost embarrassing how easily he’s about to make you cum.
Gojo knows you’re close, it excites him, he wants your cum in his mouth, he wants to feel how you shake underneath him. But there’s something wicked inside him that wants to tease you a little more. Choosing instead to wait until you’re just about to finish before suddenly pulling back.
You whine at him, eyes wet when you look at him in confusion. He only smiles back at you, tongue licking his lower lip before he asks innocently, “I forgot to ask, did you cum like this?”
Brain taking a moment to catch up before realising he’s still asking about that damn dream, “I don’t– I think so?”
Pressing open mouthed and wet kisses over your inner thighs, remarking, “Not very memorable, was it?”
Somehow, it feels like he’s trying to compete with his dream counterpart, and the thought is just ridiculous. “It was very memorable,” you’re only hoping to be a little teasing but by the look in his eyes he takes it personally. Opening his mouth wide and chomping down onto your thigh, biting you enough to nearly break skin. You jump at the shock, “Hey!”
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, licking over the impression of his teeth before pressing a kiss to it, “try remembering this instead, yeah?”
It’s a little bit cute of him to be so jealous of your dream, “You’re stupid.”
He knows he’s stupid, he’s all too aware of it but that changes nothing to him, “I’d be more careful with your words if you wanna cum,” blowing air onto your clit, reminding you of how close you were.
“Satoru…” you don’t really like how he’s got you backed into a corner right now.
He hums in acknowledgement at you, “Need something?” Head leaning against your thigh as he smiles smugly up at you.
How frustrating of him, to know exactly what you want but choosing not to give it to you for his own enjoyment. “You’re a tease,” you huff at him.
“Hmm… not usually,” his hand slides up your inner thigh, single digit slipping inside your hole, “I think that’s something you bring out of me,” pleased with the small sounds you let out at his finger stuffing you.
Gasped moan leaving your lungs, trying to tell him how unbearable he is, “You’re– hnn!—”
A sound of awe leaving him as he drags his finger out, “How obscene, you really are so fucking wet.” He says it like you should be ashamed of yourself but he’s smiling too big, eyes full of loving obsession. Clearly incredibly happy with how dripping and soaked your cunt is, “Basically drooling for it, sweetie. How embarrassing~”
You might have to kill him because he really is embarrassing you. Hell, it was already embarrassing doing this with your best friend and now he’s teasing you for his own sick pleasure, “Stop…” not able to help the completely pathetic look on your face, “…stop being so mean to me.”
Gojo feels his heart drop and then start beating a million miles an hour, you’re so cute that he can’t help but breathlessly laugh, “My bad, will making you cum make up for it?”
“Yes,” you assert.
Ah, his head is spinning, you might be too much for his poor heart to handle. He can’t bear having you upset with him though, pressing soft kisses to your pussy lovingly. It’s as if he’s apologising for being so cruel to you, deepening his kiss to your cunt by stuffing you full of his tongue again.
The way you twitch and moan under him really does drive him wild, how he’s going to stay sane while fucking you is beyond him. Lapping at your sopping cunt so devotedly, eyes dazed and pussy drunk as he watches how your eyes roll and brows pinch. Giggling to himself at how surreal it is to be tongue deep inside you, to have you this needy for him.
When he suddenly pushes your legs back, you squeak. Damn near folded in half and bent for him, “Satoru, you can’t just– mmph!—”
He doesn’t grace you with the kindess of listening properly, simply going back to eating your pussy like it’s his last meal. The way he’s holding you is pornographic in nature, a position you’ve never even thought to be in, and he’s easily manhandled you into it. Lower back no longer even touching the couch, held up by Gojo.
With how he’s positioned you now, all your dewy slick and his saliva slides from your cunt and drips crudely onto your poor couch. Head dizzied as he gets you closer and closer to finishing, building you up so much faster after the loss of your last orgasm.
“I– ah!– so close– mmph—” you don’t want him to stop, hand holding onto one of his on your hip tightly, begging that he doesn’t pull away again.
Lucky for you, he desperately wants you cumming for him. He barely brought himself to deny you the first time, there’s no way he could do it a second. Completely and whole heartedly dedicated to making your pussy cream for him, salivating at the thought alone.
Moans you don’t even register pulling from your lungs as he finally pushes you over the edge, hips shaking as you try to ride out your own high with little success. The position you’re folded in keeping you at his mercy. Orgasm feeling oh so sweet after he denied you, lashes fluttering as it washes over you.
Gojo hums happily into your pussy, drinking down all your creamy slick and then still not parting from you. Too addicted to your scent, to your taste, ignoring all rationality as he keeps licking and sucking at your cunt. Whining when your weak fingers dig into his hair and pull him back by force, shaking underneath him from how he’s nearly forced you into overstimulation.
“Too much,” your voice trembles with your words.
His lower face is a complete mess of you and you’d feel bad but the stupid smile and dazed look he’s wearing tells you that you don’t have to. “You got a great pussy,” he compliments, moving his thumbs so he can lewdly pull your cunt wider for his greedy eyes.
“Ah!– stop staring, have you no shame?”
Eyes flicking to yours when he states seriously, “None.”
You’re feeling far too exposed in this position, “Can you let me move—”
Ignoring you and instead musing aloud, “—How many fingers do you think you could take?”
“What?”
“Your hole was tight around my tongue so maybe only one?” Slipping a single finger inside you and stroking against your walls. Your back fights to arch and a soft mewl sounds from you, “ahh, that’s a nice reaction. Let’s stretch you out yeah?”
“You’re so– hnn!—” barely biting out, “You’re such a pervert.”
His head tilts at you, “Did you expect anything else?”
Managing to babble out, “Weren’t so– hah– perverted– hnn– in my dream– mmph—”
“I take pride in that,” his chest vibrates with his words. Of course he takes pride in it, why wouldn’t he? Stuffing another finger inside your snug cunt and scissoring them, trying to open you up enough to be able take him, “This sweet pussy might fucking kill me, I don’t know how you’re gonna take me.”
Could he have a bigger ego? “Don’t be ridiculous– hah!—”
“I’m not just being cocky, sweetie.” Fingers brushing up against so many spots you can never quite reach on your own, “You might actually struggle to take it all.”
Eventually giving you a third finger, spread wide around his digits and leaking into the palm of his hand. He’s got you a squirming and moaning mess under him, mind melting from the mouth-wateringly sinful way he’s playing with you.
“Satoru– hnn!—”
“Something wrong?”
Now he knows damn well… “Please, just– hah—”
He laughs at your whimpered neediness, completely aware of how bad you want him inside of you. “Being real cute right now.”
“Don’t—”
“—Don’t what?” Using his fingers to tease your most intimate spots.
“‘Toru– hnn– please,” lower lip wobbling as you pout at him, “I want you…”
That’s not fair, you’re not playing fair at all. “You’re evil,” he mumbles at you, cheeks and tips of his ears flushing red with how turned on he is, “but I’ll give you what you want, since you’re so adorable.”
Thick fingers drawing from your cunt, the loss of him pulling a whine from you; it makes him smile. You’re genuinely so pathetic right now and aside from how horny it’s got him; it’s also got his heart stuttering in his chest.
“Take your shirt off,” he points at you, letting you finally lower your bottom half to the couch.
Grumpily following his instruction, feeling especially docile right now, “You’re being too bossy.”
His words come out a little muffled as he pulls his own shirt off, “Your pouting would have more effect if you weren’t also listening so well.”
“Maybe I’ll stop listening then.”
He stands from the couch to tug down his pants and boxers, brows drawn together and head tilting, “When you’re this close to finally taking it all?” Holding the base of his hard cock, tone smug.
Embarrassed for yourself at how your cunt throbs for him, desperate in a pitiful way that you’ve never imagined yourself being over him or anyone. “Are you in any position to be this big of a tease?”
“For you? Always,” he taps your thigh and leans onto the couch again, “now spread your legs for me.”
Already opening up to give him room before really thinking twice on it, hating that you’re this willing to follow his instruction. His hands on you are gentle, almost reverent in how they trail along your inner thighs.
Gojo can’t help himself, touching you as much as he can, wanting to prolong this whole experience. Your skin so soft and delicate under his touch, fingers digging into your flesh just to see proof of him touching you. Completely bare and willing under him, heart hammering in his chest at this fact.
Dragging his cock through your sopping wet pussy, shivering at just how gooey your cunt is. Not intentionally trying to torture you but doing so anyways, squirming and impatient under him the more he plays with you.
“Satoru,” voice pitchy, “please.”
Not moving immediately, only cursing as he gazes at you all lost.
You wrap a single leg around his waist and pull him forward, encouraging, “C’mon.”
Smug expression suddenly back on his face, “Alright, here we go,” tapping at your entrance a few times first. “Ohh, biiig stretch,” word drawn out and provocative as his cock head slowly slips inside you.
Big stretch is fucking right, chest squeezing as you struggle to adjust. Hands gripping onto his biceps for dear life, needing to be grounded.
One of his hands reach out and strokes against your head, you keen into his touch and he chuckles. Leaning down to whisper, “You need to breathe, sweetheart.”
His hips have stopped moving forward but it hardly seems like it, already feeling obscenely full. “H–how much– hnn– more?”
Gojo dips his head down to look at where your cunt is bulging around him, teeth digging into his lower lip as he stifles a strained laugh, “Not much at all.”
“Are you lying?” Unable to help the way your lip wobbles a bit with your question.
“Yeah,” he thrusts just a little bit more into you, “but you’re doing so well, feel fffucking fantastic.”
You’re clawing at his shoulders, feeling like you’re being stretched to your limits, “Why– ah!– why is it so big?” Somehow, you feel annoyed at him for it.
“I’m God’s favourite,” is how he chooses to reply, ego growing tenfold at how you’re falling apart just from the shallow thrusts he’s delivering.
How the hell are you meant to take all of him, “How– hah– how much?”
He can’t take his eyes off how you’re sucking him in, hands gripping your hips and thumbs drawing circles into your skin soothingly, “Why don’t you just watch for yourself?”
You shake your head at him, eyes scrunched shut, “No.”
“And why not?” Still, he’s feeding you more of his cock, your pussy pulsing around him making him dizzy, “It’s a good fuckin view.”
“Don’t– hnn– don’t torment me.”
Blinking your eyes open to give your best glare, it only comes across half hearted. Completely taken with the look on Gojo’s face, flushed pink with his pupils blown wide, teeth digging into his lower lip again to stop from whining. Eyes flicking to yours and he’s completely melting when seeing just how pathetic you are under him, moan stumbling from his lips so suddenly that it takes him by surprise.
He's just as big of a mess as you and it has your cunt positively creaming around him, turned on by the fucked out horny look on your best friends’ face. Gojo shudders at your pussy getting slicker around him, his dick jerking inside you.
“Getting this– hah– wet over your best friend…” fucking his hips quickly, pelvis now flush to yours, “…how shameless of you.”
You’re quivering around him and writhing under him, the feeling of being completely stuffed full overwhelming on its own. His taunting cruel and mocking and unfortunately turning you on that much more, upset that you’re letting him get away with it.
Lips downturned when you fire back, “You’re more shameless– hnn– pervert.”
Gojo can only be charmed by your weak insult, especially since he’s pretty sure you’re unaware of how your hips are twitching under the weight of his hold. Fighting upwards for the hope of getting fucked but kept frustratingly still by him. Your neediness has piqued his interest, now wondering how long he can stay still until you’re shedding tears out of pure frustration. Quickly growing addicted to the idea of teasing you like this.
He's so still it’s driving you crazy, able to feel his dick twitching inside you, veins throbbing against your sensitive walls. Obviously wanting it just as bad as you but still not moving, shifting one of your hands to tap at his on your hip, gaining his attention.
Eyes on his, “What are you waiting– mmph– for?”
God, the look on your face is killing him, so sweet under him. It’s almost like you’re coming apart already, his hands dig into your thighs and it has you keening under him. Pitiful whine leaving you as your hips start grinding into him quickly, trying to alleviate some of the desire you’re feeling.
“Now why on earth…” he straightens his back up more, pulling your lower half up with him, not giving the chance for his cock to slip from you, “…are you this touch starved?”
“Huh?” it’s the only response you’re capable of giving, having finally seen just how he’s shoved inside you. Cunt stretched obscene around his fat dick, dripping happily and syrupy sweet around him. Chest fluttering at the shock and excitement.
“I’m so sorry for not noticing, sweetie,” he coos at you, “I would’ve helped you if you’d told me.”
Complaining back at him, “I am not touch starved.”
“You definitely are,” he trails his hand from your hip, up your side, just to show you how you twitch into it, “it’s okay though, I’ll take good care of you.”
Pussy shivering involuntarily around him, giving away that you’re lying. How he managed to know you were deprived, you have no idea but the fact he did is embarrassing to you. He doesn’t need to be aware of how long it’s been since you were last touched so intimately.
“I—”
“—Don’t bother lying again,” he keeps caressing you where he can reach, “I’d much rather hear about how much you like when I touch you.”
Maybe he’ll start moving if you’re honest, “I like when– hah– you touch me,” pouting slightly and barely fighting off the shudder running down your spine at his touch.
“Good,” he smiles at you, all glib, “‘Cause I’m gonna touch you. Lots.”
Eyes sparkling at him, hoping, “Does that mean you’re– ah– hnn– actually going to fuck me now?”
“Why?” his head tilts at you, “Do you want it?”
Giving your best glare back at him, he’s proven to you sufficiently by now that he can read you incredibly well, much to your dismay. Muttering out, “Dream you was– hah– much more indulgent of me.”
“Ouch,” though he says that, he doesn’t seem hurt at all, “Dream me was a fool then ‘cause you’re much more fun to play with like this.”
He’s being so evil, “Can’t you just give me what I want?”
“I might,” his gaze is lecherous as his eyes rake over your body, “if you ask for it properly.”
“Satoru…” you try to call out to him as sweetly as possible, “…please fuck me?” lip quivering slightly as your neediness bleeds through your façade of togetherness, “please?”
Gojo’s heart squeezes in his chest, he’d planned on tormenting you a little more but he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep his sanity any longer. Already he feels like he’s a second away from cumming, caught between wanting to give you everything you want and teasing you until you cry. He guesses he’ll just have to settle for fucking you until you cry this time, next time, he promises himself he’ll tease you properly next time.
“Satoru?”
Your voice breaks him out of his reverie, grin back on his face, “I heard you, pretty. I’ll give you what you want.”
Dragging his cock from you slowly, so slowly, the heavy weight of him pulling out driving you up a wall, insides shuddering. Broken and gasped moans leaving you, rushing out quick, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh—”
The laugh that leaves him is too attractive, amused by your gratitude for something like this. It’s cute how the thank-yous just keep tumbling from your lips over and over as he keeps pulling back to the tip of him.
“Don’t thank me for that…” his hands dig into your hips more, “…thank me for this,” slamming into you all at once with his last word.
The wind is completely knocked from your lungs, shocked whine louder than you’d want it to be. Desperately clawing at any part of him you can reach, struggling to take it and keep it together. Feeling like you’re completely melting, head spinning as pleasure thumps through your veins.
“Mmph– I– ahh—” barely coherent as your eyes fight to not roll to the back of your head, “thank hnn– you.”
Small giggle leaving him at just how adorable you’re being, heart hammering in his chest as he sets a consistently mind ruining pace. He can’t wipe the fucked out smile off his face as he keeps pounding into you, giddy with how he gets to have you under him like this.
Babbling varied compliments, “You’re so adorable,” he huffs out a whimper, “hnn– and you’re so fucking tight around me,” less coherent as he carries on, “God, and so fffucking wet– hah– what the– so hot– I—”
He feels insane, how you’re this warm and perfect around him has him at a loss. Almost like you were made just for his cock, something he’ll let himself believe because the idea of you being with anyone but him breaks his heart a little bit.
Hypnotised by how you’re sucking him back in, clinging onto his dick desperately. It’s almost like every time he pulls out, you’re begging him to fuck right back in, and of course he’ll comply. The idea of pulling out before he’s finished with you a painful thought, not willing to give up this moment even if someone walked in on the two of you.
Such a genuine thought, he’s completely certain that someone could walk in on you both and his thrusts wouldn’t even slow down. If anything, they’d speed up, finally he’d get to show off how you’re his. Possessiveness tumbling around restlessly in his head, his dick only getting harder.
All you can do is take it, take all of the jaw slacking and toe-curling pleasure he’s delivering you. Your pussy making obscene sounds as he fucks into you, skin hot from how depraved it all feels. Gojo looks so completely wrecked, eyes glazed over, lips still moving as he continues to mutter out sweet praise. Praise that would probably have your insides flipping and body growing hotter, but you can’t hear anything but your heart thumping in your own ears.
Delirious grin making its way onto his face as he’s struck with a wicked realisation, large hand sliding its way from your thigh to your stomach. Pressing down the littlest bit and watching how you squirm and shudder under him, gasping for breath and hands slapping at him, trying to speak.
“Don’t– hnn– don’t do that– ah!– too much– it feels too—”
“What? Good?” He hisses out, still managing to be taunting.
“It’s too much– hah– mmph– I’m too sensitive,” your eyelashes feel wet, like you might’ve started crying but you can’t even be sure of that right now.
His hand presses down more into your tummy, “I know you are~” he giggles a little, “it’s turning me on.”
“Seriously– hnn– don’t– I’m gonna– ah!—”
He’d completely ignored your pleas causing you to cut yourself off with a moan, orgasm suddenly washing over you. Spasming hot and snug around him, so sinful that he’s shocked by his own high, cumming deep inside you as you shake and shiver around him.
“Ohh, you’re– haah– you’re killing me sweetly,” Gojo’s head feels like it’s spinning, swimming in so much euphoria as he grinds into you.
You’ve slumped under him, trusting him to keep a hold of you, not even thinking to chew him out for making a mess of both your cunt and sofa. Brain feeling all fuzzy and melted in your skull, blissed out from how good you’re currently feeling.
Busy basking in the afterglow when your world is suddenly spinning, Gojo’s taken advantage of your rag-dolled state and flipped you over onto your stomach. Quickly realising that he’s still hard when your hips are being pulled up and his cock is sliding through your folds.
“You gotta stay with me, pretty,” he groans, positioning his tip at your hole, “we’re– hnn– not done yet.”
“Satoru– ah!—”
Both your moans are debauched and loud as he stuffs you so fucking full all at once, lungs seizing in your chest. If he weren’t holding your hips so tight, you would’ve collapsed to the couch. Your fingers dig into the cushions below you, biting back pitiful sounds that so desperately want to leave you.
“Don’t– don’t do that,” he shoves inside you somehow that little bit more, “let me hear you, sweetie.”
Sulking back, “Noo– hah– it’s embarrassing—”
“—It’s arousing,” he counters, skin on fire with how badly he wants to hear you moan for him.
He supposes it’s fine though, he’ll just have to drag those sweet sounds from you himself. Giving sharp and angled thrusts, purposefully driving right into all those delicious spots he found earlier while playing with you. Grinning wide, overly pleased with himself when you squeak out the cutest moan he’s ever heard.
He’s falling apart inside you, wrapped around your little finger and you don’t even realise it. He didn’t even intend to cum earlier, you just felt too good. All sticky cum and clingy walls, he couldn’t help himself.
Able to feel how his cum leaks out around his shaft, hear how your pussy gushes with his cock inside you. He feels borderline feral, something deeply possessive dancing around in his heart at how your cunt squelches around him, stuffed full of his hot semen.
The desire to see his face hits you, remembering just how good he looked as he got lost in how pleasurable everything felt. Whining pitifully below him into the couch, feeling far too shy to tell him how much you enjoy looking at him while he fucks you stupid.
“Satoru– hnn– it’s—” drooling onto the couch as you moan out to him, “it’s good– hah– it’s too good– it’s good~” nearly sobbing with just how damn good it feels.
“I bet,” he chuckles, loving your reaction.
Biting at him, “Hnn– shuddup—”
Easily ignoring you, “Now be honest… what’s better?”
Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head; you can’t focus on whatever the hell he’s saying when he’s fucking your gooey sweet spot so perfectly that you’re in bliss.
“Focus,” he fills you completely and stills his hips, refusing to move, “what’s better? This or your dream.”
Cunt so creamy and cock drunk for him, throbbing and pulsing so lovingly on him. He’s a little bit annoyed that he has to stop but he needs your answer. Hips twitching back into him, small noises of frustrated and deprived pleasure slipping from your lips.
He purrs low at you, “If you want me to move then you gotta answer me,” hand smoothing down your back, “you know I will torment you until you do.”
If you weren’t so turned on and delirious you’d recognise it as the bluff it is, he may have been able to torment you earlier, but his patience is barely hanging on by a fucking thread at this point. But you are that turned on and delirious, so instead you answer earnestly, “This, this is better. It’s lots better, now please. Move.”
“There ya go,” he pats your ass a couple times, “such a sweet little thing when you’re fucked full of my fat dick.”
Words meant as a warning but failing to hold any weight, “‘Toru– don’t—”
“—Don’t stress, pretty,” giving you a single thrust, “I’ll give you what you and your pussy are begging me for.”
Your response is smothered into the couch cushions, “Please.”
Groaning a giggle at how you reply, finding it cute that you’re displaying manners you don’t usually bother to with him. You must have it bad for him right now because otherwise you would not be so docile under him.
Fucking into you so you can feel it, really feel it. Intending to pull you apart so perfectly, wanting you to feel this just as much he is. Pelvis smacking into your ass obscenely, admiring the way your back arches for him, damn near presenting yourself to him.
“More– hah—” you stutter out at him, trying to explain what you need, “I want– hnn– I want you to touch me more.”
His eyes close and he intakes a deep breath, controlling himself as he registers your words. Arm reaching around you to pull you up, his chest to your back. He’s pressed so close to you, warm and comforting. You’re keening into him again, relishing how close he is to you, how much of him you can feel. Butterflies dancing in your stomach at how intimate it is and how it’s so much better because of it.
His hands grope at you, your hips, stomach, tits, anywhere he can grab, “Someone’s being greedy.”
Huffing back at him, “Hah– I am not.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” amused with himself as he breathes into your ear, thrusting desperately into your dripping cunt.
You grab hold of his hands and tug, encouraging him to wrap his arms around you properly. All too easily, he gives into your will, holding you tight. His face tucked into your neck and breathing in your scent, lips delicate as they trace your skin.
Brain hazy and muddled as you babble out your feelings to him, “It’s good– I like your dick– hnn– I like– hah– I like you.” Head turning to the side to press a small kiss to his head.
He’s quick to move so he can capture your lips with his, groaning into it. His dick grows impossibly larger inside you at your small confession, throbbing and leaking inside your tight heat.
Pulling back with a last suck to your lower lip, “Don’t say such sweet things to me, pretty,” tongue licking your ear, teeth nipping you, “or I’ll never leave you alone.”
“You– hah– you– hnn– do that anyways– ah!—”
“I’m about to become much worse,” it’s more of a promise than anything else, you thought of him as clingy before but he’s about to become so so much more worse.
The idea of that alone should probably be less appealing but while stuffed full of his aching cock, you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything other than pathetically whipped for him. Pussy weeping around him, begging for more, for it to never stop.
His dick so deep it feels like he’s in your lungs, spasming around him as your high gets closer and closer. Pleasure climbing up your spine as you melt around him, loving his touch on your body, his breath by your ear.
Gojo moans, head tipping back before he leans forwards again, “You’ve got me obsessed with you, sweetheart,” voice cracking with a whine, “both you– hnn– and this sopping wet pussy of yours.”
Sobbing out your warning, “‘Toru– hah– ah!– I’m gonna cum—”
“Hmm?” his chest vibrates against your back, “Gonna cum because I told you I’m obsessed with you? That’s pretty lewd of you.”
Cheeks wet with your shed tears, “Don’t– hng– don’t tease.”
“Just let yourself enjoy it,” hand pressing into your stomach like he had earlier, “your cunt sure does.”
Long and pitchy moan leaving you, orgasm knocking into you like a tonne of bricks. Trying to curl forward but unable to, Gojo’s arms are firm around you, not letting you go anywhere as he keeps fucking into you. His pace suddenly much quicker as he doubles his efforts from behind, chasing his own high.
It doesn’t take him long at all to follow behind you, face burying into your neck, teeth biting into you as he shudders. Muffled whimpers vibrating against your skin, his hips jerking shallowly, he can’t bring himself to stop fucking into you. You’re too stupid to think about telling him off, not even sure you’re able to process thoughts let alone talk coherently.
Eventually he stills to a complete stop, planting kisses over his bite mark. He doesn’t want to let you go, content to hold you up like this but you’re on the verge of passing out. Gentle in how he lowers you down onto the couch, the pair of you groaning when his cock slips from you. Shared cum connecting his dick to your stuffed hole obscenely, he has to bite his lip to stifle the most pathetic sound at the sight.
While you gather yourself, he kneads your back, his large hands digging into the knots there. The massage nice and calming, helping to soothe your aching muscles after the way he manhandled you to his hearts content. Almost feeling like you could fall asleep like this, feeling so safe and warm under his ministrations.
He leans over to check you, “Stay awake,” fingers brushing against your cheek, “you’re gonna need a shower.”
“No moving,” you protest.
“Yes moving, I know if you fall asleep like this you will be pissed when you wake up,” he brushes down your spine delicately, “and you’ll be pissed at me… which I’d personally like to prevent.”
“Can’t do it.”
“I’ll help you,” he hops off the couch, “Come on.”
Groaning dramatically the whole time as you sit up, standing in front of him with the help of his hands on you. Legs wobbling under you, balance precarious. As soon as you’re on your feet, his cum leaks from your cunt and down your inner thighs. It catches Gojo’s attention who crouches down to get a better look.
“Wooow,” he comments.
Shy at his reaction, “Wh– what?”
He glances up at you and looks deep into your eyes, “I came a lot inside you,” eyes dropping to stare at your pussy obviously, “sorry but this is really turning me on…”
Barely finishing his sentence before his tongue is lolling out of his mouth, head tipping forward to lick up the mess. Mouth swapping sides to travel up each of your thighs, eyes locked onto yours as he does. It’s overwhelming you, feeling beyond embarrassed at the lewd display. His grip the only thing keeping your wobbly legs from completely giving out from under you.
Gojo’s actions are ravenous and simultaneously dazed, somehow both feral and on autopilot. Moaning into your pussy as he licks and sucks your cunt clean, tongue hitting so many over-sensitive places. Your hands dig into his hair to pull him back only to see the completely pussy drunk look in his eyes. If it had been possible, he’d probably have hearts in his eyes, so far gone.
“Stop– hnn– you need to stop,” legs shaking much more now, “too sensitive,” grip more forceful with your last tug.
He pouts back at you, “But you’re so cute when you’re overstimulated.”
Pulling back from you to stand to his full height, smirking down at you. All self-satisfied and also blissed out on the taste of your shared cum. Your tummy is full of butterflies from how he’s been treating you today, legs still weak under you as your knees cave. Thankfully, he’s quick and catches you, effortlessly picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom to wash the both of you up.
Letting yourself be wiped down by him in the bathroom, sitting on the sink as he uses a warm cloth to clean you up better than his tongue could. “I was serious you know,” he says unprompted.
Head fuzzy and a little lost on what he means, “About?”
“I’m obsessed with you.”
α.η. THIS IS A REPOST .. a repost from my old account @/lovelivision, if you feel like you've read it before, maybe you have !
a-knee-wayssss .. i hope you liked it ! i didn't change much about this one since it was basically just pure smut and also i still fucked with it teehee (๑•̀ <๑) ✧
꒰꒰. all works are the intellectual property of aliienangel .. do not plagiarise/translate/reupload/feed to ai ♡. 。
i mourn for the loss of the chance to read the most underrated, soul-crushing, life-altering, breathtaking and beautiful pieces of written works i will probably never find because i wasn’t online at the right time, i missed it, or it got buried in the algorithm. im so sad.
Summary: Heartbreak was something Gojo experienced for the first time at age six, when his best friend disappeared without so much as a goodbye. Twenty years later he had to kill his other best friend with his bare hands. No matter how far he travels, shadows from the past keep clinging to him. Imagine his surprise when one day he can feel something beneath one of those shadows.
Pairing: Gojo Satoru x Ten Shadows user!reader
Tags/Content Warnings: mdni/18+ only, alternating POVs, regret, denial, angst, hurt/comfort, childhood friends to strangers to lovers, rebuilding of trust, mentions of killing someone, a shit-ton of flashbacks, mutual masturbation, 69, unprotected P in V sex, breeding kink, creampies (obviously), pussydrunk Gojo, mating press, tummy bulging.
Word Count: 32.3k
A/N: dividers by @/pixopix and @/cafekitsune art by @/_3aem on x. I kinda got the timeline wrong, so I know technically Digimon wasn't a thing yet but details details. Slight whiplash near the end, you've been warned. Yes I did proofread it, but because it's so big I'm sure I missed some things. Hopefully you guys enjoy because it took me way too long to write this one. 🤍
Leaning against the fence, Gojo’s looking at the kids train—though it’s more like the second-years beating up the first-years.
Snow softly falls from the sky, casting the world in a blanket of white. Little flakes are clinging to his blindfold, hair and attire. He could turn on Infinity, not deal with the cold, wet spots they leave behind, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to feel this—the nostalgic feeling.
It bubbles up somewhere behind his ribcage, that feeling of loneliness. It’s always worse in winter. The snow a cruel, harsh reminder of what happened twice, two decades apart.
The first one being when he was merely six years old, snowflakes never touching his fluffy snow-white hair. He’d been playing outside with you just the day before—you, his best friend, that first love that he didn’t know was love back then, mistaking it for the feeling of the two of you just being close to one another.
He didn’t have anyone else back then, completely hidden from the world because he was the Gojo heir who inherited the Six Eyes. Banished to a life behind locked doors, away from people who might’ve wanted to hurt him.
That is until he found you one day, at merely three years old. You were playing with dolls—ripping off their little limbs and beheading them, giggling at the sight of what you’d done.
When you noticed him, you extended one of your still intact dolls. Didn’t look at him like he was something forbidden to touch. Didn’t scurry away like most of the others in this place—both adults as children alike—just extended a doll because that seemed normal to do.
He didn’t know where your parents were, nor cared to know. He was but three years old himself, but banished to such a lonely life only months after he was born, this seemed normal for him.
So he sat with you and started to play with you. You kept ripping up your dolls, doodling on them with crayons you got from god knows where (there were obvious chunks missing out of the crayons, and he had no doubt you actually ate them), and generally being messy.
Gojo, however, took a completely different route. He brushed the hair of the little dolls with the provided brush. It kept tangling and tugging at the synthetic fibers that was the dolls hair. But he wanted her to look pretty again, so he kept huffing and puffing trying to smooth out the hair. His little tongue sticking out in concentration.
The contrast between the two of you was stark. You were all chaos while he was the calm itself. The dolls a perfect representation.
The playing together was moreso done separately but in close proximity — parallel play is what he found out when he was older, was a term that described it the most. It’s also something he sought after when he was a teenager. The feeling of being alone was absolutely suffocating for him, so he always wanted to be with someone, even if they were doing something else.
After he’d finally untangled the dolls’ hair, he felt something soft and gritty on his arm. Looking down you were drawing on him. Laying on your stomach, little feet swinging in the air, tongue poking out of your mouth—much like his had been doing just moments before.
He’d blinked down at you, his tiny brain not fully computing that you were touching him—well, technically the crayon was, but whatever.
You were in your own world, drawing… what even was that? You had a brown crayon in your hand—his caregiver had praised him to the sky when he was able to correctly identify his colors—and were drawing a circle with little lines around it.
“What’s that?” he’d asked, blue eyes wide. Genuine.
Blinking up at him, you smiled for the first time. Tiny teeth on full display. “‘s the sun, silly!” you’d giggled at him, as if it was funny that he didn’t know.
Gojo’s white brows furrowed together. Confusion written all over his face. “The sun is yellow.” You’d merely shrugged at that, as if it didn’t matter.
“Now it’s green,” you simply said, continuing doodling on his arm as if he was a blank canvas for you to put your art onto.
“It’s not green, it’s brown,” he pointed out, little finger pointing at the—very obvious—brown crayon in your fist. Yes your entire fist is around the crayon.
You’re scowling at him now, like you’re offended by the fact that you were wrong about the color — not about the fact that items are supposed to have set colors — and that he did know it.
“Nuhuh,” you shook your head at him. “Yuhuh,” he countered.
There was a silent stare-off. Then you sneezed. One of those open-mouthed not bringing your hand up to your face to shield it type of sneezes. Wiping your nose with your sleeve you looked at him once more before continuing to doodle on his arm. This time a brown flower.
Well, okay then. Gojo picked up one of the other crayons— a blue one that kind of looked like his eyes, though his eyes had multiple shades of blue swirling in them. Not that his little mind was able to grasp that just yet. He just knew that his eyes were blue and so was this crayon.
He started doodling on your arm, a little dog. (It did not look like a dog.) The room silent except for the heavy breathing of the two of you and the occasional sound of the crayon on skin.
That was, until his caregiver found him—and you—sitting there like that. The gasp that she let out startled the both of you, little crayons making a line on skin that ruined the doodles the two of you were making on each other.
Looking over with wide eyes, both you and Satoru are met with the woman that’s taking care of him—not that you know that—while he’s here at the estate. Her expression turns from shock to confusion to barely contained anger real quick.
Her eyes scanning the room—the ruined dolls, limbs strewn everywhere, the intact dolls, and lastly how both you and Gojo were covered in crayon marks.
She stomps over then, Gojo thinking she was there to drag him back. He did kind of sneak away after all. But instead of going to him, she goes straight to you.
Grabbing you by the arm, she hauls you up to your feet. “You cannot touch the Six Eyes, young lady,” she scolds you. Your eyes welling up with big, fat tears. It’s quite clear you had no idea who Gojo was.
As the lady tries to haul you out of the room—muttering something under her breath about unsupervised children—Gojo tried to stop her. Planting his tiny body in front of the door he crossed his arms. It took the caregiver by surprise.
“What is it, Gojo-sama?” she questions, hand still tightly gripping your arm so you don't run off. Gojo huffs at the sight. He had only known you for approximately fifteen minutes—though it felt like an eternity at that point—but he’d already told himself you were his friend.
“She’ll stay here,” he stubbornly says, his foot stomping onto the tatami floor once for emphasis. You’d looked up at him then, fat tears still streaming down your face, nose running. But your eyes were so hopeful then.
And that’s how the three years of friendship begun, just you offering up your dolls for a stranger.
The two of you were always seen together whenever Gojo didn’t have training. Out in the garden either looking at flowers or stomping into small puddles resulting in the two of you getting scolded for getting yourselves dirty.
He’d learned you weren’t someone from the Gojo clan, but rather from a different, smaller clan. The day the two of you met you were at one of the Gojo estates because your parents were negotiating, but to this day he still hasn’t found out what.
The first winter spent together felt like a fairytale. It was snowing outside, making the entire garden white. You’d giggled at him and told him it was as white as his hair! (Yes, you finally knew your colors. He’d beamed at you when you finally started differentiating them.)
And it did. Pulling you outside the two of you ran around in the garden, the snow crunching under tiny feet, leaving behind small footprints.
At one point you’d collapsed onto your bum, pants getting wet from the melting snow under it. Not that you cared. Breathing hard since you were laughing the entire time.
Gojo sat down next to you, knees pulled up to his chest, staring ahead of him. But when he turned back to you, you were laying on the ground, moving your arms and legs.
“What’re you doin?” he asked, because why would you flail around in the snow? Looking over at him you smiled, “making a snow angel. Mama told me how to.”
Gojo followed soon after—he always did. Wherever you went, he went. Whatever you did, he did. Not always in the same way you did, take the dolls for example, but it was always just being together.
That year he had a lot of firsts. Making his first friend, which became his best friend. Playing—with dolls, toy-cars, just drawing. And making his first snow angel.
Two winters later it was snowing once again. It was his sixth birthday, and at the time he claimed he was aaalll grown up now! (He wasn’t, but he liked to tease you because ‘grown ups are tall, dummy. And since I’m taller than you, that makes me a grown up.’)
The day was filled with sweets, cake, and, of course, making snow angels together. There wasn’t really a birthday party for him—only you, your parents and his caregiver were there—but that didn’t matter to him as long as you were by his side.
You’d given him a Digivice. Maybe not completely suited for a six-year-old but you were only six yourself. Smiling at him, one of your front teeth missing. And you’d never looked more beautiful, but that of course was only because you were his bestest friend—and only, but alas.
Digimon was something you’d introduced him to on one of the play-dates. It was a rare occasion, because he was over at your house. Normally the two of you were at the Gojo estate.
Going up to your room you just had to show him something so cool! It was an manga about little creatures. And oh boy, did Gojo immediately fall in love with Digimon. It’s not like he got to do these types of things back at the estate, for the estate was cold. Everything was focused on him training and keeping away from others.
So you’d gotten him a Digivice. ‘A pet!’ you’d told him when he looked at it quizzically. then you dug around in your own pocket and pulled out a similar looking one. ‘So we can match’ you grinned at him. He grinned right back, two of his own teeth missing.
And you explained to him that he had to keep the pet alive and all the other quirks your mom told you about the little virtual pet.
He’d been so happy. Going to sleep with a smile on his face and the little device tucked right against his chest. That smile, however, vanished the next day.
The two of you had a play-date scheduled, which, honestly, was a daily occurrence at this point. But you never showed up. No call. No letter. No nothing.
When his caregiver rang your mothers phone, it immediately went to voicemail. Though he had frowned and felt sad, he didn’t think anything of it, simply waving it off as a one-time occurrence.
But one day turned into two turned into three turned into weeks, until, eventually, it was months since the last time he saw you. Winter had turned into spring which gradually turned into summer, but he hadn’t seen you even once.
You’d simply… vanished from his life. From the earth, it seemed. He’d thrown a tantrum one evening, missing you greatly. And his caregiver had asked around to see if anyone knew something, but it’s like you simply packed up your life and left.
Your house sat abandoned, neighbors having heard nothing about where you moved to nor were given any other ways of contact.
The only thing Gojo still had from you were a few drawings of the two of you together and his Digivice. He never once let the little pet die. Nurturing it to keep it alive.
Blinking away the snow that have fallen on his lashes, he sees Yuji laughing about something while Nobara is scolding him. A small smile forms on Gojo’s face. At least his kids are happy, that’s all he could ask for.
Feeling around in his pocket, he finds the familiar plastic device. He’d never gotten rid of it; keeping a part of you close to him despite disappearing. It never fails to put a smile on his face.
Winter used to be his favorite season, but he hates it now. Having lost both his best friends in winter. The first one being you, of course. Just disappearing. The second. Well… he swallows once, his eyes flitting to the side of the school.
It’s been only a year. Just one. Where he had to kill his only other friend—best friend.
The thought weighs heavily on his mind. The way Geto’s body just sagged to the side after he… Gojo shakes his head once, he can’t afford to think about it again.
So yeah. Now winter is his least favorite season. He also doesn’t really like summer, because that’s when Riko lost her life to Toji. Just one bullet. One kid. Fated to him.
He should’ve seen it then—the change in Geto. The way he started talking about non-sorcerers after that. But he didn’t, not until it was too late.
Swallowing once, he looks back at the kids. A full-blown snowball fight is going on now. Nobara is targeting Yuji, who runs away with incredible speeds. Toge is cheating by telling Panda to stop. Maki pelts a snowball at Panda at light speed.
Gojo winces when he sees the way Panda’s body gets flung across the courtyard. And Megumi… well Megumi is sitting in the snow, both of his dogs summoned. The black one laying next to him, head on its paws, while the white one is rolling through the snow.
A small, almost indiscernible smile forms on Megumi’s face, though he would deny it if someone brought it up, of course.
Gojo smiles down at the sight. This is how it’s supposed to be, the kids having fun, letting them be kids. Something he didn’t really get after you were gone from his life.
Nobara throws a snowball at Yuji, who dodges. She’s yelling at him to just stand still, not that Yuji would. He’s having too much fun running in laps around her. The white Divine Dog runs after the snowball. An innocent little wolf thing.
It prances toward the treeline. The forest that spans most of the Jujutsu High school. There should be nothing there, the veil from Tengen supposed to reject curses. But right there, a little further into the forest, he sees it—cursed energy.
That doesn’t make sense, though. No one is there. He doesn’t see someone standing. But still, there’s cursed energy right there, in the ground. Blinking, he rubs his eyes once. Maybe the snow is fucking with his sight. Six Eyes malfunctioning or something.
But once he focuses his eyes, it’s still there. It almost looks like someone is in the shadows, looking at him. And as if they can sense his gaze, it darts away, further into the forest.
Pushing himself off the railing he was leaned against, he teleports himself into the forest. There are trees everywhere, ground not fully covered with snow. The branches on the trees blanketed with snow, making shadows everywhere.
Looking around, he sees it, about 200 meters away, someone is running away from him. Hood up, clothes fully black. He quickly closes in on the person, they aren’t that fast after all. (Or maybe it has to do with the fact that he is fast. Eh, whatever.)
Grabbing the person by the shoulder, he tugs them to a stop. They try to wriggle out of his grasp without succession.
“Y’know, unless there’s new faculty I’m not aware of, you are not supposed to be here,” he says, voice still playful, but underneath he’s already calculating the risks. Someone who snuck onto the Jujutsu High grounds without anyone knowing. Hell, if he didn’t have Six Eyes he probably wouldn’t have known there was someone there.
The person doesn’t speak, just tries to get away from his grasp. Tightening his hold on their arm he tugs them back. The stranger stumbles back with a squeak of surprise, arms flailing slightly. It’s then that the hood falls from their face slightly.
Gojo sucks in a breath, because there’s no way. This is just his mind playing tricks on him. It just isn’t possible. A name falls from his lips before his brain even processes it—yours.
It makes the person still, no longer tugging to get away, just standing there, still not looking at him.
Releasing your arm, Gojo takes a step back. He shakes his head. There’s no way. It just simply isn’t possible. He’d searched for you everywhere. Looked into registries, looked if your name or face was somewhere, anywhere.
But you were never admitted to Jujutsu High—neither Tokyo nor Kyoto. Though if you were in Tokyo he would’ve known, obviously. There was no trace of you in the sorcerer world. He’d one day strolled into the headquarters. No one stopped him physically, but there were shouts of confusion. Not that he cared.
Going through the database he sought for you, but it seemed like you never became a sorcerer. All of his searches leading to a dead end. And that’s exactly what he thought you were—dead. Though his heart never wanted to believe it, his mind constantly whispered at him that that was the only logical explanation.
So how are you here, twenty-two years later, standing in front of him?
Does that also mean you never searched for him? Everyone knew who he was, after all. His name a beacon in the sorcerer world. And even if you weren’t in it, you still knew his name. So why is it that you’re only here now, and not earlier—preferably years earlier.
There are so many thoughts running through his mind, but they get cut off when you whisper. “You weren’t supposed to see me.”
That gets a laugh out of him. Surprised. Bitter. Heartbroken. Angry. All these feelings tangling up inside of him to a point he doesn’t know how to differentiate them from one another.
“Weren’t supposed to see you, so what, you just—” he gestures with his hand wildly, “sneak up on people. Watch them from a distance and then leave again?”
You turn your face even further from him, to the point where he’s looking at the back of your head, half of your hair visible, the rest still covered by the hood that’s half up.
“Kinda,” you shrug at him, as if that isn’t weird. Creepy even. Because why would you just watch. God he missed you. Yearned for the moment you would just step back into his life. He would let you in without a second thought.
He remembers the way he would grip his Digivice in his hands at different stages in his life. Always wishing you could be there with him, like you were when the two of you were kids. He missed you in every stage of his life.
When he was a kid, lonely in the Gojo estate. He avoided the rooms the two of you frequently were in, the thought of you not being there with him hurt him too much. Despite that, he still peeked inside, just to see if you really weren’t there. Always clinging to a tiny bit of hope that he’d dreamed you leaving him. But the room always stayed empty.
When he was a teenager, he’d learned to accept that you simply were gone. That didn’t mean he didn’t look at empty places whenever he was with his friends—Geto, Shoko, Nanami and Haibara—just to imagine you were there with him. Laughing at the dumb jokes he made with Geto. Probably annoying the shit out of Nanami.
Because you were chaos. Beautifully destructive in the way only you seemed to be. And he knew that would push Nanami’s buttons.
You’d probably love Haibara in the way one does a little brother or sister. Naturally drawn to the innocent smiles of the guy, only to trip him up when he wasn’t looking. The way you sometimes did when Gojo did something you disliked.
But you were never there with them. In his mind you would always be six years old. A tiny thing compared to how tall he grew up to be. He really did look like an adult with the way he was towering over everyone.
And he’d tease you for your height, because surely you wouldn’t be taller than he was. You’d scowl at him, poke him in the chest. Probably eat all of his sweets just to spite him. He would let you, of course. He always shared his sweets with you when he was younger, even if they were the last ones.
He’d think about how you wouldn’t look at him like he was a god or a weapon, but simply just Gojo Satoru, the boy he was when he was with you. How you wouldn’t abandon him to shoulder all of the responsibilities of the Jujutsu world.
But that’s exactly what you did, didn’t you? You had abandoned him without even a second thought. Didn’t tell him anything, just simply vanished to the point he thought you were dead.
And now here you are, telling him you prefer to look at people from distances in a way that they didn’t even know they were being watched.
“You didn’t notice before—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“Look at me when you talk to me,” he demands. Voice low. No longer playful. And he’s refraining himself from shouting at you. You didn’t notice before. So you have done it before.
He can see you take in a deep breath before turning around. And this time, Gojo can see your entire face. Can see the way you’ve grown from how you looked when you were younger. How the years have shaped you. Sculpted you into who you are right now.
It knocks the breath right out of him. All your baby fat is gone—obviously it is. Still, you look like you. The little kid he remembers.
“You just… didn’t notice before,” you swallow your words at the end. His blue eyes piercing yours, the same ones as when you were younger. It almost seems like he’s trying to stare through your soul.
There are so many questions running rampant in his head. How many times have you spied on him. Why were you just looking at him? Trying to sell information? When did it start? Does this mean you didn’t miss him? Why not just walk up to him?
And he thinks back to all the times he had the feeling that he was being watched. But by the time he turned around, nothing was there. Just now it looked like you were underneath the ground. In the shadows.
…In the shadows. Surely not.
He can feel all the cursed energy signatures from the kids on the field. Can feel the way they’re shaped, when they get used. And more importantly, he can feel one particular Cursed Energy signature. Megumi’s.
The one that uses shadows. The one that produces shikigami from shadows, that can store things in shadows, that can hide in shadows.
But that can’t be. Ten Shadows is a hereditary technique from the Zen’in clan. Neither your mom nor dad are from the clan, so surely it can’t be that.
Still, looking at you, he can see the way your CE flows. Can deduct the way your CT works. And his Eyes don’t lie to him, never have.
His jaw sets before he grabs you by the arm once more. Sees the way your brows furrow. You open your mouth—probably to ask what he’s doing—when Gojo teleports the two of you away.
The room he teleports to is familiar to him, unfortunately. Dimly lit by multiple candles and thousands of talismans spanning the walls of the room. He pushes you onto the chair without a second thought.
“Wait, Satoru what—”
“You have no right to call me that,” he speaks in a low voice. He hates how his heart rate picks up. How it makes his heart skip a beat.
You always called him that when the two of you were younger. Not Gojo. Not Gojo-sama. Just… Satoru. And it had made him happy back then, because you were the only one who called him by his name. Though it was always more of a ‘S’toru’, he didn’t mind.
Oh, and lets not forget when you started calling him ‘Toru just before his sixth birthday. It made his chest constrict in a way it hadn’t before. Made his cheeks warm up—though they did that often when you were around—which made him turn away from you.
Tying the ropes around your arms, he steps back slightly. The snowflakes are now fully melted, dampening the fabrics of his jacket and pants. Walking to the other chair in the room, he hears you struggling against the bindings.
“Seriously, what is this,” you ask now, a bit more agitated. Gojo just hums, pulling the black blindfold out of his pocket and putting it on. A deliberate act on his part.
When the two of you were kids you loved his eyes. Not in the way most people loved it.
You didn’t look at them like they represented power. No you rather just looked at them with the innocence of a kid who likes a color. ‘It’s like watercolor spilled into your eyes!’ you’d giggled at him then, watching the different shades of blue swirl around in his irises.
Always fascinated with his eyes, you, beautifully chaotic you, just grabbed his face and tilted his head in this and that way just so you could examine the colors. Like he was a mere toy you were playing with.
You loved his eyes the way you loved all of him, from the way his hair was white—though most people’s hair was white within the Gojo clan. Not that you cared, you only had eyes for him—to the way his eyes were impossible shades of blue and the way he smiled, even when he started losing some of his baby teeth.
Sitting down onto the chair, Gojo leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. He watched you squirm around a bit.
“Sa— Gojo why did you bring me here?” you ask once again.
He sighs then. “Why are you here?" he asks. And he wants to ask more, of course he does, but that’s not something that’s going to happen right now.
“I- what?” you falter, sitting completely still now.
“Why are you here?” he repeats. And you blink up at him, the same way you did when you were younger. It makes his heart hurt so incredibly much.
“Just wanted to see you,” you mumble, eyes casting off to the side.
The words echo around in his mind. Just wanted to see you; Just wanted to see me??? You had twenty-two years to do so. Gojo scoffs, “sure you did. Just tell the truth. Who sent you?”
Your head whips back to where he’s sitting. “Sent me? No one sent me, Gojo. Why would anyone send me here?”
“Well, why don’t you tell me. You just told me you spy on people from a distance,” he replies, voice growing agitated.
You bite your cheek, swallow once before looking up at him again. “Not a great way to start the conversation, huh?” you whisper.
It isn’t. Definitely isn’t. That is something people who get sent out on missions say. Stalk the person, prey on them, learn their patterns before striking.
Rubbing a hand over his face he stifles a groan. He should let someone else examine you. Knows he’s too close to you to properly do ‘his job’. But what would he even say?
‘Hey my childhood bestfriend was watching me from the shadows. What— ah yeah, guess I never told you guys about her. Anyway I haven’t spoken to her in two decades so it’s shady as fuck that she infiltrated the school.’
Yeah, no, not happening.
So instead he continues, despite the way his heart wants to crawl out of his ribcage. Present itself to you in the way it has yearned to these past few years. Spilling onto the concrete floor along with the feelings he’s held for you for so long.
“Then why are you here now,” he asks once again, in hopes you’d give him a different answer. One that satiates the voice in his mind, whispering that this is all a setup. To lure him in.
“I already told you, I wanted to see you,” you struggle a bit against the ropes binding you to the chair once again. There’s faint desperation creeping into your voice. The same way it did when you were younger. When Gojo accidentally broke something—it happens, the two of you were kids after all—but somehow you always got blamed. No matter how much you tried to convince that it was Satoru who broke it.
“Sure. Okay lets go with that,” he starts, voice full of doubt and mistrust, “why now? Why more than two decades later?”
He sees the way you swallow. Sees the way you can’t quite look him in the eye—well, blindfold. Same thing, really.
“I heard what happened last year,” you whisper. And his heart that was previously beating so fast fucking stops in its tracks. Last year.
Vivid images burn through his retinas before he can stop them. The thousands of curses. The curse users. The people who got wounded. His ‘kids’ almost all dying. The face Geto made before… yeah.
His jaw sets. Grinding his molars together to keep from snapping. To bark out what about last year made you finally want to show up after twenty years. Twenty years of loss, grief, heartbreak and all other sorts of feelings he’s had.
“Just wanted to see if you were doing okay.” you finish. And that, more than anything, pisses him off. If he was doing okay? No, he wasn’t doing ‘okay’, he was far from okay as could be. Both his best friends disappeared out of his life. He’s been lonely for most of it, even if there were people around him.
People could just never understand what he went through. What gets expected of him for simply being born with a trait that gets praised as if he’s a god. They often forget that he’s a human being, with human feelings—that get neglected to hell and back.
He’s no god. He, too, needs sleep like normal people. But alas, the higher-ups send him to missions one after another like he doesn’t need rest. Like he isn’t some guy that sometimes yearns to be understood.
But he does what they ask of him anyway. Goes to every single mission. Loses out on sleep. Loses out on the fact that he doesn’t really have an identity of his own anymore. It’s just molded to fit into the expectations that were placed upon him.
That, however, doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to have something of his own. In a way he adapted your chaotic little self into himself, just a little. It made it easier, not letting people see the side of him that made him feel vulnerable. Stripped down to his bare self, where he looks out over the Tokyo skyline and wishes that he wasn’t Gojo Satoru, even for just a few minutes.
So no, he isn’t doing okay. He hasn’t been. Not since you left. And yes, sure, he thought he was okay when he met Geto. But that, just like everything else in his life, didn’t last long.
Now he just drowns himself in sweets whenever possible. What was once a love for him, back when the two of you were just kids, is now a coping mechanism.
He’d read once, somewhere on a forum, that eating sweets constantly could be due to psychological factors rather than him just having a sweet-tooth. He’d skimmed it briefly, but he remembers enough that counts; The brain craving sweetness because it’s stressed. The fact that foods, especially sugary ones, temporarily raise serotonin and dopamine levels in the brain can make you addicted… or something like that anyway.
“I haven’t been okay,” it comes out harsher than he meant to, a crack starting to form in his composure. You flinch at the tone slightly, eyes downcast.
“Right, yeah no, of course not,” you mumble, still not meeting his eye. He can see the way your fingers are fiddling with each other behind your back, the same, tiny movement you always did when you were younger.
The silence hangs awkwardly in the air. He doesn’t quite know how to continue, and neither do you by the way you sometimes open and close your mouth.
“You know I didn’t want to leave, right?” you whisper, and it sounds true. He wants it to be true, so fucking badly. But how can he believe you when you never reached out even once. You knew he was alive, he is The Strongest after all. His death would be a grand thing within the Jujutsu world. But then again, were you even in that world?
“Then why did you?” he asks, keeping his voice steady to not show any inner turmoil. You look up again, the candles casting soft amber lighting on your face. And you look so earnestly.
“I- where do I even begin?” your hands are still fiddling behind you. And it must be torture, because he know, he knows how expressive you are with them.
Whenever you told stories, you didn’t just tell them with your voice, you used your hands. Like, a lot. Sometimes they added things to the story, visual cues almost, while other times they were just flailing around because you were so happy.
Satoru had to always dodge your hands—having been smacked with them on multiple occasions before he learned that lesson.
“At the start,” he replies. And you laugh at that. A self-deprecating little thing. Swallowing you open your mouth once more.
“The day after your birthday I got woken up by dad,” you begin, and the images immediately flood your mind. You’d clutched your little matching Digivice to your chest when you went to bed. A small smile gracing your face, because ‘Toru was so happy with his gift.'
The dream you had was you and Satoru running around inside the Digimon universe. Little creatures left and right. It was like you were transported into the manga. And god, the smile on Satoru’s face was priceless. His gap showing from where his first baby-tooth had fallen out.
The dream was full of colors and little creatures. Which is why you woke up with a gasp when your father had shaken you awake, voice panicked. He told you that you guys ‘had to go’. There was no further explanation, just him and your mom running around the house, collecting essential items.
You’d gotten out of bed, rubbing your eye with one palm while the other still clutched the Digivice. Your pajama pants had ridden up, one pant leg above your knee while the other was shoved somewhere half over your shin.
“He was in a rush, like pulling me out of bed and telling me to get in the car.”
“What’s going on?” you asked your parents, but neither really had an answer. All you were met with was ‘we just gotta go somewhere else for a little while, sweetie’ and you didn’t understand. Didn’t understand why your dad picked you up and almost sprinted to the car. Didn’t understand why only the essentials were being grabbed.
All you knew was that you had a play-date with Satoru later that day. “Okay. But we’ll be back in time for Satoru, right?”
Your parents had shared a glance between each other. One that you now know said how are we going to explain to her that she won’t get to see her best friend anymore?
“After that we drove off to an airport. Got onto a plane to some foreign country in Europe and completely left behind the life we had built here.”
You’d fallen asleep in the car, the gentle rocking of the car lulling you to sleep quite quick. When you woke up, you were in your dads arms. But more importantly, you weren’t in the car anymore. No you were somewhere crowded.
Suitcases everywhere, overhead speakers crackling to life. Some people panicking while others were sitting and staring ahead of them. There were tiny shops everywhere.
“I didn’t understand at the time,” you smile bitterly thinking back on how child you sat on a plane, looking out the window in awe. You’d whispered to your parents how you wished one day Satoru was able to see the world from above the clouds as well. “That I wouldn’t see you for the next twenty-two years.”
The silence hangs in the air after that. Heavy. Awkward. And you wish you could just sink back into the darkness. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back. It was selfish on your part. While it wasn’t your decision to move away, it was to enter his life again— though obviously this wasn’t your intention.
Gojo looks at you. Really looks. Looks at the way you’re picking at your cuticles behind your back. Arms still tied. At your eyes. At the way you didn’t look away even once. And he doesn’t know what to do with it. Doesn’t know if he should trust you or not.
“So why did you guys leave?” he asks, because that’s something you haven’t told him. Though he could probably guess.
You pull your knees up to your chest. The position is awkward. Knees pulled up to your chest, arms bound behind you. But you don’t care. Biting on your lip you finally look away from his face.
“They found out I was a Zen’in, I guess,” you shrug, as if it’s something normal to say. As if it doesn’t go against everything he believed in since he was three years old.
He remembers your house. It was a normal house. Not one from the Zen’in clan. Your mother and father never saying anything about being a Zen’in, either. He remembers them, too. Your mother with gentle eyes and careful hands while your father was more strict, but never around enough to really know him.
Gojo’s eyes narrow behind his blindfold. “A Zen’in, huh?”
You nod your head. “Yeah, uh… Dad apparently isn’t my biological dad. It was one of the Zen’in clan members. Mom never told me the whole story, but I do know dad killed the guy. So… yeah, I dunno, guess they found us or something.”
That, honestly, doesn’t tell him a lot. But at the same time it explains almost everything. “So that’s why you inherited the technique.”
Your head snaps back toward his, eyes wide with panic. “What?” you whisper, voice trembling slightly. It makes him snort. How do you not realise he knew. “Whole hiding in the shadows was a thing, but in case you forgot, I’m the Six Eyes bearer.”
It’s not a gloat. He’s merely stating a fact. Making you realise what you’re actually dealing with. And before you can even open your mouth, he’s already behind you. Fiddling with the ropes infused with hundreds of talisman.
Maybe he’ll regret this decision, because he still isn’t sure if he can completely trust you, but guess that’s something he’ll find out soon enough.
Letting the ropes fall, he steps back. You immediately begin rolling your wrists, bring them up to your face with a slight scowl. They’re red from where the ropes were cutting into your skin. Huffing you begin rubbing them, soothing motions to get rid of the irritation.
“Well then. c’mon, show me,” Gojo taps his foot against the foot of your chair. A bit of impatience shining through. Because, yeah, he is curious as to what you can do. Swiveling in your chair you look up at him. “Show you what?”
“One of the Shikigami, duh, you have the dogs right? Every user has the dogs,” he says while bringing his hands behind his head. He walks back over to where his chair stands—right across from yours.
You grumble something under your breath, before lifting your hands in that all-too-familiar motion Megumi always makes. Two dogs form from the shadows. One black, the other white. Almost identical to Megumi’s.
The black one sits down, tongue lolling out of its maw. It doesn’t move, just sits there. Golden eyes trained on him, probably to assess if he’s a threat or not. (He isn’t… not really.)
The white one, however, is the one that shocks Gojo a bit more. It immediately runs a lap around your chair. Chaos all around. You snap your fingers once and point toward a spot next to your chair. The dog immediately trots over and just lets itself fall onto the ground.
Then it shifts it’s eyes toward Gojo, and he has to blink. Once. Twice. Because he’s staring right into blue eyes. That isn’t something he’s seen before. Not that he has much experience with Ten Shadows shikigami from the past— he only has Megumi as an example.
Megumi’s divine dogs both had yellow eyes. Your black one does, too. But the white one is… different. The blue eyes almost seem… seem like they have watercolor spilled into them . Like he’s staring at himself in dog form.
“You noticed, huh?” you mumble, hand coming down to card through its fur. The wolf lets out a happy little noise before it rolls onto its side, paws in the air, presenting its tummy toward you. It pulls out a small laugh from you.
And the sound almost makes him want to wrap his arms around you and laugh with you. Or cry. He’s not sure which of the two. He does know you seem less… chaotic like this. Toned down. You were loud as a kid— chaotic, not afraid to express yourself.
“They came to me two weeks after we moved,” your hands are still rubbing the wolfs belly. Its tail making soft swishing sounds on the ground, completely content with how you’re petting it. “The black one just… sat there, as if it was keeping watch. But this little one over here—” you nod toward the white wolf “—trotted up to me and licked my face.”
That gets a small huff out of Gojo, because he can already see it. You sitting on your bed, wide-eyed because you got two wolves in your house, and one just licked your face.
You always had a thing for animals when you were younger. Chasing after butterflies, petting dogs, feeding stray kittens. You once pulled him toward one of the Koi ponds in the Gojo estate, completely happy that they even had one. You sat there for hours on end, just playing with the Koi.
The wolf suddenly stills. Sniffs the air, its black nose twitching and glistening under the amber lighting and then rolls back over, paws underneath it now.
It pushes itself up, stretching, shaking its fur—before walking over to where Gojo is sitting. He stays there, looking into the blue eyes that almost reflect his.
The wolf tilts its head at him, as if it recognizes him. It shouldn’t be able to, since Gojo has never met them before, but something in his chest pulls as the wolf stalks forward, head dipping lower, eyes narrowing in on him.
Gojo instinctively strengthens his infinity. It was already on, it always is, but he has to keep it up with you around. Years of separation apparently do nothing to his heart, whispering to his cursed technique that you’re not dangerous.
The wolf sniffs once more, before it walks back toward you, stands in front of you like some sort of guard dog. And technically it is. But it is clear that right now you’re not commanding the dogs, this is their own free will.
It lowers itself slightly before baring its fangs, glinting in the soft candlelight like a threat. Next comes the growl, a low thing. It comes deep from its chest. Why it decided that Gojo is something to growl at is something he himself questions.
He can see the way you stiffen on your chair, eyes widening in pure disbelief. As if the wolf has never done that before, or maybe it has. Whatever it is, it doesn’t prepare his heart for what comes next.
“Toru stop that,” you scold the wolf. The growl dying out as if you blew out all the candles in the room. The only sound left is breathing and the soft whisper of fire in the air.
Not that Satoru can focus on that. All his mind can focus on is what you just said. Toru stop that. Toru, toru, toru— it loops in his head like a broken record. And it makes his stomach churn, because there is no way you called your shikigami after him.
Not after everything. The twenty-two years of silence; ten years of thinking you were dead. And here you are, with the Ten Shadows technique, telling him your dad isn’t your bio dad, and letting it slip that your shikigami is named after him.
“You named him?” his voice feels thin, like his vocal cords were stretched taut, a moment before snapping. And that’s all he wants to do—snap at you. Tell you you can not do this to him.
He remembers all the times he sat in the dark, looking at his Digivice, and hoping you were thinking about him as well. The soft, blue glow illuminating his face in the dark, casting soft shadows across his face.
He remembers wishing to something—anything—to bring you back to him. To bring back his best friend, because you were his joy. His chaos. His.
You look up from where you’re scolding the dog, who is now looking at you with puppy eyes, whining slightly. The black dog presses its wet, shiny nose into your side. Maybe to stop you from scolding its sibling, maybe to calm you down.
“Not exactly,” you say sheepishly. There’s a faint flush on your cheekbones, as if you’re embarrassed about it. “I uhh, well.. I used to cry at night thinking about you, whispering to myself that I would one day come back to you, and well… I used your name. Like. A lot. I guess the dog heard because every time I whispered your name—just not to forget it—he responded. Well… not to ‘Satoru’ but he would listen to ‘Toru’.”
the entire story makes his chest ache. Makes him realise that you really did not want to leave him behind. And maybe, just maybe, you really are here for him. Not because someone sent you, but because you wanted to be. Because you missed him.
It makes his chest flutter, ascending toward the sky, and it almost feels like he has to grab it and pull it back. It feels like a high after having a low for so long.
“That’s… unusual,” he voices, as if you don’t know that already. As if they aren’t your dogs. Your technique. You nod at him, just once.
“I don’t understand one thing though,” the little thought keeps nagging at the back of his mind, like a little demon whispering in his ear. Do not trust her. She’s not the same. “Why only now if you missed me so much?”
Your eyes change, too many emotions running through them for him to decipher all of them. But there’s one that’s bright and clear. Sadness.
Huffing out a self-deprecating laugh, you look away from him and start carding your fingers through both wolves mane, they lay their heads onto your lap, tails stilling, ears flat against their head. You mumble something under your breath. Something so soft, he can’t hear it.
“What was that?” he leans forward, tugs his blindfold up just a little, as if that can make him hear better. You mumble it again, a bit louder this time. While he still doesn’t catch all of it, he can make up most of it.
“Didn’t think you’d want me around.”
And that, more than anything, breaks his heart. You thought he didn’t want you around? Didn’t mourn his best friend leaving him all alone in that giant, mindless estate to grow up under the scrutiny of every gaze he received.
Of course he would want you around, keep you close to him, so close that you couldn’t leave him again. Couldn’t let his mind fester on all the nasty thoughts that run rampant through his mind once he’s alone—in his office, his apartment, on mission.
No he would keep you close. Pull you in, wanting to let his soul fuse with yours, to make sure you couldn’t leave him again. He’d set up his guest bedroom for you to stay in, just so he knows you’re there. Would talk to you about everything that went down from the moment you left.
He wants to lay his head in your lap, staring up at you while you tell your wild dreams to him the same way you used to—gesturing wildly, eyes bright and shining, carding your fingers through his hair absentmindedly.
Would finally bake sweets with you, the way you two promised to when you were younger. Set up a bakery; Is that still something you want to do?
He remembers it like it was yesterday. The two of you had stolen some sweets from the kitchen, cheeks full, laughs bubbling up in your throats while Satoru grabbed your hand with sticky, powdered fingers and began running.
You laughed at him, telling him to shhhhhh, your other hand coming up to your face, finger pressing over your lips, like you yourself weren’t full on giggling. It was the heist after all. The sweet, sweet promise of mochi was something the two of you couldn’t resist.
He’d overheard it from one of the estate maids, that there was an important meeting between clan-heads later that day. Not that he remembered that part, no his five-year-old self wasn’t quite interested in grown-up business.
His ears perked up when he heard about all the things that would get prepared for it. Most importantly, mochi. It was a delicacy you and Satoru enjoyed all too much, to a point where multiple grown-ups were scolding the two of you for eating so much, too much, of them in one sitting.
The sugar-high the two of you were on after that could only be described as destructive chaos. The maids looking on in horror as you and Satoru almost destroyed the playroom. So yeah, the two of you had been banned from eating sweets.
But when he heard the words self-made mochi fall from the servants lips, he instantly formed a thought in his head. One he was sure you also would enjoy.
So when you came over later that day, he told you about all the things he heard. That the chef would be making mochi along with other things. And the way your eyes lit up made it known to him that his plan was something you’d enjoy as well.
The two of you snuck into the giant kitchen, giggling, tiptoeing and telling the other to be quiet despite not being quiet themselves. And there, right on the counter, was a plate of what felt like a forbidden fruit.
Satoru and you looked around the kitchen once more before both grabbing multiple of the sweets, before stuffing your faces, cheeks bulging with how many the two of you ate at once. You’d pointed and laughed at him, garbling something incoherent.
He giggled as well, liking the way you looked so cute. Like you were a little hamster stuffing your cheeks with food before it burrows itself for the winter. Not that he would say that to you.
And then the two of you heard it—footsteps. They were coming down the corridor, slow and heavy. Not one of the caretakers, but it could very well be one of the chefs, coming to look for the sweets. The giggling instantly stopped. Looking at each other with wide eyes, Satoru grabbed your hand before pulling you with him.
Later, back in the playroom, when the sweets were finally fully eaten you’d flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Satoru was drawing on your arm again—just like he did the first time the two of you met.
You’d hummed then, head lolling to the side where he was sitting. Your hair falling like a curtain over your eyes. “Hey S’toru?” you asked. He’d hummed, tongue peeking slightly from between his lips while concentrating on the drawing.
“What if we became chefs when we’re older?” That certainly grabbed his attention, crayon stilling on your arm, his eyes finding yours. He thought it over a few times, becoming chefs means you could make aaaanything in the world!
So he quickly nodded his head, the idea sounding sweet in his mind. And you’d smiled at him, nose scrunching up slightly.
“And— and we could be like, chefs that only make sweets!” you exclaim, eyes lighting up at the idea. Because that’s something the both of you absolutely love. Having a sweet-tooth yourself, you always indulged into his cravings.
“I will buy us a house with a big kitchen,” Satoru adds, because that means the two of you could always be together. Not having time limits for playdates anymore, but rather making up your own time. Being able to be together wheneeeverrr he wanted?
That sounded like a dream come true to him. He can already imagine it, a big house with a big kitchen where the two of you are making sweets together, laughing. You’d probably get distracted, the kitchen messy, like a whirlwind went through it.
Blinking the memory away he looks at you. You’re still not looking at him, the flush on your cheeks now going down to your neck. “Of course I would still want you around,” he says, incredulous.
That’s when you finally look at him. Brows furrowing slightly, because you’re not sure if he really means that or if he just says that to be nice. Even though you know he doesn't have any reason to be nice to you. You left him behind twenty-two years ago.
“Really?” it’s barely above a whisper, your heart clinging onto that last small part of hope. Because you want to believe him, really you do, but it’s so hard when you’ve convinced yourself that he didn’t want you in his life. Didn’t need you.
When you were fourteen you begged your parents to go back to Japan. Asked them why you couldn’t just go to Jujutsu High, surely they wouldn’t kill a teenager. But they always told you that they couldn’t do that. Didn’t want to bet on the uncertainties that brought with them.
Because what if the Zen’in clan went after your father for killing a Zen’in. They’re revengeful people your mother had whispered one evening.
What if they didn’t just go after your father, but after your entire family?
What if, god forbid, they would drag you back to the Zen’in clan because you’d inherited the clans’ technique.
So they never went back to Japan, rather staying far, far away from that country. And it made your heart hurt so incredibly much. Because you just wanted to see Satoru, even if he didn’t want to have anything to do with you. You’d take the fact that you could just be close to him as a win.
That’s all you wanted, after all. Get your best friend back. Here, the place that’s now supposed to be home, you have no friends. Never bothered to make any. No one could replace that one boy that had hair like snow and eyes like sea glass.
So you spent your days in isolation, woke up, went to school, got home, did homework, went to sleep. And the cycle repeated. You of course had your dogs to keep you company. Didn’t mind that they drained your cursed energy—it’s not like you used it otherwise anyway.
That’s one thing your parents made very clear to you; under no circumstances would you ever become a sorcerer. While in Japan the sorcerer population was the highest, that didn’t mean that there weren’t any here. There were, just not as many.
That, however, didn’t mean you didn’t tame some more shikigami, even if you never used them. Just having them reassured you to no end. Because god forbid you came across a curse one day that was too high of a grade for your demon dogs to take out and you didn’t have anything else.
Yeah, no. So you tamed other Shikigami. You have almost all of them now, obviously aside from Mahoraga. But you don’t mind that too much, you wouldn’t be able to tame him anyway.
Once you were eighteen you were a legal adult. Moved out of your home, got a job, and started college. The thought of returning to Japan, alone, drifted through your mind more often than you were willing to admit.
But by the time you even had money to visit Japan, you were already twenty-two. And the thoughts started to plague you. What if he didn’t want to see you— or worse, didn’t remember who you were.
All this time you’d been hoping to reunite with your best friend, but what if said best friend didn’t even remember you. What if he would just walk right past you. He’s a busy man after all. Word travels, and even the name of Satoru Gojo was whispered here.
The Strongest. The Six Eyes bearer.
And suddenly you were afraid. What if he did remember you, but resented you for leaving him all those years ago. Condemned to an isolated life away from society just to keep him safe. One you yourself curated because you couldn’t bear the thought of spending your life with someone other than him.
It’s silly, it really is. Holding one to such high regard when the two of you were mere kids. Only knowing each other for 3 years. But you still remember the promises the two of you made. Broken. All of them.
“I pinky promise to never leave you behind.”
“Pinky promise to become chefs.”
“Pinky promise that you’ll always be my best friend!”
So you stayed. Never returned to Japan, even if you wanted to so badly. He was Satoru Gojo after all. You’re sure he has a good life, lots of people around him who cherish him, who didn’t go back on their promises.
Until that one fated night, just after Christmas. Word had somehow traveled in the sorcerer world that more than a thousand curses had been released. Something about a cult leader. And, of course, Gojo’s name falling from everyone's lips like they were praising him.
That’s when you decided to go to Japan, even if it was only for a month. But you didn’t have the necessary funds, so it had to postponed.
“Why wouldn’t I want you around?” he asks, genuinely confused. It makes you swallow, once, twice, before forcing the answer out. “I just thought you didn’t need me anymore. We were only kids back then—”
“So? That doesn’t mean I didn’t think about you almost every day for the past twenty-two years,” he cuts you off.
And it hits you with full force. The fact that he did want you around. That you could’ve came back six years ago. Could’ve searched for him.
“Oh…” you whisper. Because what else can you say? How can you tell the guy that just told you he thought of you almost every day since you left that you wanted to come back earlier. That you had the funds to do so, but thought better of it. Thought he didn’t want you around anymore, so you didn’t come back.
How do you tell someone that it was your own insecurities that held you back from seeing him again.
You don’t have time to think about that, because the white divine dog —Toru—whines and nuzzles more into your palm. His nose wet against the palm of your hand. The cold, wetness snaps you out of your thoughts and make you look down at the two dogs.
Toru was always chaos incarnate. He would steal snacks from counter tops, eat food like he didn’t eat curses for a living—well he was supposed to, anyway. But maybe that was just it. Since you didn’t fight curses, it had an appetite of its own. One that involved sugary snacks and sugar highs a few minutes later.
You’d gotten loads of noise complaints from your neighbors about the dogs being loud—which was quite unfair to the black dog, Kuroo, as you named her. Kuroo was calm, almost lazy. Her golden eyes full of scrutiny, narrowing in on her brother when he, once again, was running around the tiny apartment.
Toru had a habit of knocking things over with its tail when he was running around. You can’t count the countless of items he’d knocked over over the years of living with him. He always looked apologetic when he did so, though, so you couldn’t be too mad at him.
Especially not when he looked at you with those eyes. They weren’t just the classic puppy dog eyes every dog seemed to master. No it was the fact that they were so incredibly blue, it made you think of a certain someone back in Japan. Someone you never seemed to be able to get mad at, no matter what he did.
So each time you sighed, told Toru it was okay and petted his head. Toru, in turn, barked at you, tail wildly swishing on the ground. It always made Kuroo huff out a breath through her nose as if scrutinizing you for once again not scolding her brother.
So yes, Toru was loud and chaos incarnate—and maybe an incarnation of your best friend in shikigami form—while Kuroo was the calm herself. Just laying around, soaking up the sun in her black fur while watching Toru sneak food from you when you weren’t watching.
The noise complaints never stopped. But every time the landlord came over to look at the said dogs, there weren’t any. And you were damn lucky he wasn’t a window, because how else would you explain the dogs that couldn’t be seen by others.
The landlord had told the residents that put in complaints to stop because clearly there weren’t any dogs in your apartment. It caused quite a tiff with you and some of the building residents, because they swear they could sometimes hear dogs bark or run around in your apartment. And it’s true, they did do that, just not normal dogs.
They have been with you all your life, summoned wherever you could; mostly at home. Your mom, at first, said you shouldn’t do that. Back then she hadn’t explained why you even moved to a different country—hell, to a different continent. So you shook your head and told her that you wanted to keep the puppies.
Because they were puppies back then. Small…well, for the dogs that they are now, for your child self they were quite big—yipping in a high pitch that lowered over the years, and tiny paws. They were, quite honestly, adorable.
Your mother told you that you couldn’t afford to raise the puppies. They would need food, and drinks, and to be walked outside every day, multiple times a day, even when you wanted to sleep. Puppies were very high demanding things, after all.
All of that was true, to an extent. If they were real puppies, all those things would’ve applied to them, but they weren’t ‘real’. Shadow constructs were just that. Shadows. Even though they yipped, played and felt real, they weren’t.
Which meant that they didn’t need actual food. Didn’t need to go outside to do their business. Didn’t need to play—though Toru did love to play, running around your room, stealing socks, pants, toys; anything he could get his paws on.
And your six year old self felt pretty smug once you found that out. Almost gloating to her how you didn’t need to do all of that, since the puppies didn’t need it.
You felt less smug a day later, when the puppies disappeared. You had no idea how you called the dogs on in the first place—didn’t even know it was you who summoned the dogs in the first place—so you were confused as to where they had gone.
That’s when your father finally stepped in and told you about a few things of the sorcerer world. Not everything, but just enough so that you didn’t have any more questions. He told you about the dogs, why they were there, and why they were gone.
Six year old you looked up at him with big eyes while he carefully explained the shadow puppies to you and cursed energy. That was something you apparently needed to summon the shadow puppies, which ran out the longer you had them summoned.
It made you quite sad. The puppies did kind of distract you from the fact that your best friend was currently thousands of kilometers away, even if only for a day. But you were happy when you could summon the puppies again a few days later.
So they were always with you, just like how they’re with you now. Toru’s wet nose pressed against your palm and Kuroo simply having her head on your lap.
Satoru is still staring at you like he expects you to say something—anything, probably. You haven’t said anything after your little whispered ‘oh’. So maybe you should say something.
“I thought of you too,” you reply, and it sounds fucking cheesy. It makes you wanna clamp your mouth shut, try to go back in time and say something different. Because what is he gonna do with that information. Probably nothing.
You can’t see his eyes—still hidden by the blindfold—but you can almost feel how his eyes are narrowed. He lets out a sigh and stands up, long limbs stretching out before he jerks his head to the side. “Well, c’mon then.”
Without a word he starts walking to a door—was that always there? He doesn’t look back at you. Doesn’t try to confirm that you’re walking after him. Doesn’t say anything else. Just puts his hands in his pockets, opens the door, fluorescent lights spilling into the room in harsh light that contrasts the soft amber lighting from the candles—the ones that are snuffed out in an instant after the door opened—and walks out.
Standing up you walk after him, dismissing your dogs with a final pat to their head.
After stepping out into the hallway, you have to blink a few times to get your sight adjusted to the harsh lighting. The hallway is a stark contrast to the buildings you saw from the forest. Jujutsu High seemed to have traditional Japanese buildings.
The walls are slightly damp and it’s cold. A shiver running up your spine. The only sounds down here are the footsteps and the buzzing noise from the overhead lights. Rubbing your arms you walk a bit faster, not beside Gojo—you know you don’t deserve to walk beside him as an equal—but two steps behind him.
“Where are we going?” you finally ask him. Gojo doesn’t reply, just walks ahead, up some stairs and finally opens a shoji screen to the outside. Snow blankets as far as the eye can see. Tree tops are white, the black shingles are now nowhere to be seen, the stone paths are buried beneath a thick layer of the powdery substance.
Okay, outside. Maybe he’ll escort you off the property. Send you home. Tell you not to come back. The thought hurts more than you’re willing to admit. Sure, you never meant for him to see you in the first place, but after finally reconnecting you’d hoped he would maybe want to keep you around.
Gojo walks on top of the snow. His feet don’t sink into it. He doesn’t leave behind any boot prints. It’s almost as if he’s hovering over it. You, however, aren’t as lucky. The first step you take almost makes you fall over. Snow is almost up to your knee.
Hearing you yelp, Gojo finally turns around, and the sight almost makes him smile. You’re trying to wade through the thick blanket of snow, having to pull up your legs to sink into the snow yet again. The sight is almost comical.
A huff pulls from his chest when you nearly wipe out, which makes you look up at him. Wrong choice. Because of the sharp movement, you fall straight onto your butt. Wetness starting to seep through your winter coat.
Closing your eyes, you breathe through your nose. Count to three, before pushing yourself up with a pout. “Seriously, why do you get to float like a fairy while I have to—” grunting you take your first step forward again “—tire out my legs like this. Why is there even so much snow to begin with?!”
You’re irritated. almost your entire backside is wet. Snow that wasn’t melted yet is starting to melt. You feel cold, and wet, and sad, and guilty—but mostly mad that the fucker is just standing there, on top of the snow, an amused smile tugging at his lips.
And before you even realise what you’re doing, you bend down and grab a handful of snow. Throwing it at Gojo, it merely bounces off him. Fuck him and his Infinity.
Throwing your hands up in the air you let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh come on,” you whine, the last syllables dragging on. “Lemme at least hit you with some snow if you’re going to be like that.”
Before you can even blink he’s in front of you. With just a little tap to your shoulder you fall backwards, straight onto your ass. Blinking up into the sky, a face comes into view. One blue eye peeking out from under the blindfold, an amused smile on his lips, white strands cascading down. “Oops.”
You glare at him from the snow, still sitting on it. He knows your ass is getting cold—and probably wet—but oh well. And then you reach for his arm, and for a second, just one, he forgets to keep up his infinity. Your hand clamps down on his forearm before you yank him into the snow next to you.
His face is obstructed by white. And he hears you laughing from beside him. And it puts him right back to when the two of you were five years old, playing in the snow, making snow angels and getting into snowball fights. He also remembers you eating a handful of snow and getting scolded for it.
He huffs a breath through his nose before pushing himself up and wiping his face. You’re still laughing, rolling around in the snow, clutching your stomach—not watching him. Which is good. He grabs some snow and throws it straight at you.
It stops you right in your tracks, laughter dying out immediately, replaced by a gasp. “You did not,” you accuse him, voice mock-serious. He only shrugs his shoulders before he’s hit with some snow—straight in the face.
You gasp out. “Shit, sorry I didn’t mean— no. wait! wait!! no please!” you’re scrambling back, hands sinking into the snow while Satoru sloooowly stands up and stalks over to you, a giant heap of white in his hands. You put a hand up while still apologising, “No— Gojo wait! I’m sorry! I didn— oompff.”
You’re cut off when he lets the snow fall—straight onto your face and upper chest. You’re completely buried. It makes him laugh, doubling over. And for just a moment he forgets he is Satoru Gojo and is just ‘S’toru’.
The little fight continues for a while, snow gets thrown around. The two of you keep tripping over in the snow, though you do more so than him—curse him and his long long legs. Until you stop giggling and gasp, eyes wide. “Stop. Stop— wait, just a sec.”
You’re feeling around in your coat pockets and pull out a little device—your Digivice. It makes his heart lurch to his stomach. Did you really keep it all those years—hell, did you keep it on you this entire time? His hand brushes his own pocket, his own Digivice snug in it.
He sees your hand sink into the ground, before you pull it out again, empty-handed. “Didn’t want it getting wet,” you say while looking up at him.
There is a small silence between the two of you, before he clears his throat. “Right, yeah. Okay, well…” he trails off, it suddenly setting in that he isn’t five years old running around in the gardens of the Gojo estate with you, but rather twenty-eight with responsibilities. (Not that he takes any of those seriously, but he does remind himself that the two of you aren’t suddenly best friends again… right?)
He jabs his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go.” With that he turns around and starts walking again—this time only after he hears you trail behind him. The walk takes wayyyy too long, what normally would’ve been a fifteen minute walk took you almost thirty. The snow not only making it difficult to navigate through, but also slippery
Satoru can only hope that the kids are still training. It has been some time since he left them to chase after you, after all. Turning the corner he sees Maki absolutely overpower Nobara before they let go. Panda and Inumaki are nowhere in sight, only the three first-years and their upperclassman left.
Clapping his hands once he grabs the attention of the kids. “I’m backkk~” he sing-songs. Megumi mutters a ‘didn’t even know you were gone’ under his breath that Gojo decides to ignore, while Yuji waves. “And I brought a little something with me.”
Stepping aside with a flourish, you come into view to the students. They immediately furrow their brows. Yuji’s hand immediately shoots up “Gojo-sensei, who is that?” Clicking his fingers, Gojo makes finger guns toward the cotton-haired boy.
“Great question, Itadori. This, over here, is your new teacher!” He hooks his arm around your shoulder and tugs you into his side. You look over at him with wide eyes. “Wait— wait wait wait, what? Gojo you can’t just decide that?!”
He pays you no mind, just looking at the three first-years while Maki walks away. She mutters something under her breath, but doesn’t look back. Pushing you to the front slightly, he claps his hands. “So, who wants to spar with her first?”
“She’s wet,” Megumi deadpans, looking over your form. And you are— well it’s more damp now. “And freezing,” Nobara adds, noticing how much you’re shivering.
For just a moment Gojo considers that maybe he should’ve gotten you—and himself—a change of clothes after the snowball fight. Ehhh oh well. Nothing to be done about now. “So spar her faster so she can go warm up inside.”
With a sigh Megumi is the first to take up on the offer, calling on his Divine Dog Totality. You don’t notice though, turning toward Gojo with a frown. “You can’t make me spar with them, look at them! They are teena— eekkk,” the dog lunges at you. Your make a quick hand sign. Hundreds of gray rabbits being summoned at once.
It takes the students aback slightly, all of them eyeing the swarm. Gojo only crosses his arms.
“Dude, Megumi, I thought you summoned your dog,” Yuji says, still in disbelief at the sight of the rabbits. The Divine Dog merely claws its way through the swarm, destroying rabbits at light speed. “I did,” Megumi mutters back, brows furrowed.
Half of the rabbits are gone when you suddenly emerge from behind Megumi. Putting him in a headlock, both Nobara and Yuji turn around, eyes wide. All three of them freeze in place.
Pointing your finger at Satoru you continue, “Like I said, they’re teenagers, you can’t just let them fight me. That’s mean.”
And Satoru? Satoru just smiles at that. Because Yuji and Nobara are whispering to each other, not really discreetly, but you don’t notice because you’re checking over Megumi to see if you hurt him in any way while still scolding Gojo.
And it brings him right back to when you were telling him how to ‘correctly’ play with the dolls. (Which you were wrong about, so, so wrong.)
He walks over to where you and the kids are standing and puts an arm around you—half because he wants to and half because he doesn’t want you to escape, were you planning on it. Ruffling your hair, which is absolutely freezing, he realises, he chuckles.
“Well then, kids meet your new teacher. Now say goodbye while she goes take a long, hot bath and hopefully doesn’t get sick.” Not letting the kids even say goodbye, he teleports the two of you straight to his apartment.
It shocks you a bit, the teleportation making you feel… floaty? for a few seconds, the room spinning slightly, before your feet touch the ground.
When the room stops spinning, and your balance is back, you take note of where you’re standing. The apartment in front of you is huge. It’s a big, open floor plan. The living room has a big L shaped couch, with a wall-mounted flatscreen in front of it.
There are floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the downtown of Tokyo, the city underneath blinking to life like fireflies behind glass.
But that’s not what catches your eye, no, your eyes wander to the massive kitchen. It really does look too big to have for just one person. It brings you right back twenty years, where you said you would become a baker which only made sweets.
While you didn’t become a confectioner, you did learn how to make most sweets you ate when younger. The most important one being mochi, of course.
Though the first time you made a successful batch, you cried. At first they were happy tears, but they turned sad really fast after that, because it made you miss Satoru even more.
Back in your cramped apartment, you didn’t really have the luxury to bake, so this kitchen really brings out something in you, and you wonder if Satoru ever uses it.
Following your gaze, he chuckles slightly. “I don’t really use it,” he says, as if he read your mind. Looking back at him, he’s still looking at the kitchen with a small smile on his face. Nodding your head you look back at the kitchen, and suddenly wonder what your world would’ve looked like if you stayed in Japan when you were younger.
Would you be in the kitchen with him, singing your heart out and yapping about everything and anything while making food together? Well, it’s not like you can go back in time, so that’s a question you don’t dwell too long on.
Gojo puts a hand on your shoulder and steers you to the other side of the apartment—hell, it’s a whole ass penthouse. Rich boy, huh.
“Spare bedroom is over here, there’s a connected bathroom as well. Go take a shower, you’re absolutely freezing,” he’s already turning away from you, presumably to go to his own shower. He did let go of his Infinity during the snowball fight, resulting in him getting wet and cold as well.
Nodding your head you open the door, and freeze for a heartbeat. The bedroom is almost as big as your entire apartment combined. A massive King sized bed stands at the far wall, there are floor to ceiling windows even in this room, and two doors at each side of the room.
Other than the bed, curtains and a nightstand, the room is rather bare. Walking over to the left door you open it, only to find a walk-in closet. Yeah okay, definitely your entire apartment combined.
Walking back out, you open the other door to the bathroom, and that, too, is massive. It has both a bathtub and shower, and your eyes light up at the sight. God, how long has it been since you last had a bath? Too long, that is.
Turning on the faucet, you let the tub fill up, and just pray Satoru wouldn’t mind it too much. You aren’t quite sure what he has in store for you, but given the fact that he just decided that you would be a teacher, you suppose you won’t go home for quite some time.
Stepping into the bath, you’re instantly met with the hot water, skin tingling because you haven’t properly warmed up yet. Ignoring that, you let yourself submerge in the water, let your head lean back against the edge of the tub, and close your eyes.
Maybe it was a mistake coming back after so long, but it’s something you’ll definitely find out along the way.
In the other bathroom, Satoru is standing under the spray of the shower. His head leaning against the tiles of the wall, water cascading down his back and dripping from his hair over the bridge of his nose.
You’re really here. Not an imagination, not a dream, just… really here. And he isn’t sure what to make of it. And maybe he acted too fast, telling the kids you would be their second teacher.
Maybe he shouldn’t have introduced you to the kids, he’s supposed to keep them safe after all. But his heart tugs against his sternum when he thinks back on how you were looking Megumi over after the supposed ‘spar’.
That didn’t seem fake, or maybe you’re just really good at pretending to care. Well, whatever it is, he’ll find out in the next few weeks.
He’s going to keep you close. Keep you in the spare room. Keep you close to him while teaching (though… he doesn’t really teach, so maybe it is smart that he ‘recruited’ you as a second teacher.)
All he can hope is that he didn’t make a mistake keeping you here instead of putting you on the next flight back to wherever you came from.
The first thing Satoru notices when he wakes up is the sound of pans clattering and the low hum of the furnace being turned on. There’s slight humming coming from the kitchen. Utensils scraping against pots, and the faint smell of food wafting through the apartment.
Walking out of his room, he scratches his stomach with one hand while trying to tame his bed hair with the other. Unruly tufts of white visible between the gap of his shirt and sweats.
The kitchen is a flurry of motion, the fridge being opened and closed constantly, the low rhythmic chop chop chop of someone cutting up ingredients on a chopping block. Sounds Satoru isn’t used to, considering he isn’t one to cook, nor has anyone over that does.
So when he walks into the kitchen, he freezes for a second. You’re there, chopping away, occasionally stirring the pot with a wooden ladle—he didn’t even know he owned one, let alone had enough food in the fridge to make something fulfilling—while humming under your breath.
But that isn’t what does him in—though it does slightly, he has dreamed of this many, many times before—no it’s the fact that your cursed energy feels off. It doesn’t feel like you, well rather, it feels like a copy of yours.
It doesn’t flow through you so much as it is you. Your shape is completely filled with cursed energy in a way that he’s never seen before. It’s unsettling, to say the least.
Calling out your name softly, you look up with a small smile on your face. “Goodmorning,” you hum, before resuming your task. The low sizzle of bacon in the pan snaps him out of his stupor.
He watches you for a beat longer. Watches the way you move—nothing out of the ordinary, though he only has yesterday to compare. Watches the way you hum under your breath. It looks correct, the gait, the motion, but there’s something off.
He can feel it in his soul. And his Six Eyes also tell something is wrong with your cursed energy. So he looks around the apartment, just because he can’t shake off this weird feeling of something being wrong.
And when his eyes go toward the hall of the guest room you were occupying, he can see it. Cursed Energy. It’s faint, but it doesn’t escape him.
Furrowing his brows he walks over to the door, steps cautious. Did you have someone over? Is there someone in your room that was supposed to take him out when he had his guard down?
Turning the knob, he opens the door. There in bed is you. Wait, what?
He looks back to the kitchen once more. Yep, definitely you, though that you feels off in a way. Looking back to the you in the bed, he lets his Six Eyes feed the information to him.
Your cursed energy flows like it’s supposed to, like it did yesterday. He can see the way it favors the side of the shadows, crawling back from where the light of the hallway hits the bedsheets in soft yellow light.
You’re asleep. Nose red and runny. Tossing and turning in your bed, sweat on your forehead, hairs plastered flat against your temples.
With a groan your lashes flutter open. Blinking a few times, you look over at the guy that’s standing in the doorway. “‘Mornin’,” you croak out, voice raw and nasally. You cough immediately after. That nasty, nasally type of cough.
Satoru just stands in the doorway for a few more seconds, words failing him in the first time since… well, last year, he supposes. When he finally speaks up, his voice is full of confusion. “You’re here…” he finally says, slowly, like he’s still trying to make sense of the world.
You hum, closing your eyes once more. Wiping some of the sweat from your brow, you cough once more. “Sure am, did you forget you took me home with you yesterday?” the words feel like sandpaper against your sore throat.
The lights spilling in from the hallway—though mostly blocked by the massive frame of Gojo—only hurt your eyes more. You want to tell him to at least close the door if he’s gonna talk to you like this, but then again, you’re a guest and it would be rude to tell him what to do in his house.
Hell, he probably doesn’t even appreciate it that you’re coughing and sweating all over his clean sheets.
“I- no, ‘was surprised, though,” he mumbles the last words under his breath before continuing, “What the hell is in my kitchen right now?”
You rack your brain, trying to find out what he’s talking about. In his kitchen? Did Toru come out without you calling him on again? He does that quite often, little brat that he is.
Then you finally remember. “Oh! ‘s a clone,” you say, as if it’s normal. As if having a literal shadow clone is just a normal Tuesday. Then again, for you it probably is. But Satoru isn’t you, so he stares at you for a few beats.
“A clone,” he starts slowly, “from your technique?” You laugh at that, then immediately cough again. “Yeah, what else would it be?”
Satoru stares at you for a few more seconds. Looks at the way you’re struggling to keep your eyes open, the sweat beating down your neck, the way you keep coughing.
And then he feels someone—or rather something—approach from behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he’s met with you, or well, rather, your shadow clone.
She looks exactly like you, the same little frown between your brows you’ve had since you were little kids and were focusing on something. Hair, eyes, lips, nose—it’s all the same. It’s quite unsettling, honestly.
Your clone is carrying a tray—seriously, where do these things keep popping up from? he didn’t even know he had half the things ‘you’ were using for cooking—with a bowl of soup. Stepping aside, he lets the clone inside the bedroom.
It sits down next to you, and you go to sit in an more upright position. It’s like you don’t even register just how weird all of this is, your own shadow clone is feeding you soup.
“Wait- wait wait wait. Let me get this straight,” he finally manages to gather his thoughts again. “You can make shadow clones, and command them to do what you want?”
You take one more sip of your soup, slightly burning your tongue because you were too impatient to just blow on the hot liquid a few seconds longer, before finally answering Gojo. “Mhmm, well… it’s more like they’re semi-sentient. I just have to tell them how to make soup, and they can get the steps in themselves.”
Gojo’s mouth slowly falls open. That’s… really fucking cool actually, not that he’s gonna voice that, though. He’s still wary of you. If you can just conjure shadow clones from cursed energy, he might actually be fucked.
It makes this so, so much harder. Because that means you can catch him off-guard. Or well, try to catch him off-guard. He can still sense when people are behind him. Six Eyes never lie to him, so he’ll have to rely on them way more than normal, now.
He thinks bout the Ten Shadows technique, tries to recall if there was anything mentioned about shadow clones, but he comes up empty. Megumi hasn’t said anything either about trying to clone himself. And in a way, Satoru is happy about that.
“That’s fucking scary. Kinda cool, but definitely scary,” he finally says, eyeing the two of you. If he didn’t have Six eyes, he would definitely have thought that it was your twin you never told him about. Not like you told him much about yourself, anyway.
Being a Zen’in for one. Though, you also didn’t know about that, so he can’t really blame you for that. But your mother definitely could’ve told him. He was the clan head of the Gojo clan after all! Nevermind the fact that he was a mere six years old back then.
He would’ve protected you whenever needed, told the rest of the members to protect you and him. And he would try to protect you, as well.
You, the chaos to his normal, boring life. The one who kept him sane those three years you were with him. Kept him from doing the mindless, affectionless clan. God he hated it there after you left.
Everyone kept ushering him to do things. Train with those huge dudes who told him ‘again’ and ‘again’ and ‘again’ and not to cry, because he was a Gojo after all. Something you would’ve never told him.
You would’ve probably cried with him, if you were there. Not because you were hurt, or anything of the sorts—though your feelings did get hurt quite easily. So you were a crybaby, buuuuttt then again, you got over it fairly quickly as well. Swiping those small fingers under your eyes and declaring you were ‘all done’ and going back to doing whatever task you were doing previously—but because you didn’t like seeing Satoru sad.
It was something he noticed. He wasn’t sad often in your presence, you were the highlight to his days, after all. But on the rare occasions he was sad, you always immediately tried cheering him up. Tried to tell him everything would be all-right, because you were there!
And it felt like his sadness was suddenly cured—or you were being… well, you. And distracted him from being sad—in your presence once more. Gummy smile returning to his face, only for you to fling your body towards his, tackling him in a happy hug that was more limbs clashing together than a real hug.
Blinking, he looks at you once more. Your bowl of soup slowly getting more empty by the second. Then your eyes find his. “There’s food for you in the kitchen, by the way,” you’re still blowing on the spoon when you tell him.
Furrowing his brows, he pushes himself from the doorpost and makes his way over to the kitchen, where one plate of bacon and an omelette sits. There’s a small ketchup smiley drawn on it, making him smile in turn.
Only for it to be wiped off his face the second after. His eyes flit towards the open bedroom once more. Grabbing another bowl, he quickly fills it. Walking back to the bedroom, he goes to sit down next to you.
You eye his bowl of soup, furrowing your brows slightly. Turning your head away from him, you cough in your elbow, before speaking up. “Omelette not to your liking?”
Gojo hums around the spoonful of soup. “Not a big fan of eggs,” he says dismissively. You just hum and close your eyes once more. The sweat has finally stopped beading down your forehead, though you still feel fucking hot. (ehhhh slayyyy)
Dismissing your clone with a wave of your hand, you grab the tray and put it on the bedside table. There’s still soup in the bowl, but you feel like you’re going to throw up if you eat any more right now, so you’ll keep it for later. There’s always a chance to heat it up again.
Going to lay down again, you burrow yourself under the blanket. “Will sleep a bit more. Wake me if needed,” you slur out slightly, before sleep finally takes you under once again.
Gojo stays seated next to you. Spoon in his bowl, not touched after he’d taken the first sip of soup. Once he confirms you’re asleep—your breathing getting heavy, the occasional snore slipping past your lips, lashes fluttering against your cheekbones—does he move.
Leaning over you, careful not to wake you, he swaps the two bowls around. Eating the rest of your soup, he hums in content. It was very good soup, even though it was made by a clone—something he still can’t wrap his head around.
Sure, he knows you’re sick. He isn’t stupid, he knows you can’t fake it like this. So eating out of your bowl—though he had swapped the spoons around, he’s not that stupid—might not be the smartest plan. But he’d rather get sick than get poisoned or something.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? You came back in his life, really came back in his life, after twenty-two years. Half of those were spent thinking you were dead. And now here you are—still—twenty-two years later with a dog that’s named after him and even looks like him, and a shadow clone that can make food and probably do many, many other things.
Leaning back against the headrest, he rubs a hand over his face and sighs out through his nose. This really is going to be harder than he thought would be.
With that, he gets out of the bed and goes to the kitchen. Cleaning the counter while scowling slightly. This is why he hates cooking—well, it’s part of it. He hates the cooking itself as well, though he loves eating.
It’s just something he could never get the hang of. Every time he tried, his thoughts would wander back to a girl that would forever be six years old in his mind, telling him the two of you would live together, making food together, because the two of you liked sweets.
Promising to live off off sweets alone. A true kids dream, if he ever heard one. But still one that wormed its way back into his mind even after all the years you were gone.
With that, he always burned the food because he would zone out trying to picture you next to him being a tornado of chaos. Probably having sugar all over you, even if the recipe didn’t call for sugar. Or eating the ingredients before they went into the dish, leaving the both of you with too little to cook with.
Or he would be irrational with knives—Geto and Shoko having taken away knives waaayyy too often. Not that they could ever hurt him, but still. If he didn’t have Infinity, he would’ve lost all his fingers ten times over already.
So he never cooked, which also meant he never had to do the dishes, though he has a dishwasher, which he’s trying to figure out how to work right now. He mutters faint curses under his breath and things about ‘clones not being able to clean up after themselves’.
When he finally has the dishwasher loaded, he just… stares out over the living room. This really is his life now, huh? Him having to be on guard, even at home, moreso than usual. Normally he has Infinity to protect him against strangers, but you’re no stranger.
Well… his heart certainly doesn’t think so with the way his Infinity automatically gets lowered around you. He has to consciously put it up, because his technique, unfortunately, loses against his heart whispering that you’re no threat.
Yeah, this is going to take a long time before he can get used to this.
The next few days are spent at home. You’re still sick, so you let the clone do everything for you—cleaning, making food, and even doing the laundry. Gojo had asked why you wouldn’t just let him do those things, and with that he means people he hired to do the jobs.
He had to send away his cleaners after his place was spotless before they could even begin. Your clone having done everything already, so there was nothing left for them to do. He still paid them, of course.
And if it wasn’t your clone walking around the place, it would be your dogs. You’d asked him on the third day of you still being sick in bed. Something about letting the dogs ‘out’—when he asked what you meant with ‘out’ you meant out of the shadows because they were getting restless. Which confused him, because as far as he knew, Megumi never said anything about any of the Shikigami while they were not summoned.
He’d agreed. His apartment is big enough, after all. And it’s not like he used the space often. But he quickly came to regret that decision.
Toru is a heap of chaos that only reminds himself of you, only with his aesthetic. The white fur was something he was used to quite easily. But it were the eyes that still unsettled him.
Toru was just him in dog form. On one hand, it absolutely melted his heart, on the other hand it had sent a small pang through it. He thinks about how you probably only had Toru with you while hoping that you could have the actual human next to you that you named the dog after.
Kuroo was at least calm. Letting her body flop in front of the giant windows, soaking up the sun with her black fur, becoming a small furnace. She was judgemental as fuck, though. Always huffing through her nose when her brother did something stupid. Or when Satoru himself did something silly.
It had made him side-eye the dog a few times, checking to see if the dog really was huffing at him and not at her brother. And, yep, the dog was eyeing him again. Raising a brow at the dog, he murmurs a small ‘what?’ only for the dog to turn her back to him.
He’s not sure what he expected the dog to do, but it still sent a small spark of irritation through him when he got ignored by a dog, like helloooo??
Now you’re finally better, sitting next to him on the couch nursing a cup of tea, watching Toru play with one of the dog toys you grabbed from your shadow storage—yes that’s how you called it.
Satoru had laughed the first time you’d pulled out the toys, but the laughter quickly died out in his throat the more you kept pulling from what felt like infinite storage.
At first it was toys—squeaky toys, tug ropes, balls—but it quickly became dog beds, yes you heard that right, dog beds for shadow dogs. Shikigami. With dog beds. And not just one for each, noooo they had multiple.
“Seriously,” he had muttered, eyeing the dog beds that were in the living room now. He’d already spotted two in your room and another two in his home gym. Why they were there, he had no idea, but alas. You’d merely smiled at him, not even trying to defend yourself.
“He really is something,” you murmur, eyes still on the dog. “Sure is,” Gojo agreed, but with a bit more disdain in his voice. If you noticed, you don’t call him out on it, only sip on your tea once more.
“Soooo…” you begin, setting your cup down onto the table. Leaning back once more your eyes find Gojo’s. “What about the kids?”
Right, the kids. Satoru had to tell them he had to stay home to take care of something and that they shouldn’t expect him to be at the school often. Nobara had just walked off, Yuji had grinned and put his thumbs up. Megumi, however, side-eyed him. One that felt fully judgemental.
“She’s sick, isn’t she?” he had asked, not even naming you, but Satoru knew who he was talking about. He’d merely hummed, sticking his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the ball of his feet. “Maaaybe.”
Megumi had sighed, muttering something about snow and being soaked to the bone in those cold temperatures, but never asked anything further. Just started walking back to the dorms without so much as another glance toward Gojo.
You’d asked Gojo if he didn’t need to be with the kids after he came home not long after that, and he had merely grinned towards you. “Naaahhhh, they can take care of themselves,” he had drawled towards you. Luckily you were too sick to really question it, having gone to bed after that once again.
It kinda fucked with him, though. He had to be on his toes at all times. Whenever you slept, your oh so lovely shadow clone was awake, making food or cleaning up, and it made him paranoid as shit. Constantly checking over what it did, while also checking if you were still asleep.
It’s not like he could tell you to stop doing it—he had done that already, well more like asked… okay fine, he told you you didn’t have to do it, since it was draining your cursed energy. You had just smiled at him and told him it was fine, since you didn’t use it anyway.
When he insisted that you should just let it rest, you’d stubbornly told him that this was the least you could do for being here, in his house. That is something he didn’t miss (he absolutely did), your stubbornness.
He’d honestly forgotten all about how stubborn you used to be. How you could hold onto things without fail, puffing out your cheeks, crossing your arms over your chest, not once looking him the eye, lips forming a small pout.
Yeah, you weren’t just chaos, you were stubborn chaos, which made it so much worse. So he let it go, knowing you weren’t gonna give up on it.
So now he was walking behind a clone for days on end, watching its every move. He was just so so tired. And only when you finally started feeling better did you dismiss the clone, muttering something about doing the chores yourself.
Which, once again, he wanted to argue about. He truly didn’t need you to do all that—plus he still doesn’t trust you, but what can you do about it?
You’re still looking at him, the question hanging in the air. The kids, right. Humming, Gojo leans further back into the couch, which groans under his weight. “Well, Yuji and Nobara have been asking about you. Megumi hasn’t voiced anything, but I know he’s curious as well.”
“I mean, you did tell them I was gonna be their teacher and then I just didn’t show up for a whole week,” you comment, looking him in the eye.
Yeah, that’s something he is regretting telling them. He should’ve just asked Yaga for you to be an assistant at the school—his personal assistant, so he can keep his eye on you, of course. No other reason at all.
But he did tell them, unfortunately. Which means you have to come with him to the school and interact with the kids. The same kids he’s vowed to keep safe ever since the beginning of the school year started.
“Don’t you worry your pretty lil head about it,” he assures you, playing with his blindfold slightly. (slut)
Scowling you look away from him. Reaching over to grab your tea, you down the last of your drink before abruptly standing up, making Toru pause where he was playing with one of the toys. “Well then, I’ll get ready and we can visit the school, I guess.”
You’re already walking away before he can say anything. Staring at your retreating figure, he looks over at Kuroo. “Your mom always like that?” he sighs out, and Kuroo huffs once through her nose, and he swears she rolls her eyes with it a little.
Thirty minutes later the two of you arrive at Jujutsu High. You’d dismissed the dogs with a quick pat on their head, and a belly rub for Toru, before leaving the apartment with Gojo.
The school honestly looks deserted with how massive it is. There’s no student or faculty in sight, though that isn’t that weird, considering it’s snowing outside.
Satoru walks two steps in front of you, deliberately slowing down his pace to match yours, but just a little too quick for you to comfortably stay right beside him.
Snow crunches beneath your boots and white plumes of smoke form in front of your mouth with each exhale. Burrowing your face further into your scarf, you finally speak up. “What are we gonna do today anyways?”
Gojo just hums, eyes hidden by his blindfold once more, hands in pockets. “I want you to spar with Megumi, give him some more tips on the technique.”
Furrowing your brows, you try to recall which of the two is Megumi. When you dub the spiky, black haired boy as Megumi, you hum slightly. “Why him?”
That makes Satoru stop in his tracks, just slightly. “You didn’t see?” When he sees you furrow your brows, he lets out one long, deep sigh. “He also has the Ten Shadows technique. I thought you realised when Totality attacked you—well tried to.”
“That thing was a part of the Ten Shadows technique?” you ask, thinking back that the giant beast that tried to claw your throat out last week. It was massive, even bigger than Kuroo and Toru. “Mhmm, Is when your two lil Demon Dogs get merged.”
“You mean to tell me he lost one of his demon dogs?” Your voice is small, kind of like you’re fearing the answer. Satoru only nods his head once, and a shudder trails up your spine.
Poor guy, being only… fifteen? Sixteen? and losing your first companion like that. You cannot imagine living your life without Kuroo or Toru. God, you would bawl your eyes out if anything happened to either of the two.
In a way you’re glad you never became a sorcerer, because there would be a big chance you would lose one of the dogs if you weren’t careful.
You don’t have much time to think about it, because Satoru steps into one of the buildings, opening the door for you. Bowing slightly—something that feels foreign to you, considering back ‘home’ people didn’t do that, nor did you ever bow towards Gojo whenever the two of you were younger—you walk inside.
Taking off your shoes, you look around the building. You’re met with a spacious common room. Multiple couches are in the space, along with some chairs and a few beanbags. A tall bookshelf spans the entirety of the wall, filled with different manga's.
There are a few students lounging around, some familiar—Yuji with his pink hair and Nobara with her bob—and others not. Your eyes trailing over the students when— hold the fuck up, is that a panda?!
Sure enough the panda waves at you. Nodding your head, you turn towards Satoru with questions written all over your face. Chuckling he leans in closer to you, voice low enough for only you to be heard. “That’s Panda. He’s a cursed corpse. Sentient. Kinda like your shadow clone, but even smarter.”
Right. Okay, sure. Sentient cursed corpses, because why the fuck not, it’s not like sorcery was weird enough already, just add in more bullshit to the mix.
Yuji is already on his feet the moment he spots you and Satoru, a beaming smile on his face. “Hey! You’re finally better. Gojo-sensei told us you got sick, but like— I had soooo many questions before he whisked you away the last time.”
Blinking, you’re looking at the boy. Right, okay, that energy wasn’t there the last time, but then again it was snowing, Gojo had told them to spar you and you had sunk into the ground and put Megumi in a headlock withing three seconds flat.
He kind of reminds you of younger you. You’ve since lost that spark, but it does ignite something in you that makes you want to bounce on the balls of your feet. “Of course you can ask!”
Gojo watches you get tugged into the common room by Yuji, who is already firing off questions, one after another, before you can even try to answer him. Nobara is scolding him for being too excited, and the three third-years are watching you with wary glances.
Exhaling, he lets his shoulders drop a little. Although this isn’t what he wanted, it is nice to see you interact with his kids. With that he walks towards the room he knows a grumpy teenager is in.
Opening the door with a flourish, he throws a thumbs up. “How’s my favorite student?” he all but teases, making Megumi groan into his pillow.
“What do you want,” he scowls over at Gojo, not even trying to hide the disdain in his voice. That’s nothing new,though. Having spent years with the boy, Gojo knows that Megumi loves him. Deeeep deep down. But it’s there …somewhere.
“Your new teach is here, come say hi,” he grins before turning around and walking back to the common room.
Walking back into the common room can only be described as chaos. Yuji is backflipping (why?), Nobara is showing off her nails—the steel ones she uses for her technique, not the keratin ones that are on fingertips—while Panda is punching the air.
Inumaki and Maki are just sitting there watching the chaos unfold while you are trying to divide your attention to all three of the kids that are begging for your attention.
What happened between him going to Megumi’s room and coming back, he’ll probably never know, but he’s here now.
The chaos continues for a while. Every student shows you their technique when you ask, even the second years, though you had some trouble understanding Inumaki at first.
Megumi finally has joined everyone, going to sit down where he deems safest—next to Maki. It’s definitely deliberate on his part, considering Maki is the most calm in this entire group of chaos.
Then questions start flying towards you, about your age, what you did before this, how you did that thing with Megumi last week. Until the final dreaded question comes from no other than Nobara: “So, you haven’t told us your technique yet.”
Swallowing you look over at Gojo, who nods at you. Wringing your hands together you look at the eager expressions of the students, even Megumi seems to perk up a bit at that. You never had to tell anyone your technique—apart from Gojo—and it was drilled into you that you should never reveal it.
But then again, that was because your mother was afraid they would simply kill you if they found out. That’s not gonna happen, you think. Plus Gojo is right beside you, surely he would protect you if something went wrong?
“Ah it’s the Ten Shadows technique.” Silence. Utter and absolute silence fills the room. A few students are blinking, like they’re buffering in real time. “Yeah right,” Maki scoffs, “that’s a hereditary technique, and if you were a Zen’in with the clan’s technique I would’ve known.”
That makes you pause, just a little. “Are you a Zen’in, Maki?”
She only narrows her eyes at you, not confirming nor denying the question. The rest of the group is silent, looking between you and Megumi.
Sighing you summon your demon dogs. Toru immediately licks your hand, while Kuroo just sits in her place, watching every student with a scrutinizing gaze.
There’s a blur of motion when suddenly the tip of a spear is right between your eyes. Maki’s. “Gojo, explain.”
And he does, as best as he can. You fill in some of the gaps, about leaving the country, never becoming a sorcerer, just living a normal, boring life. Neither of you brings up the fact that you and Gojo have known each other since the age of three.
The tension slowly dwindles, Maki lowering her spear while still looking at you with narrowed eyes. Yuji is petting Toru throughout all of it, hands sinking into the fur while Toru wags his tail, making the occasional swish sound on the floor.
You show the kids some of the things that can be achieved with the Ten Shadows technique, starting with the fact that you can completely sink into the shadows, since Yuji asked how you teleported last week. It’s clear that Megumi is taking mental notes of everything you do.
The rest of the day is spent like that, just chatting, occasionally showing off—not just you, the kids do as well—and getting to know one another. It’s quite sweet honestly.
While you didn’t get to spar with Megumi, like Gojo originally wanted you to do, you did show him important things that would definitely help him if ever needed.
The next few days are spent with the kids, sparring, telling them how to better themselves, just watching over them. And then there was the fact that Yaga found out Satoru had ‘hired’ someone without even telling him, let alone consult with him.
You had to watch Gojo get scolded by the principal, and honestly it was funny as fuck. How does a thirty year old let himself get scolded like that? You almost wanted to tell him to stand the fuck up for himself. Embarrassing, really, but then again, that is the Gojo you know.
Though he wasn’t the one that got scolded when the two of you were younger, that one was you. So maybe this is just karma. Ehhh, that isn’t fair on Gojo, though. He always tried to stick up for you, trying to tell the maids it was him that did said thing, but they just brushed him off.
Still a funny sight, and something you’ll probably tease him about until the two of you are all wrinkly and gray.
After that you got introduced to some of the other staff. Nanami was apparently a year younger than Gojo, and definitely over his shit, throwing out a quick ‘good luck’ when he heard that you would spend most of your days with Gojo here at school—no people didn’t know you also ‘lived’ with Gojo.
The next was Shoko, the school’s …nurse? healer? You’re not sure, all you know is that you learned yet another thing about sorcery: RCT. Apparently some people can heal themselves? You knew your deer could heal you, but you didn’t know that some people could also do that.
And lastly there was Ijichi. Nervous guy, eyes constantly flitting everywhere but Gojo while wringing his hands together and bowing a good ninety degrees when he first saw you. He’s an assistant at the school, mostly there to chauffeur people around and put up veils.
Yuji, at one point, had popped up out of nowhere, scaring the shit out of Ijichi. But when he finally saw who it was, he instantly seemed calmer?
You’re not sure what happened between Gojo and Ijichi for him to be so nervous around the guy, but you’re sure to find out one day. Or maybe you’re the anomaly, standing so casually beside The Strongest, but then again Nanami and Shoko weren’t nervous. At all.
After that it was just training the kids, constantly. Gojo would stand off to the side, watching everything go down, and snickering every time the kids would win. Yeah, you’re absolutely shit at hand to hand, never having been taught how to, while these kids train for things like these.
Like right now, you’re sparring with Megumi, who’s absolutely getting one in on you. Gojo can only smile at the sight. You might not be good at hand to hand, but you gave so much valuable information to not only Megumi but also Gojo about the Ten Shadows technique that’s surely handy to know.
There’s a small smile on Gojo’s lips when he sees your feet get sweeped out from under you, only for you to sink into the shadows before your back hits the ground. It’s smart, really. You might not be an experienced fighter, but you’re smart. Adapting to everything that gets thrown your way.
He isn’t sure when Yuji and Nobara creeped up on him—too occupied by watching the spar that just doesn’t seem to end—but they’re absolutely grinning while eyeing each other.
“Soooo,” Nobara begins, only for Yuji to cut her off completely. “How long have you had a crush on the new teacher?” Nobara elbows him with a scowl and mutters something only Yuji can hear.
Gojo blinks a few times behind his blindfold. A crush? On you? No way, he’s just watching you to make sure you’re not up to something. The feelings he had for you when he was younger surely have dwindled by now.
Putting his hands in his pockets he looks down at the two menaces that are still eyeing him with sweet smiles that don’t match their eyes. Fucking gossip vultures is what they are. “I don’t have a thing for your new teacher.”
“Bullshit! You’re always watching her,” Nobara scowls while folding her arms in front of her chest. “It’s been weeks, Gojo-sensei, and you’re always watching her. Even with the blindfold on, we can feel your gaze on her, like a compass trying to find north.”
That… was a weird thing to say, especially coming from Yuji. Gojo’s eyes flick towards the mat once more, just to make sure you can’t hear the three of them. You and Megumi have sat down, all three demon dogs—Toru, Kuroo and Megumi’s black demon dog—playing with each other while you and Megumi are talking.
“Duhhh, I have to make sure the three of you don’t absolutely destroy her in the hand to hand spars,” he retorts. Nobara is already getting her phone out of her pocket, “But you even look at her outside of the spars— here, see! In this picture you’re looking at her even though she’s just talkin—”
The brat really has taken pictures of him without him noticing. He tunes the two of them out, because he already knows that they aren’t gonna stop until he ‘confesses’, which isn’t gonna happen because he isn’t into you.
So why do his cheeks feel so warm when even thinking about nursing a crush on you?
It’s been four months since you came back to Japan. Four months of being back in Satoru’s life. Four months of him constantly hovering behind you, like he’s afraid you’ll leave again if he isn’t watching. You’re not sure if he knows you know he’s checking in on you, but it’s quite sweet, honestly.
The two of you are sitting on the couch, two bowls of strawberry ice cream in front of you, with a plate of mochi on the table—Satoru’s idea, of course.
Gojo had put on a show to watch while eating, but you’re not quite focused on that. The bowl of ice cream forgotten in your lap while you’re hunched over your phone, thumbs flying over the screen to send messages back.
You’re just about to send the text message when an incoming call comes through.
Mom
Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Why now.
Satoru looks over, spoon in his mouth, eyebrow raised while he looks over at your phone. You’re about to decline the call when Satoru reaches over and clicks on the accept call button. Looking over with wide eyes, you mouth a ‘what are you doing?’, and he only shrugs.
It’s then that you hear your mother’s voice come through the line, calling out your name. “Hello, are you there?”
The bastard had put it on speaker as well. Scowling you look back at your phone. “I- yeah. Hi, mom,” you awkwardly say.
Your mom immediately starts berating you, asking you how you could go to Japan without letting anyone know, and for four months at that!
Shoulders pulled up to your ears, cheeks red, you keep opening and closing your mouth, but before you can even get a word out your mother is already speaking again.
“Seriously, Japan? I’ve told you so many times not to go back to that place. And now I have to find out through your work that you’ve been gone for four months already? You said you were going on a two week vacation, not move to another country!”
Right, you did say that. Back when you first got here in December, you’d told your mother that you would take a small vacation to the Maldives—not Japan and definitely not for four months. She’s probably worried sick.
Swallowing you finally speak up. “Things just… didn’t go according to plan—”
“Are you still in Japan in hopes to find that boy? God, how many times have I told you to get over the guy. You two were friends when you were kids. It’s been twenty-two years for goodness sake! He probably doesn’t even remember who you are.”
Well fucking ouch. And how are you going to tell her he’s sitting right beside you? Yes, that’s right, you haven’t even told her that you found Gojo, but then again, you also didn’t tell her you were in Japan out of all places.
She continues her berating. “On that topic, you should start living your life. I found someone for you, he’s sweet, and tall, and a true gentleman—and before you say anything, I don’t care that the only guy you’re willing to marry is Gojo Satoru, that excuse is getting real old.”
You’re spluttering out replies, but all Gojo can focus on is that one sentence. The only guy you’re willing to marry is Gojo Satoru. Only guy. Willing to marry. Gojo Satoru. You. Marry. Him. You want to marry him?
And by your reaction it’s clear that you did say that and it wasn’t something your mother made up on the spot. You’ve talked about wanting to marry him? Despite the two of you not having seen each other for more than two decades?
The information just refuses to compute in his head. Why would you want to marry him? Was it because of the name or wealth that came with it? The protection from the Zen’in clan, maybe? Or was it because you just really liked him when the two of you were younger?
But then again, you haven’t seen him in ages, surely you would’ve found someone else you liked during all of those years.
It just doesn’t make sense in his head.
It would be one thing to not make any new best friends, reserving that spot for him somehow, but it’s a whole other thing to tell your mother you didn’t want to marry anyone other than him.
And from the discussion that’s still going on beside him, it’s clear you’ve talked about him. A lot. And not just when you were younger—that part you did tell him, the fact that you cried over him and manifested a Shikigami that looked like him, the same way he cried over you for all of those years—but also when you were older.
He doesn’t know what to do with the information he just got handed on a silver platter. Sure, he could tease you for it, but that would still not help with his questions that are floating around in his head.
Fuck, you just keep throwing curveballs. From coming back in his life after twenty-two years to showing him that you inherited the Zen’in clan’s technique—and subsequently telling him you’re of Zen’in lineage—to the fact that you manifested a dog that looked identical to him.
Never in his life would he have thought that you coming back into his life would lead to all of this.
But one thing he can say for certain now—and even before, but the logical part of his brain was still on edge. Plus he wasn’t quite ready to forgive you just yet for being gone for so long, and even admitting to the fact that you could’ve came back earlier—is that you’re not here to take him out.
You really came here just to see him. Even if you didn’t know if he would let you back in his life. It was a gamble you took because you missed him the same way he has missed you for all of those years.
Fuck.
He hasn’t even noticed that you hung up the phone. It’s only when you turn to him with wide eyes that he finally looks at you again.
“You shouldn’t believe everything she said, like— yeah, sure I didn’t tell her I was going to Japan, but that’s only because I knew she wouldn’t approve. I tried to when I was a teenager, but she shot that idea down every time, because she was too scared to be recognized by some random Zen’in clan member—”
“You wanted to marry me, huh?” he smirks down at you, because honestly it is adorable, even if it doesn’t make sense.
Putting your hands out in front of you, you wave them around. “It’s not what you think—stop looking at me like that, yes I can feel the way you’re looking at me, Gojo, It doesn’t matter you have a blindfold on. It’s not like I told my mom ‘Heyyyy mom, just so you know, I won’t ever marry someone except for my childhood best friend’, it was just that she kept trying to set me up for dates that I didn’t want to go on.”
Raising his eyebrows he lets the silence sit for a few seconds, just to watch you squirm a little, let it sink in what you’ve just told him, because he’s a dick like that. “So the first thing you came up with is that you wouldn’t date because you wanted to marry me?”
“I- well… I mean,” you trail off before huffing a breath through your nose and crossing your arms over your chest, not daring to look him into the eyes. “You were, like, my only friend ever, so it was the only excuse I had.”
That sends a small pang through his chest. He was your only friend, ever? That’s actually incredibly sad. In a way it reminds him of himself, of all the years he had to stay at the Gojo estate where he was spoken to like an adult and treated like one.
It was incredibly lonely, even if he was constantly surrounded by people. But it wasn’t like they were there to just let him be a child, no. He had to train, to be on his best behaviour, had to learn so many things a child shouldn’t have to learn, only because he was born with the Six Eyes.
Luckily he had Shoko and Geto back when he started high school. They were always there for him, though they weren’t quite you, they were absolute crackheads in their own way. And he loved them for it.
After high school it went quite different, obviously. Losing Geto to his ideals and Shoko being more reserved in nature—sure he could still go to her, but she also changed. A lot. And he just doesn’t want to burden her even further.
So it’s been just him since the second year, too. And yes he can still annoy people—such as Ijichi, Yaga and Nanami—but he never got quite close to anyone, either.
So the fact that you didn’t have any friends either sends a small pang through his chest. Trying to alleviate the mood, he chuckles a bit, “What, like, people didn’t wanna be friends with you because you stole their food and drew on them?”
“No I just… I mean in the beginning I was missing you so incredibly much, I was constantly crying, not even trying to make new friends because, y’know, you were my friend and I had just lost you in a way. After that I kinda became the ‘transfer who cried the whole time’ so people avoided me.”
If he didn’t feel bad before, he certainly does now. He can’t imagine how hard it is to have your life completely turned upside down at the bright age of six, only to not have any friends either.
“Not that it really mattered back then, it’s not like I spoke the language, so even any attempts of having a friend flew out of the window. And after that I just, I dunno, didn’t want any friends, I guess.” You shrug your shoulders, trying to be nonchalant about all of it.
Well that’s fucking sad, isn’t it? Here you are, trauma dumping onto the one person who has offered you a place to stay while you’re in japan—sure he kinda roped you into it by immediately giving you a teachers position, but still—being generous even while he didn’t have to.
“But don’t worry about it, I’m completely fine this way!” you quickly add, hoping that he didn’t feel too sorry for you. That’s not something you want.
Looking down, you see that your ice cream has melted into a sad puddle of pink goo. Standing up, you can see Gojo startle a bit, you reach over to pluck his bowl right out of his lap. He was almost done eating it, so there isn’t much melted ice cream left in his bowl.
“Well, this looks fucking sad, I’ll clean these up!” You practically sprint toward the kitchen to get away from the awkward tension that’s in the air.
Setting the bowls down in the sink with a clank! you close your eyes for just a second. Of course this would happen right where he could hear. He probably thinks you’re a freak for even being like this.
The days after are awkward to say the least. You’ve noticed Gojo hovering less and less around you, often times choosing to actually just do things for himself, instead of watching you.
He hasn’t made any comments on your excessive cleaning, either. You’ve cleaned the kitchen three times in the past two days, and even when you were on your hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, did he only look at you for a second or two before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and going back to whatever he was doing before.
Whenever the two of you go to the school, he also doesn’t watch you spar anymore. He either gets to sparring with one of the students himself, or he bounces off to his office, telling you that he has some paperwork to catch up to.
While you don’t doubt he has paperwork—he definitely has, a lot of it too—he has told you he absolutely hates doing it. Most of the times he would just tell Ijichi to do it for him while he did other stuff. So it’s glaringly obvious that he’s avoiding you.
Gojo, in the meanwhile, can’t get over the conversation the two of you had a few days ago. He really has been your only friend all of your life, and here he was mad at you for abandoning him, and only thinking you were back in his life to off him.
In a way he feels fucking guilty for it. Not trusting you for four months, despite you never giving him any reason not to. The only thing you ever did was move away, but that wasn’t your decision, so why was he so mad at you?
Sure, you could’ve came back earlier—much earlier—but you had been doubting he even wanted you back in his life, which he can understand.
So he has been giving you some space for yourself. Stopped hovering around you constantly, watching your every move. Stopped doubting that you were in his life for bad reasons.
And apparently the students noticed as well, because not ten minutes after he went to sit down in his office chair, the door slams open. A very irritated Nobara and a more enthusiastic Yuji standing beside her in the threshold.
“So you finally realised that you’re in love with her or something?” Nobara asks, while stalking over to claim the only other seat in the office—a big, luxurious chair that swallows her whole.
Yuji calmly closes the door and walks over to where his classmate is sitting. “You’ve been kinda avoiding her these past few days, sensei.”
Seems like his personal business can’t stay personal with these two. He should’ve expected as much, honestly, from the moment they asked if he had a thing for you. Though they never asked him anything about it afterward, he’s sure they still watched him like a hawk.
Rubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a long, suffering sigh. Because what the fuck is he even supposed to say to that? They don’t even know that the two of you are childhood best friends, by his choice, really.
“I’m just trying to find her a birthday gift,” is what he says instead. Which definitely was the wrong thing to say, seeing the way Nobara’s eyes light up. Shit.
“You could’ve just said so, now move—” she plucks the iPad right out of his hands, screen lighting up on the last tab he had open. “—what the fuck, Gojo?”
That certainly attracts Yuji’s attention, looking down at the screen, he furrows his brows. “Why are you trying to buy Tamagotchi’s?”
“It’s a joke gift, you guys wouldn’t understand— gimme it back,” Nobara holds the iPad out of reach, tapping things into the tablet without once looking at Gojo.
“Well, whatever, if you want her to be turned off by your gift, go for it. As for a normal gift, what about this?” She turns the screen back toward Gojo. Looking it over, he sees two dog beds for a ridiculous price, not that he cares much about that, he has more money than he can ever spend, but still.
It’s thoughtful, to be completely honest, and not something he would’ve came up with himself. With the way there are multiple dog beds that are strewn all over his apartment, he would’ve never thought to get you new ones. But when he thinks about the beds, they are quite old, torn in some places, stuffing flat.
“Oh, oh! And maybe you could get like a small gift basket filled with sweets. She likes those right? She’s always snacking on something,” Yuji adds, bouncing slightly in place, faded rose tufts moving with the motion.
Yeah that does sound good. And something you would absolutely love, considering you still have the same sweet-tooth you had when you were younger.
“Okay, okay. I’ll get her that, now go back to whatever the two of you were doing before coming here to lecture me on gifts,” he shoos them out of the door. Just before he closes it, he can hear Nobara yell a ‘Don’t fuck this up’ over her shoulder.
Closing the door, he lets his head rest against it for a few seconds. Yeah, this is absolutely going to be either a fail or an absolute win, and he has no idea which of the two it’s gonna be.
Two weeks later, he's anxiously sitting at the dining table—somewhere he never sits—fiddling with the plastic wrap around the gift basket, the sound of it crinkling is the only sound filling the room other than the dogs their breathing and occasionally shifting.
Toru had been trying to play with him earlier, dropping a ball in front of his feet, only for Satoru to not even notice it. He’s so nervous—and for what? It’s just your birthday. Twenty-nine. No big deal. Not your ‘milestone’ thirty everyone keeps talking about.
So why is he so nervous right now?Maybe it has to do with the fact that this is the first time he’s spending your birthday with you since you turned five. Yes, you were there on his sixth birthday, but you were only five—almost six—back then.
He’s done breathing exercises. Him. Gojo Satoru. The Strongest. Had done breathing exercises because he was nervous to give gifts to his best friend… childhood best friend? just friends? Whatever.
He’s never, and I mean never, been this nervous before. He’s had to face death when he was merely sixteen years old. He had to kill his best friend when he was twenty-eight. But none of those made him as nervous as he is right now.
Bouncing his knee while sitting, trying to sit still until you finally woke up. He’s been sitting here since the bright and early hour of five a.m. Getting the gifts ready for you, but right now he’s regretting that decision, because it means having to wait god knows how long for you to wake up.
It’s ridiculous, really. Trying to keep calm while he still has to actually give you the gifts, and what if you don’t like them? What if you laugh at him? Or maybe scold him?
He’s spiraling, but luckily not for long because a wet nose presses itself against his palm. Looking down, he sees Toru staring at him with narrowed eyes. Scratching him behind the ear, Satoru tries to focus himself on the dog.
He rolls the ball into the living room, the dog prancing after it, nails making soft click click click sounds against the hardwood floors. Coming back, he drops the saliva soaked ball in Satoru’s awaiting hand.
With a grimace he throws the ball once more, wiping his hand on his sweats. The fabric darkening where he wipes off the drool. You’d think for shadow constructs that they wouldn’t have any saliva, but they do, apparently. Which is interesting, because they don’t really have any other ‘normal’ dog things.
They don’t need to eat nor drink—though you insist on feeding them occasionally and putting out water bowls that just… sit there and never get used—nor do they have to be walked. Sure they love to run around, Toru moreso than Kuroo, but that’s something they already do in the apartment.
Speaking of, the black dog stands up, stretching herself, hairs raising slightly. “Oooohhh, biiigg stretch,” the words leave his mouth before he even realises it.
He has to blink a few times when he realises he said that. It’s something you tell the dogs when they stretch out, acting as if they’re actual dogs and not just Shikigami.
Looks like you’re rubbing off on him.
When Satoru finally hears your door open fifteen minutes later, he sits up straight. You’re walking out, one hand in your hair, scratching your scalp slightly while still yawning.
“G’morning,” you mumble, walking directly to the kitchen. But Gojo doesn’t even hear it, because all he can focus on is your pajamas, if you can even call them that.
A tank top that has ridden up dangerously high, so much so it’s bunched around your ribs—something you seem completely unaware of—and the shorts. God, can he even call them shorts? Your ass is nearly hanging out of the thing.
There’s so much skin, which definitely doesn’t help when you bend over to grab a pan from the cupboards. His entire brain just… shuts off. It only seems to turn back on when the pan clanks! onto the furnace.
Clearing his throat he stands up. “Morning. I- you- fucking hell, happy birthday to you!” he almost fucking cheers. You look over at him, eyebrows furrowed, still fiddling with the knob to turn on the furnace. “That’s today?”
That makes him sweat just slightly. Did he remember the date wrong? Fuck, is today even your birthday? He’s sweating over here, trying to figure out if it really is your birthday, while you’re whispering under your breath.
Did you really forget your own birthday? Surely not. Then again, you don’t really celebrate it. Your parents send you a text and come over whenever they can with some gifts, but other than that, you don’t really pay any mind to it.
Patting your shorts, you’re trying to allocate your phone, whichhhh is probably still under your pillow. Giving up on trying to get the furnace to work, you run to the bedroom, trying to find your phone, hand wildly patting underneath your pillow.
When you finally find the thing, you swipe it open, only to be met with two texts from your parents. It is your birthday!
Going back inside, you see Gojo stand a bit awkwardly in the middle of the room. Kuroo brushes her head against your bare leg, the soft strands of her fur tickling you slightly.
“Thank you, Gojo,” you thank him, though it’s slightly awkward after running out of the room after he congratulated you.
“I got you presents.” Stepping to the side, you finally see that there are a few boxes on the table—one massive one, a smaller one, and a basket wrapped in plastic wrap. Blinking, you’re trying to process the fact that Gojo had bought you presents.
Is this why he has been avoiding you? When the two of you were children he was terrible at keeping secrets. Whispering all excitedly to you about what he had gotten you, only to clasp a hand over his mouth, eyes widening, when he finally realised he shouldn’t have told you your present.
It always made you laugh to see those blues widening significantly. You didn’t care much for surprises, as long as you knew the gift came from Gojo, it would be all right.
“You didn’t have to,” you say softly, still eyeing the gifts on the table. Gojo just grins and walks behind you, nudging you slightly. “Go on, open them.”
Looking back at him, he gives you a small encouraging nod. Walking forward, you start with the big gift. Opening it, you’re met with two new, luxurious dog beds. The quality feels like it’s expensive. They’re big enough for the dogs to comfortably sleep in, and the bedding itself is soft as fuck.
Gojo sees you carefully lift one of the beds, turning it this and that way, inspecting it, before putting it on the ground. Toru, of course, prances over and sniffs the bed once before tilting its head your way. When you nod, he lets himself flop onto the bed, white fur splaying out against the gray fabric.
A small smile graces your face. Grabbing the other dog bed, you lay it down for Kuroo, who is a bit more careful. She steps onto the bed, makes a small circle, before finally going to lay down. She doesn’t huff when doing so, which Gojo considers as a win.
Then you go to grab the gift basket. There are multiple snacks in there, along with a few things he’s seen you buy over the months you’ve been living here or have been mentioning. A small bracelet you saw during one of the missions with the kids. Perfume you always wished to have, but never had the money for. Some scrubs he sees you buy from time to time.
Smiling, you rip the plastic away. “This is so sweet, Gojo, thank you,” you smile all cute at him over your shoulder, before looking back down to the gifts. Opening the box with the bracelet, you fucking gasp.
“I can’t accept this, do you know how expensive that thing was?!” you turn around, box still open with the bracelet neatly laid out for you.
“Yes you can, c’mhere,” he murmurs, moving forward to pluck the box right out of your delicate fingers.
Grabbing the bracelet, he angles your wrist down a bit so he can put it on for you. The sunlight hitting the silver pendant just so that it glints. You touch the bracelet with reverent fingers. “Thank you,” you murmur, looking up at Gojo through your lashes.
His throat bobs when he swallows, looking down at you—having to keep his eyes from wandering lower, because he can look riiiight into your top from this angle—stepping back slightly. “You’re welcome.”
After a few more seconds of eye-contact, you sift through the basket again. All the sweets he got you were really what you liked, and not necessarily him. Fuck, it’s really thoughtful.
Opening a box of strawberry mochi, you hold one out for him to grab. His long fingers brushing yours in the process. “Sweets for breakfast?” it’s not like he cares much, shoving the sweet right into his mouth.
Laughing you take a bite for yourself. Dusting your fingers off, you grab some of the snacks and put them on the table. “Be right back.”
He sees you walk to your room, which makes him smile. Sure, you were chaos—and there are times where it shines through even nowadays—but if it’s one thing you did, it was cleaning up your gifts. Whenever you got a gift, you put it in its rightful place before continuing to open the rest of them.
It never made sense to his young mind, but then again, many things you did didn’t.
When you come back, you eye the small gift left on the table. Grabbing it you unbox it, only to be confused. In the box was a tiny egg-like device.
“You got me a Tamagotchi?” you ask him, turning the thing around around a few times to really confirm it is in fact a Tamagotchi. Gojo grins, putting his hands in the pockets of his sweats, rocking on his heels a little. “Mhmmm.”
“Why?” you ask, finally looking at him, and that grin on his face tells you he’s up to no good. “You remember when your mom called you?”
Of course you remember that, she had said some things you’d rather not have Gojo known, but alas, the damage was done already. Nodding your head he continues.
“Well, since you wanted to get married to me sooo bad, I just wanted to make your wish come true!” He pulls out a similar looking device from his pocket, dangling the little keychain from his finger, grin widening and eyes crinkling with the motion.
You stare at him for a few more seconds, completely dumbfounded. “Let me get this straight. You got me a Tamagotchi because you heard my mother say that I had told her that I would only ever marry you—so she would stop setting me up for blind dates—so our little Tamagotchi’s can get married?”
Gojo gins and nods his head, the hairs on his head bouncing with the motion. “Mhmmmm, I just wanted to make your dream come true.”
One second he’s grinning down at you, the next he gets a pillow to the face. When the fuck did you even get a pillow? And one from your bed nonetheless. Blinking disorientated, he looks at you for a few seconds. Then sees Kuroo sitting next to you, her tail wagging onto the ground.
Oh. Oh, it’s so on. A small chuckle escapes him, “Oh sweetheart, you have no idea what you’ve done.”
With that he moves towards you faster than you can even process. Wraps his arms around your waist and carries you to the couch. You keep hitting him with the pillow, over and over and over, squealing slightly while you kick your legs in his grip.
“Satoru Gojo, put me down right now!” you demand, still hitting him with the pillow.
“As you wish!” He all but throws you onto the couch. Bouncing slightly you blink up at him, questioning what he’s even gonna do, when you see his fingers start to creep towards your sides.
“Don’t you dare— Satoru I’m serious,” you warn him while pointing your finger at him.
He thinks it’s adorable, honestly; your little finger wagging in his face like that’s going to stop him from tickling you. It’s one of the weaknesses you’ve had since you were young. Ticklish as fuck, whereas Gojo could be tickled and he would not react. At all.
Your laughter echoes through the apartment, trying to squirm away from his fingers digging into your sides. Gojo chuckles at the fucking torture he’s putting you through, there are tears gathering in your eyes and your sides are starting to hurt.
“Ah- okay okay, enough,” when he still doesn’t stop, you call in for drastic measures. “Kuroo, Toru, attack!”
The dogs immediately ‘attack’ Satoru—Toru biting on the fabric of his sweats, trying to get him away while Kuroo tries to, delicately, grab ahold of Satoru’s wrist to get his hand off you.
The tickling finally stops. Taking greedy gulps of air, Satoru slumping over you, pulling a small groan from your chest. “That’s cheating,” he whines. Then looks over at the dogs and whispers: ‘betrayal, after all I did for you guys’.
Nudging the tall, white-haired guy that’s still half sprawled over your torso like a corpse, you smile at him. “Thanks, for the gifts. And remembering.”
“Always.”
You open Satoru’s bedroom door without knocking. It’s something you really should start learning to do, because if you did, you probably wouldn’t be met with this sight.
You’re not sure what reaches your brain faster, the way Satoru is laid out on his bed, all naked. Fist pumping his ridiculously large cock, with a pretty pink tip and multiple veins running along the shaft. Pre cum is beading out of the head, which he smears down with each pump of his hand. His head is thrown back slightly, teeth sunken into his plush bottom lip, eyes hooded and focused on his phone.
Or the way his phone is cradled in his free hand, screen facing him, the light illuminating everything you can see. The speakers letting the pornographic moans echo through the space.
Satoru looks over at you, still frozen in the doorway, mouth open—not sure if it’s because you’re shocked or because you were on the verge of saying something and the words never made it out.
His hand never stops stroking. up and down, up and down, up and down, up and— stop looking at it. You shake yourself out of your stupor, feeling your cheeks heat up completely.
“Sorry!” you squeak out, ready to turn on your heel and go back to your own room. You feel so stupid.
Should’ve knocked. Should’ve closed the door the moment you saw what was happening. Should’ve just waited until next morning.
You’ve taken one step back when Satoru call out. “Wait. Stay, please?” his voice is breathy, a groan tears from his throat next when he thumbs over his own slit. Looking over your shoulder, you try to keep your eyes on his face.
The way his mouth is slightly parted, chest heaving with every ragged breath he takes. The flush on his face continues all the way down to said chest. Eyebrows furrowed slightly.
Swallowing you take another step back. leave leave leave, just leave. You must’ve heard him wrong. just. leave. Reaching for the door handle, you want to shut the door behind you. Once again Satoru speaks up, eyes still completely fixed on you. “Please?” he pleads.
Chewing on your lip you contemplate it for a second before you step into the room. It feels wrong. It is wrong. This is your friend—your best friend. You shouldn’t do this, having read too many stories about people losing their best friends after hooking up with them.
But… are you hooking up with him? Technically you’re watching him, not that that’s any better. Watch the way his hand slides up and down his shaft, occasionally squeezing at the base. Watch the way his pupils are blown wide with lust.
“Good girl,” Satoru breathes out, and your thighs clench on instinct. Fuck. Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought this would actually happen.
Without realising your hand finds your clit over your sleeping shorts, a small gasp leaving your lips at the contact. Then you freeze, eyes blown wide.
Were you really about to touch yourself while looking at how your best friend is jerking himself off? Fuck you’re a perv.
Gojo groans at the sight, throwing his head back slightly. His hips lift from the matrass, meeting his hands with desperate thrusts. “Fuck, touch yourself for me,” he almost whines the words out, pausing the porn video he was previously watching and throwing his phone somewhere on the bed. He pats the bed next, inviting you in.
Gulping you walk over, tentatively putting a knee on the matrass. Then your other, before you’re seated on the bed on your knees. Feet under your butt, hands laying limp in your lap. Gnawing on your lower lip, you look at Satoru.
From here you can clearly see his face, illuminated by the sliver of moonlight the curtains let through. You can see his eyes fully now. See the way there’s only a small, thin ring of blue left. Pupils completely blown out and focused on you.
His eyes travel from your own face down to your pajamas—a small tank top and shorts that shouldn’t even be able to be classified as shorts—eyes lingering on the way your nipples poke through the top. He licks his lips at the sight, fucking his fist a bit faster. More pre spilling out.
Fuck, how he wishes he could just wrap his lips around them. Teeth grazing the sensitive nubs—have you cry out in pleasure. Another groan leaves his throat.
“C’mon, sweetheart, touch yourself for me,” he repeats. Because god, the way you were about to do it from watching him jerk off, it turned him on so incredibly much more than the amateur porn he was watching on his phone.
He had a bad habit of searching up videos where the girl resembled you. It was the only way he could cum after you came back in his life—he realised that after trying to search for one of his favorite videos, and just couldn’t get hard. At all.
Until he stumbled upon a video where the girl vaguely resembled you. His dick instantly twitched at the sight, reminding him of how embarrassingly hard he got whenever you bent over to grab something from the floor, or the lower cupboards. Or when you’d come out of your room in sleepwear that really shouldn’t be called sleepwear.
Seeing you hesitate makes him speak up again. “Want me to beg? I’ll do it— please touch yourself—fffuckk—for me,” he squeezes his tip, before returning to pumping his shaft. And that snaps you out of it.
You shyly put your legs in front of you, thighs slightly parted. And Gojo can see the small, wet patch starting to form on the crotch of your short’s fabric. Next you shimmy out of them and— “Not wearing any panties? Dirty girl.”
It makes your skin heat up even more, because you never thought that not wearing any panties would lead to this. Putting your middle finger on your clit, you apply slight pressure. Gasping out, your hips lift slightly.
Your finger drops down to your soaked entrance next. You circle it with the pad of your finger, not once daring to dip inside, just circling it, catching your slick on your finger before bringing it back up to your clit.
Circling the sensitive bundle of nerves, you suck in a shaky breath, chest stuttering with it. Your thighs close slightly, before you force them open again. Looking over you can see Gojo’s eyes transfixed on your fingers.
You can feel your hole clench around nothing, more slick gushing out of you. And how you wish it were his fingers on you—on your clit, on your thighs, inside of you. Your free hand travels up to your breast, pinching your nipple through the fabric.
Whining out you throw your head back, before your fingers glide from your clit to your entrance. Sinking one finger in, you bite on your lower lip. Gojo groans at the sight of your finger disappearing into your tiny hole.
How he wishes it was his finger being hugged by your tight, wet, warm, walls. He wishes he could feel them clench on his digits, wish he could scissor you open—make you cry out at how much thicker and longer his fingers were compared to yours.
His hand matches your rhythm, the way you’re thrusting in and out. In and out, in and out, in and out. He can feel his lower stomach starting to contract. Abs tensing up. But he wants to wait for you to cum as well. Wants to cum at the same time.
“Add another finger,” he groans out. And you do just that, adding a second finger with a small gasp falling from your lips. It almost tips him over the edge. The two of you work in tandem, hands and fingers moving in the same speed. Hoping—wishing you could feel the other.
The room fills with sounds—ragged breaths, the shlick shlick shlick from both your fingers plunging into your wet pussy, and from Gojo’s hand pumping its shaft. The knot in your stomach tightening with the seconds, getting warmer and warmer.
The hand that was pinching and rolling your nipple between your fingers falls down to your pussy, circling your clit. “Close,” you gasp out. Gojo doesn’t reply, just moves his hand a bit faster, until finally white spurts of cum dribble down his hands.
You follow him seconds after, eyes rolling to the back of your skull. The knot in your stomach finally snapping, sending you into an blinding orgasm. Legs snapping shut, trapping both your hands between them and your pussy. Thighs trembling.
Coming down from your high, you look over at Satoru, who looks utterly blissed out. There’s cum on his hand, thighs, abs, and even some on the matrass. He’s giving himself a few more strokes, cum dribbling down from his slit with some after spurts.
Removing your fingers from your heat, you look around awkwardly. There’s cum dribbling down your fingers, but you don’t want to just wipe them off on Satoru’s duvet.
Before you can even scoot off the bed to go clean yourself up, Satoru is suddenly in front of you— still in his full, naked glory. Skin flushed and shiny with sweat, still dragging in breaths like he sprinted a full marathon.
You open your mouth to ask him what he’s doing, but the words die out instantly. Satoru wraps his lips around your fingers and suuuucks your juices right off them. His tongue swirling around them. His eyes rolling to the back of his skull while he hums around your digits. You slightly jerk your hand back, before he grabs your wrist to keep them in place.
Once he’s done cleaning your fingers, he licks a broad stripe from your fingers all the way down to your wrist, where slick is dripping down.
You can feel your eyes go wide, mouth parting slightly. The sight is ungodly—or rather godly. The pale moonlight shining on Satoru makes his stark white hair stand out even more, his skin pale skin illuminated by the white light.
Satoru’s eyes find yours—pupils still blown wide, a bit hazy—while he licks one last stripe up your palm, collecting the last of your sweetness. The sight makes you feel parched, swallowing nervously you bite on your lip, unsure of what to do.
Pulling his head from your hand, he winks at you while his tongue swipes over his lips. Your eyes flitting to them like a moth to a flame. And you wonder—not for the first time—what it’s like to feel them on yours. What it would feel like kissing your best friend.
“You taste so sweet,” he rasps out, pulling you from your thoughts. Staring at him with wide eyes you open your mouth to say something—probably something stupid—when he beats you to it. “‘Wonder what it’s like straight from the source.”
You gasp at that, thighs clenching. You feel your pussy throb for him, as if it has a little heartbeat of its own. A fresh wave of sweetness dribbling out at his words. Gojo’s eyes immediately are drawn toward the action, a slow grin forming on his face.
“Oh? You’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweets,” he’s smug. His pearly whites catching the moonlight, making him even more attractive. Fuck. Yes, you would like that. Have him buried between your legs, staring up at you while he makes you feel good. Have your hands grip his hair. Thighs wrapped around his head.
He sees you nod your head, a shy, quick little thing. Your whole face is burning up from your cheeks to the tips of your ears down your neck toward your chest. It makes him wonder if it continues all the way to your tits, still covered in that damn tank top.
That wouldn’t do now, would it?
Leaning back, he goes to lay down onto his back, still looking at you. “What- what are you doing?” you ask him, voice fully confused. And god, if it doesn’t do things to him.
“Want you to ride my face,” he replies, looking over at you before grabbing your thighs and moving them for you.
You’re straddling his chest, thighs bracketing him, pussy dripping. The sight is absolutely filthy—something he could only ever dream of since you got back into his life.
The only thing that would be better was if that damn top was finally gone. Your pebbled nipples taunting him through the fabric.
Running his hands up and down your thighs, feeling you shiver, he runs his hands up to your waist, fingers brushing the hem. “Off,” he orders.
Gulping you comply with him, pulling it over your head and throwing it somewhere across the room. Your tits bounce with the motion, finally freed of the constricting fabric. A low, guttural groan pulls from Gojo’s throat at the sight. God, aren’t you beautiful. Fully naked on top of him, eyes blown wide looking into his own.
Yeah, he could get used to this. His hands travel up to your breasts, giving them a quick squeeze that has you gasping out, before they travel down and hook onto your thighs once more. He pulls you to hover over his face, your puffy, glistening lips right above his own. His eyes zeroing in on it, unconsciously licking his lips at the sight.
You grab the headboard behind his head, lowering yourself slightly when he nods at you—not fully seated, still hovering, thighs straining slightly. Which is apparently the wrong choice when a firm slap lands on your ass.
“Sit.” There’s no room for debate, no room for you to even stammer out a reply when Satoru pulls you down completely. You arch when you feel his tongue swipe one broad stripe from your fluttering hole all the way to your clit. “F-fuck, Satoru,” you mewl out, grip tightening on the headboard.
Both his hands grip your hips, keeping you slightly in place, before he begins to fully lap at your cunt. He wraps his lips around your bundle of nerves and suuucksss. Your thighs tightening around his head with a small gasp.
Satoru groans out, pressing his tongue into you. Your warm walls clamping down on the muscle immediately. Wriggling his tongue around, he starts slowly tongue-fucking you. The act so filthy, you can’t help but keen out.
One hand leaves the headboard, tangling into his moonlit white hair. It shimmers slightly in the light, making it all that more alluring to grab onto.
His own hand travels up from your hip to the underside of your boobs. His thumb resting there for a moment before continuing upward, fingers finding your hardened peak. Twisting and pulling at it, his tongue leaves your entrance, finding your clit again. He suckles and laps at the nub while still stimulating your nipple.
Your hips grind down onto his face, smearing more of your slick over the lower part of his face. A firm slap to your behind has you gasping out and tightening your hold in his locks. “That’s it, fuck yourself on my tongue. ‘S alll yours,” he mutters into your cunt, blue eyes finding yours.
The vibrations have you moan out. Hips resuming their grind on his face, your other hand joins his hair keeping his face in place for you. Your clit grazes his nose and fuckkkkk. Whimpering you throw your head back.
Closing his eyes, he savors the way you use him. Savors the way you grind down on his face. Savors the way you grip his hair, cock stirring where it’s resting on his stomach, pre beading out slowly, head fully flushed. Savors your taste, a forbidden type of nectar he already knows he won’t get enough of.
His hands grip your ass, encouraging the slow, filthy grinds on his face. So into it, he doesn’t notice one of your hands left his hair until it touches his abs lightly. Opening his eyes he sees you above him; breasts moving with the motion, lip swollen from biting down on it, eyes hazed over.
Then he feels your hand wrap around his cock, giving it a firm tug and he hisses into your mound. The grinds of your hips returning, timing it with the way you’re slowly starting to move your hand on his cock. “Fuck, baby,” he rasps out, hips thrusting up to meet your fist. “Wait—fuck—turn around.”
You still above him before letting go of his shaft and positioning yourself above him once again. Leaning forward you wrap your hand around him again while his tongue finds your clit once more.
Sticking out your tongue, you lick up the pre that’s slowly running down his shaft. From the base allll the way up to his slit. Wrapping your lips around the flushed head, you slowly begin to bob your head, up and down, up and down, fisting what you can’t reach.
Cheeks hollowed out his tip reaches the back of your throat, making you gag. Gojo’s hips lift at the feeling, making you take more of him in. Your throat constricts around him.
Pulling off him, a strand of saliva connects the two of you. Your hips grinding back against his tongue that worms itself into your heat once more. Moaning you go back to your own demonstrations, tongue slowly swirling around his tip, flicking against his frenulum, having him keen out into your cunt.
Taking him down down down, all the way until your lips hit the base, pubes scratching your chin slightly. Breathing through your nose, you keep yourself down there for one, two, three heartbeats before pulling back up again.
Spit gathers at the bottom of his shaft, slowly dribbling down his balls. It’s incredibly messy, your hand getting slicker by the second, jerking him all the way from his base up to his head, swirling your thumb around the slit a few times.
At the same time you feel two thick digits enter you, your hips bucking back on them, pulling a small chuckle from Gojo. “Oh fuckkkk,” you moan out once they start to move inside of you, reaching much further than your own had just minutes earlier.
Temporarily forgetting about the heavy weight in your hand, you begin to grind back, hips moving on their own accord. Never would you have thought you would feel this good from just having fingers inside of you—scissoring you open.
Your eyes roll back when he hits a particular spot inside of you. “There- there, please Gojo,” you all but moan out when he curls his fingers inside of you, trying to find the spot again. Your hips jump a bit when he finds it again, and his arm tightens on your waist draaagging you back down onto his face.
“Where are you going, baby? Can’t even give my cock any attention and you’re trying to run from my fingers?” He all but pulls you down on his face again, having you seated on there, nose nudging his fingers while his buttery soft tongue circles your clit once more, giving it a playful nip while lifting his hips.
It’s then that you remember to go back to your demonstrations, cock heavy and throbbing in your hand. Cheeks hollowing out while the tip prods the back of your throat once more. Your other hand coming down to fondle with his balls, slick with a mix of saliva and pre.
You can feel that familiar pressure start to build up in your lower stomach, chasing that feeling, you begin to suck harder, throating him completely.
“Fuck- oh fuck fuck fuck, thaaat’s it, take it all down that pretty throat of yours, letting me fuck you,” Gojo starts babbling into your cunt, vibrations sending you nearly over the edge.
You force yourself down here, saliva dripping down the sides of your mouth and chin with the effort. Your eyes starting to get all teary, and throat constricting around him.
You’re gushing around his fingers when they hit that spot inside of you once more, sending you over the edge, liquid spraying down his face—which he drinks up with greedy gulps, pulling his fingers out of you only to replace with his lips, catching everything he can.
Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you move your mouth back up until only the tip remains in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth.
And it sends him over the edge, too. Milky seed filling your mouth faster than you can swallow, dribbling down his shaft, in white streaks.
Pulling off him, you cough a few times, cheeks red, a few tears finally running down your cheeks.
Gojo finally removes his lips from your cunt with a pop!, slapping your clit lightly once. “Good girl, did so good for me, c’mhere.”
He turns you around, and his lips find yours, and you want to protest—try to—that there’s still cum on your lips, but it seems like he doesn’t mind—in fact, he’s lapping it all up, tongue tracing your lips.
Fuck, that’s hot.
Parting for air you look at him, look at the way his hair is all messed up from where your hands were tugging at it, the lower part of his face shiny with slick, lips pink and swollen and his eyes completely blown out.
Shifting slightly, you feel it then— “You’re hard again, already??” Gojo just grins, pearly whites catching the faint moonlight that’s bleeding through the curtains. “Can you blame me? Your pretty cunt is addicting, sweets.”
Your hips roll down onto it, once, twice, head catching your clit with each movement. Small gasps leaving your mouth every time it does.
Gojo’s hands move to your hips, not moving you in any way whatsoever, just holds onto them and lets you use him. Have your way with him the way you want to.
Then he turns the two of you around, the sudden movement making you gasp out. Eyes widening while you look up at him. Your hair splayed out on the pillow like a small halo, framing your face so prettily.
He moves his hips a few times, tip catching your entrance once, making you moan out. “You sure you want this?” he breathes out, staring at you. “Mhmmm, want you inside of me s’toru.”
Fuck, that does it for him. Wrapping his hand at the base, he glides his shaft through your puffy lips a few times, before finally starting to push in. The stretch is obscene, even after having him scissor you open. After two orgasms.
Pushing in slowly, he has to stop a few times, forehead dropping to your sternum, letting himself rest there a little. He’s not even all the way inside yet, but the way you keep clenching makes his hips stutter.
Your hands claw at his back, leaving behind angry red lines in their wake. It feels like you’re being split in half with how big he is. You had him in your hand, in your mouth, lips stretched around his girth, in your throat, but it still feels different.
“Are-are you all the way in yet?” you breathe out when he stills, soft strands tickling your throat while he peppers your skin with kisses. “Naaahhh, nowww—” He buries himself to the hilt, hips flush against yours. “—I am.”
Pulling them back, he thrusts forward again. Moans falling from your lips at the feeling. One of your legs wraps itself around his waist, pulling him in even further. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head with the new angle.
Your bracelet clinks softly with each thrust, pendant catching the moonlight. “You feel so good wrapped around my cock, letting me use you.” he groans out, leaning down to wrap his lip around your nipple.
Climax building, you can feel that familiar feeling tightening in your stomach. “Close,” you gasp out, fingers digging into his shoulders.
Without any warning, Satoru grabs both your thighs and presses them aaaalll the way downnn until they’re flushed against your chest. The new angle has you gasping out, his tip constantly hitting your cervix like this.
your hands claw at his arms, trying to find purchase onto something, and he hisses out at the small, red lines your nails leave behind, his grin returning tenfold. “Thaaat’s it, wifey, mark me up, show them I’m yours.”
You blink at him, opening your mouth to ask him what he means when he thrusts in, reaching impossible depths no one has ever explored before, making you moan out instead. Your nails dig into his biceps, forming angry little crescents.
“F-fuck, S’toru, you’re so deep!” you whine, tears springing to your eyes when he finds that spongy spot inside of you, your walls clamping down on him.
He notices, of course he does, his eyes trained on where the two of you are connected and— oh! Following his gaze you can see your belly start to bulge every time he bottoms out, the sight ever so sinful.
“Pretty wife, taking me so good,” every word is accentuated with a thrust, hitting your spongy spot over and over again, making you keen out, the first tears starting to roll down the apple of your cheeks. And it’s like a switch turned on in his head.
Leaning forward, he plants his arms right next to your head, his chest caging you in completely, your thighs are stuck between your bodies, trembling and twitching with each trust.
Sticking his tongue out, he liiiicks up the tears that are collecting just at your jaw. Groaning he speeds up, the sinful sound of skin slapping together mixed with moans and groans fills the room completely.
Without so much as a warning, you come around him when he bottoms out once again, his happy trail grazing your clit so sinfully. Throwing your head back you keen out at the sensation, that knot finally snapping inside of you.
Gojo groans out at the sensation. “Coming for me already? Fuck, you look so pretty like this. So mine.” he growls, never once stopping his demonstrations. It makes you dizzy in the best way possible. He leaves open-mouthed kisses all over the column of your throat before he bites down.
The sensation has you gasping out, walls tightening around him once more. Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head, thrusts growing more sloppy with the second, teetering on his own release. “My wife, my pretty wife, you look so good, mine, mine, my pretty wife—”
He’s officially lost it. Not that you’re registering his words any longer, the overstimulation has you keeping out, trying to grab at whatever you can—his arms, shoulders, back, leaving behind marks you’ll have to look at the following morning.
Nodding your head at his babbling, you moan out when his hand snakes between your bodies, pressing down on the bulge of where his cock is buried inside of you. “Feel me there? Gonna fill you up so good, aaallll the way down here.”
You’re barely aware of the fact that you’re once again cumming, toes curling, tummy tingling at the feeling. But Gojo is, of course he is, he’s aware of everything you do. Aware of the tears that are streaming down your face, aware of the way your thighs are trembling under his chest, aware of your cunt trying to milk him for all he’s worth.
“Fffuuuck, yeahhhh you want that dont’cha? Wanna be filled up by me, pumped so full it’s spilling out hours later,” he groans out.
Nodding your head, you loop your arms around his neck. “Yes, yes, please! Please S’toru, wanna be filled. Cum inside of me, please,” you whimper out.
That does it, the next second he’s spilling inside your velvety walls, coating them white. His, his, allll his. Leaning forward, he connects his mouth with yours, tongue invading your mouth. It’s all teeth and tongue.
His thrusts come to a halt, last few drops of cum beading out of him inside of your walls. It driiips out with the amount he’s filling you with, creating a white ring around the base of his shaft, slowly dripping down your bodies—coating his balls, bedsheets and your ass in white.
Coming down, he can feel you play with his undercut, rubbing soothing circles with the other hand. You smile up at him, eyes red-rimmed from the tears, angry red blotches forming on your neck. You look so pretty like this; so his.
He can feel his cock stirring to life inside of you, and from your reaction, you can too, looking down at where the two of you are connected with wide eyes.
“What, thought we were done?” he grins down at you while he slowly rolls his hips into yours. “Told you I was gonna fill you up, ‘ya think I’ll stop after just one?”
Within a second he has flipped you around, his cock leaving your cunt for a second. You yelp, disoriented. Your cheek finds the pillow, arms holding yourself up while he has grabbed your hips. Ass up face down.
For a second he doesn’t do anything, just watches your hole flutter around nothing while his cum bubbles out of you. Then he slaps your ass before lining himself up once more, bottoming out in one swift thrust that knocks the wind out of your lungs.
The pace he sets is brutal; deep, harsh thrusts that make your whole body inch forward thrust by thrust. Luckily Gojo’s holding onto your hips though, pulling them back to meet his hips every time.
“‘Gonna fill all of your holes, have you leaking all day and night,” he grunts out, watching the way your ass ripples with every thrust, your other hole winking up at him.
Hunching over you, he kisses all over your shoulders before nosing the side of your face. Turning around, your mouth finds his once more.
His balls slap your clit over and over, each powerful thrust having you moan out into his mouth.
Disconnecting his mouth from yours, he leans back, quickening his pace. Looking down at you, seeing the way your hair caught the moonlight that’s slipping through the gap in the curtains, leaving a pale streak across your back.
It makes your skin shimmer slightly when it catches your flushed, sweaty skin. Catches the small marks he left behind, almost as if highlighting them for him.
With a particular thrust you whimper out, “There, there. S’toru, fuckk,” you mewl out, hips moving back to meet his thrusts. He focuses his thrusts to keep hitting that spongy spot inside of you, making him groan out when your slick walls tighten around him.
His hand leaves your hip, snaking up to your throat. Grabbing it he lifts your body, your back flush against his chest, his other hand snaking to the front, rubbing your clit. Your back arches, his hips smack smack smacking yours.
“Gonna make you a mommy, have you all round and full,” he’s babbling now, coaxing you through another climax. Your eyes rooollinggg to the back of your skull, drool escaping from your lips in a small, sinful line.
Satoru groans at the way your walls are spasming around him, creaming down his cock, leaving a small white ring around his base. Thighs shaking.
Your entire body is pliant now, melting into him, into the way his beefy arm is still wrapped around your neck, supporting your entire weight while he keeps trusting, not once letting his pace falter.
“You can do one more for me, can’t you,” he growls, and you’re barely aware of what he’s saying. But you nod your head, a small jerky motion. “Yeaaahhh you can. Knew you could, that’s my wifey.”
His hand snakes up to your breasts, kneading and pulling on the hardened buds. “Just imagine these swelling up with milk. Pretty tits leaking.”
He’s completely gone now, babbling to himself. You’re nodding along with whatever he’s saying, not that you’re hearing it. All you can focus on is the way the overstimulation is creeping in, letting you feel every single thing.
A few more thrusts have you thrown over the edge for the fifth time tonight, and it’s dizzying in the best way possible. Your cunt convulsing around him, clear liquid spraying down the bed, and it has his lashes flutter.
“Fuck- oh fuck. That’s it, milk me wifey. Mine, all mine,” he thrusts a few more times before stilling completely. Hot seed spills inside of you, coating your walls white one last time.
He lets the two of you fall forward, his body swallowing yours whole. Every ridge of his abs could be felt on your back, sticky with sweat.
His thumbs find your sides, small kisses on your shoulder. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, voice full of adoration.
You hum, all sleepy and boneless beneath him. Hissing when he finally pulls out, he watches the way his cum seeps from your swollen folds. Entranced by it, two of his fingers scoop it up and push it back inside.
Yelping, you jerk away from his fingers, pulling a small chuckle from his. “Sorry sorry,” He flips the two of you around, pulling your head onto his chest. He rubs a few circles on your shoulder. There’s a small, awkward silence between the two of you.
“Soooo, wanna talk about… that?” your voice is scratchy by the time it comes out. And he only sighs before kissing your temple, then your cheek, then presses a soft peck onto your lips, before finally sitting up. “Mhmmm, but first…”
He scoops you up in his arms, going to stand, and your body reacts to him, completely boneless and melting into him. Even if you wanted to move, you know it isn’t happening. “Where ‘r we going?”
“To the bathroom to get us cleaned up,” opening the door to the bathroom, he turns on the lights before setting you down onto the cold granite of the sink. The contrast between your hot, sweaty skin and the cold granite makes you moan out.
When his body warmth leaves yours—presumably to either turn on the shower or fill up the bath—you make a noise of protest, pulling a small chuckle from his chest.
He comes back not soon after, bath still filling up behind him. His big hands palm your sore thighs, pulling a groan from your mouth, letting your head fall forward against his chest.
“I feel sticky ‘n gross,” you mumble, words getting muffled by his skin. He kisses the top of your head, not once stopping his thumbs from rubbing circles into your thighs that are coated in both your cum. “I know, baby, the bath is almost ready.”
When the two of you finally step in—well he carried you over and lowers you into the water with him—you fully relax against him. He’s seated behind you, thighs bracketing yours, chest pressed against your back.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then he finally starts working on cleaning you up, small cloth in his hand, dipping between the apex of your thighs, carefully brushing against your skin.
You tense up slightly at the feeling, and he immediately stops, peeking over your shoulder at your face. “You okay?”
“Mhmm, s just sensitive,” you whisper back, trying to get your muscles to relax again. “So, wanna talk about what happened?”
Satoru doesn’t respond for a second, just continues cleaning your skin with reverent touches, completely focused on you, on your skin, trying to get you clean in the most gentle way possible—hell, you didn’t even know he could be this soft.
“Technically I didn’t say anything untrue,” he says, still not looking you in the eye. His touch is starting to get a bit more nervous now, like it’s sinking in what he’s said. “We have been married since we were five years old.”
Your head lolls against his shoulder, so you can look up at him. The words are still processing in your mind. Been his wife since the two of you were five? Did he hit his head? Or maybe he’s still so pussydrunk he’s babbling nonsense.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Satoru,” you ask the white haired man behind you—though he looks more like a boy with the way his bottom lip is jutted out and his eyes, that are finally looking back at you, practically sparkling with the way he’s giving you puppy dog eyes.
“You don’t remember the ring pop?” the way he says it, not quite hurt, but not teasing, either, makes you stop for a second. Then a small chuckle pulls from your chest that soon morphs into full blown laughter, the one that makes your sides hurt. “You- you mean the time you ‘proposed’ to me back when we were kids?”
The two of you were only five years old, playing around in the summer sun, chasing each other. There were a few birds that had been chirping, and you and Satoru had been playing for houuuurs on end already.
Sweat was beading down your flushed skin, the summer rays hot and heavy casting down upon the Gojo estate, where the two of you had been running around. At first the two of you had been inside, but then you’d gasped and told him the two of you could go swim!
Satoru obviously agreed with you, nevermind the fact that there wasn’t a pool in the estate—which, honestly, how does one have such a big estate and not have a pool, but alas—he thought the idea sounded so sweet in his mind.
His body was overheating inside, sweating through his tiny shirt. So the two of you went outside with no particular plan in mind other than ‘we’re going to swim’.
Only to be rudely stopped by his caregiver. She told the two of you couldn’t go swimming—and reminded Satoru he didn’t even know how to swim—and to go play in the garden. Sulking the two of you went to play in the garden.
Half an hour later, the two of you were sitting in the shade, gulping down the cold water the caregiver set out for the two of you, with some candy on the table as well. It was one of the few times the two of you got candy after being banned from eating it.
Among the candy, were two ring pops. Your eyes skimmed over the candy, favoring others that were laid out for you, but Satoru’s eyes were attracted to it, remembering something about people who gave each other rings were married. And being married means staying together forever and ever, and that sounded like such a sweet future with you.
Grabbing the ring pop, he slid it around your finger, and you looked quizzically at it before looking over at him. “What’s this, S’toru?”
“It means we’ll get married when we’re older!” He grinned, big and bright and completely boyish. And you had tilted your head at that. “Married?”
Satoru had nodded his head furiously. “Mhmmm, like… like… Oh! like your parents! It means we would live together and— and we can eat all the candy in the world!”
That was the grasp little Satoru had on marriage, and it wasn’t quite wrong, though it wasn’t quite right either, but alas, the two of you had gotten ‘married’ that day—technically it was the promise to get married, but details details.
A laugh pulls from your chest, rippling the water that was starting to cool down. “I do remember. You put a ring pop on my finger and declared we would get married when we got older so we could live together and eat all the sweets we wanted.”
Satoru’s pout turns into a smile, soft and private. Just for you. His fingers are tracing along your body, no longer cleaning you up, just touching.
“Mhmmm. And our Tamagotchi’s got married as well,” he murmurs down at you. And they did get married. At first you’d scowled at him when he ‘proposed’ the idea of them actually getting married, but soon enough you gave into him.
“Most people get down on one knee with an actual ring to propose, y’know. Plus they have been dating for a while before even thinking of marriage,” you tease him, eyes crinkling with how wide your smile is now.
“You want another proposal? Greedy lil thing, aren’t you,” his lips trail down to capture your own for a moment. Returning the kiss, you shift slightly between his legs, trying to get better access to him, only for him to groan out in your mouth.
Disconnecting his lips from yours, he’s breathing heavily, eyes lidded. “Guess we’re gonna have to go ring shopping soon, but first—” his fingers dip between your folds, having you gasp out, eyes widening slightly. “—we have something to celebrate.”
A/N: never, ever, let me make something this long again 😭 I know the jump from the birthday to the smut was quite drastic (yes there was supposed to be a small shock factor, but still), but I just couldn't make myself write more scenes in between. Like this story drained me in the best way possible 🙂↕️ Anyway, if you've made it this far, congratulations and thank you for reading 🫶🏼🤍
synopsis: you never meant to get in the middle of a marriage. but when you're caught between your beautiful best friend and the king she was forced to wed, you find your position as a maid-turned-concubine particularly challenging - especially when he begins demanding an heir from one of you. can gojo keep you all to herself? or will everything else keep getting in the way?
pairing: queen!gojo x concubine!reader (x king!geto)
wc: 20.7k
content: mdni. angst + smut, medieval setting, FEM!JO!!!, YURI YURI YURI!!!, lots of yearning and pining, intense jealousy, loathing, childhood crushes, gojo is obsessed, yandere!femjo tbh, piv sex, character death, trauma, reader is suffering, heavy angst, fear of being abandoned, cold and conniving gojo, but she's also a sweet puppy for her girl, they want each other so bad, humiliation, wrongful imprisonment, unbalanced power dynamics, master/maid relationship, use of nicknames (princess, angel), geto slander lmfao, confessions, kissing, oral sex (f! recieving), fingering, blindfolds and restraints, 69, multiple positions, happy ending
a/n: this was a commission for my incredibly lovely angel @cantarcantar + the art above is from the super talented @anniewinniie and the div is by @/tsumiinum
“Fuck, Suguru, you’re so-”
As much as Satoru enjoyed hearing your pretty little pants and moans, she was rather sick of hearing you whine his name instead of hers.
But of course, even if she was the queen, what could she do when you were her husband’s concubine?
“Someone’s going to hear you, pretty,” he wryly replied, and she could practically hear the smirk in his honeyed voice, syrupy sweet just for you.
Blegh.
She held in her gag, grimacing at his deep grunt.
Satoru parted the thick vines concealing your not-so-secret garden hideaway. Tucked behind flowering bushes, forget-me-not covered trellises, a blanket was spread out on the green grass of your hidden nook as Suguru fucked you right there, your dress bunched up above your hips as he greedily plunged his ridiculously oversized cock inside you.
Where was the patience?
The preparation?
Treating you like a princess rather than rutting into you like some ruthless animal?
Satoru felt her mouth twitch down, heart freezing as she found herself slipping through the gap in the trellises, forcing herself to slyly smile as she interrupted the scene.
“Suguru,” she called out, keeping her voice airy and calm as she condescendingly looked down at your bodies tangled together. Containing the cold anger that had sunk its claws into her heart as she cleared her throat, sucking in a slow breath, “Your advisor is looking for you.”
Her husband threw an annoyed look over his shoulder, dark bangs falling in his face as his soft purple eyes hardened into a scowl.
“He can wait,” he grimaced, as if to say, so can you.
But Satoru could be just as stubborn.
“I heard it’s about a rather important matter,” she lied, shrugging her shoulders as the skirt of her finely embroidered dress swung and shifted by her feet.
“I will be finished in just a-”
“We can always continue when you return,” you reassured him, brushing his bangs back out of his face and biting down on your glossy bottom lip.
You knew your place.
Content to be that knave’s concubine, free for him to use whenever he pleased. Unbothered no matter how many times he expected you to wait and adhere to his whims when he should be doing his damndest to make your every wish come true.
Satoru despised it. Detested the infuriating way her husband took and wasted every ounce of your attention.
You were her best friend first.
“Fine,” Suguru hissed, hesitantly pulling out of you but not before throwing Satoru a heated glare.
“I can keep your concubine company,” she smiled, blue eyes sparkling with satisfaction as Suguru unceremoniously shoved his cock back inside his pants, storming past her to go off and search for an advisor who was likely already tucked into his bed.
He would just come back for you once he figured it out.
But by then, Satoru was sure she could kill the mood enough that he wouldn’t get to have you tonight.
Not without her in the room.
“I’m sorry,” you softly apologized once he was gone, hastily pulling your dress down, embarrassed that she’d seen you so exposed.
As if it wasn’t the first time.
She was well aware of her husband’s preference for you to not wear any undergarments when he was planning on seeing you. Had walked in on the two of you in their marital bed more times than she could count.
At first, she thought it was better you than her.
Held no interest in having sex with him herself or making any heirs, no matter how much the court tried to convince her that it was necessary.
Why would she ruin her body for a man she could barely stand? Who she was forced into a political marriage with?
Lately?
She was growing tempted to just take her clothes off and offer herself up if it meant Suguru would go a single day without insisting on having sex with you. Even if she’d be resisting the urge to gag and roll her eyes at every one of his groans.
“I’ll return to my chambers, Your Majesty,” you respectfully murmured, averting your gaze with faint shame creeping into your fair features. You were trying to not make this strange or strained, smoothing out your dress as you pushed your palms off the blanket.
“How many times must I ask you to call me Toru, hm?” She teased, breaking the tension with an easy laugh.
It used to be breezy to be around you.
Before he snatched you from her grip.
Back when you were both girls growing up together, as a princess and her maid. Your delicate hands brushing her hair and working all the knots out with nimble fingers at the end of every day, chatting about the scullery gossip before Satoru would pull you into the blankets and demand that you sleep next to her.
To keep the nightmares away.
Everyone always let Satoru do what she wanted.
Except for having you.
Sure, she could drag you around, take you everywhere she went, but instead of simply being hers, you were more of an accessory.
The most you could be was a maid. A servant.
Not a lover.
Satoru tried to be content with that. Truly.
Accepted it from an early age that you weren’t going to be hers when she was destined for a political relationship and your stare often lingered a little too long on knights instead of ladies.
She told herself that at least she got to bring you along to this palace to be by her side for this marriage, but the moment Suguru saw you standing next to her, he stole you.
Made you his concubine within the week, put you in your own room and dolled you up in gowns and gems. Satoru had been sneaking blue dresses in your new closet, replacing the jewel tones and purples with the shades of the sky, of the ocean rather than the rich hues he had such a proclivity for.
But it didn’t make much of a difference when you were tending to him now instead of her.
“Toru,” you said her name so sweetly, chewing the inside of your cheek now as you reluctantly met her stare. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“You are not the one who should apologize,” she exhaled, shrugging her shoulders as she walked over to where you were sheepishly staring at the blooming flowers.
Skimming a delicate hand over your arm, appreciating the warmth of your skin as she stopped just shy of your shoulder, tracing a little heart with the edge of her thumb as she soothed you.
“Come with me,” she murmured.
Your head snapped up, your eyes wavering and wide. Unsure. “Where?”
“My room,” Satoru hummed. “Like old times.”
Back when the only hands that ever had the fortune to brush over your body were hers. When you belonged solely to Satoru.
Funnily enough, you were still sleeping in her bed. Just with her husband.
What would she have to do to keep his calloused palms off her prize?
“Are you sure Suguru will be-”
“No man would complain about two beautiful women in his sheets,” she rolled her eyes, interlocking arms with you and pulling you forward.
It wasn’t exactly true.
Suguru would have plenty to grit his teeth and groan about when he wouldn’t get the chance to put his dick inside of you.
But you were naive enough to not realize that, smiling back at Satoru the way you used to, leaning against her arm and sighing with relief, relaxing once it struck you that she wasn’t upset with you.
“I’m not nearly as beautiful as you,” you wistfully mumbled under your breath, and Satoru’s heart soared. Pale cheeks heating up at your compliment, squeezing you reflexively as she laughed.
She knew she was beautiful. Blessed by the gods in nearly every aspect from the moment she was born.
But even when they had given her a face any male would love, they had cursed her with a heart that could only belong to a female.
To you.
Had been stamped with your name and sealed to be yours from the first day she found you.
It wasn’t fucking fair that Suguru got to just reap everything she sowed.
Got to be the one inside you, on top of you, beside you. Who could just openly want you with no repercussions.
If his smug smirks and sly remarks weren’t enough for her to loathe him, Satoru still would have hated him for that fact alone.
“I think you are far lovelier than any of these lousy flowers,” Satoru spoke softly, tilting her head around the garden she’d grown to only feel disgust for too.
It had been beautiful at first. A work of art she’d taken to walking the winding paths through in the evenings to calm her chaotic mind when the two of you first came here.
But all it had taken was to walk in on Suguru mounting you on a patio table the third week in for every last petal and blossom of this place to become tainted.
He was making a fucking fool of her.
Freely flaunting how much he adored fucking you wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted.
No doubt she wasn’t the first to catch the two of you.
“You flatter me,” you blushed, turning away from her as you picked up the pace.
You already knew the way back to her marital room.
Even if she wasn’t the one you usually came there for.
Satoru had separate chambers, of course, ones that were made solely for her, but she knew that Suguru would retaliate in some petty fashion if she brought you there instead.
“I am merely being honest,” Satoru hummed, lips curling up in an easy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She knew you well enough to know you were too embarrassed to respond. That you weren’t truly taking her seriously.
Shouldn’t you know by now that the only person she saved her sincerity for was you?
“I find myself missing you more and more,” Satoru slowly added, heart thumping so hard she was sure it would somehow end up lodged in her throat as you looked back at her with those big, apologetic eyes.
Guilt-ridden.
Weighed down by the obvious worry you carried for fucking her husband.
“I miss you too,” you murmured quietly, lip curling up in your best attempt at a smile before it immediately fell again.
“You seem tired,” Satoru observed, reaching over with her free hand to brush the hair away from your face. Treasuring the few seconds her fingertips skimmed across your soft cheeks. “Let’s get some rest.”
“But Suguru-”
“Do me a favor,” she purred, offering her most reassuring grin. “Do not worry about him.”
She could deal with it.
It was worth whatever trouble would come to watch you trade your dress for one of her silky blue nightslips, staring at the bare expanse of your exposed back as you bent over to shimmy it on, holding her breath as you turned around, looking absolutely delectable.
The sweetest dessert she could ever dream of.
And the only one she wasn’t allowed to taste.
“Do you want me to do your hair?” You asked, fiddling with your fingers as you nervously looked around the room.
Satoru wished she could wipe your anxieties away.
“I would never say no to that,” she said instead, putting up a far more carefree front than she truly felt.
Perching on the edge of the stool of her vanity, passing you her hairbrush as you slowly pulled all of her long, silky white strands back over her shoulder. You took your time brushing it out, carefully separating it as you went and making sure there were no tangles before you slowly began to braid it, nimble fingers working to twist the parted hair.
She could see your reflection in the mirror, the way you bit your kiss-swollen bottom lip, brows pinched together tightly in focus as your practiced hands made an easy job of it.
“There you go,” you hummed once you finished, tying a white ribbon at the end as you looked in the mirror back at her. “Do you like it?”
“I like everything you do,” Satoru replied on instinct.
Except for Suguru.
Your face flushed, smiling as you stepped back away from her, glancing over to the bed.
“Good night then,” you muttered.
“Good night,” Satoru replied, shoving down the lump in her throat as she tried to discreetly dry her clammy palms on her own nightdress as she stood up. Snuffing out a few of the candles so that the only light was from the flickering fire, crawling into bed after you, pretending to be unaffected by your proximity as she got under the sheets next to your body.
But she wasn’t quite as good at it as she used to be.
Unable to slow her breathing, chest rising and falling far too fast as you tossed and turned, the short hem of the slip riding up on your thighs under the covers as Satoru desperately stared at the ceiling of her four-poster bed and ignored the heat ignited in her core.
A steady pulse, an irritating throb straight to the center of her, speeding up each time your leg brushed against hers, or your hand accidentally grazed along her arm.
“Sweet dreams,” she belatedly whispered, but you had already fallen asleep, soon snoring on one of her pillows like you once did so long ago, hair sprawling out that Satoru couldn’t stop herself from softly stroking.
Her pretty maid, right where she belonged once more.
But for how long?
When would Suguru do something that would fully free you of her?
God, what the fuck was she going to do if he knocked you up? Forced you to bear his heir? Make you raise a whole brood of miniature hims?
That asshole would surely move you to a separate palace, maybe claim that Satoru made threats or something equally absurd to justify giving you a title or some security.
Satoru refused to let any of that happen.
You were more than just a breeding mare.
More than just a pawn to be played with – no matter what her husband attempted to turn you into.
Like she summoned a demon, the door swung open, and Satoru immediately removed her hand from by your head, sitting up in bed to stare at the intruder.
The real interloper here.
Suguru scowled at the sight of her next to you, his lips pressing in a thin line as he peeled off his expensive robe.
“Return to your private chambers,” he dismissed, irritation heavy in his voice.
“This marital bed is mine too,” Satoru retorted, patting the spot next to her to gesture for him to join.
She’d prefer not to spend the night suffering the masculine scent of his cologne, but she supposed she could just roll closer to you to inhale your much sweeter smell. It was always light, flowery, like some intoxicating summer bloom she wanted to pluck and preserve.
He laughed at the idea of sleeping together too, a low and cruel one.
Satoru wanted to snarl back that if she were a man, if they were both vying for your hand, you would have chosen her without a blink.
But she just had to bite her tongue and stare at the one person who had everything she wanted.
“Funny that I only find you in here when it’s with her,” he knowingly scoffed.
“Is it?” Satoru feigned ignorance. “I was the one who brought her here.”
Her husband didn’t care though.
No, he just walked over as if she had no place in this room, no right to her spot in the bed beside you, stripping his shirt off before removing his pants, as if a little bit of nudity would scare Satoru off.
“What do you think our love would do if she knew you lusted after her even more than I do?” Suguru mocked, barely making an effort to disguise his thinly-veiled threat. One corner of that irritating mouth of his curling up in a crude smirk, casually dismissing the weight of her affection for you to a simple sin.
His love?
Satoru almost laughed back at him.
You were hers. Had always been.
And would be once again.
“Shall I tell her?” He asked, tilting his head towards your sleeping figure as he pulled back the blankets to get in too.
“She would think it’s just a jest,” Satoru rolled her eyes, her nose scrunching up as he actually got in next to her.
It didn’t matter how obvious she made it to you.
You were blissfully unaware.
Clueless to the hunger she harbored in her heart to chain you to her.
“I suppose we’ll find out soon,” he muttered under his breath, and despite the shield she’d prepared, it splintered with sheer panic at the thought of you taking his word.
At the risk of you being repulsed by the realization, rejecting her and refusing to exist in the same space for the rest of her life.
That wouldn’t do.
Suguru was already a persistent problem.
But now it appeared she had no choice but to solve it before he could screw her over. Before he could wreck what she’d spent so long building.
She’d prefer to prepare a guillotine for his cock, to punish him for the crime of being inside you, but she refused to be the one put in prison for it.
No, Satoru needed a plan. A foolproof way for this to end with you in her arms.
Perhaps some poison to put His Royal Majesty in a grave while she was at it.
ε✿з
“Morning, beautiful.”
You wondered who your king’s groggy morning voice was meant for. You?
Or his wife?
Your true master.
“Good morning, husband,” Satoru replied, her usually sweet voice cold and clipped.
Of course.
You weren’t exactly surprised.
But what did throw you off was the two very different arms strewn across your waist, one thick and muscled slung low towards your hips while the other far daintier one was delicately tangled just below your breasts.
Somehow, you had ended up in between them.
Rather fitting, wasn’t it?
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” Suguru scolded her, and your stomach just curdled at the annoyance in his tone.
The weight on your midsection disappeared, and you tried to roll on your side, to pretend you were still asleep, but then he was pulling you against him, and you could only bite the inside of your cheek and focus on the taste of blood on your tongue to hold it together as something hefty and hard pressed into your spine.
It was just wrong to do this in front of Satoru.
You didn’t understand what Suguru saw in you anyway.
It wasn’t like you truly were stunning. Not compared to her.
You weren’t blind.
You’d always been rather plain put next to Satoru’s perfect face.
She was the one people stopped to stare at when she walked in a room, the subject of whispers and wishes and fools willing fate to just give them a single chance for the pleasure of one conversation in her presence.
And beneath her beauty was the sort of one-of-a-kind soul someone could spend the rest of their life searching for.
Even now, when you were sleeping with her husband, she was still being sweet to you.
Swearing that she knew you couldn’t do anything about being his concubine, bringing you back to her bed for a sleepover like she hadn’t caught you having sex with him.
You didn’t deserve her. And you really couldn’t comprehend why Suguru wouldn’t want her.
Yet, she always tried to spare your feelings.
Sent away any maid who mocked you and scolded any staff member that attempted to tease you ever since you were children.
Going from dismissing any knight that tried to flirt or feel you up as teenagers to stripping some lower noble of her rank simply for speaking ill of you two weeks ago over suggesting that she should punish you for trying to steal her husband.
You hadn’t asked for any of it.
All you wanted was to watch her fall in love. To stand by her side and see her find her happily ever after.
Instead, you were embroiled in an affair with the man she married.
And now the guilt was gnawing through your bones, shame shattering you every time she saw you with him.
You sort of felt like your life could be divided in two groups.
Before Satoru. After Satoru.
She saved you. You were born into servitude, to parents who worked in the worst kind of noble homes. The ones where the money was passed down with generations, belonging to spoiled gamblers and drunks who didn’t know how to do anything other than spend it — and couldn’t care less about their staff members.
You learned how to scrub baseboards and sweep instead of how to read and write. To never speak unless spoken to. To make yourself smaller than a speck of dust just to survive.
It didn’t matter.
They had a son a year older than you.
One that was particularly fond of pulling your hair and ripping up your uniforms every time you hung them out to dry.
Who found a passion in pushing you down and pretending to his family that you had committed every variety of petty crimes against him.
Your life was a living hell.
Until your angel showed up.
In a pretty white dress that matched her soft hair, the sun shining on her pale face as she blinked down at you with big, blue eyes. She was visiting with her parents, supposed to be attending a play date with your personal tormentor, only to walk in on him attempting to cut off a chunk of your hair with a knife he’d stolen from the chef.
He had accidentally cut you with it, a thin streak of blood trickling down your throat as you sobbed hysterically, unable to stop yourself as you curled up against the tree he cornered you against.
“Drop that,” she commanded, an air of authority to her even when she was still a child.
He did, even though his obedience seemed to surprise him.
“You’re not the boss of-”
She was already stepping forward though, kicking the knife away before graciously approaching you, unbothered by the sniffing mess you’d become, just squatting down and drying your tears with her sleeve.
“You’re coming home with me.”
And you did.
She had half-dragged you inside, forcing herself to fake tears of her own before crying to her parents that he had attacked her, and that you’d gotten hurt defending her.
They believed her lie.
And she bought you from the hellhole you were born into.
You would probably be dead without her.
Starved or beaten for not performing your duties well enough, discarded like some cheap possession instead of a person.
The boy was punished, his family’s status revoked — although you never learned what happened to them after that.
At least with Satoru, you could be her doll.
Someone she dressed up and dragged around to tea parties and meals, forcing everyone to have a chair for you like it was normal for a mere maid to dine with royalty.
She grew out of it when she got a little older, when people began to look down on you for her behavior instead of her.
But when they announced her marriage, she still refused to go unless she brought you with her, insisting that she wouldn’t adapt without a familiar face before whispering to you in private that she’d never leave her favorite friend behind.
Did she regret that now? Wish she never took you in to begin with?
You felt like a nuisance.
It was impossible to ignore the whispers of the court here, the constant discussion of the heir that didn’t currently exist.
All of it felt like your fault.
Surely, if you weren’t here, if you weren’t imposing, then Satoru might have already gotten pregnant, or perhaps have even had a child already.
As far as you knew, they had yet to even consummate their marriage.
You used to whisper about what it would be like to have sex. So sure that she would be the one to experience it first. Giggling under the covers about how the whole thing seemed sorta gross. To let a guy stick it inside of you and listen to him grunt and groan?
Honestly, you never thought it would be you giving up your virtue before her.
Sugugu hadn’t been shy about the fact you were the only one he was intimate with.
Turning his nose up and scoffing when you inquired about the status of their relationship, the same way Satoru did, as if it was simply absurd that they could ever have a baby together.
And now his royal advisors had started whispering suggestions that he should plant his seed in you instead, murmuring that if Satoru was too stubborn, he must secure his line another way as if you weren’t in the same room when they said it.
As if your loyalty hadn’t always lied with her.
But she wouldn’t listen to your warnings.
How were you supposed to convince two people who acted like they couldn’t stand each other to not only have sex, but create a child?
You knew you were a fool. Naive to still presume that there must be some way to make this work without making Satoru suffer. But you couldn’t stop trying.
“I would like you to leave,” Suguru snapped at her, and years of experience had engrained the instant impulse to protect her in you.
To interrupt and insist that she had every right to be here too.
Even if Satoru had never once needed you to defend her. Not the same way you needed her.
“Will you drag me out if I do not?” She cheekily returned, and you finally forced yourself to start to stir, to stop the argument already in progress as they both immediately fell silent. Satoru’s soft hand skimmed over your forearm, delicately dragging her fingertips up to your shoulder before yawning, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Morning,” you muttered, slowly cracking your eyes open and beginning to sit up just for a second hand to shift to the small of your back.
“Did she bother you with all her tossing and turning?” Your king asked, concern veiling his contempt for his wife as he peered down at you with those dark purple eyes. Devoid of the light you were used to seeking, swirling with something you weren’t quite comfortable enough to name.
Sometimes, you wondered how much he wanted you, and how much he wanted to piss her off. Equally unhappy at the situation he’d been thrusted in, forced to marry a stranger he didn’t know or want and finding refuge in pissing off the one person that was also innocent in this. Taking it out on her instead when he had no way to punish the system he was stuck in.
“Satoru never bothers me,” you answered honestly, still doing your best to mend the bridge between them as you peered up at him with an expression you hoped would earn some empathy from him.
Or at the very least, get him to not toss her out before she even stepped foot out of the bed.
“You’re too sweet,” he muttered, sitting up straighter to let the blankets fall down around his bare waist. Tenderly caressing your cheek as you stilled, thinking of what he seemed to leave unsaid. Too sweet for whom? Him? Or her?
You supposed you were just overthinking it, blinking nervously before he leaned down to kiss you on the lips right there in front of her, pushing his tongue in as you tried not to scrunch your nose up at the thought that he had yet to brush his teeth before slipping his tongue in your mouth.
But you returned it, accustomed to going with the tides instead of swimming against them, allowing him to possessively splay his fingers across your back as if Satoru’s fingers weren’t still sinking into your shoulder.
And by the time he pulled away, you had collected yourself enough to smile sincerely back at him when he rested his forehead against yours.
It wasn’t that you disliked him, or harbored any hatred for him.
The feeling swirling in your stomach was closer to pity. You felt bad for him.
He felt like a flip side to Satoru. Reminded you of her in his own strange way when he spoke to you like you were more than just a maid. Even if he only saw you as his own accessory instead of hers.
“Meet me in the gardens at noon,” he instructed, slipping out of his bed as you both stared. His back muscles flexed as he bent over, only throwing a look back to wink at you while Satoru made a quiet gagging noise next to you.
You nearly giggled, only holding it in when his dark brows pinched together in a glare back at her.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” you murmured, nodding dutifully as his chest puffed back out with pride. Finishing redressing quickly, his mouth twitching down at the two of you in his bed, but he didn’t say anything to disprove Satoru’s theory about men and beautiful women.
“Alone,” Suguru added, starting towards the door before Satoru could add something snarky.
The moment he was out the door, you could hear his voice calling through it for a servant, and you already pictured the way a few were likely stationed at the end of the hall, ready to accompany him and do whatever he wanted.
“Meet me in the gardens,” Satoru mimicked him, rolling her bright blue eyes as her long lashes fluttered dramatically as she twisted you back around to face her. “He’s so insufferable.”
“Satoru,” you said her name, face heating up at the way the syllables felt rolling off your tongue, still strange to address her so intimately when she was so far above you. “It worries me-”
“No,” she interrupted you sternly, your shoulders slumping at her unexpected scolding. “There is nothing for you to worry about.”
“But the two of you-”
“I know,” she sympathized, knowing what you were about to protest before you had to say it. Seeing through all of you the way no one else ever did, or probably ever would. “But you should just keep doing what he asks.”
Like you couldn’t see how much it hurt her to even suggest that.
Satoru was more sensitive than she’d ever show. Feelings hidden under her carefully crafted shield, always pretending to be the perfect princess on her towering pedestal, protected by some impenetrable glass that never let you touch her.
She could say she couldn’t stand Suguru. But who wouldn’t be hurt at the man they married so blatantly disrespecting them?
“I just want you to be happy,” you softly said.
“I will be. Eventually,” Satoru stiffly said, dragging her thumb over your bottom lip like she was wiping off his kiss. “We just have to grin and bear it for now.”
“And things will get better?” You hopefully asked, reaching up to clasp her hand. Feeling a little bit like a child again, looking up to her with blind trust, faith that she could fix problems that seemed far too big for you. Imagining all three of you a few months from now, getting along and grinning over lunch in the garden, sitting underneath the shade of an umbrella and snacking with Satoru on one side and Suguru on the other.
“I promise they will.”
There was nothing you craved more than for her to be correct.
But your blind belief in her started to fizzle and fade when the days refused to stop dragging on while you rarely got to see her. Only catching glimpses of her from across the room, usually when one of you was being flaunted on Suguru’s arm and the other was left to stand on the side and stare. Barely getting a chance to speak to her when the king you were both supposed to obey had decided you were better kept in your bed chambers or his private office, away from the wife he pretended didn’t exist around you.
You tried to tell yourself what she had.
To just bear it.
Comforting yourself with the handful of smiles she snuck you, reassuring yourself that you didn’t have to be wracked with guilt every second you spent with Suguru. That you shouldn’t hate yourself for the moments with him where you found yourself actually enjoying his company, or genuinely giggling at a joke he made.
It didn’t make it easier to stop loathing the parts of you that liked the attention. Being doted on and deemed deserving of more than just the monotony of being a maid.
Underneath it all, you still knew what was coming.
A girl like you was only measured by what uses she was good for.
Could taste his expectation in the air long before Suguru delivered the curdling news over tea, sitting there like a brainless doll as he informed you that he had the maids brew the kind that helped fertility.
Casually suggesting that you make a fine mother as you feigned agreement, running off to a bush to throw it up the moment he left to attend to other business.
You couldn’t do that to her.
No, you wouldn’t.
You refused.
It wasn’t like you had any idea how you would refuse, not when you were sure he would be back in your bedroom tonight. Stripping off his robes with that easy smirk of his, placing his crown on your head as he buried his cock in you, probably already planning on no longer pulling out but plunging himself deep enough to make sure the seed he planted was sowed.
That it would sprout into an heir he could use as an excuse to remove any power his wife politically held.
You puked again.
Bile rising that you couldn’t push down, getting sick until you finally managed to suck in enough deep breaths to pull yourself together, wiping the corner of your mouth and standing back up on trembling legs, looking around to make sure no one had seen you.
But a few maids were standing nearby, wide-eyed and whispering to each other before scampering off in a hurry once your stare caught theirs, surely off to spread rumors about what they’d seen.
You were stumbling away too, walking back inside the cobbled halls and hurrying through the twists and turns, ignoring the pointed looks you received from staff members and guards passing by. You weren’t sure where you were going until you were there, nervously tapping your knuckles against the door to Satoru’s office, hardly able to keep your breathing steady until you heard her call out in an annoyed tone, “Come in.”
You pushed it open, holding your breath as you peeked inside to see her head hanging down behind her desk. Her cheek resting on her hand, silky hair falling around her shoulders as she sighed and scribbled something into a thick book.
“What is it-”
“I’m sorry,” you half-whispered, your voice coming out as a croak from your sore throat.
She immediately stopped what she was writing as her head snapped up at the realization it was you, shutting the book and placing her palm over it. Her blue eyes were razor sharp, freezing over in a flash under furrowed brows.
“What happened?” She demanded to know without a pause. Ready to go to war with just two words.
“He wants me to have his heir,” you blurted out, still panicking as you looked to her like there was something she could do about it.
In all the years you’d known her, the only other time you’d seen the expression that was on her face now was the day you first met her.
Focused and flat at the same time, not betraying anything as she just blinked at you once more.
“Tell me you don’t want it,” she requested, completely serious as you struggled to tear your stare away.
“Of course I don’t,” you answered, shaking your head as your fingers nervously clutched at the skirt of your dress, fiddling with some of the fine embroidery as you struggled to catch your breath, the taste of vomit lingering in your mouth as you thought about what your life would look like a year from now if you did. A black-haired baby on your hip and a hole punctured straight through your heart.
You almost added that you had only come here for her, but you couldn’t bring yourself to when all that had resulted in was you warming her husband’s bed.
What would her life have been like had you stayed behind? Would you have been kicked out of the palace you’d spent years by her side in? Left to start over in some quaint village, maybe starting a small farm or working in a local shop instead?
You would choose any of it over being the reason she was suffering. Even if it meant struggling and scraping by all alone.
“I will take care of it,” she stiffly said, her nose upturned in the air as she pushed a plate of cookies someone had left on her desk away from her. “You should go now.”
A piece of you shattered.
Some deep internal wound ripping open at her quick dismissal, despite your instinct to believe that her words were more binding than any oath.
“But-”
“Trust me, princess,” she softened her tone, smiling now, like you couldn’t see how tight of a line her mouth made. Using a nickname she hadn’t called you in years, back when she tried to make you feel better about the difference in your status, late night promises that you could be her princess and she could be yours.
“Toru,” you murmured back, watching her eyes crinkle for a second before she shook her hair and pointed a delicate finger towards the door.
“Please leave,” she asked, and you had never been good at disobeying her.
Feeling like a mutt that had been thrown out in the rain, tail tucked between your legs as you walked all the way across the palace to your own chambers. Pacing the floor there in a panic, wringing your hands and wearing out the carpet as you tried to think of some solution.
Stupid nobles and their moronic obsession with bloodlines.
Why couldn’t they just adopt a child and raise it correctly?
You would have his child if Satoru asked you to. If she said she didn’t want to do it herself.
But you were scared for her. Terrified that she would somehow end up thrown out if you had an heir and she refused to.
Maybe it would be easier if one of them were less stubborn. If Satoru was less prideful and Suguru more agreeable.
Was that asking for the impossible?
Just an idiot jammed between a rock and a hard place and wondering why you couldn’t squeeze out?
You prepared yourself that evening anyway, going through the motions of putting on the thin style nightdress Suguru preferred, but picking one in a soft shade of blue that reminded you more of Satoru. Carefully applying a thin layer of makeup, exhaling at your reflection as you wondered to yourself where the girl from a few years ago had gone.
She probably would have strangled you for suggesting sleeping with Satoru’s king, no matter the circumstance.
And right now, you would give just about anything to go back to those days. Where the most important thing you had to worry about was how to style Satoru’s hair the next day, or what would be served for breakfast in the morning.
“You’re wearing blue.”
Your head turned to find Suguru standing there in the doorway, his lips turned down as his hazy stare slid over your body. You hurried to stand, forgoing spritzing the fancy perfume he gifted you across your skin as he strode over to you. Ready to fake moans and feign devotion.
“Is this not one you gave me?” You innocently asked, tilting your head to the side.
It wasn’t like you could purchase your own dresses.
Truthfully, you had no idea what even happened to the funds you saved up before Satoru brought you here. She had said she would take care of the transfer, but within days of coming here, you were being whisked off your feet and away from her by the man in front of you now.
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his fingers plucking one of the straps off your shoulder and pulling it down with a sigh as he ignored your inquiry. “I’m taking it off of you anyway.”
His hands shook while he removed it, his fingers unsteady for once as he tried to shimmy your panties down your thighs next. He kissed you, but the sour taste of wine was still on his lips, and you ached to pull away.
To ask him to reconsider what he wanted from you.
Even if you knew that wasn’t your place.
To your surprise though, he retreated first, your mouth still hanging open as he let out a low groan. You knew something was wrong at the sound of it. How guttural it came out when you hadn’t even touched his cock yet.
You blinked up at him only to see red.
Blood dripped down his lips as he stared at you without really seeing you, fear glittering his dark eyes empty in the candlelight as your own fingers reached out to wipe it away. Had you bitten him without realizing it? Was he hurt?
Before you could even touch it, he coughed hard, and your face was suddenly wet.
Your hand was still outstretching towards him the moment he collapsed.
Someone screamed, but it wasn’t until servants began running into the room that you realized the horrible sound was coming from you, ripped from the back of your throat as the scene immediately morphed into a mess. Maids shouting for doctors and rushing around to try and stop the bleeding that was still pouring from his mouth, propping him up. But even if his eyes were open, they weren’t blinking.
Had his soul already separated from the still shell he left behind?
Something damp hit your palm, your fuzzy vision struggling to focus as it belatedly struck you that you were still dripping with the red, your palms shaking, refusing to stop twitching at the unnerving sight of it.
Steady drops begging to drop down to your bare breasts, staining your skin as you stumbled back, running from the inevitable as your shattered gasps wouldn’t allow enough air into your lungs.
This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
This must be a nightmare. Some awful dream you’d gotten dragged into as you tried to wake yourself back up, desperately wiping your face as you struggled to get it clean, but nothing was working. Nothing was changing.
Hyperventilating as a maid shouted, calling in guards while your back hit the wall, your fingers trembling as you buried your face in your hands, as if you could hide from what was happening.
“Is he still alive?”
No. No no no.
If he was gone, what the hell would happen to you?
There were too many people in the room, too much going on for you to focus on what was happening in front of you. Your ears filling you in no matter how much you desperately wanted to shut it all out.
To rewind the clock, even if it was just for a few minutes. Bring it back to where everything was still normal.
The palace doctor arrived out of breath as you peeked back up at your world unraveling only to find him shaking his head as he checked the limp body on the floor’s pulse.
You knew it before he said it though. Had from the moment he coughed and collapsed.
“The king is dead.”
The only person in power now was his wife.
Someone was probably on their way to get Satoru now, to shake her awake from her bed and notify her that her husband was no longer among the living.
Even if you didn’t want to have his baby, you still never would have chosen this.
Curling up with your bare knees to your chest, staring at your blood-splattered blue nightdress left in a crumpled pile on the floor, eyes wild as you watched people rush in and out.
Guards filing in, one of them ripping you up from off the ground with a rough grip on your arm, barking some question you didn’t understand as you tried to shake your head, dragging you out of the room as you got one last glimpse at Suguru’s still form staring up at the ceiling.
“Did you do this?”
“What?” You blinked, turning back with disgust as you rebuffed it. “I-I wouldn’t-”
The guard wasn’t listening, pulling you out only for you to nearly run into someone else.
Your pounding heart stopped the second you realized it was Satoru.
Her pretty face pinched up with disdain, long hair loose and cascading down her back, an intricate amethyst-colored gown draping over the cobbled hall as she looked down at you, her mouth twitching as her gaze drifted across your exposed skin.
You were about to beg her to tell them that it couldn’t have been you, bottom lip trembling as you tried to get the words out, but she cut you off, looking to the knight by her side as she solemnly shook her head.
“Lock her up.”
She couldn’t mean it.
It honestly felt more far-fetched than Suguru’s sudden death. Unable to understand those three sharp words that left her lips until another man was yanking you away, pulling you down corridors.
Humiliation burned through you as the initial shock started to fade and the reality of your situation began to sit in. Being dragged naked across the palace until you were led up a long spiralling staircase to a tower you’d never stepped foot inside before.
Spared the cruelty of the cold dungeons only to be shoved inside a tiny room at the top, a heavy door slammed shut as your eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness surrounding you. A barren space with only a small bed pushed against the wall, a small window that was only big enough for you to peek out of, the bitter night breeze blowing in through it as you stood there, waiting for, well, you weren’t sure what.
Satoru to show up and swear this was all some awful joke? To tell you that she didn’t mean to scare you and that everything was fine? That this was all a part of some plan of hers?
Wishful thinking, wasn’t it?
If they thought you were responsible, that you somehow killed him, you would be executed within a month.
Maybe not even offered a trial, just dragged out to be hanged or beheaded without a chance to defend yourself.
Who would have sympathy for a traitor?
A poor maid masquerading as a concubine, one who truly should have never had a place beneath the king to begin with.
All you were was an ignorant idiot that was born to take the blame. No matter your innocence.
And yet, when you finally heard footsteps approaching your lonely room, you were still rushing towards it, ready to plead your case to whoever showed up.
When you heard Satoru’s voice, you nearly sobbed.
She must be coming to let you out. To explain everything away and bring you back to her room the way she once had. Whisk you away and remind you with that charming smile that she had told you not to worry.
Satoru wasn’t your knight in shining armor. She was better.
A hero with her white-haired halo, your blue-eyed angel in a gossamer gown.
“Toru, please,” you called out, peeking up to discover a rectangle carved out of the thick wood of the door, wide enough for you to look back out into the barely-lit hallway.
“Make sure no one comes up here,” Satoru coldly instructed the knights outside, your heart stalling as you stared at her through that thin slat. The heavy click of several additional locks followed while her sharp eyes watched you back, your heart shattering into even tinier bits with each one.
And then Satoru did something that stomped on all the remaining shards of it.
She left.
You broke down, sobbing on the floor until there wasn’t anything left in you to cry out. Curling up on the frigid ground instead of the bed, unable to even summon the strength to get up and crawl towards it.
At some point, you supposed you fell asleep like that, because when you woke up to a fraction of the sun slipping in through your tiny window, there were clothes and food delivered, along with a cold bucket of water and a washrag.
Too numb to feel thankful, as if someone had scooped every part of you out as you ignored the food in front of you, about to cup a handful of water and drink it before you looked down at your hands and saw all the dried blood still staining them, your stomach shifting once again as the memory of Suguru’s face before he died floated up in your brain.
You scrubbed your skin, washing Suguru off of you until the bucket had run red, staring at the liquid sloshing around. Refusing to stop until you were certain there were no traces of him left, your hands raw and trembling when you dropped the rag back down.
Putting clothes back on didn’t make you feel any better.
Not when you had traded the fancy dresses you had just begun to get used to for a plain one, the material scratching your skin as you finally managed to get yourself up into the bed.
But even just trying to go back to sleep didn’t work when a knight came barging in to conduct an interrogation.
Which essentially just meant hours of him asking the same questions and getting angry when you kept giving him the same answers?
“Did you conspire to kill the king?” No.
“Did you poison him?” No.
“Did you have any reason to want him dead?” Yes. No.
It didn’t matter what you said though.
As long as it didn’t align with what he was hoping to hear, he wouldn’t give any of your words credence.
And by the end of it, you were being dragged back to your cell, waiting for a fate far worse than simply being the mother of the future heir to the kingdom.
Even if you used to think there was nothing worse than betraying Satoru.
Being abandoned by her was the cruelest sentence of all.
A raw throbbing ache taking up residence in your chest, reminding you of her absence with every short breath you sucked in, no blankets to curl up and hide under as you waited for the inevitable.
You knew what the cold felt like. How brittle it could be when it settled into your bones. Knew how starvation felt when your body started to break down bits of yourself for sustenance.
But knowing her warmth, how full she could make you feel, only ate at you more. Shoved off the pretty pedestal she placed you on, no longer sparkling or polished as you stared at your bitten-down nails and numbly craved pieces of her you knew would never be yours.
Perhaps this was punishment for dreaming too big.
For ever thinking that you could have her while you were still catering to Suguru.
A day passed.
And another.
The hours slipping past you in a dull daze, food delivered that you refused to take a bite of. A little voice in your head that was quickly growing delirious suggested that it could be poisoned, and it was the only thing that tempted you into taking a small bite.
But then you thought of the fear in Suguru’s eyes when he died, and you dropped it again, returning to your uncomfortable bed, curling up to stare at the same wall you’d been studying the cracks in since you first crawled into it.
You were losing it.
About to start speaking to yourself just to stop the silence from driving you crazy, only your thoughts to keep you company as you tossed and turned, no energy left in your exhausted limbs as you tried to think of all the ways this could end.
Unable to come up with a way out of this when the only person you ever found worth living for had decided you weren’t worth it anymore.
Satoru had told you to trust her.
But you never had anything to offer her other than loyalty.
And what good was that when you would’ve had her husband’s baby if he hadn’t died?
She must hate you.
“Oh, princess.”
Great.
You had lost it.
Were you hearing things now? Sanity slipping away with every day you decided not to eat?
“Won’t you at least look at me?” Satoru’s sweet voice called out to you.
You weren't going to, stubbornly keeping your head forward until you heard the locks actually unlatching. Sitting up on the thin mattress and turning just in time to see the door opening, and your angel returning to you.
An easy smile curling up on her glossy lips, her ethereal eyes sparkling in the fading light of the day drifting in from outside, a white dress softly fluttering around her frame as she leaned against the wall like she was waiting for you to get down on your knees and thank her.
“I didn’t do it,” you breathed, almost automatically.
You needed her to believe-
“Sweetheart,” she softly shook her head as she sighed. “I know.”
Then why did she throw you in a tower and lock you up like this? Leave you a broken mess, laid bare and bloody?
“I just had to take care of a few things,” Satoru cooed.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Unable to speak when you stared at her, feeling like a stranger in your own skin as you studied her back.
“Did you think I would just let you rot?” She teased, as if you weren’t still a prisoner while she tilted her head to the side, appraising you like you were some fruit she had finally decided to pluck.
It hurt.
A small wound ripping open beneath the surface, one you were quick to bandage up and come up with excuses for.
Almost immediately telling yourself that surely, she came to you as soon as she could, relief washing over the fresh sting at the realization she truly didn’t think you were behind Suguru’s death. That she hadn’t abandoned you after all.
“Don’t just sit there and stare at me,” she huffed, sick of your silence, folding her arms across her chest and frowning at you.
“Toru?” You croaked out her name, wanting to trust that it still had a place on your lips as you waited for her to disappear. Standing up on unsteady legs, muscles sore from how little you’d used them lately as you took unsure steps forward. A piece of you still convinced that you might be imagining this, or drifted off to some pretty dream where she played the same role she always did.
Your savior.
But when you got to her, hesitantly reaching out to touch her face, your fingertips trembling as you touched her cheek to discover it was solid.
Soft.
“I missed you too,” she murmured affectionately, reaching up to hold your hand there. Relaxing into your touch as you felt something inside you instantly crumble at the tiniest show of regard.
And before you could stop yourself, you threw your arms around her neck, tears welling up as you inhaled the sweet scent of her perfume, burying your face in her throat as a rough sob escaped you.
She let you.
Didn’t push you off or give you that look like you had overstepped some boundary.
No, she just slid a hand over your back, holding you closer and letting you cry into her collarbone. Stroking your hair, slowly picking out the tangles and knots in it as your body shuddered with the force of your tears.
You didn’t think you had anything left in you to cry.
But apparently there you weren’t dried out yet, and she held you through all of it. Murmuring soft words into your ear, coaxing you to calm down as you struggled to piece yourself back together after you let it all fall apart.
“I swear, I would never do anything that could put you at risk,” you added, anxiety still swirling around your thoughts as you shook your head.
“Don’t worry,” Satoru purred, squeezing you as another shudder wracked through your body. “The right person will be imprisoned soon.”
As terrible as it sounded, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care who had done it, or even why, as long as it meant you and Satoru would be safe.
The rest was just noise.
You could go back to being her maid. Waiting on her hand and foot if it meant you wouldn’t have to be away from her side again.
And if the court tried to take her crown, or shipped her back to her own palace after the rightful king had been killed, well, you both could get through it together, couldn’t you?
“I thought you left me,” you mumbled, your voice cracking as she tenderly hummed your name.
“I would never,” she swore, petting your head as she pulled you into her chest, your shoulders slumping at how tightly she held you.
“Promise?” You hopefully asked, needing to know. Needing her to say she wasn’t going anywhere.
Simply needing her.
“I promise.”
You believed her with just two words.
Under her spell in a handful of moments, your heart pounding in your chest when she eventually pulled away, cupping your face and wiping away your tears like it hurt for her to see you crying.
“Come with me,” she spoke slowly, her thumb skimming lightly over your cheekbone.
You would follow her anywhere.
Across the kingdom. To another, or even over the sea to some small countryside village. Any place was fine.
As long as she wanted you there.
Skipping down the long stairs after her, your pulse thrumming in your eardrums as you waited to get stopped by some guard, for a knight to pop up and point a sword at you for absconding with their queen.
No one else was around however, the halls barren and silent as her soft fingers interlaced through yours, tugging you ahead as she navigated through them with ease.
“Were you starving yourself for my attention?” She half-whispered, her voice hushed and husky as she threw you a look you didn’t understand.
Was she disappointed in you?
“I haven’t been hungry,” you mumbled, shaking your head. You never thought she’d come check on you. Or even be keeping tabs through whoever came to drop off the food for you.
“That’s no excuse,” she softly scolded you.
“I’m sorry,” you automatically apologized, hanging your head lower as she opened a door and ushered you into a room you’d never been in before.
It looked like it was actually fit for a princess.
Ornately designed and filled with expensive furniture you couldn’t fathom the cost of, your body freezing just two short steps inside as she shut the door behind you. Quickly making herself comfortable, slipping off her short heels and walking over to the massive bed against one wall, looking back at you with barely concealed excitement, searching your face to see if you shared
“You can stay here for now,” she whispered, winking at you as she ran her palm over the soft fabric of the blankets adorning the bed. “It’ll be our secret.”
Your secret.
The words echoed in your head, unable to shut your open mouth as you struggled to take your eyes off of her.
“Much better than that dingy tower, hm?” Satoru goaded, pride glittering in her brilliant stare.
“What is this?” You asked, looking around at the intricate tapestries hung on the walls, the plush carpets laid over the floor, the carvings into the wooden dressers and the canopy of the bed.
“Your room,” she happily hummed.
“My-” You couldn’t even say it out loud.
It had to be a joke.
“There’s a warm bath waiting for you,” she murmured, nodding towards an adjoining door you’d been too overwhelmed to notice before. “And some fresh fruit on a platter by the tub. Your favorites.”
What were you meant to make of this?
Her belated apology for locking you up for days? For leaving you behind to handle affairs far bigger than you?
Something itched at the back of your conscience, telling you to second guess this gift.
But how were you supposed to listen to your better judgement when everything left of your sensibility had been broken?
“Please eat something,” she added, and all you could do was nod your head like a moron.
“I will,” you dutifully answered.
Who were you to disobey your queen?
“Do you need help getting out of that?” She asked, glancing towards your dress, nose wrinkling at the dirt on it before she dusted herself off like perhaps you’d gotten her filthy too.
“No, I can do it,” you insisted, slipping into the bathroom before you could somehow end up even more self-conscious.
But your muscles were already aching for relief, a throbbing pain beginning in your shoulder when you lifted your dress up and over your head.
One that was thankfully soothed by the still warm water in the tub, a welcome relief to the frigid water buckets you’d been sticking using the last few days. Flower petals floating on the surface, bath salts mixed in as you sank yourself in neck-deep.
True to her word, there was a platter of food set up by the tub, and you forced yourself to take a few bites, nibbling on just enough to satisfy her request.
Satoru was trying to take care of you.
Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
Offering your shoulder for her to cry or cling to after her husband died horrifically?
Of course, you knew she didn’t like him. Or well, more accurately, she loathed him. But his passing put her in a precarious position, her own life most likely hanging in the balance when she had no heir to guarantee her safety or status here.
You didn’t know what she was going to do.
Which also meant you had no idea what you were going to do.
A piece of you wished you were born a man. That you’d been given the chance or opportunity to learn swordsmanship, or got to train with the knights. That you would be able to protect Satoru, shield her from these petty and cruel court politics instead of getting caught in the crossfire.
Washing yourself of the last few days did not help quell your feelings of inadequacy, or solve a single one of your problems, no matter how soothing it was to soak and scrub yourself clean properly this time.
You didn’t linger in the tub.
No matter how much you might have liked to, a far greater part of you longed to be around Satoru. Craving her company after you’d been deprived of her presence for so long. You wanted to curl up in her lap like you used to, back when you were children and she’d be the one to comfort you over every skinned knee and scraped elbow.
Stepping out of the tub with a heavy sigh, squinting when you discovered something wasn’t quite right.
“Toru?” You called out, glancing around the small room searching for something that was evidently forgotten. “There’s no towel.”
Or change of clothes.
Nothing but your discarded dress from before to cover up, although you weren’t exactly inclined to pick it back up.
You thought she’d just open the door and toss something to put on.
Not just swing the door open and saunter in a second later, not even blinking as her eyes swept over your bare form. Lingering on the swell of your breasts and the way the water droplets were still rolling down between them.
“The maid must have forgotten,” she hummed, dragging her stare off of you to do a courtesy sweep of the room. “Give me a moment.”
You were overthinking it.
Nodding obediently as you glanced down at your legs, shuffling on your feet as heat rose to your cheeks, thankful for the soft thud of the door shutting.
She returned a couple minutes later, a towel in one arm and a white gown that looked an awful lot like a short version of her own in the other, passing both to you with that practiced smile of hers she usually saved for when she was up to something.
“There you go,” Satoru chirped. “I’ll wait for you.”
It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen you naked before.
But this felt decidedly different.
And you didn’t know what to do about the strange fluttering in your stomach at the idea of her watching you dress, at the way her eyes had drifted so dangerously slowly over the shape of you.
Was this a dream?
Were you still asleep? Still stuck in that tower?
Wishing for something you had never once been able to admit to yourself that you wanted?
You took an extra few minutes to dry off, adjusting the way the dress hung over you five times too many before you paused to brush your teeth in the mirror, avoiding your reflection as you spit in the sink, watching the tinged pink drool disappear with a soft exhale.
Satoru was pristine. Pure.
And what were you?
You opened the door, fiddling with the hem of the dress she’d given you as you nearly ran straight into where she was waiting right outside of it.
“I was getting worried,” she lightly joked, and you were brushing past her, a painful surge of panic bubbling back up.
“Why are you doing this for me?” You asked, hyper aware of how undeserving you were as you padded barefoot back into the overwhelmingly lovely room. “It’s too much, I-”
“You should know by now that nothing is too much for me when it comes to you,” Satoru chided with a soft chuckle. Refusing to let you step away from her, grabbing your wrist before you could slip away.
She was so close.
That familiar scent of her lulling you back in, daring you to breathe her in again.
And god, you wanted to.
Satoru said your name, and before you knew what you were doing, you were leaning up on your tip toes and pressing your lips to hers, impulsively planting a kiss to her strawberry-flavored mouth.
You knew within half a second that you shouldn’t have done it, but you couldn’t stop yourself, deepening it as your fingertips tenderly grazed her impossibly perfect skin. It took every ounce of self restraint for you to pull away from her, shaking your head as you tried not to cry at the thought you would never get to do that again.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, immediately wishing you could take it back, sure that she would throw you back in the tower for the crime of presuming you could possibly deserve anything as sweet as her lips. “I shouldn’t have-”
But before you could so much as finish your sentence, Satoru was cupping your face and pulling you back in, her nose nestling against yours as her blue eyes sparkled with something you’d never seen in them before.
“Do it again.”
ε✿з
You were kissing her.
For a moment, Satoru was sure she had died and this was heaven.
How often had she scrawled into diaries her deepest dreams of getting to experience the taste of you on her tongue?
Your gentle hands on her face and your heaving chest pressed against hers, lips slipping between her own with desperate affection.
You. Desperate. For her.
Her brain only conjuring her small words and short sentences, too overwhelmed by the sensation of your soft mouth to think straight.
God, you tasted so good.
Fruity and sweet at the same time, your delicate fingers sifting through her hair as you let out the quietest squeak Satoru immediately wanted to hear over and over, sure she’d never get sick of the sound.
And behind the lovestruck haze, a jealous voice scoffed that she should’ve killed Suguru far sooner for getting to taste you like this first.
Slipped the poison in his cup the moment he set his sights on you and made his intent to steal you clear.
Of course, cleaning it up would’ve been much messier, but red hot jealousy coiled and cut through all her cold logic when she thought of his massive mitts manhandling you instead of treating you like the rare flower you really were.
Satoru was the one who spent her life watering you, taking care to tend to the soil and fertilize it, making sure you’d bloom so beautifully for her, and he tried to rip your roots out like you wouldn’t just wither away without her.
“Satoru,” you whispered her name, sucking in a sharp breath as you pulled back, eyes shining with surprise.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you,” she swallowed hard, spit pooling in the back of her mouth.
From the day you looked up at her like some wounded lamb, you had been hers.
Perhaps it had just taken a little separation for you to see that too.
“You were waiting for me?” You repeated, that dazed, dreamy look in your eyes as you looked up at her, as if you thought she was going to change her mind.
“My heart has always been yours,” she proclaimed, although the confession she used to imagine came out far more shaky than it had in her head. Not nearly as cool or collected or calm as she pictured when your cheek was so warm beneath her palm.
Praying that you wouldn’t change your mind now that she had no way to take back the words.
“But I’m-” You were about to put yourself down. To diminish the light inside you that she loved so much.
“You’re mine.”
And no one else’s now.
Before you could protest, claim something silly about the difference in your status, she was pulling you back onto the bed, your form landing on top of hers as the feathered mattress cushioned the fall. You tried to wiggle back, but Satoru simply gripped your waist, refusing to let you budge as she pushed her bottom lip out in a pout you immediately softened for.
“Say it for me,” she requested.
“I have always belonged to you,” you acquiesced, and Satoru wanted to bury herself inside of your heart to make sure there really was no space for anyone else inside of it.
That it was wholly hers the way you already occupied every nook and crevice of her body and brain.
She was craning her neck up to kiss you again, your mouth meeting hers a little slower, more hesitation creeping in as your body began to melt against her. A possessive hand sliding up your spine, already annoyed at the fabric separating your skin from hers.
Needing to feel you properly, for your soft flesh to dimple beneath her fingers, to leave lovebites scattered across every inch of you that you offered.
“It killed me to see you with him,” she muttered, chest seizing at how vulnerable the confession came out.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shaking your head before she abruptly flipped you over, pinning you beneath her and pushing your dress up to expose-
Oh fuck.
Was every part of you so pretty?
Your pussy glistening as she nudged your thighs further apart, her pulse pounding in her ears as she finally got to see all of you up close. Presented perfectly for her, your nose scrunched up like you might be scared she could possibly find something wrong with you instead of being awestruck by the simple sight of you splayed out for her.
She might not have a cock, but Satoru was sure she could make you cum hard enough to forget about any petty insecurities that might be plaguing you.
“Take your gown off,” Satoru instructed, only realizing how stern it came out when you faltered, hesitating as you bit your bottom lip. “Please.”
Before she had to break down and beg for you to strip.
Satoru sat up and started lifting off her own dress as well, watching the way your eyes hung onto the heave of her breasts, how they kept shyly flickering back up to her face as your fingers slowly moved to remove the fabric.
You weren’t girls anymore.
Not kids playing husband and wife, or king and queen.
Exploring each other for keeps, hands tepidly traveling across hips and thighs and breasts at first, although it didn’t take much time for the touches to turn needy.
Hungry for something you’d both been starving yourselves of for years.
Could you really blame Satoru for not being able to stop herself?
For hooking one of those soft thighs of yours over her shoulder and dragging her tongue along the inside of it before the last little tendril of self-control she possessed snapped?
She had to have you.
Slipping two fingers inside you slowly, feeling the way you squeezed around her digits, your mouth forming a delicious little ‘o’ she wanted to kiss again. Already shaking before she even began to swirl her fingers around inside of you, barely able to contain the heat rolling through her core just watching your reactions as she pushed in deeper.
You whimpered, and every single thing that led up to this in Satoru’s life was suddenly worth it.
The mocking, the marriage, every mistake she made on this meandering path, she’d do all of it again if you were waiting for her at the end of it.
Your lips swollen and kiss-bruised as you let out soft sounds of pleasure that were because of her. Your naked form shivering in the same bed as you reached down to run your fingers through her hair, holding it back as she found herself half-delirious with lust she couldn’t hold back.
Slotting in a third finger the second she thought you could take it, watching your eyes widen and start to water as they rolled back, your hips bucking up to drive her fingers as deep as possible.
“My princess can take more,” she purred, spreading you further apart, greedy eyes gazing on your stripped bare body, the thin sheen of sweat sticking to your skin as you moaned her name.
“S-S’toru,” you cried out, and she was a little tempted to just do this for hours and count how many times she could make you say it precisely like that.
Satoru must have imagined this moment a million times. What your face would look like all scrunched up, how you would shiver and shake as she swirled her fingers in, feeling for all those sensitive spots that had you immediately trying to squirm and wiggle away.
Pushing and pressing into them while she pleaded for you to stay put in her sultriest voice.
“Be a good girl for me,” she hummed, and you nodded, loyal as ever. Itching to please her as badly as she wanted to please you. “Let me love you.”
Let her hold you.
Fuck you.
Make you cum as many times as you could in a single night and then give her the rest of them. All your nights. All your days. Everything.
Satoru had always been greedy.
And you satiated her sweet tooth more than anything else ever did.
Sinking her teeth into the inside of your thighs just because she could, feeling your muscles twitch and spasm as you gasped, caught off guard.
You didn’t stop her.
No, you let her bite and lick and kiss, her mouth latching onto your swollen clit, swirling the tip of her tongue over it as you let out a raw noise. As if someone had just ripped it from your stomach, pulled it out of you too fast for you to soften it.
Her fingers continued to thrust in while she nipped at your clit, just for your body to confirm what she suspected by clenching around her hand like you wanted to trap it in there. You were cumming for her already.
She’d seen you do it with Suguru.
But this one was so much more visceral, no dramatic or drawn-out moan, just your body melting into a puddle for her to mold as you fell apart for her.
You were shuddering, limbs trembling, as you tried to pull her back by her hair.
But you had never been good at telling her no.
Even when she was driving you right to the brink of overstimulation, and then pushing you well past it, greedily sucking on that sensitive bud, pressing her tongue flat against it as she pumped her fingers in-and-out, finding a steady rhythm to ruin you too.
Satoru had never had sex before. Her purity protected well into the marriage she was supposed to save it for. No experience of her own to truly compare this too. But she’d touched herself and pretended it was you enough times to have an idea of what would make you unravel just right.
Operating on instinct, on need, peering up at you from her position between your thighs as pretty tears welled up in your eyes. Satoru wanted to soothe your ache, to kiss them away and drag her tongue over the streaks they left on your cheeks.
Perhaps she should’ve planned a little better, found something bigger to stick in you, to make you moan and murmur for mercy with, watching you fall apart while she teased and toyed with your body now that you had finally given yourself fully to her.
You were so beautiful like this.
Being brought to the heights of pleasure, worshipped the way you should’ve been from the start, her tongue and fingers working together as she clumsily made out with you, only pulling off to drag the thick muscle over your slick folds for a better taste.
“I-I-” You hiccuped, your voice half an octave too high as your thighs clamped down around her head, your own thrown back as you wiggled your hips, chasing a second climax. “I c-can’t-”
“You can,” Satoru hummed, rubbing her own thighs together to soothe the aching need between them. “Want you to cum for me again, princess.”
You wouldn’t deny her.
You never did.
Desperately groaning as you gave in, sweat making both your bodies sticky as you tried to not to tug too hard at her hair, still holding back to not hurt her as you crumbled into a crying mess. Tears slipping out that she was quick to climb back on top of you and wipe away, kissing your lips to swallow your whines, enjoying the way you fit so nicely beneath her until you started to come back down.
“You look so pretty like this,” she softly complimented, tracing her thumb over your lip, already missing your kiss the moment your mouths were apart.
“Toru,” you whispered her name, and she was sure that she would never get sick of hearing it. Far fucking better than the way you used to say Suguru.
“Mhm?” She hummed, chewing on the inside of her cheek as you stared straight through her. That fuzzy look in your eyes fading as understanding replaced the daze.
Like you’d suddenly gained some clarity.
“It was you, was it?” You asked, and you didn’t need to say what when you were both well aware of what you were accusing her of.
Were you really just now considering it?
Was your judgement clouded from your unconditional love? So devoted that you were deluding yourself into ignoring the obvious?
“No,” Satoru lied, still in the habit of hiding the truth if it meant sparing your feelings. Refusing to lose you after she just got you. “It wasn’t me.”
ε✿з
You were flying far too close to the sun.
You knew that somewhere deep inside of you as Satoru snuggled against your collarbone, her warmth wrapped around you as she burned you up. Her scorching touch seared into your skin as she refused to let even an inch separate the two of you.
Sooner or later, your wings were going to fail you, and send you tumbling out of the sky back to the ground.
Would she catch you when you crashed?
Or would you be left to stare up at her until she was just a beautiful bird flying high out of your reach?
All you were doing was damning yourself by dreaming of a happy ending with her.
You guessed you should just be grateful for what you had while you had it.
That she hadn’t cut your tongue out for daring to slip it between her lips.
It hadn’t been the first time you had thought about it.
But even entertaining the idea of her choosing you had always been so preposterous you pushed your budding feelings down deep, refusing to let them devour you no matter how often she occupied your dreams.
Your life had been built around the pristine pedestal you placed her on.
Your world revolved around her smile, her laugh, hearing your twinkling voice in your ear and feeling her soft fingers brushing over your skin.
Everything you’d ever done had been for her.
So why did it feel like you’d just gone from warming one ruler’s sheets to another?
As if you were just in her bed for the comfort she brought, the security of her position.
You hoped she wouldn’t think that. That she understood that if she asked you to run away with her today, you would accept without hesitation.
Next to her now, her sleepy eyes fluttering open as she hummed your name, it just made you think of how stupid you were not to have been doing this all along. For not seeing this for what it was sooner.
“You’ll be safe here,” Satoru murmured, snuggling against you as you rolled onto your side. Keeping herself glued to you, her lips lingering on your skin with a content sigh.
“What happens next?” You murmured, watching the morning sun beginning to rise through the stained glass window, slowly chasing the dark away as your personal sunshine faltered for a moment.
“They’re still investigating his passing,” she mumbled, refusing to say Suguru’s name. Or call it for what it must have been. An assassination someone wanted to make you the scapegoat for. “You haven’t been officially cleared yet.”
And still, she’d showed up for you, hadn’t she?
“But I will be?” You hopefully asked, your heart thrumming at the thought of this being ripped from you too.
“Nothing will happen to you,” she swore.
You had given her your heart. Your soul. Your body.
Those were all you really had to offer.
But handing her your trust?
That was…tricky.
Especially when she wouldn’t offer any more details about your detainment as the minutes melted into hours and the hours twisted into days that just kept passing.
In the dark moments, a cold voice suggested that you should at least consider the chance she could have done it. Orchestrated it from the shadows. But she had told you she hadn’t.
She would’ve confessed it if she had.
Suguru had his fair share of enemies. Disgruntled rulers from other kingdoms, angry nobles and dukes who wanted more power than he allowed.
It wasn’t like it was outrageous that one of them had grown sick of his antics and took matters into their own hands.
So you tried to be content too, Satoru trading your tower for more comfortable quarters, her trusted knights stationed outside the room you caught glimpses at when she slipped in-and-out, leaving you to attend to her duties most days.
She brought you meals, insisting on hand feeding you half the time, murmuring under her breath that you couldn’t be trusted to do it yourself before she had you for dessert. Hands spreading your thighs apart as she lapped and licked you up, refusing to pull off until you had cum on her tongue or come undone with her fingers, falling apart for her to mend back together.
Still, it had started to feel like you were becoming more a part of her schedule than like her partner.
Perhaps that was wishing too much though.
Wanting more than you had any right to ask for.
At the end of the day, you would still always be a maid in everyone’s eyes.
Her pet.
Her people wouldn’t exactly be pleased to know that their queen was more interested in women than securing another king or providing them an heir?
Were you a price she was willing to pay for political control? Would there come a day where she would remarry another man?
Was it already being arranged while you wasted weeks lounging around in her bed and longing for her to join you, smelling her scent on the pillow and aching for her return?
The worst part was how Satoru was so hesitant to let you hold her, doing everything on her terms as she came up with excuse after excuse to keep your hands either bound behind your back or tethered in her hair instead of tracing over her soft skin.
Did she think you were too dirty?
That you would stain her supple flesh if you so much as squeezed her close?
No matter how much it stung, you still shoved down your discomfort. Told yourself that you should be grateful for what she was giving you and ignore how much she withheld.
You had to plead with her just to be allowed to visit her office during the days to keep yourself from going insane. A trusted knight always had to accompany you there, a shawl hiding your face as they carefully took you there when no one else would be around. She stocked extra books for you, a basket left next to one of the armchairs with embroidery supplies, sometimes making you write letters for her that she couldn’t care to do herself to foreign kingdoms and nobles to settle their unrest.
And after a month, you began to settle.
Setting aside old foolish hopes and accepting your new routine.
Waiting for her to join you in her office, curling up in one of the other chairs as you tried to tell yourself that she’d come back soon. She had run off to attend some important meeting, patting your head and telling you that it was nothing when you tried to ask what it was about.
So what if it made you feel a little pathetic for waiting around like a poor puppy dog abandoned by her owner?
Satoru would return to you.
And she made all of it worth it.
Your body was beginning to fall asleep though, pins and needles pricking your limbs when you stood to shake it off, walking around in a circle and wondering if you were just destined to be on her leash before you decided to slump yourself in her chair instead.
It smelled like her.
Your body relaxing at the scent, already trained as your eyes skimmed over her cluttered desk space, papers strewn around from the hurry she left in before.
Curiosity pricking at you as you found yourself slowly opening up drawers and peeking inside to see if there was anything interesting hiding from you. And slipped underneath thick ledgers and blank papers was a plain black leather-bound notebook you’d seen her writing in before.
You pulled it out, a not-at-all small piece of you hoping that maybe it was a secret diary as you started flipping through it, that you’d find your own name scribbled down with hearts drawn next to it.
It turned out your name was there.
But it was the words that were with it that sent your stomach through the floor.
The contents of it were cold.
Sharp. Each word punctuated so deeply that the ink bled between the pages.
The confirmation that she loved you was there. Just sandwiched between white hot anger that someone else had gotten to touch you first. To fuck you in the bed you belonged in with her.
Queasiness slowly building in your core, something thick and slimy coiling around your heart as you skipped from the earlier entries to the more recent ones, knowing what was coming before you found the entry for the day Suguru died.
And there in between the lines, the truth stared back at you.
She had dinner with Suguru.
Shared a meal together right before he went to join you that she never once mentioned to you.
No.
This couldn’t be right.
Satoru couldn’t have-
Or well, if she did, she wouldn’t have framed you for it.
She loved you.
Swore that you were hers and that she’d never let anything awful happen to you again. The idea that she’d put you through hell just to have you all to herself was crippling.
Maybe she didn’t outright admit that she’d done it, maybe you still didn’t know precisely how, but you knew it was her with a scary sort of certainty.
Your body freezing as you read and reread the five short lines in front of you detailing her evening, forcing yourself to turn the page and read ahead, to see her absolutely unaffected as she offered just a single line about Suguru dying. Images of his face, that awful look in his eyes before he collapsed floating back up as you choked on the stomach-churning memory of him.
An awful thought crept in that she left it here for you to find. That some part of her hoped you’d be nosey enough to snoop and come across it.
For you to see all of her.
Was it a test?
Her attempt to see if your devotion to her was strong enough to stay despite what she’d done.
You closed the book, shoving it back where you found it and standing up as the knowledge started to sink in, to seep through and cast a darker shade on your days together as you rushed to return to your chair.
What if it had all been designed to keep you firmly in your place beneath her? Confined to her chambers and chained to her heart?
Didn’t she already know she didn’t need to do any of it for you to stay?
The door opened with a creak, and you were reopening the forgotten book you’d been reading before you found the forbidden one.
“Hi, beautiful,” Satoru greeted as she walked over, bending over to press a soft kiss on your cheek before breezing past to her desk.
“Hi, Toru,” you echoed, pretending to be absorbed in the book in your hands, hoping she wouldn’t notice you were holding it upside down.
You closed it, placing it in your lap as you looked up at her with easy obedience, praying she wouldn’t pay any mind to the suspicion now lingering underneath it.
“Was I gone long?” She earnestly asked as she slid into her seat, scooting it up close to her desk and leaning across it as her blue eyes focused solely on your face.
“It felt like it,” you confessed, swallowing hard.
“I must make it up to you tonight then,” your Toru teased, her perfectly cruel mouth curling up as she delivered a cute wink.
She did make it up to you.
But it didn’t make you forget what you found.
What were you meant to do about it?
Pretend you hadn’t? Pray that no one else would ever discover what you had?
You wished she would abandon this. Abdicate the throne and take you away somewhere warm.
But it was Satoru.
Hadn’t you learned already she refused to give up anything once it was hers?
The privilege, the power, the promise of a gold gilded future with you waiting on her.
She would never let it go.
It was you that didn’t know how to move forward. That could figure out where to go from here when she didn’t seem to notice your indiscretion.
You spent two days torn over it. Treading softly with her, feigning that you were fine overnight until she left you again and you unraveled in her absence.
Opening the bedroom door an hour after she left, already knowing who’d you find on the other side.
A brute of a man standing guard, his back to the opposite wall as his ruby red eyes narrowed at you with pure annoyance.
“No.”
You hadn’t even spoken yet.
Eying him with the same irritation he showed for you, nose scrunching up as you stopped yourself from huffing.
Most of the guards she had stationed outside your room changed, unaware of who they were even protecting, a rotating roster of men ready to keep you from breaking free. But not him.
He was always the one posted directly by your door.
Dark pink hair falling down in his face, scarred and marked skin always creased in a stern scowl when he caught you staring at him, one foot about to fall forward before he shook his head.
“Stop,” he grunted as you peeked out of the door, and you feigned innocence, shrugging your shoulders.
“I just want to go to her office,” you pleaded, and he glared at you, refusing to even entertain your request.
“No,” he deadpanned.
But there was something underneath his rude facade that you didn’t like. Your brows pinching together as you tried to pout at him, to come up with something persuasive enough to change his answer.
Before you could, there was the click of heels, and you glanced back to see Satoru returning, a platter prepared with desserts. Her pretty face was pinched up with obvious displeasure though, her mouth twitching down as you hurried to step back inside your room.
She was slamming the door shut after you a few seconds later, half-shoving the tray into your hands as she turned to you with a disgruntled hiss.
“Why were you speaking to him?” Satoru snapped, and the only thing you could properly think about was how pretty she looked when she was jealous.
The downturn of her lips, the way her blue eyes glinted with unfettered annoyance, blowing air out of her nose as she tilted her head to the side all dramatically.
“I wanted to see you,” you murmured, cupping her face just for her jaw to clench.
Torn between taking you at your word and questioning it.
“You know I would be here with you all the time if I could,” she softly said, despite how cold her stare still was. Her hands still held warmth for you though. Delicately picking up a slice of a cake she must’ve requested the chef make, bringing it up to your lips.
You opened up for her. Holding her stare as she pushed it through, taking a small bite as she watched you swallow it.
“I worry about you,” you confessed as she wiped the icing from the corner of your mouth.
“Don’t.”
You never thought Satoru could possibly ask too much of you.
But that was simply impossible.
And the longer you went without any answers, the more you found yourself starting to spiral. To unravel as you waited and waited for something to change.
What could you do?
It wasn’t like the court you’d never found any friends in would support what the two of you shared. Satoru had kept you completely clueless to what was happening outside of the two rooms you could be in, ignorant to how much trouble she might be in with no husband to wear the crown.
Truthfully, you had no plan.
No magical solution that struck you in the middle of the night.
But you wanted to help.
Peeking back out into the hallway a week after you first found her book, ready to prod and press her knight for more information on what you’d been missing, but to your surprise, the hallway was empty.
No sign of anyone as you slipped out, your heart thrumming loudly in your chest as you started down the familiar path to her office.
It was a short walk, but every step made your chest constrict, pulse pounding so loud you were sure someone had to hear until you were finally there, her office door cracked open just enough for you to steal a glimpse inside.
The knight was there, his brows knitted together tight as he looked through all the books lining the shelves, walking over to her desk and carefully looking through the documents on it with that permanent scowl of his.
Searching for something.
Oh no.
You had a feeling you knew exactly what he was hoping to find.
He was going to betray her, wasn’t he? Looking for proof of what she’d done
His hand reached for the drawer her notebook was in, and you were pushing the door open before he could discover it.
Your suspicions were confirmed with how straight he abruptly stood, acting as if he hadn’t just been snooping.
“What are you doing out of your room?” He snarled at you, his voice hoarse and harsh as you refused to tremble or back down.
“What are you doing in here?” You returned the question, throat constricting at the intensity of his glare.
You weren’t brave. Not nearly as strong or stubborn as Satoru.
It wasn’t like anyone would ever be intimidated by you.
But you would try for her.
He didn’t answer your question, just grinding his back molars as he stepped out from around the desk, starting to stomp over as if he planned to drag you out and toss you back into your room.
If he did that though, he might just come back and find precisely what he was looking for.
So while he started towards you, you walked the opposite way around to where he’d been, a lie slipping off your tongue like you were used to telling them, “I just wanted to grab some books I left in here.”
“Hurry up then,” he scoffed, biting his tongue, probably not pushing it so you wouldn’t go and tattle to Toru about him being in here.
He thought you were stupid.
Just a brainless fool who was only good for getting fingered and fucked.
Not batting an eye when you grabbed a couple books you’d set aside on Satoru’s desk before pulling open the drawer and grabbing her diary, sliding it in the middle of the pile as her knight impatiently looked outside the door.
She would notice it was gone.
And you would have to fess up, admit that you’d read it enough to know to take it.
You’d rather her be mad at you than to get caught for her crime.
Stoking the flames in the fireplace the second your guard half-pushed you back into the room you were supposed to be in, ripping out the incriminating pages first and using them for tender before tossing the rest of the book in.
Watching it go up in flames, ashes sputtering out as it turned to dust in front of your eyes while you paced the floor and planned out the speech you would give her.
Or would have given her had she actually returned for dinner.
The sun setting and the moon replacing it through your window as you waited and waited for her to come for you. Debating and drowning in your anxieties over what could be taking her so long, your eyes compelled back to the burning papers, using the fire poker to keep the flames going before you were finally forced to face the reality that Satoru might not be showing up tonight.
Climbing back under the freezing covers, the bed so much bigger without her there to curl up against.
It didn’t matter how silky the sheets were or how comfortable the mattress was.
You couldn’t sleep anymore when there wasn’t the scent of her perfume and the softness of her skin to comfort you.
Was she upset with you?
Had something awful happened to her?
To make everything worse, you started to hear a…commotion on the floor below you. Voices and the sound of things moving around, shouts and scuffles that only served to heighten your nerves.
You almost opened the door to go find out what was going on. Sneak out again to search for the truth, but every time your hand settled on the knob, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn it.
Ignorance could be bliss.
But the truth would come out sooner or later.
Curled up on the edge of your bed, hands clasped together as your eyes stuck to the door, shadows dancing across the floor as the sun rose once again.
When it opened again, you were immediately standing, wiping sweaty palms on your nightdress as your breath got stuck in your throat, a hot lump forming the moment Satoru actually walked through.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she softly greeted, exhaustion obvious in the dark circles betraying her beautiful face.
“What happened?” You asked, studying her features for some clue, heart slamming into your chest as you tried to figure out what the chaos beneath you could possibly be. What could’ve taken her so long to come to you.
“They discovered who killed our dearly departed king,” she said, a faint hint of amusement shimmering before she turned away to lock the door behind her.
“What?” Your throat closed up, the word coming out as a stunned squeak as your brain tried to add together everything you knew.
The person who killed Suguru was standing in front of you.
If they knew that, she would be on her way to the gallows.
Not turning around so you could undo her corset.
You automatically stepped forward, fingers trembling as you undid her dress out of habit.
“One of the knights slipped poison into his wine,” Satoru apathetically huffed, as if it was a waste of time to even talk about it.
“One of the knights?” You echoed, reaching for something you didn’t know if you were confident enough to confront her about right as you unlaced the final part. Satoru stepped out of it with ease, her perfect body on display as she twisted back around to look over her shoulder at you. “Which one?”
“Does it matter?” She scoffed, arching up an eyebrow, clearly unhappy with your question.
But you still had one more left.
“Why?”
Her hesitation to answer gave you a different one.
“You know as well as I do what he was like,” she said, a little too snappy as she squinted at you.
But the moment the words were out there, you could see she regretted her response, her fingers skimming over your waist and squeezing you tenderly. “It’s all over now.”
You stared at her.
Satoru was lying to you.
You didn’t know why it surprised you. Couldn’t explain why it left you so shocked, staring at her in silence as you struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t give away what you knew.
“The knight was executed over night,” she added, your heart stilling as you realized the toll had risen to two.
But could you be upset when the other option was one, or maybe both of you taking their place?
“How did-”
“He stole something of mine,” Satoru muttered, and you knew what must’ve happened without her offering anything else.
She must have returned to her office first and realized her journal was gone.
And there were only two people she trusted enough to have access to the office it was kept in.
So she pinned the blame on her knight and beheaded him before he could speak about any of its contents or piece together what she’d done for you.
“He didn’t,” you breathed, your lungs shrinking as you struggled to get any more air in.
One of you had to be honest here.
She blinked at you, not comprehending what you were saying.
“What?”
“It was me,” you admitted, stiffly shrugging your shoulders. “I saw him searching your office. And, I, um, took it and threw it in the hearth.”
“You burned my-?”
“I read it,” you swallowed hard, that hard lump still there, still choking you up as you avoided her stare. “Before. I know-”
“No,” she cut you off, grabbing your chin and forcing you to tilt your face up to meet hers. “You, you were supposed to stay out of this.”
You knew in an instant all she wanted was to protect you. To shield you from the nasty politics and petty games these awful people liked to play.
But you couldn’t stand the idea of her doing anything at the expense of herself.
“You should have told me from the start,” you insisted. “I-I would’ve-”
“Your hands were supposed to be clean.” And your head empty.
Did she think you wouldn’t have loved her if you knew what she had done?
And now you had helped her conceal it.
“We could have-” You started, about to tell her that as long as you were together, you could work out the rest.
“If I told you before, you would have said there was another way,” Satoru solemnly said, her eyes narrowing as her fingers tightened around your wrist.
You couldn’t really argue that. You would have said precisely that. Told her it was too risky. Tried to dissuade her from taking drastic measures and attempting to convince her to run away with you.
You used to wish that the two of them would find a way to work it out. That you could find a happily ever after where everyone would get along.
What would your reaction have been if she touched your face and told you that she was going to murder her husband?
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” She pressed when you took too long to reply, her fingers pinching your chin to draw your attention back to right now. “I was not about to let you carry his child.”
It wasn’t like you could have hers.
Even if you’d do that in a heartbeat.
“He would have just kept putting babies in you and pushing me away from you” Satoru hissed, jealousy and anger rolling into her raw voice. “I couldn’t-”
“I know,” you interrupted her this time, softening as you leaned into her.
“Now it’s just us again,” she whispered conspiratorially, pressing a clipped-short nail against the tip of your nose.
How were you supposed to be mad about that?
You held your breath though, still searching for anything that could stand in the way.
“These people, they are not going to just let you rule forever,” you whispered, thinking about what could befall both of you if her treason was ever discovered. Sure, she’d found someone to blame, but there must be other loose ends. Whoever she obtained the poison from. The subjects who never supported her as queen to start with. “If they find out or-”
Satoru pressed her finger against your mouth, stopping you while you spiralled.
“Princess,” she murmured, clicking her tongue as her initial emotions swirled into that cocky confidence of hers. Pride returning as she realized that you weren’t going to condemn or curse her, but that you were concerned for her. “Don’t you know me?”
You hoped that meant she had already considered every side of your fear and took care of every conceivable problem.
“I love you,” you offered instead, your voice trembling as you put your trust in her hands.
“His throne is mine,” she smiled softly. And his concubine.
“What if someone else challenges it?” You pressed.
“There’s going to be a baby born with dark hair and purple eyes in a few months. His child. The mother doesn’t want the child, so I made a deal. She gets her own estate. We will get our heir,” She explained, speaking in short sentences like it would make the revelation easier to swallow.
“Someone else was pregnant with his child?” You breathed, taken aback.
When the fuck did he have the time to plow someone else’s field when he pretended to be so preoccupied with you?
It was wrong, especially when it wasn’t like your heart had ever wanted him, but it wounded your own pride a little bit at the idea you hadn’t been enough for him.
You supposed you should’ve suspected it, if Satoru wasn’t enough for him either.
“You weren’t his only-”
“Whore,” you finished for her, the word coming out a little strangled as you saw the situation for what it was.
All you’d been was a warm body to Suguru.
You were both disposable, to be used and discarded when his interests drifted.
“We’ll tell everyone the baby is yours,” she added, as if she had already planned every last detail out. “And until the child is old enough, I can still rule as a regent.”
Was that why she’d been hiding you away?
Faking a pregnancy instead of keeping you prisoner?
“Do you think they’ll accept a child they think is a bastard?” You asked, needing her to say yes.
To assure you that your fears were unfounded.
That she’d take care of you the same way she always had.
“I will give them no other option.”
When she spoke like that, that cold look icing over her eyes as she steeled her resolve, you knew she would. That she would do anything necessary to make sure of it.
“And what? We live happily ever after?”
Say yes.
You needed it. Craved her confirmation.
Looking up at her as your trembling fingers reached out to trace her waist, holding your breath as she nodded slowly.
“Forever.”
Your angel was standing in front of you promising you everything you ever wanted.
How were you ever meant to say no?
Even if she would lead you straight to Hell.
“You can be my queen,” Satoru murmured, giving you that pretty puppy dog pout you always fell for, placated as she leaned down to leave a soft kiss to your forehead like it was all settled.
Regret still lingering in your body as you ached to actually be that for her. Wishing your circumstances had been different from the beginning.
That you were never cursed to be so far below her, and in the body of a woman that could never wear a matching ring or recite wedding vows to her.
“I wish I was a-”
“Do not,” she scoffed, shaking her head. “You are perfect precisely the way you are.”
“Then why don’t you let me love you like you love me?” You asked, almost immediately annoyed at yourself for sounding a little whiney.
But you wanted to be inside of her.
To feel her squeeze and squirm around you, to hear her dissolve into messy whimpers and whines because of you.
“W-what do you mean?” She stuttered, her white brows arching up high as her lips got stuck in the sort of ‘o’ that made you itch to slip your tongue inside of her.
“I want to make you feel good,” you simply said, cheeks heating up as you swallowed the spit pooling in your mouth.
You had never seen Satoru nervous before.
Her mouth opened and clamped shut a few times before she started trying to ramble off reasons that she was better at giving, but you were sick of them.
Sick of all the stupid things that had kept you apart.
All the years you could’ve spent in her warmth that you missed out on. Mourning what both of your lives could’ve been if you were born as other people.
But she had sworn you were enough for her.
Was it wrong to want to show her how she was far more than enough for you?
“I-I just like the way you taste and-”
You kissed her mid-sentence, shutting her up before she could stall this any longer.
Grabbing her this time, guiding her back to the bed one step at a time, tangling your fingers in her soft, silky hair as your tongue slipped past her lips, tracing the sharp tips of her canines until her back hit the mattress.
And god, the moment you climbed on top of her, straddling her soft waist and pausing to peel your nightdress over your head, you hated yourself for not doing it sooner.
For missing out on the view you were currently taking in, eyes slowly drifting over the swell of her breasts, the pink peaked buds of her nipples as she sucked in uneven breaths, staring up at you with those dazzling blue eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” you whispered, the words ripped from you as you struggled to keep yourself steady.
It felt like you were defiling something holy.
Her sacred body below you, your fingertips skimming over her pale stomach, swirling slowly across her nipple as you bit your bottom lip.
If she was an altar, a god, you’d pray to her every day.
Swear your faith and undying devotion, shower her with offerings and pray for just a sliver of her favor.
You couldn't believe she was yours.
“I’m a virgin,” Satoru suddenly blurted out, your fingers freezing as you drifted them back down below her belly button.
“Oh,” you blinked.
You suppose it should’ve been obvious.
But you had never really thought too hard about it.
You never exactly prized your virtue. But hers was different.
Special.
“Do you want me to stop?” You tentatively asked, about to climb back off of her before her hand gripped onto your hip to hold you there.
“No,” she answered a little too quickly.
So you came up with another solution to, ah, quell her nerves.
The ribbons you used to tie her hair with now strewn all over the bed, a long one in your hands as you adjusted her head forward.
“I’ll be gentle,” you promised.
Even though she practically jumped at every tiny touch you delivered to her skin, shivering at just a brush of your thumb over her nipple and when you leaned close enough for your breath to ghost across her throat.
You wrapped the ribbon around her eyes, excitement tingling between your fingers as you fixed the silk ribbon into its proper place, tying a pretty bow around the back, careful not to get her hair caught in it.
“Can you see?” You asked, humming softly with satisfaction as you lifted her wrists up next, positioning them above her hair as she writhed in the sheets.
“No,” she echoed, her voice shaking a little no matter how cocky she still tried to sound.
“Good.”
You tied her wrists next, watching the way she tested how strong the knot was by flexing them as you smiled to yourself.
“You know, you’re so mean,” you murmured, tracing your fingertip across her sharp features, brushing your thumb over her defined cheekbones before drifting down to her soft lips. “It’s only fair I get to play with you too.”
“I’m never mean to you,” Satoru huffed, and you were a little tempted to grab another ribbon and gag her with it for playing dumb.
“I hate it when you hide things from me,” you muttered, shaking your head with a soft tut of your tongue.
“I do it because-”
“You love me?” You asked, slowly shuffling down her body, pressing kiss after kiss across her heaving breasts down her slender abdomen.
Hoisting one of her thighs over your shoulder, sucking in a breath before you leaned in to leave on the most sensitive spot on her body.
“S-so much,” her cute voice cracked, nearly crumbling at the soft contact.
All her strength quickly melted into a puddle of pure need, her hips bucking up when you shifted down to start sucking on it, a gorgeous whimper escaping her – and immediately making you greedy for more.
You never thought Satoru would be at your mercy.
Her pretty pale body shivering, perfect skin glistening with sweat as she shuddered for you, her soft thighs trying to close around your head as you dragged your tongue down across her soaked cunt.
You didn’t think anything could ever taste so goddamn good.
No better than a man, wiggling your own hips down into the mattress to chase friction you couldn’t find, pushing your tongue in-and-out as her muscles twitched and tensed beneath your fingertips.
Suguru had never gotten you half as wet as her.
Never worked you up like this, left you soaked and squirming without even being touched. Your thighs pressing together to push down the heat stirring in your core, your pulse pounding so hard you nearly couldn’t hear her whining over it.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, I-I-”
You knew Satoru loved to chatter.
But once you were inside her it was like she physically couldn’t shut up, stammering and stuttering out curses, straining against the binds on her wrists and whining about not being able to see you.
“P-please, wanna see you, want to, oh god,” she begged, the beautiful arch of her back nearly breaking your resolve as heat soared straight up to cloud your head.
And before you could stop yourself, you were twisting around, angling your hips down to put your own pussy perfectly above her mouth, shutting her up by giving her something to lick and suck instead.
“Oh, fuck, ngh-”
Her words traded in for another heated moan as she shoved her tongue inside you, swirling it in with a desperation you found yourself quick to succumb to.
It really wasn’t fair that she was so good at everything you tried.
But you still refused to completely lose yourself, working harder to make her cum first, slipping your thumb up to her clit, only pulling off to start cooing and condescendingly coaxing her into coming undone, copying the same methods she so expertly pulled on you.
“C-come on,” you murmured, dragging your thumb in a slow circle as she shifted to suck on your clit just right, driving you right to the brink with her eagerness to give you everything she had. “Show me how much you love me.”
Preferably by falling to pieces on your tongue.
Sweat practically dripping off her, her moans reverberating through you as her body began to shake. On the very brink of breaking, pushed closer and closer as she started to cry out your name.
Her soft voice was music to your ears, a soft purr that made all the knots in your stomach pull tight instead of making them curdle like Suguru’s sometimes had.
You slipped your fingers inside her, feeling the way her walls squeezed down on them, trying to keep you in as you worked her oversensitive bud. She made a cute little squeak, her tongue lolling out as she began to babble again, “S’too much, I-I-”
“Shhh,” you murmured, pressing your tongue down as she spasmed and whimpered desperately at the sensation. “Can’t you cum for me?”
You glanced back over your shoulder to see the sight of her nodding hard and fast, the blindfold slightly crooked and her hands clawing at the pillow as she chased her climax.
“Put that pretty tongue of yours to better use,” you softly suggested, ignoring the initial discomfort at your reversed roles as you grinded your hips down on her face.
Apparently, your Toru could be a good listener too when she tried.
Doing her best to devote her tongue to you right up until the moment she couldn’t hold herself together anymore, cumming with a cry into your clit as your fingers found a sweet spot right below her cervix, pressing on it as you teased her swollen bud with the tip of your own pink muscle.
She was trembling, her legs twitching and toes curling as she let out devastated little whines that it wasn’t fair, squirming as you cleaned her up, enjoying the way she whimpered every single time your tongue dragged over her skin.
You could spend eternity buried between her thighs.
Or with hers between yours.
So what if it might be too much to ask?
She would make the universe give it to you anyway.
ε✿з
“My pretty princess.”
And her not terribly ugly son.
Satoru traced your face with her fingers, sighing to herself as the morning sun kissed your face, bathed you in beautiful warmth – oh, and the baby in your arms. Both of you snoozing softly, drool leaking out on your nightdress as you slept on your side, blissfully unaware of the outside world.
You made a pretty mother. Loved the little bastard Satoru did her best to tolerate.
Cradling an infant that neither of you had to carry, kissing his forehead and proudly showing him off to the other members of the court after he was born.
He’d never know he wasn’t yours. No one would.
Satoru would make sure of it.
His mother had been more than happy to take the estate. Especially when she knew the alternative would be Satoru taking her tongue to ensure she’d never talk.
She was still keeping tabs though. Just to be safe.
To make sure that this happy little family of hers would stay that way.
The nobles had protested. Insisted that she had no place as queen with Suguru dead. But his son, with his soft purple eyes and dark hair, well, that was enough to buy her eighteen more years.
Of course, there were still whispers.
Rumors swirled that she quickly snuffed out, either with quiet compensation or cold force. So what if a few more people had to be poisoned to protect your life together?
Rewriting history hadn’t been that hard.
No one needed to remember how much she hated Suguru. Or how rocky the marriage had been.
She got to be the mourning widow. The gracious wife still honoring her deceased husband by letting his bastard child be the heir. Raising him with a concubine instead of throwing both of them out.
That was how she’d be remembered.
“Good morning,” you yawned, slowly cracking your eyes open as you smiled at her.
“Sleep well?” She inquired, tempted to pick up the baby and place him back in his cradle so she could be cuddled instead.
You still had nightmares sometimes. Ones where you’d thrash around and she’d have to scoop him up and call for a wet nurse to take him until morning.
Waking you up to soothe you, stroking your hair and pretending not to know she was the reason for them.
And yet, you looked at her like she hung the sun in the sky and shined bright enough to chase away all the shadows. To bury the skeletons somewhere you’d never see them.
“Mhm,” you hummed, affectionately glancing between his chubby cheeks up to Satoru’s persistent pout as she puffed air into them.
“Have any attention left for me?” She pleaded, craning her neck over them to dramatically wait for you to press a gentle kiss to her nose.
An experiment gone wrong leaves you with a curse that looks just like your best friend. Like the day couldn't go even worse, said best friend walks in on you and the curse in a most precarious position.
CW: MDNI/18+ only, porn with little plot, reader has a Cursed Technique, the curse is technically Gojo but it's also its own entity?? oral (m receiving), threesome, improper use of CT, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, riding, spitroast, gojo and the curse like to ragebait each other WC: 5.1k
art by @/3-aem, divider by @cafekitsune
Getting walked in on wearing nothing but lacy panties and a bra by your best friend was already humiliating enough. Getting walked in on wearing nothing but lacy panties and a bra by your best friend while you’re practically straddling a curse that looks just like said best friend is even worse.
Satoru stands in the doorway, jaw almost dropped onto the floor, hand still limply holding onto the doorknob as he swallows once.
He isn’t the type to knock—unfortunately for you—but never in his life did he think he would walk in on this.
…What even is this?
At first he just saw your ass, clad in those lacy panties you’re wearing, perched on your knees. The sight had immediately gone to his cock, pathetically throbbing in the confines of his underwear as it took him exactly 0.2 seconds for his gaze to snap to the way he could see the outline of your pussy lips through the thin material of your panties.
But then his gaze traveled further. And the throbbing immediately ceased to exist, his half hard-on deflating like a sad little balloon.
Because he was staring at a reflection of himself, sitting on your bed.
Correction, he was staring at a reflection of himself with six actual eyes—all blinking back at him in unison. And he merely blinked back, actually dumbfounded. For a second, he thought his Six Eyes were overloading, showing him things that weren’t actually there.
But then he lifted his blindfold up, and sure enough, it was still there. A clone of his staring right back at him—or no, not a clone, a curse. A curse that looks exactly like him.
What the fuck?
It’s only when you squeak and turn around to face him that he remembers why he even went here in the first place. For you, his cute little best friend which he missed oh so dearly.
Seems like she missed him, too.
Because why in the ever living fuck are you straddling a curse that looks just like him?
Which he wants to ask, mouth already parting to ask, but the words die out on his tongue, syllables forgotten completely. Your tits are practically spilling out of your bra—which he gets such a good view of when you’re completely turned around, mortification written all over your face.
“Satoru! You’re here…” you squeak out, not bothering to try and hide your embarrassment. You can feel your face start to burn as you realise the position you’re in right now.
You can see the way he’s eyeing the curse that’s sat beside you on the bed—weirdly enough not moving an inch, only tilting its head slightly as it assesses his… counterpart? “I- uhh- might’ve done something?”
“There is a curse sitting next to you that looks exactly like me, I’m gonna need a little more than that, sweets,” he finally manages to mumble out, still eyeing the curse. If it made so much as one wrong move, he would hollow purple it to oblivion.
He finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him with a final thud that resonates through the uncomfortably silent room. Walking over to your bed, he wraps an hand around your upper arm, dragging you over to where he’s standing.
Startling, you let out a little gasp, almost falling to the side. Your back is pressed against Gojo’s chest. That same chest you’ve eyed way too many times for someone that claims to be just his best friend.
His arms come down to circle around your waist, one of his hand already making the little hand signal for hollow purple in case anything goes wrong. At the same time he places his chin on top of your head. “So, wanna tell me why that’s here?”
Your mind is scrambling to explain the situation—how you even got into this position to begin with—but all you can think about is how one of Satoru’s big hands is splayed over your bare tummy, making your entire mind blank.
“It was an accident,” you begin, picking at your cuticles slightly as you look down. Your bare thighs are staring back up at you. Why the fuck did today of all days have to be the day he walked in?
When you don’t continue, Gojo just hums. His thumb stroking small, soothing circles into your soft skin as he leans down so his lips graze across the shell of your ear. “Really? You’re meaning to tell me you—what, made a curse that looks just like me, all while you’re in your underwear, nearly straddling the thing, just on accident?”
A small mhmm falls from your lips as a shiver shoots down your spine. Satoru’s soft lips grazing the shell of your ear while you look at the curse. Those blue eyes blinking back at you, wandering all over your near-naked form.
“‘Was just trying something out,” you breathe out.
Which is true. You weren’t planning on making a curse, let alone one that looked exactly like your best friend—which is The Strongest sorcerer of today’s age.
You were playing around with the little vials of colors you have stacked under your bed. They weren’t just colors, though. No, these were emotions, negative ones. Not just any negative emotions, but those of Satoru Gojo.
Your cursed technique was as beautiful as it was painful. Being able to see pain—both physical as emotional—in the form of colors is not for the weak.
While it can be beautiful—colors swirling on people’s skin—it can also be painful to look at.
That was exactly what Gojo was to you: painful and beautiful to look at.
His Six Eyes give him constant migraines, strong enough that he has a bright white halo around his head at all times. Think of looking at the sun without any eye protection, but from up close. Or just holding a torch to your eye as you try not to go blind.
Can you imagine it? Yes? Well then, now you know what Gojo looks like to you. A walking mini sun amongst humans.
Luckily you didn’t have to look at it, though. Because you can take someone’s pain away, storing it in different objects or yourself. The former you found out relatively late—only finding out you could do it when you were nineteen years old.
At first, Gojo refused to let you take away his pain, because you would always wince whenever you took it from him. His headache so painful, it was even painful to you, which was saying a lot.
Your pain tolerance is through the roof. Which, yay for you, but also it wasn’t always like that. It took you years of taking other people’s pains before you got kinda numb to most of it. A broken bone felt like a nearly healed bruise to you.
Still, Gojo’s headaches are fucking painful. It has made you wonder more than once how he even wanders through life like that.
It was only when you found out that you could store someone's pain in objects that Gojo let you take his headaches away. Only if you promised to actually store it in something, and not just take it for yourself.
Over the years you’ve collected hundreds of little vials that all were Gojo’s pain. There are more vials, obviously, for combat purposes, but you weren’t interested in those today.
No, when you dragged the little box with vials onto your bed, your hands immediately found the little tubes that were all labeled Gojo.
You could see the actual colors in the vials—bright white for his migraines, light blue for sadness, black for grief, green for jealousy, etc.—where they are completely transparent to anyone else. That, of course, excludes Gojo Satoru.
Of course the fucker could see that there was something in the bottles with his pretty Six Eyes. Clear that there are traces of cursed energy in them. Which is also how he knows you store his pains into the little vials.
One time you tried to be sneaky and take the pain for yourself—give yourself a little cursed energy boost—only for him to get angry with you, asking you why you didn’t do what you promised to do; put the pain in the little vial.
That was the last time you ever tried to take his pain for yourself, even if you were low on cursed energy after a grueling mission.
So, vials it was. They kept stacking up over time, never storing too much pain into them, because god knows what would happen when you did. Honestly, over ninety percent of the bottles were all Gojo’s pain, because you couldn’t stand to look at him and see it all around him.
You also couldn’t see him when he was in pain like that. Like I said, he is like a walking mini sun. So, you wouldn’t be able to see his face if you didn’t take any of his pain away. Not that it mattered much anyway, considering he often times wears his blindfold.
Well, he takes it off when he’s around you, knowing you could just take his pain away if the information ever got too much. Those pretty blue eyes unobstructed by anything.
Which is what you were thinking about when you had woken up. A stupid thought festering in your mind, refusing to let go.
Would you be able to use Gojo’s pain colors to make the color of his eyes?
You were never successful before, his shade of blue was a shade that you simply could not recreate. But… what if you were to use his own color pallette against him? Surely you would be able to get the pretty blue that is your friend’s eyes.
So you got to work, twisting open tens of vials, mixing the pain colors with each other. Bright white turned into a very light shade of blue, into a darker shade of blue that still wasn’t close to his eyes.
It was when you shifted in your bed that everything went wrong.
The vials—all unscrewed—toppled over. Colors only you could see spilled out like paint, seeping into your blanket, finding purchase in the thing. It got all muddy—blues, greens, purples, reds, yellows mixing together.
Before you could even think of putting them up right again, something started happening.
At first it was just the colors forming a small ball inside your blanket. Not alarming enough for you to stop capping the bottles, but enough that it grabbed your attention slightly.
It was only when it got bigger and bigger that you stopped what you were doing, scooting back to where your pillows were.
After only a few seconds, there was something sitting on your bed. Well, no, not something. Your best friend in curse form was sitting there, blinking down at you.
Safe to say a small scream tore from your throat, ready to exorcise the thing right then and there.
But… it looked kinda cute. Plus, it wasn’t immediately attacking you! Which was a good thing… right? So you let it stay.
It was insane, it really was. But it was also kinda fascinating with how accurate it looked like Satoru. Everything you could see was the same—except for the literal six eyes on its head.
Which led you to your current predicament.
“What could you have possibly wanted to try out that resulted in this?” Gojo asks you, eyes not once leaving the curse that is sitting on your bed, completely unbothered. “Does it matter? All I know that it’s here right now.”
The white-haired man behind you just rolls his eyes at that. Leaning forward, he waves his hand in front of the curse’s face a few times. “Why is it just sitting there, though?”
“It doesn’t react to anything.” To prove your point, you lean forward yourself, much to Satoru’s dismay who immediately tightens his hold on you, and poke the curse. True to your word, it doesn’t react to being touched. No twitch, no extra blink, not even a tilt of its head. “See? No reaction.”
“That’s very hard to believe. Having such a pretty girl sitting in front of me nearly naked, I surely would react,” Gojo murmurs. Wide eyed, you look at him over your shoulder—noses almost touching from the proximity. Surely he didn’t mean it like that, did he? But then you feel it—that bulge pressing into your back. “Oh, would you look at that. Seems like even curses can’t help but react.”
The curse is eyeing the way your thighs are pressing together, the way your mouth is slightly parted with shock, the way your tits are sitting in your bra. All three sets of eyes trained on a different part of you.
For a second, it makes Satoru jealous. Jealous that the curse can technically see all of you at once. Its eyes practically devouring you while you look between the two—sorcerer and curse.
But he has something the curse doesn’t: the Six Eyes. Yes, it has six eyes, but not the Six Eyes. Which means it can’t see the way your panties are starting to cling to your folds, despite having your thighs pressed together.
Another thing the curse also doesn’t have, but Gojo does, is have its hands on you. Because his palm is still resting on your tummy, the smooth expanse of your skin underneath his fingertips. It can’t feel the way you’re slightly squirming.
Still, the thing does not move anything other than its eyes. Hands laying limp beside it, cock throbbing in its confines, but doing nothing to hide or alleviate it.
“Wanna see if we can make it react even more?”
Which is how you ended up here—with Satoru, your best friend, sitting behind you. His long legs trapping you between them, your own legs hooked over his, panties pushed to the side so the curse has a full view of your puffy, glistening folds while Gojo’s fingers are plunging in and out of your cunt.
Your nails dig into Satoru’s forearm, leaving behind angry crescents in their wake. Toes curling as you throw your head back with a slight whine.
“Uh-uh. C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on the curse,” Satoru tuts, fingers stilling until you lift your head enough to look at the curse. Once he sees you look at the thing again, he continues. “There we go, such a good girl for me.”
The praise makes your stomach do a little flip, the words going straight to your core. Your walls clamp down on Satoru’s fingers, having him grin behind you.
His other hand trails up from your stomach to your bra-covered tits. Now that won’t do, will it? With a little tug of his hand, he undoes the clasp with ease—a skill you didn’t know he possessed, nor wanted to know to be quite frank.
It’s when your tits are in full view for both men—if you can even call the curse that—that there is slight movement from the one in front of you.
The curse doesn’t do anything wild, just slightly shifts where it’s sat, but it’s the most it has done since it appeared—or rather formed. Its pupils from the top pair of eyes expand even more, but not as much as the lower pair of eyes, which are still focused completely on your pussy.
It might not be much, but it is a small step in the right direction.
That thought immediately flies out the window when Satoru’s digits graze over a spot inside of you. Your back arches with the touch, a moan ripping from the back of your throat as your hand clamps down even further onto his forearm. “O-oh shit.”
From there on out you can only think about the way Gojo moves his fingers inside of you, bullying your g-spot with those long, thick fingers of his.
And if that wasn’t enough already, his other hand has started to grope one of your tits, squishing the flesh between his fingers before he starts caressing your nipple, nail grazing over the little nub, before he rolls it between his fingers.
Your head falls back onto his shoulder, looking at him instead of the curse. He doesn’t scold you this time, just keeps at it as he looks at you. “Nawhhh, doing so good for me.”
You don’t even hear the condescending undertone in his voice, way too focused on the pleasure that’s shooting through you right now.
When you don’t reply, Gojo stops playing with your nipple. Instead bringing that same hand up to cup your jaw, tilting it so you have direct view of him already looking down at you. “Feeling good, sweetheart?” When you nod your head, he just chuckles. “Thought so.”
Your thighs are starting to shake on top of his, sweat starting to break out on your forehead as you teeter closer to the edge with each pump of his fingers.
Seems like he knows it too, judging from his smirk. He keeps your head tilted up, eyes flicking from your own down to your lips and back up to your eyes again. Just like the curse, Gojo’s pupils are blown out, a small ring of blue left behind.
“C’mon, show it how pretty you look when you fall apart on my fingers.” And you do just that. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull as your hips buck wildly, to the point where he lets go of your jaw in favor to press your hips down, keeping you flush against him.
After riding out your high, Gojo removes his fingers from your cunt. A small whine slipping from your lips as he purposefully lets his fingers glide through your messy slit.
You’re panting against Satoru’s shoulder, breath ghosting over his neck as you come down from your high. Nuzzling further into his broad frame, you let yourself relax slightly as Satoru rubs soothing circles into your hip.
“You two done yet?” Well that certainly grabs both your attention. Heads snapping to the sound of the voice, you’re met with the curse grinning.
Of course its voice sounds exactly like Gojo’s, but it still throws you for a loop—especially considering the fact that same voice just talked you through it, told you how good you were taking his fingers, how pretty you looked when cumming.
“You—” You have to swallow once, twice before getting your voice back to its steady octave. “You can talk?”
“Of course I can, who do you take me for?” Gojo the curse replies, tilting its head slightly. Those white bangs fall across his forehead, covering one of its eyes before it pushes the hair back with its hand; the first actual movement you’ve seen from the thing.
You sit up fully now—still in your naked glory, not even bothering to cover up considering it has already seen you get split open of your best friend’s fingers. Said best friend doesn’t share that same sentiment, though. He covers your boobs up with his hands, his legs trapping yours between his so he can keep them close for you as he glares at the curse over your shoulder.
It just makes the curse chuckle. Yes, it chuckles at his counterpart’s antics. “Oh? Now you cover her up? Weren’t you the one who suggested doing all of this to begin with?” It vaguely gestures towards you when it says ‘this’.
Gojo just rolls his eyes, pulling you further into his chest. “Yeah well, show’s over. You can turn those ugly eyes away now.”
“These are the same eyes as yours, so you’re really only insulting yourself,” it immediate counters, crossing its arms over its chest.
Gojo opens his mouth to say something back. Probably a jab at the fact that the curse and him don’t share the same eyes for he has the Six Eyes and not six eyes, when you speak up first.
“Wait. Wait wait wait, you can talk and move and who knows what else,” you begin, looking the curse over that’s starting to get more animated by the second. It immediately snaps its mouth shut, those bright blue orbs blinking down at you. “But I asked you if you could talk or even move, so why didn’t you before?”
Because you did ask it if it could do anything except for just sitting lifelessly there. At first you thought it might not have been able to understand you when it didn’t so much as reply to you, its eyes merely following your movement. But it also didn’t react when you started poking it.
The curse only grins, those pearly whites on full display as one set of eyes crinkle with the motion. …Fucking odd to look at, if you’re going to be completely honest. “You only asked rhetorical questions: ‘Can it even talk?’ If you had just asked me, I might’ve given you an answer.”
Your mouth falls open at that. So it didn’t answer you because it was a rhetorical question instead of a normal one? What the actual fuck is wrong with this thing—other than it being a curse, obviously.
“I- you- eughhh. Okay, so you didn’t reply to my question because it was rhetorical. Fine, whatever. But why didn’t you react when I was touching you?”
There is a faint undignified noise from behind you. Satoru’s grip immediately tightens, keeping you closer to his body. So close, that he’s practically squishing you against his chest now, glaring even harder at the curse that’s just fucking grinning at him.
Sure, he walked in on you almost straddling said curse that looks just like him, but the way you said you touched it makes his mind race in directions he’d rather not go down.
Before you can even try to turn your head to raise a brow at your best friend, the curse chuckles. “You should listen better to him—” It nods towards Satoru, “—I was just enjoying having such a pretty girl touch me, especially when she was almost naked, crawling onto my lap—”
“All right, that’s quite enough,” Gojo growls from behind you, cutting the curse off before it can spill even more about whatever fantasies it came up with whilst the two of you were alone. “It’s time for you to go.”
“Seems like she doesn’t want me to go, though.” The curse nods at you, white hair bouncing with the motion.
And only a few minutes later, you’re bouncing uuuup and down Satoru’s ridiculously large cock. Your own hair swaying with the motion as your boobs bounce each time you lift your hips, only to drop down a second later.
The curse—who much to Satoru’s dismay is still here, breathing and touching you—stands in front of you in its own naked glory. Unfortunately for your brain, it couldn’t help but notice how much it looks like Gojo, from the biceps to the abs all the way to the way its cock almost matches Gojo’s in size.
The only difference between the two is that the curse somehow is clean-shaven while the man below you is neatly trimmed.
Your lips are wrapped around the curse’s cock head, tongue lapping at the slit which is spilling pre on your tongue. The taste extremely bitter—and you can’t help but wonder if it’s because it’s a curse or if it has to do with something else.
Oh well.
Gojo’s hands are clamped around your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he helps you bounce on his shaft.
He wasn’t happy with the arrangement, rather wanting to just exorcise the curse and maybe—if you were still willing to—fuck your brains out with his cock this time. But you had told him you wanted to see what the curse could do. So, with much reluctance, he let it stay.
The only thing he had said that it would only get your mouth, and nothing more, claiming your cunt for himself.
So here the three of you are; you getting bullied on two cocks that you would never even think of getting fucked by. One of your hands gripping the curse’s thigh to steady yourself, while the other jerks off whatever can’t fit in your mouth.
Your cheeks hollow out when you suck a little harder, having the curse groan out. Its hips twitch as one of its hands find purchase in your hair, not pulling or pushing on it, just holding himself onto it.
That, of course, doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired sorcerer beneath you. A glare covering his face as he looks at the hand that’s on your head. The hand that shouldn’t exist in the first place.
Fuck, he can’t believe a stupid curse gets to have your mouth before him—that a curse gets to have you at all. He’s right here! He would gladly use your mouth if you were to ever ask him. Those lips stretching around his girth as you fail to fit him completely in your mouth, drool spilling form the corners of your mouth as you look up with tears in your eyes.
Well, whatever. He can always use that mouth of your next time, erase the fact that something foreign was in there to begin with. No matter the fact that the curse looks just like him.
Holding you up, he starts pistoning his hips into yours. The sharp thwack thwack thwack of his pelvis hitting your ass echoing through the room as his balls continue to hit your clit.
The change in pace has you gasping out, mouth detaching from the cock that was currently occupying your mouth with a loud pop! Much to your surprise, it whines at the loss of touch the moment your lips leave his cock. Not that you can focus much on that when Satoru is fucking up into you like he’s possessed.“F-fuck, Satoru, right there!”
“That’s it, pretty. Say my name again, c’mon,” he grunts out. Much to the curse’s dismay—and Gojo’s own satisfaction—you do just that, blabbing ‘Satoru, Satoru, Toru’ over and over again, completely forgetting about the other presence in the room.
That is, until it announces its presence to you by tapping his cock on your lips, smearing some pre on them. Opening your mouth, you stick out your tongue slightly. The curse, not one to waste any time, immediately slides in.
“Taking me so well. You can do better than that, though, can’t you? C’mon, lemme feel that throat of yours,” the curse encourages you this time. The sound of its voice has you all the more delirious. Fuck, why did they have to sound the exact same?
Your walls clamp down onto Satoru’s shaft when you hear the voice. That obviously won’t do in his eyes. So he lifts you completely from his cock, the emptiness having you whine out.
That doesn’t last long, though. Satoru moving the two of you around until you’re on your hands and knees, pressing a palm onto your spine to make a mean arch, before he slips back inside of you with one swift thrust.
“There we go, much better like this,” he whispers. Both of his hands are palming the fat of your ass, watching the way it jiggles every time he drives his hips forward, bottoming out with each mean thrust.
The curse merely rolls his eyes—all six of them—before he starts driving his hips forward at the same time as Gojo’s thrusts, his balls slapping against your chin each time. The tip hitting the back of your throat, making you gag around it.
“Open that pretty throat of yours. Know you can do it,” it encourages you, cupping your jaw as it thumbs away a stray tear that started to fall. You do as told, relaxing your throat so it can slip even further into your mouth, smooth pelvis nearly touching your nose. “So pretty like this, sucking my cock, hmmm?”
“Stop talking to her like that,” Satoru snaps from behind you, finally lifting his head to glare at the curse who only smirks back at the agitated white-haired man. “What, you mean like this? So pretty for me, aren’t you, sweetheart.”
You can only nod your head, a small mhmmm falling from your lips as your teary gaze travels up to those blue eyes looking down at you. Your brain long gone, not even bothering to make a distinction between the two anymore.
There’s a small noise in the back of Satoru’s throat that almost sounds like a growl. This time, instead of saying anything, he just lets one of his hands circle to your poor oversensitive clit, giving it a few slaps before circling the bundle of nerves.
It has your entire body jolting and twitching, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you’re starting to get closer and closer to the edge.
“Why don’t you cum for me, sweets?” Satoru whispers into your ear, his entire frame bending forward to press against your back, letting you feel all of him. He grinds his hips into yours, letting his tip graze against your cervix as you still try to suck onto the girth that’s filling your mouth.
It’s all too much—too many sets of eyes looking at you, too much cock filling you, and too much pleasure.
So it’s to no ones surprise when you cum with a cry. “Oh fuck, thaaat’s it. Trying to milk me dry, huh?” The man behind you mumbles when he feels your walls contract around him, thrust turning more sloppy by the second.
The cursed spirit in front of you groans, letting his head fall back as his eyes—yes, all of them—roll to the back of his skull. Milky seed coats your throat and mouth without so much as a warning, most of it spilling from your lips as you try to swallow it all down—something you’ll get scolded for by Gojo later.
Said guy isn’t far behind himself, pulling out of you with much reluctance, he pumps himself a few times before his own cum covers your ass and lower back.
Of course the silence doesn’t last long, the curse speaking up this time. “For someone who denies me that pretty pussy, you didn’t even make her squirt. A pathetic performance, really.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll show you a pathetic performance in a second.”
Seems like you have a long night day ahead of you.
Synopsis: In which the Jjk men make it clearly known you are nothing except…the other woman.
A/N: just fyi, there’s a mess up on Geto’s slide (thank you to the person who pointed it out) basically he says “—you should take it as a compliment. Mira is a wonderful woman—“
꒰ex!gojo x f!reader x new bf!sukuna꒱
a collection of oneshots that can also be read as a continuous story, following each pov ꩜ cw angst, post-break up, hurt no comfort, exes to lovers to exes again, moving on, smut (reader's & sukuna's version), reunion, arguments, each fic has their own warnings
꩜ reader's version if i didn't love you
꩜ satoru's version baby, come back to me
꩜ sukuna's version my love mine all mine
art creds: sukuna @/r5x9513ros gojo @/tiyu0710
dividers by @pixopix
Two years of dating, three years of marriage. You, Suguru and Satoru – a match made in heaven, most people could be jealous of. You loved each other so deeply that it almost hurt. Although... sometimes their love felt a little too tight. A little too consuming. But that's what true devotion looked like, right? You’re still wondering, while packing the suitcases with tears running down your cheeks.
taglist is open
pairings: Satosugu x Reader
content/warnings: MDNI 18+, marriage, husband Geto Suguru x reader, husband Gojo Satoru x reader, Satosugu, yandere, stalking, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, dark romance, pregnancy, kinda babytrapping, anything but healthy relationship, HEAVY smut, HEAVY breeding kink, if I put this tag it'll be a spoiler, manipulation, guilt-tripping, age gap, violence
It may look familiar to some of you, as it is the first story I have posted here. Not only was it horribly written, but it also had multiple plot holes. I didn't quite like how it turned out, so I decided to repost it with a few changes. I'll add new scenes and characters, maybe change the open ending, but I want to make the whole story much darker than before. I will keep the general plotline, though, and all the most crucial parts of the story! Since I have all the chapters saved, I hope to upload them quite frequently.
I won't be tagging everyone on my permanent tag list for each chapter, so if you want to be tagged for this series, please let me know! Please remember about adding age to your bio!
synopsis. satoru is sick and tired of pretending to be just friends
contents. sfw! hurt / comfort. best friend! gojo x fem! reader. no-curse au. second part of this fic. mutual pining. classic case of miscommunication. idiots in love. happy ending! they get together despite me wanting to leave this unresolved ࿐
satoru isn’t beside you when your eyes flutter open to see the slithers of sunlight filtering through your curtains. you think nothing of it because you know he’s halfway through making you breakfast.
( you’re a light sleeper — a fact he constantly teases you about — and you’d stirred when he’d slipped out from your sheets half an hour ago, the loss of his warmth a brief disturbance in your deep, alcohol-induced slumber. you’d gone back to sleep knowing you would meet him in the kitchen when you finally mustered up the strength to get out of bed. )
the air in your apartment is thick with the scent of melted butter, sweet batter, and the sharp, clean tang of citrus. you’re ravenous, to say the least. and you could kill for a stack of satoru’s perfect pancakes right now. or french toast. or even a regular jam and butter sandwich. he’s infuriatingly great at everything he does, and cooking is no exception.
a groan escapes your lips as your hangover makes itself known. it’s an insistent throb behind your eyes that threatens to blossom into a full-blown headache if not dealt with accordingly. and there, on your polished nightstand, arranged with precision are: a little sachet of ibuprofen, a fruit punch flavored foil packet of electrolyte powder, and a tall, sweating bottle of water.
( satoru always knows exactly what you need before you do. it’s like he has a sixth sense just for you )
you rip the electrolyte packet open, the crimson powder puffing up in a small cloud as you pour it into the water. it swirls and dissolves, turning the liquid into something that looks alarmingly like blood.
you take a long gulp regardless, letting the sugary liquid pool in your mouth before you drop the two pills in and swallow. you lean against the headboard for a moment, letting the medicine and the sugar work their magic whilst you take in the state of your room. it’s a disaster.
your bra and that stupid, overpriced dress are a heap of silk and lace by the foot of your bed, reminiscent of the date that ended in tears and satoru’s arms around you. you kick them aside, the fabric whispering against the wooden floorboards as you pad to the bathroom to brush your teeth.
you’re going through the motions on autopilot. up, down, up, down. minty froth covers your teeth and gums. it’s a welcome distraction from the lingering bitterness of last night’s champagne. you swirl with some mouthwash, alcohol burning your tongue, and then you’re finally ready, finally heading towards the kitchen.
( you’re not sure if you’re anticipating the breakfast satoru’s making or just the excuse to be near him again. it’s probably the latter. it’s always the latter )
the kitchen is quiet — too quiet — for a sunday morning. satoru’s usually humming to himself while he cooks. but no chords or melodic notes carry to your ears as you pad towards him.
he’s standing at the stove, his back to you. he doesn’t turn, doesn’t even seem to register your presence despite the floorboards creaking as you approach him. the easy smile that was forming on your lips freezes, then slowly melts away.
“morning ‘toru,” you murmur, it sounds more like a hesitant question than a greeting.
he flips a pancake with a sharp flick of his wrist. it lands perfectly in the pan, a flawless golden circle. “hey,” he replies, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth. a single, clipped word. no ‘mornin’ sleeping beauty’, no teasing about your hangover. nothing. . .
a cold knot forms in your stomach, completely unrelated to your nausea. you lean against the kitchen island, suddenly feeling unsteady on your feet. “smells good,” you offer.
“pancakes,” he says, still not turning. he gestures with his spatula towards the bowl of fruit on the counter. you don’t want them. not really. you want him to turn around. to look at you with those ridiculously blue eyes, to crack a joke, to do anything normal. he’s too quiet
“‘toru,” you start, his name feeling foreign on your tongue. “are you okay ?”
he finally turns, and the sight of his face makes your breath hitch. his expression is unreadable. his eyes, usually so bright and full of light, are a dull blue. they don’t crinkle at the corners. they don’t hold any of their usual mischief. it feels like they’re looking right through you.
“i’m fine,” he says, a lie so blatant it’s insulting. “just tired. . . how did you sleep ?”
“okay,” you murmur, rubbing your arms, feeling suddenly exposed in just your t-shirt and shorts. “thanks for. . . picking me up again and taking care of me.”
“what are friends for ?” he hums, and the words shock you. it’s a phrase he’s never used before. he’d usually say : he’d do it all over again. and that someone has to save you from the assholes you seem to attract. he’d ruffle your hair and you’d squirm and play fight until his cheeks are flushed and your chest is heaving.
but today he just slides the ceramic bowl across the counter towards you without a word.
it’s a work of art. tangerine segments with all the bitter white pith carefully peeled away, crisp apple slices, glistening with a sheen of freshly squeezed lemon juice to prevent them from turning brown. ripe mango chunks, impossibly orange and sweet, and plump strawberries, all the green leaves meticulously plucked off. you can’t help but grin.
( he really does know you like the back of his hand )
your smile soon wavers because for once satoru’s not talking to you as he fries the pancakes. no prodding about the date, no gentle teasing about your terrible taste in men. you’re genuinely confused because he’s usually so loquacious in the mornings, a running commentary of bad jokes and complaints about the economical and political state of the world. but he seems to be so far away, lost in a world you can’t see
“these are perfect,” you murmur, popping a strawberry into your mouth. the saccharine juices explode on your tongue. “you’re the best ‘toru”
“i try,” he responds, his voice clipped. not ‘of course i am’. not ‘you’re lucky i love you so much, prepping your fruit is a pain in the ass.’ none of your usual banter.
( it’s like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world instead of being here in your kitchen. anywhere else in the world instead of here with you )
you’re thrown off kilter by it, the typical rhythm of your friendship is suddenly syncopated and strange. it’s like hearing a song you know by heart being played in a minor key.
he serves you a stack of perfect pancakes, golden brown and fluffy, their edges crisp. and immediately starts cleaning up. he’s scraping leftover batter into the sink, loading your dishwasher. washing his hands, drying them on a dishtowel. all the while his back is still to you.
he doesn’t set down a plate for himself. there’s nothing for himself today. he usually sits right beside you — his thigh brushing against yours, thumb smoothing a crumb from the corner of your mouth as he hangs on to your every word and you tell him about your date in detail — but today he seems hellbent on keeping his distance from you. on keeping his voice to himself.
( he never cleans up this quickly. never talks this little. never avoids your gaze as if you’re the last person on earth he wants to look at. why is he being so weird ??? )
“gotta head out,” he says, finally looking at you. “sorry. suguru and i are going to the gym.”
your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. you look so disappointed it almost kills him. he swears he can feel the chambers of his heart caving in because your lip is quivering and you look so confused. he has half a mind to sit down and kiss you until the crease in your brow disappears. to sit down and tell you how he feels. but he’s positive he doesn’t stand a chance. and it’s fucking killing him.
“it’s sunday,” you frown. he never goes to the gym on sundays. sundays are for pancakes and bad movies on the couch. sundays are for you. plus, he’d said he was tired. none of this is adding up.
“the grind never stops,” he shrugs. you’re in disbelief as he leans over and gives you a side hug, a brief, awkward press of bodies before he’s inching towards your front door. you’re still frozen, fork suspended in mid-air, a perfect pancake suddenly looking like cardboard in front of you.
“satoru,” you say again, and this time your voice cracks, the sound pathetic and thin in the suffocating silence of your apartment.
his hand freezes on the doorknob. you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his entire body goes rigid. but he doesn’t turn around. he just stands there, a silhouette against the light filtering in from the hallway, a stranger in your home.
“i have to go,” he says, his voice strained. and then he’s gone. the door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. you’re left alone in your kitchen, with a stack of perfect pancakes growing cold on your plate. the scent of melted butter and sweet batter, once so comforting, is now, suffocating. what. the. actual. fuck ???
the question echoes in your mind, in the silent kitchen, but there’s no one here to answer it. you slowly lower your fork, the clink of it against the ceramic plate unnaturally loud. your appetite is gone. the plate of pancakes sits untouched, golden-brown circles slowly turning cold, their edges losing their crispness. beside them, the bowl of fruit look like a still life painting. you push the dishes away. you can’t eat. the thought of putting any of that meticulously prepared food into your churning stomach is unbearable. because he’s not here to eat with you.
you stare at the door, half-expecting it to swing back open, for him to reappear with a sheepish grin and tell you he’s pranking you. for him to pull up a chair beside you and steal some of your pancakes. but the front door remains closed.
you wrap your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to hold yourself together. your mind is a chaotic mess, replaying the last twenty-four hours on a relentless loop. satoru’s arms around you at the restaurant, the low murmur of his voice in your ear as he helped you into bed, wiped off your makeup. the warmth of his body beside yours as you drifted off to sleep. you’d slept so deeply, so peacefully, nestled against his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat steady and reassuring against your ear. in your drunken haze, you’d dared to hope, just for a little while, that maybe this was it. maybe this was the turning point. maybe he’d feel the same way and you could finally be something more.
but now your hope has curdled into confusion, into a deep, gnawing ache. what had you done ? what had you said ? was it the dress ? the stupid, overpriced dress you’d worn for a date that ended in tears and a five-word text message to satoru ? was it the way you’d clung to him ? the way you’d cried ?
your brain spirals, searching for the mistake, the single misstep that triggered this sudden change in him. and the person you’d usually call to unravel this mess with you , the one person who could always make sense of the chaos in your head, is the very person creating it.
you don’t hear from him for the rest of sunday. the day passes in a blur of hollow silence. you don’t leave your apartment. you don’t even drift to shoko’s room. you try to read, but the words swim before your eyes. you tried to watch a movie on the couch, but the familiar dialogue sounds like a foreign language. you pick up your phone a dozen times, thumb hovering over his name, heart pounding with a mixture of desperation and dread.
what would you say ? ‘are you okay ?’ he’d already answered that, with a lie.
‘why did you leave ?’ you’re not sure you want to know the answer.
‘i miss you ‘toru’ ? that feels too vulnerable, too raw.
so you just stare at his name, and wait as the silence grows, filling every corner of your apartment until you can barely breathe. seeping into your bones until you feel like you’re made of nothing but emptiness.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
monday is humiliating. you wake up alone, again. your bed is cold unsurprisingly. the weak light filtering through your curtains does little to chase away the chill that’s beginning to settle deep into your bones. you lay there for a moment too long, your mind replaying the memories of saturday night and sunday morning.
sleepovers with satoru are nothing new. you’ve shared a little over a decade of tangled limbs, stolen tubs of häagen-dazs from the fridge at midnight and whispers in the dark until the moon gave way to the sun.
( you remember the tantrums you’d both throw when your parents dared to try and separate you, to take you back to your respective homes. your shared fits of rage always ended the same way: hastily packed overnight bags, staying up talking until your voices were hoarse and the sun was kissing your cheeks.
you’d spent countless nights falling asleep beside satoru, and you’ve spent countless mornings waking up beside him, his face soft and peaceful in the morning light.
the sleepovers evolved during those awkward teenage years, when your mom decided to waltz around the topic of puberty and drill it into both of you that you weren’t kids anymore and sharing beds was no longer an option. even then, he’d just migrate to your couch, long limbs comically cramped in the small space, his presence comforting despite him being in a completely different room. sleepovers with satoru are the norm, even though you hadn’t actually slept beside each other intentionally in years. )
saturday was reminiscent of simpler times. saturday, he’d actually slept in your bed. not out of necessity, not out of convenience, but because you’d asked him to.
you’d fallen asleep tangled up in the soft sheets, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around you so tightly it felt like he was trying to fuse you to him.
and although your heartbeat was erratic and your breathing was heavy and shaky — because satoru is without a doubt the most attractive man on the planet, and the gentlest, and the weirdest and most annoying and an asshole too, everything all at once, and you’re still that girl with a crush on him despite him treating you like one of the guys — you’d slept like a baby.
in his arms, you’d dreamt of him being the one to take you out on a date, of him loving you the way you love him. and now, you’re laying in bed alone.
for the first time since he’d pushed you off the swings on the playground and you’d demanded a hello kitty bandaid for the scrape on your knee, satoru isn’t talking to you. and you don’t know why.
there’s a void where his voice used to be. and your brain is still searching for the mistake you’re certain you must’ve made.
did you say something in your sleep ? did you do something wrong ? you can’t think of anything.
you go about your day in a fog of confusion and hurt. you expect to see satoru on campus, expect him to fall into step beside you on the quad, to sling an arm around your shoulders, carry your ridiculously heavy tote bag on his own shoulder and complain about his eight a.m. physics lecture. but he doesn’t.
nor does he text you to ask how your international political relations class went.
( hell, he doesn’t seem to have any interest in relations with you at all. )
you finally see him at a little past noon. he’s sitting under a giant oak tree with your friends. laughing at something shoko’s saying, head thrown back, the sound carrying on the crisp air. and then his eyes sweep across your approaching figure on the lawn, and for a split second, they meet yours. then his smile vanishes, wiped clean away, as if it never existed.
despite the sinking feeling in your guy, you walk over, forcing cheerfulness into your voice as you greet your friends and plop down near him. he gives you a curt, almost imperceptible nod, then turns back to shoko, and continues his conversation without properly acknowledging you.
shoko raises a brow but doesn’t comment in fear of making things even more awkward. suguru avoids your gaze as he gives you an apologetic, tight-lipped smile. yeah, satoru is definitely avoiding you. like the plague.
usually, he’d flop over your lap, demanding you play with his hair, his eyes fixed on yours as you’d swipe his sunglasses off his nose and wear them. usually, he’d tell corny jokes until you were breathless with laughter. but now ? nothing. he doesn’t even lean towards you. doesn’t even look at you. you’re practically staring at him, brows furrowed as you try to figure him out. he’s not happy. he’s not sad. he just looks numb, hollow.
satoru doesn’t go off with you when the group splits off for your next classes. he trails after suguru. shoko comes with you, and the first thing she asks is if something happened with you and satoru. you can only say you don’t know as hot, tears threaten to slip down your cheeks and your throat closes up.
despite feeling like an absolute idiot for sitting by him. despite being humiliated by the way he’d blatantly ignored you, you try to get through the rest of the day. your heart feels like it’s splitting in two. satoru is such a core part of your day — your life — that having him flat out ignore you makes you feel physically ill.
you cross paths again after your last class. you’re heading to the cafe to grab a passion fruit refresher, and he’s coming from the opposite direction. your paths are set to intersect. your heart hammers against your ribs, a burst of hope.
maybe he’ll talk to you now. maybe he was just in a weird mood earlier. something with his parents ? his basketball coach ? but he doesn’t even look at you. he just smoothly veers away, leaving a wide, empty berth of space between you, and you’re left standing there, feeling like the world is ending.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
tuesday feels suffocating. you feel like you can barely breathe as you go about your day. this is the longest you’ve gone without speaking to satoru. even when you had petty fights over who got to be player one and whose turn it was to choose a game on the play station, you’d never ignored each other.
( okay, maybe once or twice you’d given him the silent treatment for a couple hours. but you’d never gone this long without making up. )
you want to fix this more than you’ve ever wanted anything. you’re willing to go out of your way to bridge the gap between you. you buy him a sticky sweet cinnamon roll and a perfect red velvet cupcake from the cafe that’s twenty minutes away from campus. the one that’s overpriced but has the best pastries. the one he loves and frequents often.
satoru’s a sucker for sweet treats. he always has been. he’s got the biggest sweet tooth ever. you know he won’t be able to ignore you when you’ve got so much as a jolly rancher in your palm. talk-less of two fresh pastries. you’re certain you’ll be best friends again as soon as he sees the crisp boxes.
thankfully, you still share locations with each other so it’s pretty easy to track him down. you find him in the engineering building’s computer lab, hunched over his laptop. you approach him cautiously, your hand trembling slightly as you hold out the pastries.
“peace offering?” you try, aiming for a light, airy tone.
he glances up, his eyes meeting yours for a fraction of a second before darting back to his screen. “oh,” he says, his cadence a neutral tone that’s somehow worse than anger. “you didn’t have to do that.”
“i wanted to,” you say, your voice sounding smaller than you’d like. “i know you like these.”
“yeah, they’re my favorite,” he says, but he doesn’t make a move to take them. he just keeps typing, fingers flying across the keyboard. “i’m just in the middle of something right now. a project. it’s due soon.”
“oh,” you sound like a deflated balloon. “okay. well, i’ll just. . .leave them here.”
“thanks,” he says, his eyes still glued to the screen. “appreciate it.”
you stand there for a moment longer, before you turn and leave, your shoulders slumping in defeat.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
by wednesday, the sad plasma coursing in your veins starts to bubble into searing rage. who does he think he is ? to just. . . erase you ? ignore you ? to discard years of friendship without a single explanation ? it’s condescending and inconsiderate and you’re so over it. you’re not a toy he can put back on the shelf when he gets bored of playing with it. you resolve to corner him and confront him after your history lecture, your patience worn thin to the point of nonexistence.
“satoru,” you say, your voice low and shaking with fury. “we need to talk.”
he looks at you, really looks at you, and his eyes are ice cold. “i can’t talk now,” he says, his voice quiet. “i have to meet with suguru. we’re working on a presentation.”
“be so fucking for real suguru can wait, you two live together. . ” you shoot back, your fists clenched at your sides. “you’ve been ignoring me for three days, satoru. three whole days. you barely look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’re acting like i don’t even exist and i want to know why so don’t you dare stand there and give me another excuse.”
he sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to drain the last of the energy from his body. “it’s not an excuse,” he says, his voice rough. “i really do have to go. i’m sorry.”
( he doesn’t deny any of your former accusations. and that infuriates you even more )
then he walks away, leaving you standing there, fury and melancholy warring for dominance in your chest. you want to scream. you want to cry. you want to throw something. you want to grab him by the collar of his stupid hoodie and shake him until he tells you what you did wrong. but he’s walking away too quickly for you to do anything but stand there and look stupid.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
thursday comes and goes, and you feel so pathetic that you decide to stop trying completely. you stop looking for satoru in crowds. you stop hoping he’ll sit down next to you and fix everything. you stop typing and deleting messages. you stop. and it hurts. it hurts so much more than anything you’ve ever experienced. it hurts more than being stood up. it hurts more than being led on. it hurts more than being cheated on. it hurts.
there’s a constant ache in your chest. your throat feels tight every time you you try to speak. you chase the comfort of sleep every night and it runs faster. you’re zoning out in your lectures. zoning out in conversations every time shoko asks if you’re okay, you force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.
you haven’t lived a day without satoru since that fateful day on the playground. and now you’ve gone four days without him. you have no idea if you’ll survive another.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
friday nearly kills you. you have a two hour literature lecture with satoru, a huge class in a cavernous auditorium where you usually sit together, in the back row. where he usually slips you notes with ridiculous drawings and nudges you under the table. where you usually draw on his toned arm, little flowers and stars that he complains about but never washes off until they fade on their own.
today, he’s already there when you arrive, to your surprise he’s saved a seat for you like he always does. and a small flicker of hope sparks in you. it’s quenched and dies just as quickly. you realize he didn’t actually save a seat for you. it’s just empty coincidentally. you’re too embarrassed to find somewhere else to sit so you plop down beside him.
he doesn’t even seem to notice because there’s someone on his other side, a pretty girl with long, dark hair who’s laughing at something he’s saying. he’s smiling, and he’s leaning in, his body angled towards her, his attention completely captured by her. you can feel tears prickling the back of your eyes.
you blink them away furiously as you pull out your laptop. heart pounding with anticipation. but he doesn’t even acknowledge you. he doesn’t slip you a note. he doesn’t nudge you under the table. he just keeps talking to the girl on his right, his voice a low murmur that you can’t quite make out over the drone of the professor.
you want to hurl. you want to stand up and scream, to grab his arm and demand that he look at you, that he acknowledge your existence. but you just sit there, your hands clenched in your lap, your eyes fixed on the front of the lecture hall, blinking back tears.
he’s never spoken to this girl in his life. you’ve never even seen her before. and sure, he’s by far one of the most popular people on campus but he doesn’t make a habit of starting conversations with random girls.
( he’s always said he didn’t need any more girl friends because he had you. and you were more than enough for him. )
you resolve, right then and there, that you’ll speak to him on saturday. you can’t do this anymore. you can’t live like this anymore. you refuse to. partly, because you miss your best friend. partly, because this week has been the most miserable week of your life. but mostly because you love satoru too much to let him go.
❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎
on saturday, you muster up the courage to go to his dorm, heart pounding against your ribs. you can’t do it anymore. the silence, the avoidance, the gaping hole in your heart where your best friend is supposed to be. 
( you don’t bother knocking because he’ll know it’s you. and you’re not sure he’ll let you in. you decide to make good use of the spare key he gave you last year for emergencies. because to you this feels like an emergency. )
you can hear the sound effects of a video game as soon as you step over the threshold. you pad towards the living room and find satoru and suguru on the couch, controllers in hand, eyes glued to the screen where sub-zero is brutally launching at kitana.
“you’re cooked” suguru grins as he mashes buttons with a ferocity that makes you smile for a second.
“in your dreams, emo” satoru drawls, a lazy smirk on his face as he leans back against the cushions. he looks so relaxed, so normal. because he hasn’t noticed your presence yet. the sight of him grinning sends a fresh wave of pain through you.
“satoru” you frown, he glances up as you stumble back, and his smirk vanishes, replaced by that same cold, expression you’ve been getting all week.
“what are you doing here?” he asks, his voice flat, trying and failing to mask the shock racking his body.
“i’m here to talk to you . . . obviously.” you say, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound strong. “i want you to tell me what i did to upset you.”
suguru’s hazel eyes dart between the two of you, taking in the tension, the way satoru’s whole body has gone rigid. the way your eyes are sparkling with unshed tears. he slowly sets his controller down on the coffee table. “okayyy,” he murmurs, standing up. “i don’t think i should be here for this conversation so i’m gonna go to my room and you two do your thing. . .”
“yeah, you should leave,” satoru snaps, at the exact same time you say, “you should probably leave sugu.”
suguru raises his hands in mock surrender, “relax i’m going,” he mutters, and practically bolts into his bedroom, shutting the door with a soft click that echoes in the silence.
“i gave you that key for emergencies” satoru murmurs, picking up the remote beside him and turning the tv off.
( you can’t believe him. is that all he has to say? after nearly a week of radio silence . . . he’s seething over a stupid tiny silver key ? )
“you’ve been ignoring me for five days, satoru,” you start. “five whole days. you won’t look at me, you won’t talk to me, you’ve been acting like i don’t even exist. so don’t you dare sit there and make me feel crazy for coming here and trying to fix things. instead of telling me what i did and how i can fix this.”
he finally looks at you, really looks at you, and the ice in his eyes cracks, just a little. thawed by something raw and vulnerable and so full of pain it makes your own chest ache.
“you didn’t do anything. it’s not you,” he sighs “it’s me.” you want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he’s red, blue, and purple in the face.
“don’t give me that cliche bullshit,” you shoot back, taking a step closer to him “don’t do that. talk to me properly. we’ve always talked about things properly.”
( the statement sounds less true as each word drips off your tongue. because you’ve talked about everything under the sun with the sole of exception of the thing that matters most: your feelings for each other )
“maybe i don’t want to talk anymore,” he says, but there’s no conviction in his voice.
“yes, you do,” you mumble through gritted teeth, taking another step closer until you’re standing right in front of him. “you’re the most talkative person i know. you can’t go five minutes without telling me some ridiculous joke. so please, satoru. just talk to me.”
he looks up at you, blue eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to break. you think he’s finally going to end this stalemate. he opens his mouth, then closes it again. he shakes his head subsequently.
“i can’t,” he whispers, and the words are so full of pain they break your heart all over again. “i just. . . can’t.”
“why?” you query, your voice barely a whisper.
he looks away, his gaze fixed on a point just over your shoulder. “because if i start talking,” he shudders, “we can’t be friends anymore”
“you’re my best friend, okay?” you choke out, the words torn from your throat. “i don’t know what i did, but i know that you’re the most important person in my life and the last few days have been killing me— ”
“i don’t want to be your fucking friend,” he cuts you off, his voice is ragged, sapphire eyes glinting like coal in a fireplace, burning with a scorching intensity unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
the words hang in the air between you. unraveling everything you’ve ever known. it feels like the world is tilting on its axis. it feels like your friendship is shattering into a million irreparable pieces. you can only stare, your mind a blank, static, the tears on your cheeks are frozen in time.
“what. . ?” you breathe, “you don’t . . what?”
“i don’t want to be your friend because i want to be more than that” he repeats, his voice cracking. “i’ve wanted to be with you since the day i pushed you off the swings. since the day we met on the first day of elementary school and you wouldn’t stop talking about your brother’s obsession with digimon and pokemon. i’ve been in love with you for over a decade, and i’m so fucking tired of pretending i’m not.”
‘since the day i pushed you off the swings.’
‘since the first day of elementary school.’
‘over a decade.’
the phrases echo in your mind and you finally, finally understand what he meant when he’d said he was tired on sunday. he was never angry at you. he was never trying to hurt you. he was just trying to preserve your friendship. all your memories suddenly take on new meanings. all those times he’d linger after holding your hand, all those inside jokes, all those moments when you’d catch him looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. it wasn’t just friendship. it was never just friendship.
how did you not see it ? how could you have been so blind, so oblivious to something so obvious ?
you’d been so focused on your own feelings, so caught up in your own fears about what might happen if he knew how you felt, that you never even considered. . . never even allowed yourself to fully hope. . .
“i . . ” you don’t even know what to say “i didn’t know.”
you shake your head, trying to process the weight of his words. the years. the pain he must have felt watching you date other people, listening to you talk about your feelings while repressing his own.
“i didn’t know you felt the same way.” you whisper
his brow furrows as the words carry straight to his heart. he’d never believed in a world where he’d be this lucky. never believed in a universe where you’d love him the way he loves you.
but you do. you have. for years. you’ve buried it under layers of friendship and fear, convinced it was one-sided. convinced he was too good for you, too popular, and here he is, telling you he’s been in love with you since you were children.
“all this time, we could’ve been . . .”
you can’t finish the sentence. the possibilities flood your mind, overwhelming you. the wasted time, the missed opportunities, the years you could have had together. but then you look at him, really look at him, you see the hope dawning in his eyes. and you realize it doesn’t matter how long you’ve waited. what matters is what happens now. what you say today.
“i want to be with you too,” you say, the smile that breaks across his face is like the sun coming out from behind clouds after a grueling thunderstorm. a torrent of everything you’ve been feeling — everything you’ve been holding back for years — pours out of you.
“i’ve been looking for you in other guys,” your breath hitches. “that’s why my dates never work out. because there’s no one like you. i could go on a million dates and i’d think about you on every single one. i didn’t think you would ever see me that way. i was too scared to ask, i didn’t want to ruin our friendship. i didn’t want you to hate me. i didn’t want to lose you forever, and i felt like did. i’ve been dying all week, satoru. literally dying. because i thought i’d lost you, and i couldn’t . . . i can’t. . .”
you’re rambling, pouring your heart out to him, your words a jumbled, messy stream of consciousness, and then you start crying, really crying, your breath hitching in your chest, your vision blurring.
“shit, please don’t cry,” he frowns. “i hate seeing you sad. fuck, don’t . . you could never lose me” he’s cursing under his breath, running a hand through his ivory hair, blue eyes wide with a mixture of horror and regret. “i can’t believe you’re crying because of me. i’m such an idiot”
he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug, and you bury your face in his chest, crystal tears soaking through his shirt.
“did you expect me to be all giddy and happy when you were avoiding me all week ?” you mumble into his shirt.
“no, i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled against your hair. “i should’ve never left you. i should’ve told you how i felt but i didn’t think you’d ever see me that way, okay ? i thought i’d be stuck in the friendzone forever and i couldn’t deal with it. i didn’t actually want to ignore you. it wasn’t fair to you in the slightest and it was honestly a dick move on my part. . . i got in my head and i was trying to force myself to move on, but i’ll never do something that stupid ever again.”
“you promise ?” you ask, your voice small.
“i pinky promise,” he murmurs, looping his pinky around yours.
you’re glaring at him through blurred vision and half-lidded eyes. you’re so beautiful. even when you’re sad and mad at him.
( he’s a goner. has been since you walked into class, clinging to your mom’s leg, wailing because you didn’t want her to leave. he’s been a goner since you were sitting three desks away from him, learning how to count up to a hundred. he’s been a goner since the first time you looked at him like this. right after you’d clambered to your feet and demanded he made amends before you snitched on him. he’ll fix everything. he’ll fix everything even if it kills him. )
“please stop crying,” he groans, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “i’m really fucking sorry and i’m really fucking stupid too . . . and i know that’s surprising ‘cause i’m the smartest person you know—”
“you’re actually the worst. you genuinely suck satoru. . .” you interject, shoving at his chest to release yourself from his cloying grip. you’re laughing in spite of the tears in your eyes.
“i know” he chuckles, somehow managing to hold you even tighter
“i hate you” you say, knowing you meant the opposite.
“i love you. romantically.” he murmurs. and you know he’s clarifying because you were the type of friends who said it casually. frequently. the type of friends who said it everyday without fail. “i don’t love you the way friends are supposed to. which checks out ‘cause i’ve been an awful friend recently,”
“recently, yeah,” you say, giving him a watery smile, and he swears he’s going to have a heart attack if you keep looking at him. “but you’re still the best friend i’ve ever had.”
“i’ll be the best boyfriend you’ll ever have if you’ll let me,” he says, eyes sparkling hopefully. “can i be your boyfriend ? will you give me a chance to make you the happiest alive ?”
“you’re such a cornball,” you say, laughing through your tears. he’s asking like you’re about to get married.
“is that a yes ?” he asks, cheeks tinged cherry blossom pink, heart thumping erratically in his chest. he’d understand if you said no. right now he doesn’t feel like he’s any better than the losers you used to go on dates with. but unlike them he’s willing to pay his dues tenfold. a hundredfold. a thousandfold. . .
“yes, i’ll go out with you,” you grin, and before you can process it he’s hugging you so tight you can barely breathe and spinning you around as your laughter echoes in the living room.
when he puts you down, he cups your face in his hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tear stains on your cheeks. “you’ve gotta tell me what to do to fix everything now” he murmurs. “i don’t have any hello kitty bandaids on me.”
“you still don’t have any ?” you gape, choosing to indulge in his cheesy bit. he’s never going to shut up about him pushing you off the swings or your demand for a cute bandaid. he’ll probably tell the story even when your skin is all wrinkled and your hair’s turning silver. and you’re very okay with that. you’re ecstatic actually. “think of something quick or i’ll tell on you.”
“y’know i’m a genius, i already know what to do” you arch a brow and grins, “i’ll kiss it better.”
( he’s been waiting his whole life to say that )
“you should’ve said that after you pushed me off the swings,” you sigh. “or when you broke my favorite monster high doll. or maybe every time you picked me up from a date . . . we would’ve gotten here sooner.”
“i should’ve just told you i wanted you from the start,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “i could’ve saved us a lot of time and heartbreak.”
satoru finally kisses you, and it tastes like strawberries, the salt from your tears, and the spearmint from the gum he’d been chewing while playing mortal kombat. his hands are everywhere—your waist, cupping your neck, caressing your cheek. your hands are in his hair, pulling him closer. it’s such a slow, sweet kiss, one that you’ve both craved forever. his lips are plush and soft, and he’s pulling you impossibly closer until you have to pull away, cursing the need for oxygen.
he’s looking at you, his cheeks rosy and flushed, blue eyes shining brighter than all the stars in the universe. “pinch me,” he says.
“what ?” you splutter, brows furrowed, head tilted as you blink at him
“pinch me,” he says again. “i’ve gotta make sure i’m not dreaming this time.”
you don’t know whether to laugh or melt. you do a mixture of both as you pinch him and he pretends to wince, “do you dream about me a lot then ?”
“all day, every day,” he quips. “you’re all i’ve ever dreamed of.”
“that’s so corny,” you say, but you’re smiling.
“oh that’s rich coming from you, little miss obsessed with rom coms,” he scoff. “if noah calhoun said that, you wouldn’t think so. you’d be geeking and saying you wish men like that existed. but last i checked i’m a man and i exist—”
“it wouldn’t be cringe because that’s the notebook,” you tut. “but y’know i think you’re quite like noah, actually. personality wise. i can see you hanging off a ferris wheel. and i’d definitely pants you.”
“of course you would” he shakes his head, “looks wise, i’m hotter than noah. wouldn’t you agree?”
“mmm, that’s pushing it,” you say, and he’s about to protest and pout and whine, but you cut him off with a kiss. it starts sweet and gentle before blossoming until you’re beneath him on the couch, his body pressed against yours, his kisses tickling you until you’re laughing so loud you can barely breathe.
“say i’m hotter than noah,” he murmurs against your skin.
“you’re hotter than noah,” you giggle. he loves you. he loves this. this is what he lives to do. make you laugh. he’s made you cry for the first and last time — okay maybe the third and last time if you count petty childhood escapades but he digresses— and he vows, right then and there, that he’ll die before he lets you cry because of him again.
he’s still hovering over you, forearms braced on either side of your head. but he’s not kissing you anymore, he’s just looking at you, and the look in his eyes is so soft, so tender, it makes your heart feel like it might just burst.
after over a decade of pining, of waiting for you to see him with bated breath, satoru can finally breathe easily. his longs are full of the air he’s denied himself of for so long. satoru could never live, never breathe, just be your friend. not really. as awful as it sounds it was a role he played, a costume he wore to stay close to you. but underneath it all, he was always yours. he’ll always be yours
people say the best things come to those who wait, and satoru has always been waiting. always been hoping. and now, looking at you, your eyes shining, your lips swollen from his kisses, he knows every moment of longing, every year of unspoken feelings, every day of carefully guarding his heart, was worth it.
five fratboys + one nerd. will you join them as they try (and fail) to romance the reader with each other’s help ? inc: fratjo(sato), nerdjo(toru) , toji , sukuna , geto , nanami
𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐕𝐀 ◞ NERDJO › AVAILABLE NOW !
toru gojo wants you bad. when the fratboys of sigma-chi — toji , sukuna , nanami , geto & his twin brother sato — come together to give him various ‘alpha male’ tactics used to manipulate women into falling in love , will he succeed in winning your heart , or will it blow up in his face ? wc: 4.5k
sato gojo has it all — the looks, the money, the popularity. but when the one girl he wants on campus rejects him because of his playboy reputation, can his frat brothers — and real brother — help him prove he’s not a player ? wc: 5.2k
toji zenin is at the end of his rope. drowning in student loans, child support and working himself to death while in college. when he falls for you, the pretty rich girl who frequents his shifts at the local supermarket, can his frat brothers help him hide his true identity? or will you find out and love him regardless? wc: 9.4k
when geto gets partnered up for a ‘fake family’ project with the girl of his dreams, it gives him the perfect opportunity to touch you like he owns you. but what happens when you keep laughing off his every attempt ? can his frat brothers help him go from ‘bestie’ to ‘boyfriend’? wc: 8.Ok
you and fratkuna are that one couple who breaks up & makes up every other week. but when you swear you’re done with him and go off to date his rival, football captain naoya zenin, can his frat brothers help him get you back ?
non!mc idea where in every universe, in every timeline, you’re only there to watch one of the Lis fall in love with MC. you, as their closest companion, stuck by their side since the dawn of time, bare witness of a love story never for you.
and now we’re in the current timeline and you watch it happen all over again.
You've grown to watch silently, in the background. In the shadow of MC. Her beauty, her confidence, her kindness.
You've seen in all before, the way they look at her, love her, yearn for her; sucked into her gravity. And like your love for the Lis, you're pulled into too, forever following, watching, but never experiencing.
You've mastered silent devotion, a writhing, numbing ache that you can never seem to rid. Heavy on the chest, suffocating to the heart. Since you couldn't love them loudly like they do with MC, yearn them in the same way they yearn for her; you sit back and grow hollow, more empty.
Even when tragedy strikes, perhaps a fatal injury by a wanderer, a horrible collision with a car, a terrible drowning, a freak accident; maybe pure exhaustion. You're left to revel in your own patheticness, of loving someone untouchable.
In many ways, you're just like them.
Because, even in your final breath, you think of them, and how much you love them despite all it all.
Maybe the gods pity you, lord knows you've done enough yourself. Now reincarnated to a new world, our world. where Linkon is just some made up place in a game everyone’s been raving about on twitter. where you’re happy; whole; complete.
Where you hold no memory of your past life. No memory of them.
In your new life, as you play Love and Deep Space and design your MC the way you’d think the LIs would love. They’re looking at you. Really look at you, maybe for the first time since the duration of your friendship? relationship?
because after your death, something unspeakable till this day. they’ve finally noticed your absence. the silence.
Unable to fill the hole you left, not with work, not with time, not with love.
so when their phone lights up, months after your death, and they see you. Alive, and look it too. much more alive than they've ever seen you. Your face is so bright, almost glowing. and you bar a smile they have never seen. or at least, they don’t remember.
you’re alive and you’re happy.
Soon, they find the pattern of your appearance, when they’re phone lights up and your beaming face appears. and so they wait, daily, to see you again.
when you talk to ‘them’ through your phone, about your life, your troubles, your joys. they just sit and listen, listen to all you have to say.
Because their version of you isn't here anymore. They can’t hear your voice, see your face, feel your touch.
This time, they'll love you right, like how they should have all along. Pulled into the gravity that is, you. So they cling to you, through their phone.
Close enough to hear you, to see you, but never touch you.
one of my favorite kinds of non mc angst is when you have stood by the boys through every lifetime, so much so that your presence has become a quiet certainty for them.
they expect you to always be by their side, moving through the world as if your loyalty is as certain as the sunrise.
and whether they are blind to your feelings, consumed in their quest to reunite with mc, or simply incapable of truly seeing you, they’ll never choose you.
still, you remain, tethered to their side through every heartbreak.
but when you find out your cycle of reincarnation is finally ending, you keep it to yourself. is it selfish? perhaps. but your heart is weary, your love is stretched thin, and you know that if your devotion was never returned before, it never will be.
so when you finally slip away—cradled in their arms during a mission, surrendering your soul to the ocean at a seamoon ceremony, or resting among a field of datura flowers—they mourn you. of course they do. tears will fill their eyes as they whisper your name into the silence.
but some part of them knows you’ll come back.
you always do.
they’re certain you’ll return just as you always have, and that soon enough you’ll be smiling beside them again, teasing them like nothings changed.
you always return as yourself—changed in small ways, perhaps, but still marked by the beauty spot beneath your eye or the gentle brown of your gaze.
your face may shift with each timeline, but the faint scar along your arm from protecting him from wanderers or the wound over your heart always remains.
it’s all a quiet testament of your love.
so when the next cycle comes, and they cannot find you in a scattered crowd of villagers, when they don’t sense your presence in a university hallway, when they wait for you to find them in a game of hide and seek on a playground—the one right next to your father’s house—or amongst the last remaining lemurians who reside in verona, they begin to question it.
they start to wonder.
where were you? what’s taking you so long to come back to them?
where is the one who knows them best? the girl who shares every memory, who understands their purpose, who feels their pain more deeply than anyone else?
simply put—
where are you?
but the truth is painfully simple.
you are not here.
not anymore.
your soul is finally at peace, and alongside it, your love.
or maybe, somewhere in the world, you still exist.
maybe you grew up wrapped in the warmth of a loving family. maybe you still remember the warnings of hunters past and steer clear of those forbidden no hunt zones.
maybe you attend college, or perhaps you open a flower shop in a city where no one knows your name.
maybe every night you dream of a life you have never lived, with a man whose face you have never seen.
maybe you are sitting right beside them, by the sea or on a park bench, laughing at a joke you just told, while he absentmindedly takes your hand in his.
and maybe when you wake with tears drying on your cheeks, you’re confused, unable to understand what it all means.
but dreams fade the longer you remain awake, and slowly, you return to your life.
you feed your cat. you take out the trash. you spend a tuesday afternoon tackling a week's worth of laundry.
you live through mundane, ordinary moments.
you meet up with old colleagues for brunch, talking to your mother on the phone while waiting for the next train. you reply to the messages of a man you matched with online and let him take you out for a drink or two, thanking him at the end of the night for the fun you had.
the next day, you pass by a mural painted by a well-known artist from whitesand bay, leaving you so awestruck that you take a quick snapshot to post on your moments page before continuing on your way.
you arrive at akso hospital, stepping into the lobby to find the rest of your family sitting anxiously for news of your niece’s birth. you sit beside them, praying for the time to pass more quickly, absentmindedly reading the framed research credits of a 28-year-old cardiac surgeon hanging on the wall nearby.
and when you return home that night, head stuck in the clouds, swiping at the hundreds of photos you took of your sister's baby girl, someone stops you in the street.
their eyes—sky blue, violet-gold, or cotton-candy—search your face with overwhelming relief, haunted by a grief that feels centuries old.
“i’m so glad i found you again,” they’ll whisper as their arms wrap around you, the embrace tight enough to keep you from pulling away so easily, but gentle enough not to steal your breath.
“i missed you so much. where have you been?”
you freeze, fear rooting you into place as a voice inside urges you to fight, to punch, to kick, to scream—anything to break free from the arms of someone you don’t know.
you tense, and they feel it immediately. they notice your stillness, your lack of recognition, and finally, they let you go, albeit slowly.
their hands settle gently against your shoulders, smiling with a softness you have never seen directed to you, and they ask again:
“where have you been?”
you force yourself backward, taking three deliberate steps to create space between you, your left hand already searching your purse for anything to defend yourself with.
5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.
oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. uncle!sukuna. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.
— ☆ —
1. movie nights.
you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.
first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?
for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.
your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.
tonight, everything was perfect.
you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—
bzzz.
you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?
you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.
you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.
so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”
he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.
“can i come in?”
you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”
“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.
holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—
“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”
your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”
you paused. “well…”
“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”
“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”
he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”
“hey—“
he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”
“oh. you didn’t have to—“
“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”
with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.
what. the. fuck.
2. hangouts.
you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.
at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.
however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.
today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.
the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.
“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”
you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”
he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”
you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”
you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”
before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.
and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”
“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“
“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”
you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”
“…did you just call me angel?”
his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”
that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?
you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.
fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.
how horrible for you.
3. aquarium.
you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”
she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”
“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”
she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”
“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”
she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”
you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.
and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.
‘couples only day!’
“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”
“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.
“yes.”
“ask sukuna to go with you.”
you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”
“that is quite literally not what i said.”
“you’re a genius.”
you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.
what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.
you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”
“…where?”
he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”
“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”
his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”
you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”
“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”
you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.
you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.
“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.
“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”
gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.
4. the beach.
you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.
you were freezing.
you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.
oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—
a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.
“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”
ah. your genie.
you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.
fuck. how could someone be so pretty?
he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”
“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”
“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”
“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”
“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”
“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”
he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”
you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.
you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”
he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.
what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.
“…you went early, huh?”
“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.
“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”
you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”
you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“
he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.
holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.
well. at least it wasn’t you this time.
5. studying.
as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.
during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”
“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”
gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”
“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”
gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”
“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”
you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”
“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”
“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”
you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”
“yes, please.”
later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.
you really needed caffeine.
everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—
fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.
sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?
you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.
you: please :c
a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.
“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”
“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”
you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”
he hummed. “good.”
in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.
you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”
he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”
in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”
you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”
his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”
“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”
he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”
was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”
“don’t mention it, angel.”
+1.
against your will, you were dragged to a party.
you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.
you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.
gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.
you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.
sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.
sukuna covering you with a blanket.
sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.
geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.
sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.
after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.
the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”
“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”
“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”
it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.
“…the stars are pretty.”
“mhm.”
he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”
“…mhm.”
he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”
“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.
“fuck.”
“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”
and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”
you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”
he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”
“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.
he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”
that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”
his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“
you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,
he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.
once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”
“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”
“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”
“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”
summary ;; Your boyfriend disappeared nights ago, leaving behind nothing but a chilling silence. So… who is answering the texts from his phone? When a grotesque photograph confirms your worst fears, your only ally is a wary detective who seems to find the tragedy a little too "artistic"—and who might just like you a little too much.
pairings ;; serialkiller! gojo x reader
w/c ;; 27k
warnings ;; MDNI, yandere!gojo lowk, UNRELIABLE NARRATOR!!, toxic relationship, dark romance (?), more like psychological thriller but oh well, blood, heavily described crime scene and dead body, stalking, grieving, alcohol and smoking, swearing, intoxicated makeout sesh, weird sexual fantasies, guns, angst w no comfort lowk, gojo is cray cray in this one dont say i didnt warn you
a/n ;; have been working on this 3 nights in a row my eyes BURN. lowk wanted to try something new, and since im really into psychological thriller i though hmm why not give it a try, hope you guys like it too <3
as always, dont forget to subscribe, comment (your feedback is greatly appreciated), reblog and like or wtvr those youtubers say now xx
if you like reading with music on, give this playlist i made specifically for this fanfiction a try! maybe you'd like it
art creds @/_3aem on X ; headers @/suupersonic
m.list
Being in a serious relationship by the time you were twenty-five was one of those quiet dreams you kept tucked away. You never expected much from life. You’d understood from a young age that love shouldn’t be like the movies. It wasn’t about grand gestures or rain-soaked confessions. It was something comfortable—the sound of coffee brewing in silence after a grueling night of overtime, or someone knowing your McDonald’s order by heart when you muttered that you "deserved a treat." It was the simple, bone-deep security of knowing your bed wouldn't be cold, and that there would be a warm body to pull you into sleep.
That was what Kento Nanami taught you for almost a year now.
Being with Kento wasn’t "crazy." You didn’t have sex in his office (even though it was a secret fantasy of his) and there wasn't some funny "How I Met Your Mother" story behind your union you could tell at parties. You were just two colleagues who hit it off at a local bar after work and decided to give it a shot.
It was comfortable.
Sometimes, he felt more like a roommate you could kiss and sleep with, but you never complained. He was a pillar. He let you badmouth the idiots in accounting while he calmly peeled an orange, his only response being a low, "Don't pay them so much attention, [Y/N]. They aren't worth the gray hairs."
You remembered one Saturday particularly well. You’d been sobbing over the ending of Titanic for the fifth time that month, your face a blotchy mess of tears and smeared mascara. Kento hadn't teased you. He hadn't even looked up from the financial report he was reading, but he had reached out, his large, warm hand finding yours on the sofa. He squeezed it once—briefly, firmly—before getting up to refill your water glass.
"Hydrate, [Y/N]," he had said, setting the glass down. "You're going to have a headache in the morning if you keep this up."
And, without fail, he bought you your favorite Starbucks every morning. An iced coffee with exactly two pumps of vanilla, one you bought at your first date ever. He remembered. Not one, not three. He was a man of precision.
But precision came with a temper—or rather, a coldness. Of course, you fought. And by "fight," it usually meant you yelling until your throat was raw while he stood there like a stone wall, refusing to give you the satisfaction of an outburst. When the tension peaked, he’d pack a small bag and head to a motel for a night or two to "cool off." He claimed the distance prevented him from saying things he’d regret. You knew which motel it was, the one three blocks down with the decent Wi-Fi. You knew he’d be back when the dust settled.
So, when you had that explosive argument over the misplaced quarterly documents last night, you didn't even flinch when the front door clicked shut. You didn't think twice when you woke up to an empty apartment. You knew he’d come around eventually. You even felt a petty sort of satisfaction thinking about him sitting in a cramped motel room while you had the bed to yourself.
He was such a jerk sometimes. So rigid. So stubborn.
But you also knew your cup of iced coffee would be sitting nicely next to your laptop as soon as you sat down at your desk the next morning. With the plastic straw (he knew how much you hated the paper ones once they get soggy), and two pumps of vanilla.
But as soon as you arrived at work, much to your susrprise, the desk was empty. There was no condensation on the wood; no scent of vanilla in the air.
You glanced over at his cubicle. It was dark. Nanami was never late. Which meant he was absent. Your heart gave a small, confused thrum. Clocking in late meant working overtime to make up for the lost minutes, and if there was one thing Nanami Kento hated with every fiber of his being, it was working a single second past 5:00 PM.
You sat down, staring at your blank monitor. You swore the fight wasn't that bad. Had he actually overslept? No, Nanami’s internal clock was more reliable than the Japanese rail system.
Biting your lip, you pulled out your phone. The anger from last night was being rapidly crowded out by a nagging, cold itch in your chest.
To: Kento
I’m at my desk. Where are you? If you're trying to punish me by skipping coffee, it’s working. I’m grumpy. Come to work.
You expected him to let the message sit. You expected him to ignore you for at least an hour to maintain his "cool-off" period.
Instead, your phone vibrated almost instantly.
From: Kento
I’m sorry about the coffee, babe. I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today. I decided to stay at the motel a bit longer to rest. I’ll make it up to you.
You stared at the screen. He had answered within seconds. And he called you "babe." Nanami rarely used pet names in writing, he found them "inefficient."
To: Kento
You’re sick? Do you need me to bring you something? Medicine? Soup? I can come by during my lunch break.
The reply came back before you could even set the phone down.
From: Kento
No, don’t do that. I’m just going to sleep it off. I don’t want you catching anything. Just stay at the office and have a productive day. I’ll text you later. Love you.
You leaned back in your chair, frowning at the screen. Love you. The words looked right, but the timing felt wrong. Nanami was usually a man of few words, especially when he was supposedly "resting."
But then again, maybe the fight had scared him into being more affectionate. Maybe he was finally learning how to apologize. You sighed, forcing yourself to open a spreadsheet, trying to ignore the way the "Kento" at the top of your chat felt just a little bit like a stranger.
Nanami didnt come home that night. Nor the day after.
Concern was eating you alive. It was true that Kento was a man who preferred to carry the world on his shoulders without a groan of complaint, but you had spent the last year slowly dismantling those walls. But since you’d been together, you had slowly taught him how to open up, that being "efficient" didn't mean being alone. You took pride in taking care of him, especially when he was vulnerable.
Being alone in the quiet apartment reminded you of that day in late November. You had been together for well over six months by then, and he had just officially moved in. He’d claimed your apartment was more "logistically sound" due to its proximity to the office, but you knew it was because he liked waking up next to you. However, the move-in day had been brutal; the autumn rain had hammered down on him as he hauled his luggage up the stairs, soaking him to the bone.
It had started with a subtle deepening of his voice and a stubborn refusal to eat his dinner. By midnight, Nanami was a furnace, his skin radiating a heat so intense it made you recoil when you touched his shoulder.
"Kento, you’re burning up," you had whispered, reaching to peel back the heavy duvet.
"I’m fine," he’d grunted, eyes squeezed shut, his jaw locked in that rigid, professional line even in his delirium. "It’s just a seasonal bug. I have a report due at eight."
"You aren't going anywhere," you countered, pushing him back down.
You spent the night hovering over him like a guardian. You pressed cool washcloths to his forehead, ignoring his grumpy, muffled protests that you were "wasting your sleep cycle." You forced him to sip lukewarm ginger tea, and when the fever finally broke his resolve, he had curled his large frame around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"You're too kind," he had murmured, his voice thick and scratchy against your skin. "It's illogical to stay awake for me."
"Shut up and sleep, Kento."
Of course, your care came at a price. Three days later, the fever broke for him, only to settle deep in your own lungs. You had woken up shivering, unable to even lift your head from the pillow. Nanami, still pale but functional, spent his entire weekend off—time he usually guarded with his life—tending to you.
He had been a clumsy but devoted nurse, bringing you toast that was slightly too burnt and tucking in blankets so tightly you could barely move, but he stayed. You ended up tangled together on the sofa, surrounded by mountains of tissues and half-empty Pocari Sweat bottles. Both of you miserable, sneezing in sync, and yet, completely at peace.
"We look pathetic," he’d noted, his voice a dry rasp as he meticulously adjusted your wool socks.
"We look like a couple," you’d countered.
He hadn't argued then. He had just pulled you closer.
Now, you sat on that very same sofa, clutching your phone to your chest as you bit at the skin around your nails, a habit Nanami hated and constantly encouraged you to break. The lights were all off, save for the soft, rosy glow of the strawberry lamp on the coffee table. You had insisted on buying it, and though he’d argued it wasn't a "necessity," he’d eventually carried the box to the car with a quiet, fond sigh.
The strawberry light felt mocking now, casting long, distorted shadows across the room.
You tried calling him again. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
Your texts remained unanswered. Some were marked with the heart-sinking blue of a read receipt, proving he was looking at them and choosing silence. But the last three? They remained on "Delivered."
The silence of the apartment was broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic thumping of your own heart. You looked at the "Delivered" status of your last message. Please just tell me you're okay, you thought to yourself.
Suddenly, the status changed.
Read.
Your breath hitched. You waited for the typing bubbles, for an explanation, for an apology. Instead, your phone vibrated with an incoming photo.
The thumbnail was dark. You tapped it, your blood turning to ice. It was a photo of your apartment building, taken from the street below. Specifically, it was a photo of your living room window—the one you were sitting next to right now—with the distinct red glow of the strawberry lamp visible through the glass.
The phone buzzed again.
From: Kento
The lamp looks nice from out here. Happy we bought it.
Your heart plummeted. Nanami never talked like that. He was a man of few words. And more importantly, Nanami would have just walked through the front door.
You almost tripped on the carpet, your phone hitting the floor with a thud as you sprinted toward the balcony doors. Ripping them open, the biting night air slammed into your chest, stealing your breath. You leaned over the railing, eyes scanning the pavement below.
Nothing.
The street was a graveyard of parked cars and empty sidewalks. Not a single soul was standing under the streetlamp. Where was he? Was he hiding in the shadows of the alley? Did he think this was a joke?
No. Nanami would never do that. He was a man who measured his words and his actions with surgical precision. He found "pranks" to be a monumental waste of time and an insult to one's intelligence. He would never play with your heart this way.
Your hand flew to your mouth, teeth tearing at the raw skin of your cuticles until you tasted the metallic tang of blood. What the hell was happening? Were you even texting your boyfriend anymore?
The sudden blare of your ringtone made you jump, the sound echoing off the balcony glass like a cruel laugh. It was his favorite song. The screen lit up, displaying a photo you’d taken on Miyako Island during your first vacation together—Nanami looking away from the camera, a rare, microscopic soften to his lips while you beamed beside him.
Everything you owned, every safety net you had built, was tied to this man. And now, the tether was fraying.
As you picked up the device from the carpet, the name on the screen made your stomach drop through the floor.
Incoming Call: Kento’s Mother.
She never called you. She was a sweetheart, always sending cards for the holidays, but you were never close enough for one-on-one conversations. Certainly not for a call at midnight on a weekday.
The realization hit you like a physical blow: he wasn’t answering her, either.
With trembling fingers, you swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Dear?" Her voice was thin, vibrating with a frequency of panic you had never heard from her before. "I'm so sorry to call so late. I... I can't get a hold of Kento. I've called ten times. Is he with you? Is he alright?"
Your throat closed up. You looked back at the phone in your other hand—the one that had just sent you a photo of your own window. The one that was currently marked as Online.
"He's... he's not here, Mrs. Nanami," you whispered, your eyes darting back to the empty street. "We, uh.. we had a fight a few days ago—"
"Oh, heavens," she breathed, a sob breaking through. "The police called me, dear. They found his car. They found his car near the docks, but... but the blood, they said there was so much—"
The line went static. Or maybe it was just the blood rushing to your ears.
Your phone vibrated against your ear. A new message.
From: Kento
Don’t listen to them, babe. They’re just trying to upset you.
You stared at the screen, your breath hitching in a throat that felt like it was filled with glass. The "Kento" at the top of the screen stayed Online.
From: Kento
I’m right outside the door. I forgot my keys. Let me in?
Through the receiver, you could hear the muffled, frantic sounds of a household collapsing in real-time. A chair scraping harshly against a floor, the heavy, staggered breathing of Kento’s father, and then a sudden, sharp cry.
"Minako! Minako, look at the screen!" his father’s voice boomed in the background, cracked and unrecognizable. "Turn it up! Turn it up right now!"
"What is it? Takehiko, what are you—"
The phone was dropped; you heard it hit a hard surface, but the line remained open. The audio was a chaotic blur of sobbing and the distant, clinical hum of a television news broadcast. You stood paralyzed in the center of your living room, the pink glow of the strawberry lamp casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach for your ankles.
"...repeating our top story," the news anchor’s voice was a low drone coming through the phone. "...the body discovered in the early hours near the Harumi waterfront has been identified as 28-year-old Kento Nanami. Authorities are warning the public to remain vigilant, as the scene suggests a level of premeditated brutality rarely seen—"
A shriek tore through the phone. A raw, guttural sound of a mother’s soul breaking in half. It was a sound so jagged it felt like it was physically cutting your skin. He’s dead? He can;t be, he just texted you a few seconds ago. Were you hallucinating? He’s not dead. He’s at your door. You should open up and hug him. Tell him you were dumb. That you misplaced those fucking documents. Apologize and tell him it won’t happen again—
Your own phone, still clutched in your other hand, vibrated with a violent intensity.
From: Kento
Don’t listen to her, honey. You know how she overreacts.
Your eyes darted to the screen. The "Online" status glowed like a radioactive coal. Your thumb hovered over the glass, shaking so hard you could barely aim it. Whoever you were talking to was not your Kento. You knew that. But you couldn’t understand it. You didn’t want to understand it. He’s at your door..
To: Kento
Where are you? Who is this?
The reply was instantaneous. No bubbles. No delay.
From: Kento
I’m right outside. I told you, I forgot my keys because I was in such a rush to see you. My hands are full, too. Can you be a good girl and open up?
A cold, paralyzing dread washed over you. The silence of your apartment felt predatory. Slowly, your head turned toward the front door. The heavy oak was bolted, the chain was on, but it felt as thin as paper.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
It wasn't a knock. It was the rhythmic, playful clicking of a fingernail against the wood.
From: Kento
I know you're home. I saw the strawberry light on, babe. Open the door, and let's have that coffee. Two pumps of vanilla, right?
You stared at the door handle as you approached the front door. It didn't move. Behind you, the television in your own bedroom—which you were certain was turned off—suddenly flared to life, the blue light spilling into the hall like a ghost.
The news anchor's voice began to fill your own home, echoing the one on the phone, creating a horrific, stereophonic loop of your boyfriend's death.
"Kento?" you whispered, your voice failing you.
From the other side of the door, a muffled chuckle vibrated through the wood. It wasn't Kento’s deep, rumbling baritone. It was lighter. Airy. Like someone who had just heard a very funny joke.
From: Kento
Read receipts are on, babe. I know you're seeing this. Don't make me come in through the balcony.
Your breath hitched, coming in shallow, jagged gasps that burned your throat. Your thumb scrambled over the screen of the phone that was still connected to Kento’s mother, but the line was a graveyard of static and distant wailing. You hung up, your fingers slick with sweat and the blood from your chewed cuticles, and dialed three digits that felt like a lifetime to input.
1-1-0.
"Emergency services, how may i help?"
"Please," you whispered, backing away from the front door, your eyes fixed on the sliver of space between the floor and the wood. "Someone is at my door. My boyfriend... the news says he’s dead, but someone has his phone. They’re texting me. They’re outside."
"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. I need you to tell me the address of your location,” and after you told the dispatched, it took a few seconds before he talked again, ” i’m dispatching officers to your address now. Are you in a secure room?"
"I'm in the living room," you choked out, retreating until your back hit the glass of the balcony doors you had left wide open. The cold air licked at your neck. "Please, just hurry. He says he can see me."
"I have help on the way. Do not hang up the phone. Is the door locked?"
"Yes, but—"
Your phone vibrated. A new notification from "Kento" slid down from the top of the screen, partially obscuring the call timer with the dispatcher.
From: Kento
Calling the police? That’s not very "comfortable," is it? After all the time we spent together you’re scared of me.
The dispatcher’s voice continued in your ear, a tiny drone of instructions you could no longer process. Your gaze was glued to the door. The tapping had stopped. The silence that followed was worse—a heavy, suffocating pressure that made the air feel like lead.
Then, the door handle turned.
Slowly. Deliberately.
The metal groaned under the pressure, the lock straining against a force that shouldn't have been there. You watched, paralyzed, as the deadbolt began to creak, the wood around it splintering with a sickening, slow-motion crack.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?" the dispatcher barked.
You couldn't answer. You were watching a slip of white paper being slid under the door. It wasn't a note. It was a polaroid.
You lunged forward, driven by a morbid, terrifying compulsion to see. You picked it up.
The chemical smell of the developing film hit you first, sharp and acrid, but it couldn't mask the visual horror. It was a high-contrast, flash-burnt image of the motel room. Nanami was seated in the floral armchair, but he had been turned into a gruesome piece of performance art.
His throat had been opened—not a clean cut, but a jagged, wide grin of red that exposed the pale rings of his windpipe. To keep his head from lolling forward and ruining the "pose," his own signature cheetah print necktie (one that you gifted on his birthday) had been threaded through the wound and tied tightly to the back of the chair, hoisting his chin up at a mocking, jaunty angle. The background was the worst part. The beige floral wallpaper was completely obscured by thick, arterial spray.
From: Kento
I did put up a fight, you see..
You dropped the polaroid as if it had burned your fingers. The image of Kento—so still, so hollow—seemed to pulse under the flickering light of the hallway. Your knees gave out, and you hit the floor, the dispatcher’s voice now just a frantic, distant buzzing in your ear.
"Ma'am! I need you to stay with me! Officers are two minutes out! Can you hear me?"
You couldn't answer. You were staring at the gap beneath the door.
The tapping had stopped. The playful, terrifying clicking of a fingernail against wood was gone. In its place was a heavy, suffocating silence that felt like the world had held its breath. No handle turning. No splintering wood. Just... nothing.
Then, a soft thud sounded from the other side of the door. The sound of plastic hitting the floorboards.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. You waited for the door to burst open, for the "Kento" on the other side to finish the job. But the silence stretched, long and agonizing, until the far-off wail of sirens began to cut through the night. You couldn't even scream, the air just rattled in your chest. The sirens were deafening now, blue and red lights strobing against your ceiling like a frantic heartbeat.
"Ma'am? The officers are pulling up. Can you unlock the door for them?"
You didn't move. Not until you heard the heavy thud of boots in the hallway and the authoritative shout of "Police! Open up!"
With trembling hands, you reached up and slid the chain back, fumbling with the deadbolt. When the door finally swung open, you didn't see a monster. You saw two officers with their guns drawn, their flashlights cutting through the dark. And there, sitting perfectly centered on your "Welcome" mat, was a single Starbucks cup. The plastic was stained with red, sticky fingerprints. Inside, the coffee was light, creamy with milk—but as the flashlight hit it, you saw something dark and solid swirling at the bottom among the ice cubes.
Your phone buzzed in your limp hand. One last notification.
From: Kento
I saved the best part for the bottom of the cup. It’s the part that saw you the most.
The condensation was still fresh, beads of water rolling down the plastic.
One of the officers kept his weapon raised, clearing the kitchen, while the other knelt beside you. "Are you hurt? Is anyone else in the apartment?"
You couldn't speak. You just pointed at the cup.
The officer frowned, leaning in to look at the label printed on the side.
You looked past the officers, down the long, empty apartment corridor. There was no one there. No shadow, no killer. Just the lingering, cloying scent of expensive cologne and the fading light of your strawberry lamp, blinking out for the final time.
The fluorescent lights of the station hummed with a low, irritating buzz that vibrated in the base of your skull. You sat on a hard plastic chair in a corner of the precinct, feeling smaller than you ever had in your life. The scratchy wool blanket draped over your shoulders felt heavy and smelled of mothballs and stale coffee, but you clutched the edges of it until your knuckles turned white. It was the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.
The night had been a blur of flashing lights, gloved hands bagging evidence, and the cold, clinical voices of detectives.
"Exsanguination," one of them had muttered nearby, not realizing you could hear. "Abdominal cavity was opened wide, and the carotid was severed. He didn't have a prayer."
You squeezed your eyes shut, but the image from the Polaroid was burned into your retinas. The coffee cup you had seen on your doorstep sat in a clear plastic evidence bag in an interview room, the dark, solid mass at the bottom now confirmed to be Kento’s left eye. The "part that saw you the most."
A detective with tired eyes and a wrinkled suit crouched in front of you, offering a paper cup of water. "We’re still working on the phone, ma’am. The GPS pings for Kento’s device went dead the second the sirens hit your street. He’s ghosting us."
You took the water, your hands trembling so violently that the surface rippled. "He was right there," you whispered, your voice sounding like someone else's. "He was at the door."
"We know. We found the... residue on the mat." The detective sighed, looking at your hands. "He's sophisticated. No prints on the cup, no DNA at your house. Even the coffee was paid for in cash three districts away."
They had taken your phone, too. It was sitting in a forensics lab, being picked apart for digital breadcrumbs that you knew deep down wouldn't be there.
As the detective walked away to consult with a colleague, the station doors swung open, letting in a gust of that same cold night air from your balcony. You flinched, pulling the old blanket tighter. You were safe here, surrounded by armed officers and cameras, yet every time a phone rang in the office or a printer whirred to life, you jumped.
You couldn't help but stare at the evidence locker down the hall. You knew the killer had turned the phone off. You knew he was gone. But in the silence of the station, you could still feel the phantom vibration of a notification against your chest.
The sky over the cemetery was a bruised, heavy grey, as if the world itself had lost its color along with Kento. The service was a blur of black umbrellas and the stifling scent of lilies. A cloying, sweet decay that made you want to gag. You stood by the open grave, shivering next to the closed casket. It had been an explicit request from the Nanami family; his death was so gruesome they couldn’t fathom seeing their son’s body in such a mutilated state.
You felt like a ghost among the living. Every time a distant relative squeezed your hand or whispered a hollow condolence, a surge of nausea rolled through you. They didn’t know. They hadn't seen the Polaroid, or the way the blood had dried into a dark crust around the rim of your favorite coffee cup.
The burial felt final, but the horror felt ongoing. Every shovelful of dirt hitting the wood sounded like that rhythmic tap-tap-tap on your front door, a dull thud marking the end of the only man who ever made you feel safe.
Kento’s mother was a shell of a woman, supported on either side by relatives, her weeping the only sound in the oppressive silence. You wanted to comfort her, but you couldn't move. You felt like you were made of glass—one wrong step and you would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces.
"A closed casket is a mercy," a voice spoke up, slicing through the heavy air.
You flinched, your head snapping to the side. Standing a few feet away, leaning against a weathered headstone, was a man who didn't fit the somber, broken atmosphere of the cemetery. He was tall (impossibly so) and dressed in a black suit that looked custom-tailored to his lean, athletic frame.
A pair of dark, round sunglasses sat on the bridge of his nose, masking his eyes. Even through the tinted lenses, you felt the weight of his gaze, sharp and analytical, stripping you bare.
"Though, for someone like Nanami," the man continued, pushing off the headstone and walking toward you with a predatory grace, "mercy was never really part of the equation, was it?"
"Who are you?" you asked, your voice a raspy shadow of its former self.
He stopped just inches from you, tall enough that you had to crane your neck to look at him. He reached into his inner pocket and produced a leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a badge.
Special Investigations. Satoru Gojo.
"I'm the one handling Kento’s... paperwork."
Behind the glass, his eyes were a startling, electric blue. So bright they seemed to catch the gray light of the afternoon and amplify it. They were beautiful, but they were devoid of the pity everyone else had been drowning you in.
"I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours looking at the things he left for you," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "The coffee. I’ve read the messages. Most detectives would call it a crime scene. I call it an obsession."
"The police station is full of bureaucratic idiots, [F/N]. They think this is about a murder. But you and I know the truth," He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low hum that stayed between the two of you. "I know you're holding onto that Polaroid," he whispered, his expression hardening into something professional and dangerous. " If you want to find the person who turned your life into a horror movie, you’re going to have to stop acting like a victim and start acting like a witness. Meet me at the station at midnight. Don't let anyone follow you."
You shivered, a cold sweat breaking out on your neck. "You're supposed to help me."
"Oh, I am," Gojo smirked, a flash of brilliant white teeth that felt more like a threat than a comfort. "I’m going to be your shadow. I’ll be the one checking your phone, the one standing outside your door, the one watching your every move so he can't get close."
He turned to leave, but as he walked toward the cemetery gates, your phone buzzed in your pocket. Your heart plummeted. With shaking hands, you pulled it out.
From: Kento
He's much taller than Kento, isn't he? Do you think he'll look as good as Kento did in a Polaroid?
The cold night air bit deep, settling right into your bones with a cruel, aching persistence. You probably looked like a woman possessed, your head snapping left, then right, then over your shoulder until your neck felt strained. Every shadow cast by the skeletal trees seemed to move, stretching toward you like grasping fingers. You were convinced you were next in line. It was a logical progression, wasn’t it? First Kento, then the person who found what was left of him.
Working with a detective in the dead of night felt like walking into a trap, but you had nowhere else to turn. The killer was probably out there right now, lurking in the blind spots of the streetlamps, laughing his ass off while he watched you deliver yourself on a silver platter.
You didn’t know why you had agreed to meet him at midnight. It felt illicit, like a betrayal of the very justice you were seeking. Maybe it had been a mistake to withhold the Polaroid that night when the uniformed officers were swarming the scene, their radios crackling and their faces bored. But how could you have handed it over? To them, it would just be "Exhibit A," a piece of glossy paper to be tossed into a plastic bin. They would never understand that the photo was a personal mockery—a jagged, visual scream intended for your eyes only. You hadn't told a soul. Not the family, not the first responders. No one.
Shuddering, you sat down on the frigid concrete stairs of the precinct, the dampness of the stone seeping through your clothes. Your fingers shook so badly you could barely grip the pack of cigarettes in your bag. You lit one, the flame of the lighter dancing wildly in the wind, a tiny spark in the vast, oppressive dark. You had promised Kento you’d never smoke again, but Kento wasn’t here to nag you about the consequences. He wasn't here to gently take the pack away and replace it with a lecture on lung health.
As you exhaled a cloud of grey smoke, your eyes began to water. It wasn't the sting of the black tobacco, rather it was the crushing, suffocating realization that he was truly dead. There would be no more nagging. No more him. Just the cold, and the fear, and the silence.
"Better chew on a lollipop."
The cigarette was snatched from between your lips before you could even register the movement. In its place, the hard, sweet sphere of a strawberry-flavored candy was shoved into your mouth.
"I’m trying to quit, too," Gojo murmured, his towering figure casting a long, distorted shadow that seemed to swallow yours whole. He leaned against the stone railing, casually flicking your lit cigarette into the gutter where it hissed and died. "Don't make it harder for me."
He sat down on the step above you, his knees nearly brushing your shoulders. Even in the dark, he seemed to radiate a strange, restless energy that made the hair on your arms stand up. He had ditched the formal suit jacket from the funeral. He was in a black tactical turtleneck that made his white hair look like a fallen snow. Those dark glasses were pushed up into his hair, revealing eyes that were far too bright, and entirely too focused on you.
"You're twitching," he observed, his voice dropping into a low, smooth register that vibrated through the concrete steps. "Looking for someone?"
"The killer is still out there," you whispered, the candy clicking against your teeth. "He knows I have it. He knows I saw."
Gojo tilted his head, a slow, predatory movement. "And yet, you didn't give it to the boys in blue inside. Why is that? Afraid they’d lose it? Or afraid they’d see what I see?"
You gripped your bag until your knuckles turned white. "They wouldn't look at it the right way. They’d just see a body. They wouldn't see the... message."
"Smart girl," Gojo said, his expression hardening into something unreadable. He leaned down, his face inches from yours. The scent hit you again—lilies. It wasn't just a faint whiff; it was an overwhelming, cloying sweetness, the kind that fills a room where a casket has been open too long. It was the smell of the funeral, sticking to him like a second skin.
"The other cops don't know about this, do they? Just you. And now, me."
Slowly, you reached into your bag. Your hand was trembling so violently that the Polaroid fluttered like a dying bird as you pulled it out. Gojo took it from you, his fingers unnervingly cold where they brushed your skin.
He held the photo up to the dim, sickly yellow light of the streetlamp. He didn't flinch. He didn't show horror or disgust. Instead, he studied the grotesque mutilation of Kento’s body with a terrifying, clinical fascination.
"Look at the way the light hits the incisions," Gojo whispered, pointing a finger to a dark corner of the image. "It’s intentional. The killer wanted to create a specific silhouette. It’s almost... artistic. A masterpiece of grief."
He looked at you then, a faint, sharp smile playing on his lips—a smile that didn't reach his glacial eyes.
"You did the right thing bringing this only to me. If the department saw this, they’d have to follow protocol. They’d have to ask questions you aren't ready to answer." He slid the photo into his inner pocket, patting the fabric. "I'll keep it hidden. No one else will ever see what he did to him. I’ll make sure this stays our little secret."
He stood up and offered you a hand. His grip was firm, inescapable.
"The station is empty tonight. By the way, the hallway cameras are disabled for 'maintenance,' so you can cry without the fear they’ll capture your tears on the CCTV" he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "Come inside. I have the actual crime scene files in my office, the ones the public isn't allowed to see. Let's see if your little picture matches the rest of my collection."
The heavy iron doors of the precinct hissed shut behind you, sealing out the wind but trapping you in a silence that felt heavy, almost pressurized. The hallway was a long, sterile throat of flickering fluorescent lights and linoleum that squeaked under Gojo’s expensive shoes. He didn’t lead you toward the main desks or the bustling dispatch center. Instead, he steered you toward the "Special Investigations" wing, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back. It was a protective gesture, yet his palm felt unnaturally cold through your coat.
"My office is more... private," he murmured, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. "The detectives upstairs? They’re good at filing taxes and catching shoplifters. But they don't have the stomach for what you’re carrying."
When he opened the door to his office, the air hit you with a strange, confusing sweetness. It was thick with the scent of those lilies again, perhaps a stray bouquet left over from the precinct’s memorial for Kento, or maybe just the lingering ghost of the cemetery. He didn't turn on the overhead lights, choosing to only click on a small desk lamp that cast a warm, narrow amber glow.
"Sit," he urged, his voice softening as he guided you into a leather chair that swallowed you whole.
He didn't sit across from you. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the desk, towering over you, his silhouette cutting a sharp line through the amber light. He watched you chew on the lollipop for a moment, his eyes tracking the slight movement of your jaw with an intensity that made your skin prickle.
"So," he began, his voice light but his gaze heavy. "Let’s talk about the last time you saw him alive. The neighbors mentioned a bit of a... vocal disagreement. Care to elaborate?"
You swallowed hard, the strawberry flavor of the candy turning bitter. "The quarterly documents. I... I misplaced them. He was stressed. He was always stressed about work, but that night, it was different. He snapped."
"He snapped," Gojo repeated, his tone soft, almost sympathetic. He leaned forward, his face dipping into the light. "And what did he say? Did he look at you with that cold, salaryman stare? The one that makes you feel like an unfinished task?"
"He told me I was irresponsible," you whispered, your voice cracking.
"The official report says Kento was at that motel for a 'business stay.' But the motel was three blocks from your apartment," Gojo said, his voice losing its playful edge. It was cold now. Professional. "Men like Nanami don't pay for a room with thin walls and bedbugs unless they’re running from something. Or someone."
"He said he couldn't think straight with me around that night. He grabbed his keys... he said he was going to a motel just to get some peace. He always went there after we had a more.. aggressive fight. I knew the motel, it was close to my home, so I payed no mind to it."
Gojo’s pen paused, the tip hovering just above the paper as he hummed a low, discordant note. The strawberry candy in your mouth felt like a stone, making it hard to swallow, though you couldn’t tell if you were choking on the sugar or the thick, suffocating tension vibrating between the four walls of his office.
"I tried to text him the next morning," you continued, your voice trembling as you forced the words past the lump in your throat. "He didn't show up for work at his usual time, and for Kento... that was impossible. He’s never even been a minute late."
Gojo didn't look up, but his hand began to move again, the scratching of the pen sounding like claws on parchment.
"He answered immediately," you whispered, shivering despite the heat of the room. "The bubbles popped up the second I hit send. He told me he was feeling sick. That he was staying in bed at the motel to sleep it off."
"So," Gojo continued, his gaze dropping to your bag where your phone lay hidden. "Someone sat in that room with his body, watched his phone light up with your name, and decided to have a conversation with you. They played 'Kento' for eight hours just to keep you away from that motel room while they... finished their work."
He stood up, the movement fluid and predatory, and walked toward you until he was looming over your chair. He held out a hand, palm up.
"Give it to me," he commanded.
"My phone?"
"The texts. I want to see exactly how this person mimicked him. I want to see the specific words they used to keep you from checking on him."
He leaned down, his face inches from yours, the scent of those funeral lilies cloying and thick again.
"Because if they were texting you from his phone while you were waiting for an apology, it means they weren't just watching him. They’ve been watching you. They know how you fight. They know how to make you stay put."
His fingers brushed yours as he reached for the device, his touch a startling contrast of ice-cold skin and burning intensity.
"Let’s see how well this killer knows your relationship, [F/N]. Because from where I’m standing, it looks like they were invited into your life long before that night at the motel."
You didn’t hand it over immediately. Your fingers locked around the smooth casing of the phone inside your bag, a primal instinct screaming at you to keep the last "conversation" you had with Kento to yourself, even if it was a lie.
Gojo didn’t lose patience. He didn't pull away. Instead, he simply waited, his hand still outstretched, his crystalline eyes tracking the frantic pulse jumping in your throat.
"It’s not him," Gojo reminded you, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt like a caress and a blade all at once. "The person who sent those texts... they were probably touching his hair while they typed. Maybe they were using his own thumb to unlock the screen. Every second you hold onto that phone like it's a memento, you’re letting that person sit in your lap."
That did it. The bile rose in your throat, and you jerked the phone out, thrusting it into his palm as if it had suddenly turned red-hot.
Gojo took it, his thumb sliding across the glass. The light of the screen reflected in his glasses, dancing across those unnerving blue irises. He scrolled slowly, his expression shifting from clinical interest to a dark, amused twist of his lips.
"’I’m just feeling a bit under the weather today. I decided to stay at the motel a bit longer to rest. '" Gojo read the message aloud, mimicking Kento’s clipped, efficient tone with haunting accuracy. He clicked his tongue. "He even used the correct punctuation. No emojis. Proper capitalization. They weren't just guessing. They were studying him. They knew his syntax."
He started pacing the small office again, the phone looking like a toy in his large hand. He stopped at the window, looking out at the rain-slicked streets of the city.
"You said you fought about the documents. The quarterly reports. Tell me, did you find them before or after the 'sick' text?"
"After," you choked out, your hands twisting in your lap. "I found them tucked into the side of the recliner. I was so relieved... I texted him to tell him. I told him I’d bring them over with some soup to make him feel better."
"And what did 'Kento' say to that?"
"He told me... he told me to stay home and eat the soup myself. That he’d see me at the office the next day." You closed your eyes, the memory of that mundane, domestic rejection now feeling like a death sentence. "I felt so hurt. I thought he was still just punishing me for being messy."
Gojo turned around, his silhouette framed by the harsh, artificial light of the precinct hallway. He walked back to you and leaned against the desk, right in your personal space. He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw—a gesture that should have been comforting, but felt like a predator marking its territory.
"He didn't want you at that motel because he wasn't done yet," Gojo murmured. "The coroner's report... there were things done to him that take time. Precision. Whoever did this is a craftsman. They needed those eight hours of silence you gave them. They used your guilt as a padlock on that motel door."
He leaned down further, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose, revealing the full, electric intensity of his gaze.
"They know you, [F/N]. They knew exactly which buttons to push to make you retreat. They knew that if 'Kento' acted cold, you’d give him space. They killed him and they used your relationship as a weapon to buy themselves a head start."
He straightened up, sliding your phone into his pocket alongside the Polaroid.
"The station is a tomb tonight, but I can feel someone’s eyes on the back of my neck. We aren't staying here." He grabbed his coat, his movements sudden and sharp. "We're going to your apartment. If they’ve been watching you, they’ve been inside. I want to see what else they’ve 'misplaced' in your home."
Gojo’s car was a sleek, obsidian beast that looked far too expensive for a detective’s salary. It sat idling in the precinct’s restricted lot, a low hum vibrating through the asphalt. He didn't open the door for you. Instead, he watched with a detached, clinical curiosity as you climbed into the leather interior, which smelled of expensive tobacco and that same chilling, lingering scent of lilies.
As he pulled out of the lot, the city of Tokyo blurred into a streak of neon smear and rain-slicked concrete. Gojo drove with a reckless, terrifying sort of grace, one hand draped over the steering wheel while the other remained dangerously close to the phone he had confiscated from you.
"You’re shaking again," he noted, his voice cutting through the soft jazz playing on the radio. He didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on the road, yet you felt the weight of his attention like a physical pressure. "Is it the cold, or is it the realization that your 'safe' space isn't actually yours anymore?"
"I don't know," you whispered, pulling your coat tighter around your chest. The heater was blasting, but you couldn't stop the tremors. "I keep thinking about the documents. If I hadn't lost them... if I hadn't started that fight... he wouldn't have been at that motel. He’d have been on the couch. He’d be alive."
Gojo let out a sharp, dry laugh that lacked any warmth. "Guilt is such a boring emotion, [F/N]. It’s a waste of energy. The killer didn't wait for a fight; they waited for an opportunity. If it wasn't the motel, it would have been the grocery store, or the walk home from the station. They wanted him in a box, and they wanted you to be the one to close the lid."
He swerved around a slow-moving taxi, the tires chirping against the wet pavement.
"Think back," he commanded, his tone shifting back to that of an interrogator. "The week before he died. Did anything feel... off? A misplaced set of keys? A window you were sure you’d locked but found ajar? A scent in the hallway that didn't belong to either of you?"
You stared out the window, trying to piece together the fragments of a life that had felt so stable only days ago. "Kento complained about his dry cleaning," you said slowly. "He thought the shop had swapped his shirts because they smelled like a different detergent. He was... he was very particular about his scent. He hated floral smells. He said they were distracting."
Gojo’s grip on the wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. "Floral. Like lilies?"
The blood drained from your face. "Yes. Exactly like lilies."
"Interesting," he murmured, a dark spark igniting in his eyes. "So they weren't just watching. They were nesting. They were moving through your life, sampling the air, trying on his clothes, perhaps even watching you sleep while he was working late at the office."
The car turned onto your street, a quiet row of brownstones that now looked like a lineup of tombstones under the sickly orange glow of the streetlamps. Your apartment was on the third floor—the windows were dark, staring down at you like hollow eye sockets.
"Stay behind me," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum as he killed the engine. The silence that followed was deafening. He didn't reach for a service weapon; instead, he adjusted his glasses and stepped out into the rain, his tall frame cutting a jagged silhouette against the darkness.
As you followed him toward the entrance, the air felt thick, charged with the same ozone-scent you’d smelled at the precinct. He paused at the heavy oak door of your building, his hand hovering over the handle. He wasn't looking at the lock. He was looking at a tiny, almost invisible smear of damp earth on the brass—the same grey mud from the cemetery.
"He’s been here today," Gojo whispered, a jagged, terrifying smile spreading across his face. "He went to the funeral to watch you cry, and then he came here to wait for you to come home and do it again. He’s a romantic, isn't he?"
Your hands shook so violently the keys clattered against the lock, a frantic metallic weeping in the quiet hallway. As the door swung open, the intimacy of the moment hit you. A suffocating realization that the only man to cross this threshold besides family was Kento. Now, he was in the earth, and you were inviting a stranger into the vacuum he left behind.
You flicked the switch, bracing for a slaughterhouse. But the living room was a portrait of mocking normalcy. The air still carried the sugary, artificial notes of the vanilla perfume you’d applied hours ago. Everything sat exactly as you’d left it: the discarded book on the armchair, the half-empty water glass.
Then you saw the coffee table.
Resting with agonizing precision next to your whimsical strawberry lamp was Kento’s cheetah-print necktie. It was smoothed out, perfectly centered, as if prepared for a morning meeting. But the silk was stiff, matted with a dark, rusted crust of dried blood.
"He was here," you choked out, the vanilla scent suddenly turning cloying, like a shroud.
Gojo didn't offer comfort. He moved past you, his tall frame cutting through the pinkish glow of the lamp. He leaned over the tie, his nose inches from the blood.
"The mud outside was a distraction," Gojo murmured, his eyes tracking a path you hadn't seen. "He wanted you to look at the floor so you wouldn't notice the change in the air."
He straightened up, his blue eyes flashing with a predatory brilliance.
"Can't you smell it under the vanilla? It’s not just blood."
You stepped forward and inhaled. Beneath the sweetness was the heavy, suffocating scent of funeral lilies. The killer just left a souvenir and he had re-scented your home with the smell of the cemetery. How nice of him.
"He's been watching how you live," Gojo said, his voice dropping to a dangerous hum. He pointed toward your bedroom door, which stood slightly ajar. "The tie is a bridge. He’s inviting us to see what he did to the one place you thought was private."
The sight of the tie—the very one you had watched Kento dimple with practiced, steady fingers a thousand times—was the final thread to snap. The horrific contrast of his professional dignity lying matted with gore next to your silly strawberry lamp was too much.
The air felt like it was being sucked out of the room. Your knees buckled, the strength leaving your legs as if your bones had turned to water. You didn’t just cry; you broke. A jagged, strangled sob ripped from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated grief that seemed to echo off the walls of the apartment that was no longer a home, but a crime scene.
"I can't... I can't do this," you gasped, burying your face in your hands. The vanilla perfume, the lilies, the blood—it all swirled into a nauseating cocktail that made your head spin. "He was just here. He was supposed to come back and yell at me about the documents. He wasn't supposed to be... a message."
You felt a shadow fall over you, blocking out the light of the lamp. You expected Gojo to remain clinical, to keep his distance and analyze the salt content of your tears.
Instead, you felt the heavy, solid weight of his hands on your shoulders. He dropped down to his haunches, bringing himself level with you on the floor. With a firm but surprisingly gentle tug, he pulled you forward until your forehead rested against the soft, dark fabric of his turtleneck.
"Let it out," he murmured. His voice wasn't the sharp, teasing baritone from the car. it was low, grounding, and oddly rhythmic. "Breath, [F/N]. Just breathe. I’ve got the room. I’ve got the door. Nothing is touching you tonight."
He didn't hug you in a traditional sense, rather he held you like a shield. One of his large hands moved to the back of your head, his long fingers sifting through your hair, a gesture that was terrifyingly intimate for a man you’d known for less than a day.
"They want you to feel small," he whispered against the crown of your head, his eyes—those electric, crystalline blue eyes—fixed unblinkingly on the darkened hallway. "The person who left that tie wants you to curl up and disappear so they can finish the set. But I don't like it when people touch my things. And right now? You’re my only lead."
It was a cold comfort—typical of him—but the sheer, immovable strength of his body gave you something to tether yourself to. You clutched at his sleeves, your tears dampening the black fabric.
"He’s going to kill me, isn't he?" you sobbed into his chest. "what more does he want from me?! He took him away, and now he’s after me. He has to be, right, Gojo?"
Gojo’s hand stilled in your hair for a fraction of a second. He leaned back just enough to look you in the face, his dark glasses discarded on the floor. Up close, his eyes were almost blinding, glowing with a fierce, protective arrogance. "Say something, jerk. Dont look at me like im fucking crazy."
"You’re angry, [F/N]. It’s normal. Dont worry, he'd have to get through me first," Gojo said, his lips curling into a sharp, dangerous smile that promised violence rather than peace. "And I'm very, very difficult to get through. Now, wipe your face. We aren't sleeping in this tomb. You're packing a bag, and you're coming with me."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek, his touch surprisingly warm despite the icy aura he usually projected.
"Don't look at the tie again," he commanded softly. "Look at me. Only me. We’re leaving the ghosts behind for tonight."
The following nights were a hollow, sleepless void. How could you close your eyes? You were huddled in a bed in a sterile motel room—the same kind of liminal, cheap space where Kento had met his gruesome end. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a threat. Outside your door, in the adjoining room, the detective sat awake, the blue light of his laptop illuminating his sharp features as he deciphered the cryptic messages left by a man who wanted your blood on his hands.
Returning to the office after your brief bereavement leave felt like a chore, a heavy performance you weren't ready to give. Your boss had been kind, his voice hushed and eyes pitying when he granted you afew weeks off, but being back was worse. The building felt like a tomb. There were no jokes in the breakroom, no humming by the copier—only muted greetings and heavy, lingering condolences. You felt like a walking bruise, wondering if you were the one filling the halls with this suffocating grief.
Now, you sat on the edge of the company roof during your lunch break. The wind whipped at your hair, and a cigarette trembled between your fingers. You held your phone to your ear, the line crackling with Gojo’s voice as he yapped incessantly about security protocols. Your eyes were unfocused, trailing the tiny, ant-like people on the street below.
"I'm telling you, he’s almost certainly using Nanami’s keys," Gojo said, his tone authoritative yet strangely casual. "You need to change those locks today. Not tomorrow. Today. Who knows what that fucker did for the past weeks when you weren’t home."
The silence of the rooftop was a relief compared to the stifling pity of the office downstairs. You took a long drag of the cigarette, the smoke burning your throat—a welcome distraction from the phantom scent of lilies that still seemed to cling to your skin.
"Are you even listening to me, [F/N]?" Gojo’s voice sharpened through the speaker. "Or are you doing that thing where you stare into the middle distance and pretend the world isn't trying to eat you alive?"
"I'm listening," you lied, your voice sounding thin and brittle even to your own ears.
"No, you aren't. If you were, you’d be panicking about the fact that your front door is basically an open invitation right now," he sighed, and you could practically hear him leaning back in his chair, feet likely propped up on a desk covered in crime scene photos. "Remember, the killer didn't just take his life. He took his pockets. His wallet, his phone, and his keys. He’s playing house with you, [F/N]."
You watched a black car pull up to the curb five stories down. For a second, you wondered if he was in there. Watching.
"I changed the locks once already, Gojo," you whispered, ash falling onto your lap. "It didn't stop him from leaving the tie."
"Because he didn't use the door that time, sweetheart," Gojo replied, his tone dropping into that low, predatory hum that always made your heart skip. "He wants you to think he’s a ghost, but he’s just a man. A man with a very specific, very ugly obsession. I’ve been looking at the quarterly documents you found. There’s something coded in the margins; dates, times, locations. All places you’ve been."
You froze, the cigarette halfway to your lips. "What?"
"He wasn't just tracking Nanami. He was using Nanami’s work to track you," Gojo said. You heard the flick of a lighter on his end. "Get off the roof. Go back inside where there are people and cameras. I’m picking you up at five. And for heaven's sake, put out the cigarette."
He hung up before you could protest, leaving you with nothing but the hum of the city and the terrifying realization that your grief wasn't just a consequence—it was the killer's intended destination.
You stared at the dead screen of your phone, the wind on the rooftop suddenly feeling less like a breeze and more like a cold hand on your neck. Places I've been, he had said. If the killer had been tracking your locations through Nanami’s work, why hadn't Gojo mentioned it at the precinct? Why wait until you were alone on a roof to tell you that your every move was a documented map?
You crushed the cigarette butt under your heel and headed for the stairwell. As you descended back into the muffled silence of the office, you couldn't shake the way Gojo had said "Get off the roof." He hadn't sounded worried. He had sounded impatient. Like a director waiting for his lead actress to get back on her mark.
The black car was idling at the curb exactly as the clock struck five. Gojo didn't get out. He simply leaned over and pushed the door open from the inside.
"You're three minutes late," he said as you slid into the leather seat. He wasn't wearing his glasses now. His eyes were startlingly clear, his gaze sweeping over you with a terrifying, clinical hunger. "I almost thought you’d decided to go for a stroll. That would have been... unwise."
"The elevator was under maintanance," you murmured, reaching for your seatbelt. „had to take the stairs,” Your hand brushed his as you reached for the buckle, but you didnt move. It felt nice to feel another hand. You missed human connection.
"You look like you're waiting for a death sentence, [F/N]," he said softly, his eyes fixed on the road. "Relax. Your shoulders are up to your ears."
"It's been a long day," you whispered, clutching your bag. "And being back at the office... everyone looks at me like I’m already a ghost."
Gojo reached out, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel. "People are tedious. They mourn because it makes them feel alive, not because they care about the dead. But we’ve been at this for nearly a month now, haven't we? Through the precinct, the motel, the funeral..."
He paused, casting a brief, sidelong glance at you. Without his glasses, his blue eyes seemed to occupy more space than they should.
"It feels a bit stiff, don't you think? Calling me 'Detective' or 'Gojo' while we’re middle-of-the-night confidants. Call me Satoru. I think I’d like to hear you say it."
The sudden drop in formality felt like a trap. "I... I don't know if that's professional."
"Professionalism died with Kento," he said, his voice dropping to that low, honeyed register. "And in exchange, may I use yours? Just '[Y/N]'? It makes the darkness feel a little less crowded."
You nodded slowly, unable to find the words to refuse. "Okay... Satoru."
A small, satisfied smile played on his lips. "Perfect. See? You’re already breathing easier.”
The ride with Goj… Satoru was surprisingly relaxing, the calm before the eventual storm. Returning to work meant facing colleagues with a grieving heart, but the true sting awaited at his desk. You expected to see his cubicle dark and empty; instead, those jerks had already replaced him. To them, he was merely a headcount. Easily swapped, quickly forgotten.
The guilt gnawed at you. If only you hadn't fought with him that night, maybe he’d still be occupying that space. Maybe you wouldn't be paralyzed by fear in your own bed, longing for his warmth instead of the memory of his cold, mutilated body in that Polaroid. That image was a ghost that refused to leave.
Lost in the suffocating spiral of those thoughts, your hand drifted to your mouth, and you began nervously chewing your nails. You didn’t even realize you were doing it until a large, warm hand enveloped yours, gently firm as it pulled your fingers away from your lips.
You looked up, startled. Satoru was smiling, but it wasn't his usual boisterous grin; it was softer, meant to ground you. As the car drifted to a halt at a red light, he shifted in his seat to face you fully, his thumb tracing a small, comforting arc over your knuckles.
"I have some good news," Satoru said, though his voice carried a strange, heavy undertone you hadn't heard before. "We found a lead," he continued, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial hum. "Geto Suguru, twenty-seven years old. Word from the precinct is that they spotted him on one of the CCTVs near the docks on the night of the murder. They even found a few strands of his hair at the motel crime scene."
Satoru tapped the screen of his phone, zooming in on a blurry figure with long, dark hair. "He’s a former associate. A real piece of work. The kind of guy who thinks he’s an artist when he’s really just a butcher."
You stared at the image, your breath hitching. It felt too easy. After weeks of dead ends, a name and a face had just... appeared?
"Wait," you whispered, squinting at the screen. "If they found hair at the scene, why did it take a month for the lab to report it? You said the first responders didn't find anything."
Satoru just leaned back, his long fingers drumming a rhythmic, hypnotic beat against the leather steering wheel. "The police department is a circus, [Y/N]. They lose files, they contaminate samples... I had to do a little 'private' digging to get the lab to prioritize the right evidence."
He reached over, his hand lingering just a second too long on your knee as he took his phone back.
"Don't worry about the logistics," he murmured, the light turning green. "Just know that we’re closing in. He’s the one who’s been following you. He’s the one who left the tie. And now that I have a name, I can make sure he never touches you again."
"Good news?" you repeated, your voice trembling, but this time with rage instead of fear. "You think a name is good news?"
Satoru’s smile faltered, his head tilting in confusion. "I mean, we're closing the case, [Y/N]. This is what we wanted, right?"
"What we wanted?" You turned in your seat, ignoring the seatbelt cutting into your shoulder. "Kento is in a box in the ground, Satoru! He’s gone! There is no 'good news' in a world where he was butchered like an animal! You’re talking about CCTV footage and hair samples like we’re playing a game of Clue!"
You slammed your hand against the dashboard, the sound echoing in the confined space.
"Don't you get it? Every time you 'detective' your way through this, you’re acting like his death is just a puzzle for you to solve! You didn't see him! You didn't feel his skin when it was cold! You just want to catch a 'butcher' so you can feel like a hero!"
Satoru flinched at your outburst. But he didn't even look angry. He just watched you with a terrifying, calm detachment, his blue eyes tracking the way your pupils shake and analyzing the rage on your face.
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, icy register that made your blood run cold. "I’m the only reason you aren't sitting in a precinct being interrogated by idiots who think you did it because of that fight. I’m the one keeping the ghosts away."
"Then maybe you should stop!" you hissed, your chest heaving. "Maybe I'd rather deal with the ghosts than with you treating my life like a goddamn hobby!"
The light turned green. Satoru didn't move. The cars behind you began to honk, a cacophony of noise that felt like it was inside your skull. He reached out, his hand moving slow and deliberate, and gripped your chin. He forced you to look at him, his fingers cold—so cold—against your skin.
"Be careful, [Y/N]," he whispered, the scent of lilies suddenly thick and suffocating in the car. "Anger makes people careless. And when you’re careless, you start looking for monsters in the wrong places. Now, sit back. We’re going to dinner— matter of fact, i know you’ve been neglecting yourself, and you’re going to act like the grateful woman I’ve spent a month keeping alive."
At that, you were practically fuming. The air in the car felt thick, like it had been replaced by his ego and that sickeningly sweet smell of death. You slapped his hand off your face with a sharp crack (more force than you’d ever used in your life) and the sting on your palm only fueled your fire.
"I’m done," you hissed.
Before he could react, you unbuckled your seatbelt in one frantic motion and shoved the door open.
"I’ll go home by bus, I’ll eat dinner by myself, and you can go fuck yourself, Satoru!"
You scrambled out, your heels hitting the pavement with a jarring thud. Horns immediately erupted behind you, a chorus of impatient swears for the black car to move. You didn’t look back. You slammed the door shut and bolted for the sidewalk, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
The cold evening air hit your face, and for the first time in weeks, it felt clean. No lilies. No vanilla. Just the grit and exhaust of the city. You shoved your way through a crowd of commuters, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall in front of him again.
Behind you, Satoru didn't move the car. He sat perfectly still despite the symphony of honking vehicles. Through the tinted rear window, he watched your retreating figure. He didn't look angry, he looked amused.
He reached into the passenger seat and picked up the silk handkerchief you left at home. The one that smelled of the cemetery and your sweet vanilla perfume. He pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief, ecstatic second.
"Spicy," he whispered to the empty cabin. "I like it when they fight back. It makes the breaking part so much more rewarding."
The following week was a dull, agonizing crawl. Work, home, grocery store, home. That was your entire world for seven days. Satoru hadn't called, and you weren't about to be the one to break the silence. Your pride was too fragile, and even though a small, nagging part of you felt guilty for snapping at him (after all, he was the only one who seemed to care about finding Kento’s killer) you remained stubborn. You were determined to reclaim some semblance of the "comfortable" life you once had, even if that life now felt like a poorly fitting costume.
Saturday night arrived, and you decided to treat yourself. You were still in your work clothes; a charcoal pencil skirt and a pair of black tights that featured a jagged run down the left calf. You’d meant to replace them, but the unplanned nights at the motel had drained your savings, forcing you to stretch every yen until the next paycheck.
The sizzle of a fifty-percent-off steak filled your small kitchen, a lonely sound in the quiet apartment. You leaned against the counter, swirling a glass of grocery-store wine. As you sipped the cheap, acidic liquid, you caught your reflection in the window. Your eyes had lost their spark, a light that felt buried deep in the damp earth alongside Kento and the comfortable, predictable life you once knew.
By the time the steak was half-eaten, the bottle of wine was more than half-gone. The warmth of the alcohol began to blur the sharp edges of your grief, replacing your caution with a dangerous, lightheaded bravado.
Then, the phone on the counter buzzed.
Satoru.
You stared at his name for three long rings before sliding the bar to answer. You didn't say hello.
"You took your sweet time," you drawled, your voice sounding silkier and slower than usual. You took another gulp of wine, leaning back until your head hit the cool wall. "I thought you’d finally realized I’m a lost cause and went to find a prettier victim to 'protect.'"
There was a pause on the other end, then a low, vibrating chuckle that sent a localized shiver straight down your spine.
"Victim? Is that what we’re calling you now, [Y/N]?" Satoru’s voice was like velvet over gravel. "I prefer the term 'person of interest.' And for the record, I’ve looked—there isn't anyone prettier."
You giggled, a loose, airy sound. "Liar. You just miss having someone to boss around. You miss telling me to put out my cigarettes and change my locks." You swirled the wine, watching the dark liquid stain the glass. "Admit it, Satoru. You’re bored without me."
The line crackled with a sudden, heavy stillness. On the other end, Satoru’s breathing hitched—a tiny, almost imperceptible break in his usual composure. He was used to being the one in control, the one tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. Your sudden, wine-soaked boldness seemed to have knocked him off his axis.
"You’re drunk, [Y/N]," he finally realised, his voice unusually strained. "You’re talking nonsense. You should probably put the glass down and go to bed."
"Don't be a bore, Satoru," you giggled, sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the cold linoleum floor. "You're always so... intense. Kento wasn't like that. Kento was... safe."
You took another sip, the wine tasting like iron and cheap grapes. "Did you know we had a schedule? Every Tuesday was pasta. Every Friday was a movie he’d already seen. He’d fall asleep ten minutes in, and I’d just... sit there. Listening to him breathe."
"He cared about you," Satoru said, his voice tight.
"I know he did," you whispered, leaning your head against the kitchen cabinet. "And I stayed because it was comfortable. It was like a warm blanket that was just a little too short, you know? My toes were always cold, but the rest of me was fine. It was boring, Satoru. God, it was so boring. But it didn't hurt. Not like this."
The silence on the other end of the line stretched thin, humming with a tension that the cheap wine couldn't quite dull. You could almost hear the gears turning in Satoru’s head, that clinical, detective side of him warring with the dark spark that ignited every time you challenged him.
"Safety is overrated when it's built on a lie," Satoru finally said, his voice dropping an octave. There was no teasing left in it, only a jagged, cold edge. "But since you’re so fond of the truth tonight, here’s a piece of it: Geto Suguru is a ghost. I’ve spent the last week tearing through every database from here to Kyoto, and it’s a dead end. His files are scrubbed. Not just deleted—scrubbed."
You blinked, the kitchen light suddenly feeling too bright, too clinical. "What do you mean? You saw him on the CCTV. You found his hair..."
"I mean someone went through the system with a blowtorch and left nothing but ash," he interrupted, and you heard the distinct sound of a lighter flicking open, then a sharp, impatient exhale. "I can't track a man who doesn't officially exist. There are no recent bank statements, no medical records, nothing for over a year. He’s gone off the grid completely."
You leaned your head back against the cabinet, the wood hard against your skull. The wine made your thoughts feel like they were swimming through honey. "So... he's a ghost? That's why he can get into my apartment? That's why he could kill Kento without anyone seeing him?"
"He’s a ghost who knows how to haunt," Satoru replied. You could hear him shifting, the sound of fabric rustling. "If I can’t find him in the files, it’s because he’s already inside the perimeter. He’s not a lead anymore, [Y/N]. He’s an apex predator who has successfully erased his own trail."
"Is that why you didn't call?" you whispered, a sudden, sharp spike of vulnerability piercing through your liquid courage. "Because you were afraid you couldn't catch him?"
"I didn't call because I was busy trying to find a reason to keep my distance," he admitted, his voice barely a breath against the receiver. "But you just told me you're tired of being comfortable. And since Geto has effectively vanished from the face of the earth, there’s no one left to pretend this is a standard investigation."
The floor felt colder beneath you. You looked at the shadow of your own hand on the linoleum, trembling just slightly. You didn't know that Geto’s files were scrubbed because Satoru had scrubbed them himself. You didn't know the reason there were no records for the past year was because Geto was rotting in a shallow, unmarked grave Satoru had dug with his own two hands.
"You’re sitting on the floor, aren't you?" Satoru’s voice had shifted. The clinical distance of a detective was gone, replaced by something dark, thick, and demanding.
"Maybe," you whispered, the wine-warmth humming in your ears. "It’s cold. I like the cold. It reminds me I’m still awake."
"Stay there," he commanded. It wasn't a suggestion. "I’m ten minutes away. If you’re going to unravel, [Y/N], you aren't going to do it alone."
The click of the line was the only warning you had. True to his word, ten minutes later, the heavy thud of the knocker vibrated through the wood of your front door. You scrambled to your feet, your charcoal skirt twisting around your hips, the run in your tights feeling like a jagged scar against your skin. When you pulled the door open, Satoru was leaning against the frame, his white hair wind-riffled. He held a bottle, something far more expensive than the acidic swill sitting on your counter.
"You look like a disaster," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form with a look that was decidedly not professional.
"And you look like you’re about to tell me more bad news," you retorted, stepping back to let him in. "I see you didn’t come empty handed?"
"It’s an apology for the silence," he said, moving past you into the small kitchen. He didn't ask where the glasses were, he simply found them. He poured two deep, violet-red glasses of a heavy Bordeaux, the scent of oak and dark fruit immediately masking the smell of your burnt steak.
He sat on the small kitchen stool, his long legs taking up nearly all the space in the cramped room. You sat opposite him, the proximity making the air feel thick. As you drank, the conversation about Geto became a background hum. Satoru talked about "erased fingerprints" and "shadow networks," but your focus was on the way his throat moved when he swallowed, and the way his large, elegant hands toyed with the stem of his glass.
The "bravado" from earlier returned, amplified by the superior vintage. "You never answered me, Satoru," you said, your voice leaning into that silky, slow drawl. "About the 'prettier victim.' Is that why you're here? To make sure your favorite specimen hasn't completely spoiled?"
Satoru set his glass down with a controlled deliberate click. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing his face inches from yours. The scent of him, cold air and something expensive, overwhelmed the wine.
"I told you," he whispered, his voice vibrating in your chest. "There isn't anyone else. There never was. You think this is an investigation? You think I’ve been spending my nights in the archives for the sake of the precinct?"
He reached out, his thumb catching the edge of your jaw, tilting your face up. The touch was electric, a sharp contrast to the dull ache of the past week. "I’ve been trying to find a version of this story where I don't want to ruin you myself.” Liar. "But you make it so difficult when you talk about how 'safe' Kento was. How 'boring' it was to be loved by a man who didn't understand the fire in you."
"And you do?" you challenged, your breath hitching. "You understand it?"
"I started the fire, [Y/N]," he murmured.
He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled you from the chair, his hands sliding down to your waist, dragging you against the hard, unyielding line of his body. The kiss was anything but gentle, it was an invasion, tasting of dark. It was the "intense" reality you had claimed to want, a world away from the "comfortable" Tuesday pasta nights.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the soft white hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if you could merge your skin with his. He groaned low in his throat, as he hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, scattering the remains of your lonely dinner.
His hands, those large, capable hands that had "scrubbed" the evidence of a dead man, were now tearing at the run in your tights, widening the hole until he could feel the heat of your skin against his palms.
"Kento never touched you like this, did he?" he rasped against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "He never made you forget your own name."
"I don't want to remember it," you gasped, arching your back as his mouth moved lower, marking you in the amber light of the kitchen. "Just... don't let me be safe, Satoru. Not tonight."
"I’m never letting you be safe again," he promised, his voice dark and final.
As he pushed you back against the cold cabinets, his body a heavy, scorching weight over yours, the last of the "comfort" you had clung to dissolved. You were no longer a victim or a person of interest. You were his. And as he moved within you, fierce and relentless, you didn't see the dark triumph in his eyes, the look of a man who had finally closed the cage and watched his prize walk right into the center of it.
The notification banner at the top of your screen felt like a physical blow.
From: Kento
I miss you. Did you forget about me?
Your hands trembled so violently that the phone nearly slipped from your grip, clattering against the cold tile of the bathroom floor. He was still after you. After weeks of silence—weeks where you had almost convinced yourself that the nightmare was fading into the background of your mundane life—he was back. He was still playing with him, using a dead man’s ghost to pull the strings of your heart.
Huddled in a cramped toilet stall in the company building, you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, ripping a few open in a desperate attempt to get air into your lungs. The walls felt like they were shrinking, the sterile scent of bleach suddenly smelling like the iron tang of blood and the cloying sweetness of lilies.
You were hyperventilating, the ragged, shallow gasps echoing off the metal partitions. The last time your chest had felt this tight, this constricted, was the night you had finally broken down and invited Satoru over for takeout. Money had been tight, and the thought of splitting a bill and sharing a meal with a warm, living body in your silent apartment had seemed like the only way to survive the evening. But a simple, unexpected knock at the front door had unlocked the cellar of your fears, sending you into a spiraling panic.
You remembered the way Satoru’s hands had felt that night. Not cold and clinical like a detective's, but heavy and grounding. When the knock had sounded, you had collapsed against the kitchen counter, your vision blurring into static.
Satoru hadn't panicked. He hadn't even looked at the door. He had stepped into your space, his large frame shielding you from the rest of the world. He didn't pull you into a hug; instead, he took your wrists and pressed your palms flat against his chest, right over his heart.
"Listen to me, [Y/N]," he had whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to bypass your ears and go straight to your bones. "The door is locked. I am the lock. You don't need to breathe for the whole room, okay? Just breathe for me. Match me."
He had forced you to look into those eyes—those impossible, infinite blue eyes that seemed to pull the chaos out of your head and drown it in an ocean of calm. He didn't let go until your heart rate slowed to match the steady, powerful thrum under his ribs. He had taught you the "5-4-3-2-1" method, grounding your senses until the apartment stopped spinning.
In the stall, you tried to find that anchor again. You pressed your back against the cold metal wall, trying to conjure the memory of his heartbeat.
Five things you can see, you whispered to yourself, your voice a fractured wreck. The grey floor. The silver latch. The shadow of my shoes...
Your phone buzzed again in your lap. Another message.
From: Kento
You look so pretty today. I love that blouse on you. Blue. My favourite color.
The air left your lungs again. He was here. He was in the building. He was watching you. Your fingers flew over the screen, bypassing your recent calls and heading straight for the one name that made the world feel solid.
You didn't care about your pride anymore. You didn't care about the wine-soaked confession from a few nights ago or the fact that he was "scary." You needed the lock. You needed Satoru.
The phone rang once. Twice.
"Satoru," you choked out the moment he picked up, your voice breaking. "He's here. Satoru, he's in the building. He's using Kento's phone."
"I know," Satoru’s voice came through the line, eerily calm, accompanied by the muffled sound of footsteps on carpet. "I'm already in the lobby, sweetheart. Stay in the stall. Lock the door. I’m coming up to finish this."
The minutes that followed were a grueling test of your sanity. You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, your fingers dug into your thighs so hard you could feel your nails piercing the fabric of your skirt. Every distant flush of a toilet or the hum of the ventilation system sounded like a footstep, a breath, a blade. You tried to focus on the grounding technique Satoru had taught you, but the memory of his heartbeat felt worlds away from the cold, sterile reality of the office bathroom.
Then, the heavy door to the restroom creaked open.
Your felt your heart skip a beat. You pulled your feet up onto the seat, huddling into a ball, eyes fixed on the gap at the bottom of the stall. You waited for the black shoes of a stranger, for the scent of lilies to drift under the door.
"[Y/N]? It’s me," Satoru’s voice called out. It wasn't the playful, melodic tone he used when he was teasing you. It was low, resonant, and carried a sharp edge of authority that sliced through the silence.
The tension in your body snapped like a violin string. Relief, violent and overwhelming, flooded your chest. You unbolted the latch with trembling fingers and threw the stall door open. You didn't walk—you collided with him, crashing face-first into his chest before he could even reach out for you.
Only then did the dam break. A jagged, broken sob escaped your throat as you clawed at the expensive fabric of his suit, your face buried in his shirt. You were shaking so hard your teeth chattered, your tears hot and frantic as they soaked into his chest.
"Shhh, I’ve got you," he whispered. His hands came up, one resting firmly on the small of your back while the other cupped the back of your head, pressing you closer. "You’re okay. I’m here."
As he shifted to hold you more securely, your hands slid down his torso, and your knuckles brushed against something cold and heavy holstered at his hip. You pulled back just an inch, your blurry eyes catching the dull, metallic glint of a small revolver. The sight of the weapon was a jarring reminder of the violence that followed him, but in your state, it felt like a promise of safety.
Satoru’s gaze dropped, sweeping over your disheveled appearance. In your panic, you had left several buttons of your blouse undone, and the thin fabric was pulled wide, revealing the lace of your bra and the frantic rise and fall of your chest.
His jaw tightened, a flash of something dark and unreadable flickering in his blue eyes. Without a word, he reached up and unbuttoned his own charcoal blazer. He shrugged it off and draped it over your shoulders. It was heavy and still held the warmth of his body, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the faint, ozonic scent of police station he’s been previously. It swallowed you whole, the hem reaching mid-thigh, effectively shielding you from the world.
"Button up, sweets," he murmured, his fingers lingering on the lapel of the jacket near your neck. "You’re shivering."
"He was... he was right there, Satoru," you choked out, clutching the oversized blazer around you. "The messages... he saw me. He saw what I was wearing."
Satoru’s expression went stone-cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone, his thumb sliding across the screen with clinical precision.
"I know. I've already alerted the security team to lock down the floor," he said, though his eyes never left your face. He stepped closer, his shadow looming over you, tall and indestructible. "He’s not getting out of this building. And he’s certainly never getting this close to you again. I made a mistake letting you out of my sight for a week. I won't make it again."
He reached out, his thumb catching a stray tear on your cheek. His touch was lingering, almost possessive. "From now on, you stay where I can see you. Understood?"
The following night, precisely at midnight, you found yourself back in the sterile, air-conditioned silence of his private investigation wing. The office was swallowed in darkness, save for the solitary, amber glow of a desk lamp that carved Satoru’s silhouette out of the shadows.
To keep your hands from shaking, you were mindlessly chewing on some expensive butter cookies he’d claimed he bought specifically for you. But even the sweetness felt like ash in your mouth. What dominated the room now was the massive corkboard that had appeared since your last visit. It was a chaotic, spider-webbed mess of red string, grainy surveillance photos, and typed police reports.
In the center of the web sat a photograph of the infamous Geto Suguru.
Seeing the face of the man who had supposedly butchered Kento made your stomach turn. His long, dark hair and the cold, narrowed slant of his purple eyes made you gag. If you could, you would have reached into the photo and gouged those eyes out with your bare fingers. You hated him with a visceral, jagged intensity—never knowing that the man you despised was just another victim, discarded and buried by the true architect of this nightmare.
"I’m sorry for the late hour," Satoru said, his voice smooth and low, vibrating through the quiet room. He stood by the window, his back to the light, making him look like a towering wall of shadow. "But things are moving faster than I anticipated. I didn't want you sitting at home alone when I found... this."
He stepped toward the desk, his long fingers sliding a weathered, leather-bound notebook across the polished wood toward you.
"I went back to the location his car was found," he lied, his tone dropping into a grave, professional cadence. "The crime scene technicians missed it. It was thrown in some bush a few feet away from the parking spot. It’s Geto’s diary. Or at least, his manifest of obsession."
You reached for the book, your fingers trembling. As you pulled it closer, you noticed a stack of police reports pinned to the corkboard beside the diary. You leaned in, your brow furrowing as you scanned the dates stamped in red ink.
March 2024. June 2024. August 2024.
"Satoru," you whispered, your heart beginning to drum a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "These reports... all of them. They’re from a year ago. Some even eighteen months back. Why is there nothing recent? Why does the trail stop so long ago if he only just killed Kento?"
Satoru didn't miss a beat. He stepped into the light, his expression a perfect mask of grim concern. He leaned over the desk, his face inches from yours, his blue eyes reflecting the amber lamp light like molten glass.
"That’s what makes him so dangerous, [Y/N]," he murmured, his voice thick with a fake, heavy solemnity. "He went underground to prepare for you. He spent over a year scrubbing his life, living in the walls, becoming a ghost so that when he finally struck, there would be no paper trail left to follow. He wasn't idle for those eighteen months. He was practicing."
He tapped the leather cover of the diary.
"Read it. He talks about 'waiting for the fruit to ripen.' He was waiting for you to get bored of Kento. He was waiting for the perfect moment to step out of the shadows and claim what he thinks is his."
You opened the first page, the ink looking fresh despite the "age" of the book. The handwriting was elegant, precise, and utterly terrifying.
"She wore the blue dress again today," the first entry read. "The one that makes her look like she’s already drowning. Kento touched her arm at the bus stop. I’ll have to take that arm first."
The cookie you had been chewing felt like a lead weight in your throat. You looked up at Satoru, the "hero" who had found the evidence the police were too blind to see, unaware that the ink on those pages was barely dry.
The paper felt cold beneath your fingertips, but the words burned. You read the entry again, your stomach twisting into a hard, sick knot.
"I found a strand of her hair on the bus seat. It’s thinner than I expected. I keep it in my mouth sometimes, just to feel her against my tongue..."
A bile-flavored heat rose in your throat. You instinctively reached up, touching the ends of your hair as if you could feel his phantom touch lingering there. The thought of a man—of Geto—sitting where you sat, tasting a part of you, made the air in the office feel thin and tainted.
You slammed the diary shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room. You couldn't do it. Your hands were shaking so violently that the leather felt like it was vibrating with the same sickness that filled the pages. You pushed the book away, your chair screeching against the floor as you tried to create distance between yourself and that ink.
"I can’t... I can't read anymore," you choked out, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. "It’s too much, Satoru. It’s not just stalking, it’s... it’s a desecration."
But Satoru didn't let the silence settle. His hand, large and steady, reached past you and reclaimed the book. He didn't put it away. Instead, he flipped it open to a later page, his eyes scanning the lines with a terrifying, clinical focus.
"You need to understand the depth of it, [Y/N]," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly tone that made the hair on your arms stand up. "You need to see exactly why Kento never stood a chance."
He began to read, his voice steady, almost melodic, as he recited the words he had drafted in the dark.
"He is a shackle. A heavy, iron weight around her neck that she calls 'love.' Every time he touches her, he leaves a mark of mediocrity on her skin..."
"Stop it," you whispered, but Satoru stepped closer, his presence looming over you, the amber light casting long, distorted shadows of him against the wall of evidence.
"I need to cut the chain," he continued, ignoring your plea. He was reading with a strange kind of intensity, as if he were savoring the weight of the syllables. "I need to see her scream so that, for once, she feels something more intense than 'comfortable.' Red is a much better color for her than grey."
The room felt like it was spinning. The word comfortable hit you like a physical blow. It was the exact word you had used to describe your life with Kento just nights ago, while you were slumped on your kitchen floor, drunk and vulnerable.
"He knew," you whispered, your voice trembling. "He knew I was bored. He knew I felt trapped. How could a monster understand me better than the man I shared a bed with for almost a year?"
Satoru closed the diary slowly, the "thud" of the cover sounding final. He looked down at you, his blue eyes unreadable behind the glow of the lamp. He didn't look horrified for you; he looked like a man who had finally proven a point.
"Geto wasn't always a monster, [Y/N]," Satoru said, his voice dropping into a low, conversational tone that felt dangerously intimate. "Before he went off the rails, he was a detective. A good one. He had this... obsession with 'wrongdoers.' He wanted to purge the city of anyone he deemed a 'monkey'—the people who made the world stagnant, boring, and corrupt."
He stepped closer, closing the distance until the tips of his shoes brushed yours.
"The problem was, Geto started seeing everyone as a wrongdoer. He became a threat to the very society he was supposed to protect. He was judge, jury, and executioner." Satoru leaned down, his voice falling to a conspiratorial whisper. "And he was obsessed with you because he saw how Kento was stifling you. He thought killing Kento was an act of justice. A 'cleansing.'"
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Is that why you couldn't find his files? Because he was a detective? Because he knew how to hide?"
"Exactly," Satoru lied, his face a mask of perfect, tragic sincerity. "He knew the system because he helped build it."
The weekend before everything shattered—long before the drunk confession and the suffocating glow of the evidence room—you found yourself sitting in a quiet office on the edge of the city. It was a space of muted tones and soft shadows, smelling faintly of medicinal herbs and the ghost of expensive tobacco.
You hadn’t chosen to be here. Satoru had practically choreographed the appointment, handing you a card with a name embossed in silver: Dr. Shoko Ieiri.
"You’re fraying at the edges, sweets," he had whispered that morning, his thumb tracing the dark circles under your eyes with a tenderness that felt like a bruise. "I can’t be the only one holding you together. Talk to Shoko. She’s... an old friend. She knows how to handle people like us."
Now, sitting across from her, you realized "people like us" meant the broken and the haunted. Shoko was beautiful in a way that felt exhausted, her eyes heavy with the weight of a thousand secrets she’d been paid to keep. She didn't look at you with Satoru’s manic intensity, rather she looked at you with a clinical, bone-deep weariness.
"Satoru said you were having trouble," Shoko began, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. She didn't have a notepad out. She just watched you. "He’s been very... vocal about your well-being lately."
"I feel like I'm losing him," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And the worst part is, I’m letting it happen. Every day Kento feels further away, like a photograph left in the sun until the faces are just white blurs."
Shoko tilted her head, her gaze tracking the way your fingers restlessly picked at the hem of Satoru’s oversized hoodie, the one you had started wearing like a second skin. "Loss isn't a single event, [Y/N]. It’s a series of disappearances. What are you letting go of today?"
"The guilt," you admitted, the word tasting like copper. "I’m growing closer to Satoru. He’s been my shadow since the funeral. He handles the bills, he handles the police, he even handles the way I breathe. But when I’m with him—when he makes me laugh or when I feel that spark of something that isn't grief—I feel like I’m cheating. I feel like every step toward Satoru is a shovel of dirt on Kento’s grave."
You looked up at her, your eyes burning. "I loved Kento. He was my home. But Satoru is... he’s a sun. It’s hard not to look at him. And then I hate myself for looking."
Shoko reached for a silver case on her desk, clicking it open but not taking a cigarette. She just stared at the contents. "Satoru has a way of becoming the only thing in a person's peripheral vision. He’s been like that since we were students. He doesn't just enter a life, he occupies it until there’s no room left for anything else."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a warning. "Grief makes us grab for the nearest hand in the dark. Sometimes, we don't realize that hand is the one that turned the lights off in the first place."
The comment felt strange, a jagged edge in a smooth conversation. "He’s the only one who cares about the case," you defended. "The police have basically given up. Satoru is the only one who sees Geto for what he is."
A flicker of something (pity, perhaps) crossed Shoko’s face at the mention of the name Geto. She looked like she wanted to scream, but instead, she reached for her prescription pad. The pen scratched against the paper with a rhythmic, decisive sound.
"You aren't 'cheating' on a dead man by trying to survive the day," Shoko said firmly. "But your brain is stuck in a loop of trauma and hyper-vigilance. Satoru told me you aren't sleeping. He told me you're starting to imagine things."
"I'm not imagining the stalker," you snapped, a defensive heat rising in your chest.
"I didn't say you were," Shoko replied calmly, sliding the slip of paper toward you. "These are antidepressants. Specifically, they help with the obsessive loops of grief and the paranoia that comes with prolonged trauma. They’ll help lower the volume of the noise in your head."
She paused, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that felt like a final plea.
"Take these. They won't make you forget Kento, but they might help the fog lift enough so you can see Satoru for what he actually is, rather than just a liferaft."
"And what is he?" you asked, clutching the prescription.
Shoko stood up, the session over. "He’s a man who hates to lose. Especially when it comes to things he thinks belong to him. Be careful, [Y/N]. Clarity can be a very dangerous thing when you’re living in a house built on lies."
As you walked out, the prescription felt heavy in your pocket. You felt relieved that Satoru had sent you here, convinced that his "concern" was the only thing keeping you alive.
The next day, you were beyond exhausted. Both mentally and physically, you were a wreck. All the all-nighters you’d pulled (either because of Satoru’s late-night "updates" or the paralyzing grip of fear) were finally crashing down on you like wild ocean waves. Your diet for the past few weeks had consisted of lukewarm vending machine snacks, half-priced expired convenience store meals, and enough energy drinks to make your heart flutter like a trapped bird.
To say all you wanted to do was dig a hole and die in it was an understatement—no pun intended.
You were huddled in the breakroom, trying to coax a bit of warmth out of a paper cup of bitter coffee, when voices drifted in from the hallway. You froze.
"I’m just saying, it’s a bit much, isn't it?"
It was Reina, a girl from accounting who had always looked at you like you were something she’d stepped in. Her voice was sharp, laced with that faux-pity that made your skin crawl.
"I saw that guy who came to pick her up the other day. White hair, designer suit, looks like he stepped off a runway," Reina continued, followed by the sound of a locker slamming shut. "Of course she’d move on that fast. We all know [Y/N] only likes the high-end models. She doesn't deserve guys like that."
"But what about Nanami?" another voice asked, though it sounded hesitant.
"Please," Reina scoffed, and you could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "Remember when she friend-zoned Tanaka from HR a few months before she got with Nanami? Tanaka was sweet, stable, and actually had his life together. But the whole office knows why she turned him down—he was average. Plain. Just another face in the crowd."
You gripped your cup tighter, the cardboard beginning to give way under your fingers.
"Nanami was only a placeholder," Reina whispered, her voice dropping but still perfectly audible in the quiet room. "He was decent-looking enough to keep her satisfied for a while, but the second a guy like that detective shows up? She drops the act. She’s probably thrilled to have an excuse to be around someone with money and looks for once. It’s pathetic, really. Using a tragedy to trade up."
The coffee splashed over your knuckles, stinging and hot, but it was nothing compared to the white-hot flash of rage and grief that ignited in your chest. You weren't even thinking when you stood up. Your vision blurred at the edges, partly from the lack of sleep, partly from the pills Satoru had insisted you take, but mostly from the sheer, jagged unfairness of it all.
You didn't see a colleague. You saw a target for every ounce of pain you’d been forced to swallow.
"Say that again," you rasped, stepping out of the breakroom.
Reina jumped, her hand flying to her throat as she saw you. Your hair was a mess, your eyes were bloodshot. "I—[Y/N], we were just—"
"Say it again," you hissed, your voice cracking as you took a step toward her. "Tell me more about how I didn't love him. Tell me how I'm 'trading up.'"
The girl’s face went from pale to defiant. "Look at yourself! You’re a mess, and you’re riding around in luxury cars with a man who looks like he owns half the city while your boyfriend isn't even cold yet. It’s disgusting."
The snap was audible. You didn't just slap her. No. You lunged, your fingers hooking into the lapel of her blouse as you drove her back against the lockers. The sound of metal hitting metal rang out like a bell, and for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like a victim.
The impact of Reina’s head hitting the lockers made a hollow, booming sound that seemed to vibrate through your very teeth. For a second, the office fell into a deathly silence, the only sound being your own ragged, hyperventilating gasps.
"You don't know anything!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat, raw and jagged. "You think this is a choice? You think I wanted this?"
Your nails dug into her shoulders, and for a terrifying moment, you wanted to keep going. You wanted to claw the judgmental smirk off her face, to make her feel even a fraction of the suffocating, lightless void you woke up in every morning. Reina’s eyes were wide with genuine terror, her hands fumbling at your wrists to pry you off.
"Someone get HR!" she shrieked. "She’s crazy! She’s actually lost it!"
The intervention was swift. Two men from the sales department grabbed your arms, hauling you back. You fought them, kicking and snarling like a cornered animal, until the adrenaline peaked and then vanished, leaving you limp and sobbing in their grip.
By the time the police arrived, called by a trembling office anager, you were sitting on the floor, your back against the very lockers you’d slammed Reina into. You looked hollowed out.
The fluorescent lights of the police station were unforgiving as always. You sat in a small wooden chair, your head spinning from the antidepressant you’d taken that morning on an empty stomach. You felt like you were floating three inches above your own body.
An older officer, Officer Ito, sat across from you, tapping a pen against a stack of paperwork. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
"Look, Reina is pressing charges for assault. She’s got a bruise on her shoulder and she’s claiming workplace trauma," he said, rubbing his eyes. "But I see your name in our system. You’re the complainant in the Nanami homicide, right?"
"Yes," you whispered, clutching the hem of your blazer, which felt like the only thing keeping you from dissolving. "I’m... I’m being stalked. Geto Suguru. Detective Gojo said he’s the one who did it. I’m just... I'm not in my right mind."
Ito paused. He stopped tapping his pen. He looked at you, then at the computer screen, then back to you. A strange, twisted little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—a dry, cynical laugh that sounded like dead leaves skittering on pavement.
"Detective Gojo, huh? Satoru Gojo?" Ito shook his head. "Honey, I don't know what kind of game that hotshot is playing, but Geto Suguru hasn't stalked anyone in a long time. We found his body in a warehouse over a year ago. Blunt force trauma to the neck. Case is long since closed."
The world stopped.
"Dead?" you repeated, the word tasting like copper. "But... the diary. The messages. Satoru showed me the evidence room. He said he was tracking him."
"Then he’s tracking a ghost," Ito said, standing up to grab a coffee. "Maybe he’s just trying to keep you calm, but the man’s been in the ground for fourteen months. You can’t be stalked by a corpse."
You didn't remember leaving the station. You didn't remember the taxi ride back to Satoru’s penthouse. Your mind was a frantic, looping reel of the last few weeks.
If Geto was dead... Who wrote the diary? Who killed Kento?
The answer was so loud it was deafening, but your drugged brain kept trying to reject it. You walked into the penthouse, your footsteps silent on the expensive marble.
Satoru was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights reflecting off his white hair like a crown. He was holding a glass of amber liquid, looking every bit the savior you had prayed for.
"You’re home late," he said, his voice smooth as silk. He didn't turn around. "I heard about the incident at work. I’ve already handled the legal side of it. Reina won't be a problem anymore."
You stood by the door, your hand on the latch. "Satoru... I saw a policeman today. At the station."
Satoru went still. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
"Oh?" he murmured, finally turning to look at you. His blindfold was off, those terrifying, beautiful blue eyes locking onto yours with the precision of a hawk. "And what did the policeman have to say?"
You looked at the man who had held you while you cried, the man who had clothed you and fed you and "protected" you. You wanted to scream 'Why did you lie?' but the sheer power radiating off him made your throat lock. You realized with a jolt of pure horror that if you confronted him now, you would never walk out of this room.
"He... he said the case is difficult," you lied, your voice trembling. "That there are no leads. He said I should just... trust you."
Satoru’s tension vanished instantly. He smiled, that dazzling, blinding smile that you used to find comforting. He crossed the room in two long strides, cupping your face in his large, warm hands.
"Smart man," Satoru whispered. "You look exhausted, [Y/N]. Your brain is working too hard. Here."
He reached for a small silver tray on the side table, picking up a glass of water and a small, white pill. Not your usual antidepressant. This one was different.
"Take this. It’s a sedative. Just for tonight," he urged, his thumb stroking your lower lip. "You’ve had a traumatic day. Let me take the weight for a while. Drink."
You looked at the pill. You looked at the man who had murdered your life just to build a new one around you. You took the pill, and as the water hit your throat, you realized Satoru wasn't just the cure.
He was the one who had made you sick in the first place.
The truth was, you didn’t know what the medicine Shoko gave you was actually supposed to do. Genuinely. You hadn't bothered to read the side effects or the clinical pamphlets, you had just trusted the weary weight in her voice. But as the days bled into one another, you realized the "leveling" she promised was more like a total burial.
The realization hit you one afternoon. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching a framed photo of Kento, the one taken at a small seaside bakery where the flour had dusted his nose and he’d actually let out a genuine, unburdened laugh. It was your favorite piece of him. You waited for the familiar, agonizing chest pains to arrive. You waited for the sob to catch in your throat, for the hot tears to blur the glass, for the visceral scream of why? to tear through your mind.
But nothing happened.
Your heart beat in a steady, dull rhythm. Your eyes felt dry, almost sandy. You looked at his face, the man who was your entire world once, and felt like you were looking at a stranger in a textbook. You were hollow. The medicine had built a glass wall between your soul and your grief.
"I can't feel him," you whispered into the empty room, your voice flat. "Kento, I can't find you."
"That's because you're finally healing, sweets."
The floorboards didn't even creak. Satoru was suddenly there, casting a long, elegant shadow over you. He sat on the bed, the mattress dipping significantly under his weight, and draped a heavy, warm arm around your shoulders. He didn't look at the photo. He only looked at you.
"I... I should be crying, Satoru," you said, turning the photo toward him, your hands trembling despite the chemical chill in your veins. "Why can't I cry? It’s like I’m forgetting how to love him."
Satoru’s hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers threading through your hair, gently pulling your head to rest against his chest. You could hear his heart.
"You aren't forgetting," he murmured, his chin resting atop your head. "You're just evolving. Shoko’s medicine is doing exactly what it’s meant to do—it’s silencing the noise so you can finally hear me."
He took the photograph from your limp fingers and set it face-down on the nightstand. The click of the frame hitting the wood sounded like a coffin lid closing.
"Kento wouldn't want you to be a slave to the past," Satoru lied, his voice a honeyed caress that vibrated through your skull. "He was a simple man. He’d want you to be taken care of. He’d want you to be happy. And you are happy now, aren't you? No more screaming. No more waking up in a cold sweat."
You leaned into him, not because you wanted to, but because the pills made the alternative—standing up, fighting, feeling—seem like an impossible chore. You felt like a ghost haunting your own body.
"I feel so empty," you breathed against his shirt.
"Empty is good," Satoru whispered, his grip tightening just a fraction, a silent claim of ownership. "Empty means there's finally room for me to fill the gaps. Just breathe, [Y/N]. Let the medicine do the work. I’ll do the rest."
At the time, you thought it was mercy.
You placed the dark pill on your tongue and swallowed quickly, washing down the acrid, sour flavor with a gulp of water. Shoko had prescribed you low-dose antidepressants to be taken once a day, but since Satoru himself said those were useless for your "unique condition," you believed him. He has been friends with Shoko for a long time now. He surely knows what he’s doing, right? You switched to the new pills he provided instead. A higher dosage, twice a day, with eight to twelve hours between them. Or was it twelve to twenty-four? You couldn't quite remember. The days had begun to bleed together into a soft, hazy blur, but it didn't matter. Satoru was always there to remind you.
The evening was bathed in the warm, golden glow of the kitchen’s pendant lights. Satoru had decided that tonight was a celebration because you were "finally feeling like yourself again." He had brought home a bottle of vintage Romanée-Conti and a bag of handmade pasta that cost more than your monthly rent used to.
One moment, you were staring at the big window in the living room, trying to remember what you had been doing—had you been looking for your keys? Watching the rain? Was it raining, huh?—and the next, you were standing by the stove. The transition felt like a jump-cut in a film, the middle of the reel simply snipped away by a pair of invisible shears.
His voice didn't come from behind you. It seemed to resonate from within the very air. His chest was a solid, immovable wall against your back, and his arms draped over your shoulders like heavy silk ropes. He was guiding your hand, which held a wooden spoon, stirring a thick, red sauce that bubbled like a lava pool.
"The wine, [Y/N]. Sip it. It’s a 1945 Romanée-Conti. It tastes like history," he whispered into your ear. His breath was hot and smelled faintly of expensive sugar.
You lifted the crystal glass. Your arm felt like it belonged to someone else, moving with a strange, lagging latency. The wine was deep, almost black, and as it hit your tongue, it didn't taste like grapes. It tasted thick, cloying, and deceptively sweet, like overripe fruit beginning to ferment into rot.
"Is it good?" he asked, his chin resting on your shoulder, his white hair tickling your cheek. He looked like a masterpiece in the amber light. "I bought it to celebrate. You're so much better today."
"I... I don't remember buying the pasta," you slurred, the words feeling like marbles in your mouth. You looked down at the counter. When had the flour gotten there? Why were there three plates set when it was just the two of you? You blinked. Once. Then twice. There were only two. Were you hallucinatinh?
"I did everything, my love," he hummed, his hand sliding down to cover yours on the spoon, forcing you to stir faster. The rhythm was hypnotic. Swish. Thud. Swish. Thud. "You just had to show up. You’re the guest of honor in your own life now. Isn't that wonderful? No more decisions. No more 'grey' days."
He picked up a strand of pasta with his bare fingers, oblivious to the heat, and held it to your lips. You opened your mouth instinctively, like a fledgling bird. He fed you, his thumb lingering on your bottom lip, dragging slowly across the skin until he forced your mouth to close.
"Delicious," he whispered, though you couldn't actually taste anything through the cotton-wool fog in your brain.
He began to sway, pulling you into a slow, rhythmic dance while the sauce hissed and spat on the burner behind you. The room felt like it was spinning on a tilted axis. The expensive cabinetry, the designer appliances, the smell of garlic and expensive perfume, it was all so perfect it felt nauseating. It was a dollhouse version of domesticity, and you were the porcelain figure he was repositioning to suit his whim.
"You love me, don't you?" he asked. It was a directive. He tilted your head back, his fingers digging slightly into the soft flesh of your jaw to keep you from looking away from his blinding gaze.
"I... I think so," you breathed, the ceiling fan above him swirling into a halo of distorted blades.
"You do," he corrected with a smile that was far too wide, his teeth gleaming like ivory. "You love me because I'm the only one left. Everyone else... they were just shadows. I'm the only thing that's real."
He kissed you then—a deep, suffocating kiss that tasted of iron and vintage wine. You leaned into him, not because of passion, but because your legs no longer felt capable of holding your weight.
The cold night air, a sharp contrast to the suffocating warmth of the kitchen you were just in, bit at your exposed skin and flushed your cheeks a deep, frantic crimson. One moment, the smell of garlic and thick, red sauce had been drowning you, the next, you were inhaling the thin, icy oxygen of the heights and the thick smoke of Satoru’s freshly lit ciggarete.
Where were you? You blinked, your eyelashes heavy with the sedative’s weight. This was the balcony, a sprawling concrete tongue lashing out into the void of the city. You were so high up in the sky that the world below had ceased to be human. The people were ants, the cars were glowing embers, and the sound of the wind was a low, mournful howl that seemed to be screaming the things you couldn't remember.
"Careful, [Y/N]. It's a long way down for someone who can't even stand straight."
Satoru’s voice didn't come from the door. He was already there, leaning against the railing with a glass of that ink-dark wine in his hand, looking like a god who had grown bored of the stars.
He moved toward you. He didn't walk so much as he glided across the space, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body began to fight the night chill on your skin. He reached out, his large, calloused hand wrapping around your waist to steady you as you swayed.
"Did we... did we finish dinner?" you asked, your voice a slurred whisper that the wind tried to steal. You looked back at the glass doors, but they seemed miles away, the interior of the penthouse glowing like a distant, unreachable planet. "I don't remember walking out here."
"You didn't," he murmured, his nose brushing against the crown of your head. He pulled you flush against him, his arm a heavy, unyielding bar of iron around your middle. "I carried you. You were so tired, sweetheart. You fell asleep for a little while right there at the table. I didn't want the smell of the food to make you nauseous, so I brought you out for some fresh air."
He lied with such effortless grace that for a second, your drugged brain wanted to thank him. He steered you toward the edge, forcing you to look down at the dizzying drop. The height made your stomach lurch.
"Look at them," Satoru whispered, his chin resting on your shoulder. "All those little people down there, scurrying to jobs they hate, coming home to lives that don't matter. They're so small, aren't they? So fragile. One gust of wind and they’d just... vanish."
His grip tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip.
"I’m the only thing holding you up here," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum that seemed to echo inside your ribcage. "Without me, you’d be just like them. Lost in the grey. But up here, with me, you’re part of the sky. You’re the only thing I need to see, [Y/N]."
You leaned back into him, your strength failing. You couldn't remember the policeman's laugh. You couldn't remember Kento’s laugh, either. All you knew was the freezing wind on your face and the terrifying, absolute safety of Satoru’s arms.
"You're shaking," he noted, a dark, satisfied smile playing on his lips. He turned you around in the narrow space between his body and the railing, lifting your chin until you were forced to drown in those infinite blue eyes. "Is it the cold? Or are you finally realizing how much you need me to keep you from falling?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He tilted your head back, his lips pressing against the pulse point in your neck, right where the blood was thrumming a frantic, trapped rhythm. As the city lights blurred into a singular, glowing smear, you felt the last of your will dissolve. You were miles above the truth, trapped in the clouds with the man who had turned your life into a beautiful, terrifying hallucination.
Another week dissolved into a hazy, indistinguishable blur. If someone had pulled you aside and asked what had happened over those seven days, you wouldn't have been able to give them an answer. You couldn’t remember yesterday, or the day before that. Even the present moment felt like a fever dream. A strange, echoing sense of déjà vu where every action felt like something you had already performed in a previous life.
It was uncomfortable. It made you want to cry, yet no tears would fall. It felt as though your tear ducts were blocked by a backlog of sorrowful memories, memories that felt like they didn't quite belong to you. And yet, the strangest part was that you didn't feel sad.
You just felt like you were floating.
Driven by a sudden, jagged spark of instinct that managed to pierce through the fog, you decided to see Dr. Ieiri again. You waited until Satoru was away at work, presumably (hopefully) still investigating Kento’s case. You hadn't heard any updates in months. Or maybe you had? The memories were like smoke; the harder you tried to grasp them, the faster they thinned out.
The office was a tomb of silence, the only sound the rhythmic, liquid clicking of a clock on the wall that seemed to beat out of time with your own heart. Shoko Ieiri sat behind her desk, a silhouette framed by the dying light of a Tokyo afternoon. She didn't look at you when you sat down. Instead, she was meticulously cleaning a pair of surgical scissors with a piece of gauze, the rhythmic snip-slide the only sound in the room.
"You're late for your follow-up, [Y/N]," Shoko murmured, her voice a low, raspy vibration. "Or perhaps you’re early for the next collapse. It’s hard to tell these days."
"I... I can't keep track of the time," you admitted, your hands trembling in your lap. You tried to focus on a jar of cotton swabs on her desk, but the edges of the glass seemed to bleed into the shadows behind it. "Satoru says it's the grief. He says the brain shuts down the 'unnecessary' functions when the trauma is too high. He’s been so patient, Shoko. He brings me my medicine every night. He says I’m getting better, even if I feel like I’m disappearing. He’s too nice.."
Shoko stopped cleaning the scissors. She finally looked up, her dark, sunken eyes tracing the sluggish movement of your pupils. She didn't ask about the dosage. She didn't ask about the symptoms. She simply reached for a cigarette, her movements deliberate and hauntingly slow.
"Satoru has always had a very specific definition of 'better,'" Shoko said, blowing a thin, grey ribbon of smoke into the space between you. "To a man who sees everything, a person who sees nothing is much easier to manage. It’s a matter of perspective."
"What do you mean?" The fog in your head pulsed, a dull throb behind your eyes.
Shoko leaned back, her chair creaking like a floorboard in an empty house. "Tell me about the 'ghost' he’s chasing for you. The one who killed Kento. Suguru, wasn't it?"
"Yes," you whispered, the name feeling like a curse. "He’s everywhere. Satoru finds his traces constantly. A hair, a scent, a message... he says he’s closing the net. He says once he catches him, I’ll finally be safe."
Shoko tilted her head, a ghost of a bitter smile playing on her lips. She didn't deny Geto’s existence. She didn't tell you he was dead. Instead, she picked up a small, anatomical model of a human heart from her desk, turning it over in her hands.
"A predator doesn't always hunt to kill, [Y/N]. Sometimes, they hunt to herd," she said cryptically. "If you want to keep a bird from flying away, you don't necessarily have to clip its wings. You just have to make it believe the sky is full of hawks. You make the cage the only place where the hawks can't reach."
She set the heart down with a heavy thud.
"Satoru is an artist of the 'Impossible,'" she continued, her gaze locking onto yours with a sudden, piercing clarity that cut through your sedation. "He can make an entire city vanish if he chooses. He can make a dead man walk, if that dead man is the only thing keeping you running into his arms. He’s very good at filling the 'grey' spaces with monsters of his own design."
You felt a cold shiver crawl down your spine, despite the heat of the office. "Shoko... you’re scaring me."
"Good," she rasped, leaning forward until the scent of tobacco was all you could breathe. "Fear is an instinct. It’s the only part of you he hasn't been able to medicate into silence yet. Why do you think he gives you those black pills himself? Why doesn't he let you go to the pharmacy? A doctor prescribes to heal, but a master prescribes to maintain."
She glanced at the door, her expression shifting back to that mask of weary indifference.
"I can't give you a new prescription, [Y/N]. Not while you’re already 'well-tended' by the strongest man in Tokyo. But I will tell you this: the next time he tells you he found a trace of a ghost, look at his hands. Really look at them. See if there’s any dirt under his fingernails from the grave he’s digging for you. Or if there’s any ink on his skin from the 'diary' he’s writing in your name."
She stood up, the session abruptly over.
"Don't look for the ghost chasing you, sweetheart. Look for the man holding the key to the door. Clarity isn't a gift Satoru gives, it’s a threat to his peace. And Satoru hates being disturbed."
The meeting the other day made your head spin. You couldn't understand everything Shoko hinted at, but you knew one thing: Satoru wasn't the protector you thought he was. In fact, he might be the very monster you had been looking for over the past four months.
For the last twenty-four hours, you had played a dangerous game. You swallowed the pills he gave you, only to rush to the bathroom and forcefully heave them into the toilet the moment he turned his back. The physical toll was exhausting, but the mental clarity was electric. You felt lucid, brave enough to seek the answers you craved on your own.
You were going to solve this case yourself. The detective assigned to it wasn't doing his job properly, or perhaps he was. Either way, you were going to do it better.
During the weeks you stayed at Satoru’s penthouse, thinking he was protecting you (only to realize he was practically caging you with the beast you were fleeing), you had memorized his schedule. You knew when he was at work, when he was at home, and the gaps in between where he simply vanished.
You walked straight into the lion's den: the police station. You weren't there to seek Satoru’s comfort. You were there to find Officer Ito, the man responsible for the charges that dumb bitch had tried to press against you. He was the only one who had spoken to you like a human being, and the only one left who might tell you the truth without Satoru’s shadow looming over the conversation, since you understood Shoko wanted to part in this.
You found Ito in the basement’s archive room, a subterranean tomb of windowless concrete and the smell of decaying glue. He looked up from a stack of paperwork, his eyes widening behind his spectacles. Seeing you without your "shadow" was clearly a shock to his system.
"Miss [F/N]?" Ito stood up, adjusting his glasses. "Gojo isn't with you? I thought he had you on..." a leash, he was probably trying to say. "well, I thought you were resting."
"I’m tired of resting, Officer," you said, your voice steadier than it had been in months. You sat across from him, leaning into his space. "I need to ask you about the lead suspect in Kento’s case. Geto Suguru. I need to see his file. Not the one on the computer—the hard copy."
Ito froze, his hand hovering over a stapler. He looked at you with a mixture of confusion and a dawning, terrible realization. "The Geto file? [F/N], why are you asking me about that again? I told you months ago, back at the station when this all started... Suguru Geto is a closed case."
The fog in your brain, already thinning from the lack of black pills, suddenly tore wide open. You remembered. A fleeting comment in a hallway, a stray remark officer Ito had—something about a "deceased associate." Satoru had been right there. He had laughed it off, told you Ito was confused, that he was thinking of a different case. And in your grief-stricken state, you had believed the god and ignored the man.
"You told me he was dead," you whispered, the words tasting like copper. "But Satoru said... he said Geto was stalking me. He showed me the CCTV. He said Geto killed Kento."
Ito let out a shaky breath and walked to the back of the room. He pulled a thin, battered folder from a drawer labeled EXHIBIT: CLOSED and slapped it onto the desk.
"I don't know what Gojo has been feeding you, but I saw the body myself a year ago," Ito hissed, leaning in so close you could see the sweat on his brow. "Shinjuku warehouse. It wasn't a mystery. Satoru was the one who called it in."
Ito paused, a haunted look crossing his face as if he were seeing the scene play out on the office's peeling wallpaper.
"He was sitting in the dirt right next to the corpse, his hands stained to the elbows. But it was his face, [F/N]... I’ve never seen him like that. He looked so devastatingly sad, like the world had ended right there in that warehouse. His eyes, well.. what I could see of them, and even the tips of his ears were bloodshot, bright red, like he’d been crying for hours. It was a mess. He just looked up at us and told us he’d 'taken care of it.' We didn't ask questions. You don't ask the strongest detective in the country questions when he decides a case is over."
You opened the folder. There it was. The coroner's photo—a man with long dark hair, his eyes closed, looking peaceful in a way that made your skin crawl. Beneath it was the cremation authorization, signed in Satoru’s arrogant, sprawling cursive.
Your eyes scanned the medical examiner’s summary, freezing on a single, clinical line, Cause of Death: Blunt force trauma; catastrophic head injury.
Ito’s voice softened then, a rare note of genuine pity cutting through his nervousness. "They were inseparable, you know? Best friends since their college days. Classmates, partners... they were the 'strongest duo' everyone talked about back then. It’s a tragedy, honestly. I’m just sorry they had to be separated by fate like that. To lose someone who was practically your other half... it changes a man."
The paper felt like ice against your fingertips. Separated by fate. Ito believed it was a tragedy of circumstance, a mourning friend found at a crime scene. But as you stared at the description of the injury—the sheer violence required to cause "catastrophic" trauma—the fog in your mind vanished.
Satoru hadn't been "separated" from Geto by fate. He had been the one to end him. And now, he was using the ghost of the man he killed to keep you from realizing he had likely done the exact same thing to Kento.
The realization tasted sour on your tongue.
The walk home felt refreshing, even after hearing such news from Gojo’s colleague. It felt good because, for the first time in months, you knew. The truth was a cold, sharp blade, and finally, you could begin to plan your revenge.
To truly settle this realization deep in your bones, you needed one final piece of evidence: Kento’s phone. The device Satoru had used to torment you with "Geto’s" messages for what felt like an eternity. You didn't know if he still had it; now that he had you physically in his grasp, the digital psychological warfare was no longer necessary. He might have snapped it in half or tossed it into the Sumida River, but a flickering hope remained in your heart that his arrogance had won out. You suspected he kept it as a Plan B, a fallback in case your behavior ever ceased to be to his liking.
The penthouse was silent, the air heavy with the scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, lingering smell of the incense he liked to burn. You moved toward Satoru’s bedside table, your footsteps light enough to be a heartbeat, your breath hitching in your throat as you gripped the handle of the bottom drawer.
When it slid open, the air seemed to drop ten degrees.
There, nestled amidst the pristine luxury of his life, lay the wreckage of yours. You reached in, your fingers brushing against the cold, jagged edge of a smartphone. It was Kento’s. The screen was spider-webbed with cracks, a violent impact having shattered the glass, but through the fractures, you could see a dried, brownish-red residue caked into the speaker grille.
You picked it up, your thumb trembling as you pressed the power button. The lock screen flickered to life, showing a photo that made your blood turn to ice: it was a candid shot of you, taken from a distance, sleeping in a motel room you clearly remembered now. It was right after your first meeting.
Beneath it lay the Polaroids. You pulled them out, and a small, dry flake of something dark fell onto your hand. You didn't need to be a forensic expert to know it was blood—Nanami’s blood, preserved like a sick pressed flower between the glossy sheets of film.
The images were a descent into hell. They weren't taken from the perspective of a witness, rather they were taken from the perspective of an artist admiring his work. One shot showed the interior of the car, the upholstery shredded by a force no human should possess. Another was a close-up of Kento’s hand, still wearing the watch you gave him, resting in a pool of ink-dark gore. But the last photo, the one that made the bile rise in your throat, was a selfie.
In the frame, Satoru had abandoned all pretense of the polished, untouchable detective. He wasn't wearing his signatureglasses. His white hair, usually so meticulously styled, was wild and disheveled, sticking out in jagged clumps as if he had been running his hands through it in a fit of manic adrenaline.
His face was a map of slaughter. Crimson droplets were sprayed across his pale skin like macabre freckles, and a thick smear of dark blood was wiped across his jawline. But it was his eyes that froze the blood in your veins. Those crystalline blue eyes who looked at you with so much love, were wide, unblinking, and vibrating with a terrifying, ecstatic glow. He was smiling, a jagged, wide-mouthed grin, while in the background, visible through the shattered glass of the driver’s side window, Kento’s lifeless silhouette sat slumped, his head hanging at an unnatural angle.
Satoru looked beautiful, and he looked like a monster. He looked like a man who had finally achieved exactly what he wanted.
The paper felt like it was scorching your skin. Every drop of blood on his face in that photo was a drop of Kento’s life, and he had worn it like war paint.
Your hand spasmed, dropping the photos back into the drawer, where they landed next to the velvet pouch. You tipped it over, and Geto’s black ear gauges rolled out like heavy, dead eyes. They felt weighted with a century of sin. Gojo had kept these pieces of the people he "loved" as if he were building a shrine to his own isolation.
Click.
The sound of the front door unlocking felt like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.
"Sweets? I’m home early," Satoru’s voice drifted down the hallway. It was melodic, sickeningly sweet, vibrating with a cheerfulness that felt like a serrated blade. "I stopped by that little bakery you liked. I remember you mentioned it... or maybe I just dreamt you did. Everything is so blurry lately, isn't it?"
You heard the heavy thud of his boots on the hardwood. He wasn't rushing.
"I didn't see you in the living room," he continued, his voice getting closer, now just outside the bedroom door. "You aren't hiding, are you? You know I hate playing hide-and-seek when I've had a long day."
You scrambled to close the drawer, but your trembling hands betrayed you. The wood groaned as it slid shut, a sound that felt deafening in the stillness.
The bedroom door creaked open.
Att the exact moment you threw yourself face-first onto the bed. You couldn't let him, of all people, ever see your tears again. Not after seeing that photo. Not while the image of his blood-splattered, manic grin was burned into your retinas.
"You brought the strawberry tart, yeah?" you asked, your voice muffled and thick against the pillow.
You felt the mattress groan under his weight as he sat beside you. Satoru reached out, his large, warm hand coming to rest on the small of your back.
"I did, babe," he murmured, his tone playful but edged with that ever-present, suffocating possessiveness. "Though I’m starting to think you love the pastries more than the man who buys them."
You forced yourself to roll over, blinking back the last of your moisture. You sat up and leaned into his space, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "I'm just... so hungry for something sweet. But Satoru?" You tilted your head, softening your expression into something fragile and longing. "I really want to drink some umeshu with the tart. It’s been so long, and I want to feel... warm tonight."
Satoru let out a long, exaggerated groan, flopping back onto the pillows with an audible pout. His lower lip tucked out, a childish expression that looked hauntingly wrong on a man you now knew was a murderer.
"Again? [Y/N], I literally just walked through the door," he complained, his voice a sing-song whine. "I’m tired, it’s late, and the good cellar is all the way downstairs. Can’t we just stick to the tea?"
You didn't give him a chance to refuse. You crawled over to him, straddling his lap and placing your hands on his chest, right over the heart that beat with such terrifying steadiness. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his jaw, then his cheek, lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin.
"Please, Satoru?" you whispered against his ear, your voice a desperate, honeyed plea. "For me? I've been so good lately. I just want to celebrate being here with you."
You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, then leaned in to capture his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was an act of pure survival, a sickening performance that made your stomach churn, but you poured every ounce of feigned affection into it.
When you pulled away, Satoru’s eyes were slightly glazed, his pupils blown wide. The pout shifted into a slow, dark smirk of triumph. He liked this. He liked you begging. He liked the physical proof that he had finally "broken" you into loving him.
"You're very spoiled, you know that?" he rasped, reaching up to pinch your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He gave your lower lip a playful tug. "Fine. If my girl wants her plum wine, she gets it. But don't think I won't expect a 'thank you' later."
He stood up, dumping you gently back onto the silk sheets. "Stay put. If I come back and you've fallen asleep, I'm waking you up."
As his footsteps receded toward the kitchen, the warmth drained from your face instantly. The mask fell. You had bought yourself the window you needed. Now, you just had to hope your hands would stop shaking long enough to use it.
You waited, lungs burning from holding your breath, until the heavy thud of the front door echoed through the hallway. Now it was your time. This was for Kento’s stolen future. This was for poor Geto’s desecrated memory. This was for the four months you had spent drowning in a fog of his making.
As soon as the silence settled, you scrambled off the bed, your movements frantic yet precise. You didn't head for the door, instead you headed back to that dark oak drawer.
You pulled it open again, the sight of the blood-flecked Polaroids hitting you like a physical blow to the stomach. Your hands shook as you reached into your own pocket and pulled out your phone. With trembling fingers, you began to document the horror.
Snap. The cracked screen of Kento’s phone, the dried gore caught in the crevices.
Snap. The selfie of Satoru, his face a mask of splattered red, smiling over Kento's corpse and all the other Polaroids he was probably meant to send to you. Just like that time four months ago.
Snap. The ear gauges, sitting in your palm like cold, black stones.
You made sure every shot was clear, the digital flash illuminating the darkness of the room for a split second each time. You uploaded them to a hidden cloud drive, a digital trail he couldn't scrub away. Once the last file finished syncing, you painstakingly placed every item back exactly as you had found it, aligning the Polaroids and the silk pocket squares with the obsessive care of a ghost.
Your eyes darted around the room, landing on the armchair in the corner. Satoru’s blazer was draped haphazardly over the back, a casual, discarded skin. You knew how he operated; for all his arrogance and God-like power, he was still a man of the law, or at least, he played one during the day. As a high-ranking detective, he was required to carry a service weapon, a small revolver he kept for the rare moments when his raw strength was too conspicuous for the job.
You approached the blazer, the fabric smelling of his cloying, expensive cologne and lillies—a scent that now made you want to retch. Your hands dove into the pockets, searching for the weight of his authority.
First, the outer pockets: a handful of sweets and a crumpled receipt.
Then, the inner holster pocket.
Your fingers brushed against something cold, heavy, and unmistakably metallic. You pulled it out. The revolver felt tiny in your hand, but its weight was grounding, a solid, undeniable reality in the hall of mirrors Satoru had built around you. This was the tool he used to "protect" the city, the very same one he likely kept within reach while he watched you sleep.
You checked the cylinder with trembling fingers. Fully loaded. Six rounds. Six chances to end the nightmare he had scripted for you.
You heard the distant chime of the elevator. He was back.
You quickly tucked the revolver into the waistband of your jeans, pulling your oversized sweater down to hide the lethal bulge against your spine. You didn't have time to be his "sweetheart" anymore.
You didn't wait to see his face. You bolted for the en-suite bathroom, the heavy marble door swinging shut with a solid thud just as you turned the deadbolt.
Your back hit the cold tile, your breath coming in ragged, silent gasps. You pressed your hand over your mouth to stifle even the sound of your breathing, the cold weight of the revolver pressing against the small of your back.
"Sweets?" Satoru’s voice was right outside the door, muffled but vibrantly cheerful. "I’m back. I found the bottle, it was tucked behind the vintage reds. It's perfectly chilled, just the way you like it."
You didn't answer. You stood frozen, staring at the door handle.
"Come on out, [Y/N]," he sang, though the syrup in his tone was starting to thin. "The tart is already plated. I even cut the strawberries into little hearts for you. Don't let it get warm."
Silence. The air in the bathroom felt like it was being sucked out of the room.
"I know you're in there," he said, his voice flatter now. The cheerfulness was a mask slipping off a marble statue. "I can see your shadow. Why aren't you answering me? Did I do something wrong?"
Still, you remained a ghost. You reached behind you, the grip of the revolver meeting your palm. The metal felt like the only real thing left in the world.
"Answer me, [Y/N]."
The request was no longer a song. It was a command. He rattled the handle—once, twice—a sharp, violent sound that echoed off the bathroom’s tile walls. When you didn't respond, the silence that followed was even more terrifying. It was the silence of a predator deciding whether to play or to kill.
"This isn't funny," he hissed. You could hear the sudden, sharp intake of his breath. The playful "Satoru" was gone, replaced by the man who had stood over Geto’s body with bloodshot eyes. "I went out for you. I bought this for you. I have spent every waking second of the last four months making sure you were safe, and you're going to ignore me?"
He slammed his palm against the door. The vibration rattled your teeth.
"OPEN THE DOOR."
The roar of his voice made the mirror above the sink tremble. The sweetness had curdled into a dark, jagged rage. "I have been patient. I have been kind. I have let you mourn a man who wasn't half the man I am! But if you think you can lock me out of my own room—out of your own life—you are mistaken."
The handle turned again, but this time it didn't rattle. It twisted with a slow, terrifying pressure, the metal beginning to groan under a strength that surpassed human limits.
"I’m going to count to three, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice now dangerously low, vibrating through the wood and into your spine. "And if this door isn't open, I'm going to stop being the 'hero' you think I am. One..."
"Two—"
His counting was cut short by the ringing of a phone. Not his. His. Inside the dark oak drawer next to the bed, Kento’s phone had surged to life.
The handle stopped turning. The terrifying pressure against the door vanished as Satoru froze. In the heavy silence of the bedroom, the ringing was deafening. The specific, upbeat default ringtone that Kento had never bothered to change. It was a cheerful sound that, in this context, felt like a funeral dirge.
Inside the bathroom, you stared at your own phone in your shaking left hand. You had dialed the number from memory, a ghost calling a ghost. On your screen, the contact name Kento stared back at you.
You heard the drawer slide open with a violent, desperate shove. Satoru’s breathing had changed; it was no longer the rhythmic huff of a predator, but the jagged, panicked gasps of a man watching his carefully constructed lie shatter.
You pressed the phone to your ear and waited.
The ringing stopped. He had picked it up.
You didn't wait for him to speak. You didn't wait for him to try to explain. Your voice was a cold, dead thing, stripped of all the "sweetheart" and "Satoru" and "love" that had been poisoned over the last four months.
"Do you like the photos, Satoru?" you whispered into the line.
There was no sound on the other end but the faint, erratic whistle of his breath.
"I saw them," you continued, your eyes fixed on the bathroom door, imagining him standing there, holding a dead man’s phone. "I saw your face. I saw the blood. I saw the way you were smiling while Kento was dying behind you. I saw Suguru’s gauges. I saw the obituary."
"Sweets," he started, his voice cracking, a pathetic, high-pitched tremor underlying the name. "It’s not... you don't understand the context. I was—"
"You weren't saving me," you interrupted, the revolver in your right hand feeling heavier, more certain. "You were harvesting me. You killed the only man who I truly loved just so you could be the only one left for me to look at. You played with Kento’s phone for months to make me think I was losing my mind. You watched me cry for a man you slaughtered."
The silence on the other end was absolute now. The strongest man in the country, had finally run out of scripts.
"I'm not coming out for the tart, Satoru," you said, your thumb clicking the safety off the revolver. The sound was small, but you knew he heard it through the door. "And I'm not drinking the wine. I’m done being the lead actress in your sick little play. I know who you are. I know what you did. And I know that the only ghost in this house... is you. I’ll make you pay."
On the other side of the door, a low, guttural sound escaped him—a laugh that dissolved into a sob. It was the sound of a mind finally snapping under the weight of its own obsession.
"If you know who I am," he whispered, his voice vibrating through the door and the phone simultaneously, "then you know I’m never, ever going to let you leave this room."
The silence that followed was more suffocating than his rage. Then, the wood of the door groaned. Not from a turn of the handle, but from the sheer weight of him leaning his forehead against it.
"You used me," he whispered, the words trembling with a terrifying, jagged edge. "I went out into the rain. I brought you gifts. I held you while you screamed Kento’s name, and you... you were acting."
His voice rose, cracking like breaking glass. "You were lying to me! All those smiles? The way you leaned into me? Was any of it real, or were you just waiting to stick your hand in my pockets like a common thief?"
"I gave you everything!" Satoru screamed, his voice now a raw, guttural roar that stripped away every ounce of his refined beauty. "I cleared the path for you! I got rid of the distractions! Kento didn't love you—not like I do. He would have left you. He would have grown old and boring and forgotten you. But I made you eternal! I kept you safe! And this is how you repay my devotion? By calling a dead man's phone to mock me?"
He slammed his fist against the door again, and this time, the hinges shrieked as they began to warp.
"You think that little toy in your hand makes us equal?" He laughed, a high, hysterical sound that lacked any trace of sanity. "I am Satoru Gojo! I am the only thing keeping the world from swallowing you whole! If I hadn't taken Kento’s place, you’d be nothing but a memory in a graveyard. I gave you a home! I gave you me!"
Through the cracks forming in the door, you saw a flash of electric blue.
"Open the door, [Y/N]," he hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying, subsonic vibration that made the water in the sink ripple. "If I have to break this door, I’m going to break every bone in your hands so you can never hold another phone again. I'm going to make sure you never have to look at another photo, or hear another voice, or think another thought that isn't about me."
The air in the bathroom was thick with the scent of pulverized wood and the metallic tang of your own terror. You realized with a sickening jolt that the door wouldn't hold for another second. Satoru’s raw, unhinged obsession provided all the strength necessary to shatter your world.
Your fingers, slick with cold sweat, fumbled with the deadbolt. Click.
The sound was tiny, but in the vacuum of his sudden silence, it sounded like a guillotine blade dropping. You threw the lock and scrambled backward, your socks sliding on the tile until you hit the far wall of the shower. You were gasping, the revolver held in both hands, shaking so violently that the barrel traced erratic circles in the darkness.
Satoru stepped into the doorway. He looked like a man possessed. His white hair disheveld, his face was flushed with exertion, and his pupils were blown so wide they swallowed the iris. He looked at you, then down at his own service weapon in your hands, a dark, twisted smirk curling his lips.
"There she is," he whispered, his voice trembling with a cocktail of rage and agonizing adoration. "My brave girl. Are you going to do it, [Y/N]? Are you going to kill the only man who truly knows you?"
He took a step forward, his hand reaching out as if he expected you to simply hand over the gun. "Give it to me. We’ll go eat. We can pretend this never happened."
"Don't come closer!" you shrieked, your voice breaking.
"Or what?" He laughed, a jagged, broken sound. He took another step, his presence filling the small space until you felt like you were drowning. "You don't have it in you. You're too soft. That’s why I had to do the heavy lifting. That's why I had to take care of Kento—because he was a weight you weren't strong enough to drop!"
The image of the blood-splattered selfie in the drawer flashed before your eyes. The grief, suppressed for months under his gaslighting, surged up as pure, unadulterated adrenaline. Your finger tightened on the trigger.
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the cramped bathroom, a physical shockwave that barked through your wrists. The bullet meant for his heart went wide as he pivoted, tearing through the meat of his thigh instead. The sudden collapse of his leg sent him spiraling. There was no grace in the fall—just the sickening thud of his skull meeting the stone floor, followed by a silence far louder than the gunshot.
The ringing was the first thing to settle in. A high, piercing whistle that seemed to drill into the back of your skull, drowning out the world. It turned the bathroom into a distorted pocket of reality where the smell of acrid gunpowder hung heavy and gray in the air.
Your hands were vibrating, the pistol feeling like a lead weight that you couldn't quite let go of. You stared at the spot where he had been standing a second ago. Now, there was only a smear of crimson on the white tile and a heap of dark clothing.
"Gojo?"
The name felt like glass in your throat, but you couldn't even hear your own voice over that relentless ringing screaming in your ears.
The adrenaline that had fueled the shot evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hollow terror. You stumbled forward, your knees hitting the floor beside him with a jarring thud. You didn't remember dropping the gun, but it clattered away, spinning across the tile.
"Satoru? Satoru, get up."
Your vision blurred as hot, frantic tears spilled over. You reached out, your fingers slick with the blood blooming from his thigh, but your eyes were fixed on his face. He looked terrifyingly still. His head was turned at an unnatural angle, resting against the stone floor where a dark shadow was already beginning to pool beneath his white hair.
"No, no, no..." The sob finally broke through the ringing, a jagged, wet sound. You hovered your hand over his chest, terrified of what you’d find. Or what you wouldn't.
You leaned down, pressing your ear to his sternum, straining to hear anything over the pulse thudding in your own head. For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then, a slow, thready thump. Then another.
He was breathing.
A choked, hysterical laugh escaped you, quickly turning back into a wail. He wasn't dead, but the way his eyes remained shut, veiled and vacant, made the room spin. You looked at the blood on your hands, then at the gash on his leg, and finally at the bruising already forming at his temple.
The man who had just taunted you with Kento’s death, the man who had filled the room with his suffocating shadow, looked small. Broken. You had done this. You had actually pulled the trigger.
You grabbed a towel from the rack, your movements clumsy and frantic as you tried to wrap it around his leg, your tears dripping onto the fabric. "I'm sorry," you whispered into the ringing silence, even though a part of you still tasted the bile of his insults. "I’m so sorry, please don't die. Please."
The ringing in your ears began to dull into a low, rhythmic hum. You reached out with a trembling hand, not to check his pulse this time, but to pat down the pockets of his dark jacket. Your fingers found the familiar rectangular crinkle.
You pulled out the pack of cigarettes and his lighter. With one hand, you fumbled for your phone, dialing 119 with blood-slicked fingers.
The operator’s voice was a tinny, distant chirp against the fading whistle of the gunshot. "Emergency services, what is your—"
"Ambulance," you interrupted, your voice eerily steady now, devoid of the jagged panic from moments before. You gave the address in a clipped monotone, watching the cherry of the cigarette glow bright as you took a long, dragging inhale. "Gunshot wound. Male, late-twenties. He’s unconscious. Hurry."
You tossed the phone onto the bathmat and leaned back against the tub, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the stagnant air.
Through the haze, the scent hit you, heavy, cloying, and surreal. It was the expensive, floral notes of his lily-scented perfume, a fragrance that had always felt like a funeral shroud, now mingling with the metallic, iron-rich tang of the blood pooling around your knees. It should have been revolting. It should have made you sick.
Instead, you leaned into it.
The adrenaline wasn't a spike anymore, it became a steady, honey-thick current flowing through your veins, sweet and addictive. You looked down at Satoru’s pale face, then at your own crimson-stained palms. The horror had vanished, replaced by a terrifying, crystalline clarity.
He had been right. About Kento. About the "heavy lifting." About the strength it took to let go of the world's morality and just act.
You took another drag, feeling the smoke settle in your lungs like a secret. The suffocating weight he had placed on you for months hadn't crushed you—it had forged you. As you watched the blood soak further into the white towel, you didn't feel like a victim anymore. You felt powerful. You felt alive in a way that was violent and shimmering.
The perfume and the gore, the beauty and the butchery. It was an intoxicating cocktail, a sensory map of the man lying at your feet. And for the first time, you didn't just see him. You understood him.
The monster hadn't won. It had just moved into a new home. You were exactly like him now.
