Elspeth

[shrineofsorrows]

Hello! I’m Elspeth.

This is mostly a JJK blog, especially Gojo, but I may write for other characters too.

Everything is SFW. I mainly write fluff and slice of life. Most of my fics are standalone and not connected unless stated otherwise.

Thanks for stopping by and reading my silly little stories!

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Masterlist

(Will keep updating as I write!)

Satoru Gojo keeps the entire universe at arm's length, which makes it terrifyingly obvious when he forgets how to let you go.

There are things that don't get said at three in the morning, and things that wait for later, and the space between them where you both live.

[shrineofsorrows]

There are things that don't get said at three in the morning, and things that wait for later, and the space between them where you both live. 

The knock comes at 3 a.m., quiet enough that you almost miss it over the rain.

You're awake anyway, have been for an hour, sitting at your sofa with hot tea and your book. The knock comes again, a little harder, and you know who it is before you open the door. You always do.

Satoru Gojo leans against your door frame like he's holding it up, or maybe it's holding him. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His sunglasses are rain-splattered and slipping down his nose.

"Hey," he says.

You step back. "You're soaked."

"Yeah." 

He doesn't move. Water drips from his jacket onto your doormat.

"Are you coming in?"

"Can I?"

You've known him for years. He's never asked permission before.

"Obviously," you say, and he smiles, but it's wrong somehow. 

He steps inside and immediately stumbles, catching himself on the wall. That's when you smell it.

"Are you drunk?"

"Mm." He's trying to get his shoes off, fumbling with the laces. "Maybe a little."

Satoru doesn't drink. You've seen him at parties, at dinners, always with something diabetes-inducing and non-alcoholic. He'd explained it once, a long time ago. Alcohol dulls his senses and interferes with his technique.

You kneel down and bat his hands away, untying his shoe laces for him. His socks are wet too.

"When's the last time you drank?" you ask.

"Dunno. Graduation?"

"That was almost ten years ago."

"Sounds right." He's looking down at you, and even through the dark glasses you can feel his gaze. "You're good at that."

"At untying shoes?"

"Taking care of people."

"Stay here."

You disappear into your bedroom and come back with dry clothes: an old sweater of his that he left here months ago, a pair of sweatpants that'll be too short on him but better than wet jeans. He's where you left him, leaning against the wall by your door, eyes closed.

"Satoru."

"Mm?"

"Change. You'll get sick."

"Can't get sick." 

But he takes the clothes anyway, peeling off his jacket. It hits the floor with a wet slap.

You turn away, moving to the kitchen to give him privacy, even though he's never cared much about that kind of thing. You hear fabric rustling, a soft thump as he presumably sits down to deal with the pants.

"You can look," he calls out. "I'm fully clothed."

He's sitting on your floor, back against the wall. The sweater is tighter across his shoulders than it used to be. His wet hair is making dark spots on the fabric.

You sit down next to him, not too close. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"You're drunk. That's not nothing."

He tips his head back. "Can't I just visit my favorite person?"

"You can. You do. But not like this."

"Like what?"

"Drunk. Sad."

"I'm not sad." He turns to look at you, and his glasses slide down far enough that you can see his eyes fully. They're brilliant in the dark, even unfocused like this. "See? Not sad."

"Satoru."

"I just wanted to see you." He says it like it's the whole truth. Maybe it is. "That okay?"

You pull your knees up, wrap your arms around them. "Yeah. It's okay."

The rain keeps falling. His breathing is a little heavy and uneven. He smells like rain and whatever he was drinking.

"You want water?" you ask.

"No."

"Food?"

"No."

"Want to tell me what's wrong?"

"No." He reaches over and tugs on your sleeve. "Just… sit with me."

So you sit. Your leg falls asleep after a while, pins and needles creeping up from your foot, but you don't move. He's quiet beside you, unnaturally still for someone who's usually all restless energy.

"Did something happen?" you try again.

"Always something happening."

"A mission?"

"Yeah."

"Did someone—"

"Everyone's fine." He cuts you off. "Everyone's always fine."

There's something strange in the way he says it. You turn to look at him properly, but he's staring straight ahead at your wall, at the calendar you haven't changed from last month.

"That's good," you say carefully. "That everyone's fine."

"Yeah. Real good." His jaw works like he's chewing on words he won't say. "I'm the strongest. That's my job. Keep everyone fine."

"That's not—"

"It's fine," he says, and laughs sharply. "I'm fine. Everyone's fine. Everything's fine."

You reach out and take his hand. His fingers are still cold from the rain, and they curl around yours, tight enough to almost hurt.

"Sorry," he mutters. "I'm being—I don't know. Weird."

"You're drunk."

"Yeah. That's probably it."

But you know him. You've known him through every stage of becoming whatever he is now, this untouchable creature that people either worship or fear. You knew him when he was eighteen and arrogant and still learning what it meant to be responsible for something other than himself. You knew him when Suguru left and he didn't talk for three days. You knew him when he started teaching and pretended it didn't matter to him, that these kids were just kids, not his.

He doesn't drink. He doesn't show up at your door at three in the morning. He doesn't hold your hand like this.

"You want to lie down?" you ask.

He considers this. "Where?"

"Couch. Bed. Floor. Pick one."

"Bed," he decides.

You stand up, pulling him with you. He's swaying as he gets his feet under him. You keep holding his hand and lead him to your bedroom, small and cluttered with laundry you haven't folded and books stacked high on the nightstand.

He doesn't let go of your hand.

"Satoru."

"Stay," he says. "Please?"

It's the please that does it.

You end up lying next to him on top of the covers, both of you on your backs, staring at the ceiling. The rain is a soft static against the window. His hand is still in yours between you.

"I'm tired," he says after a while.

"Then sleep."

"Not that kind of tired."

You don't know what to say to that. He's the strongest sorcerer. He's the one person who's supposed to stand between the world and everything that wants to destroy it. And he's lying in your bed at three in the morning, drunk and tired in a way that sleep won't fix.

"You do too much," you finally say.

"Can't do less."

"You could try."

"No," he says quietly. "I really couldn't."

He's silent for a while, then suddenly, he adds, "Kiss me."

You turn your head to stare at him. "What?"

"Kiss me," he says again.

"You're drunk."

"Pfft." He waves his free hand carelessly. "It's just a kiss."

Your heart—you can feel it, but you won't think about that. You focus on his hand in yours.

"It's not just a kiss," you say.

"Why not?"

Because it's never just anything with him. Because you've been carefully not thinking about certain things for years now. Because he's drunk and sad and whatever this is, it deserves better than three in the morning and alcoholic courage.

"Ask me when you're sober," you say.

He blinks slowly. "What if I don't?"

"Don't what?"

"Ask when I'm sober."

"Then I guess we'll know."

He studies your face. Then he lifts your joined hands and presses his lips to your knuckles. It's not what he asked for, but it's something.

"You're too smart," he mumbles against your hand.

"One of us has to be."

He laughs, just a breath of sound, and closes his eyes. "Stay?"

"I'm right here."

"No, I mean—" He shifts closer, pulling your hand to his chest and keeping it there. "Stay. Even when I'm being stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"I showed up drunk at three in the morning."

"Yeah, well. I've done worse."

"Liar. You're perfect."

"I'm really not."

"You are." His words are starting to blur a little, sleep pulling at him. "You're always just—" He trails off.

"Just what?"

But he's asleep, or close enough to it. His breathing evens out, his grip on your hand loosening but not letting go. You watch him for a while, this man who carries the weight of the world like it's nothing, who showed up at your door because he needed somewhere to fall.

You should move. You should at least get up to turn off the light in the kitchen that's still on. But he asked you to stay, and it feels important, somehow, to be exactly where you are.

So you stay.

You wake up to sunlight and an empty bed. There's a note on the pillow next to you, written on the back of a receipt in his messy scrawl:

Thanks for the clothes. And everything else. Sorry about the floor.

You find the floor in question when you pad out to the kitchen. He's cleaned up the mud he tracked in last night. The tea you were drinking when he arrived was gone, the cup washed and sitting in the drainer. There's fresh coffee in the pot, still warm.

You pour yourself a cup and sit at the table, looking at the note. It doesn't say anything about last night. It's very much like him, you think, to show up and break himself open just a little, then carefully package it all back up before you wake.

Your phone buzzes. A message from him:

Did I say anything embarrassing

You smile into your coffee.

Very

How bad

You called me perfect

...fuck

And asked me to kiss you

The three typing dots appear and disappear several times. 

Did you

You think about last night.

No

Good

There are the typing dots again.

Why not

You set down your coffee cup. The morning outside is bright and clean. You can see your reflection in the window, and beyond it, the city waking up.

You know why

The typing dots go on for a long while this time.

Yeah. I do. Thank you. For last night.

Anytime

Don't say that. I'll take you up on it

You are smiling again. Maybe it just feels good to be the place where he can fall. Maybe someday he'll ask again, sober this time, and maybe you'll be ready to answer.

Your phone buzzes once more:

Coffee later? I owe you

You made coffee this morning

I owe you a lot more than coffee

You look at the note on the table, at the clean floor, at the cup he washed, all the small things he tries to do for you.

Later sounds good

It's a date

Is it?

...can it be?

You read the message three times. Outside, a bird lands on your windowsill, shakes off the rain from its feathers, and flies away. The coffee in your cup is going cold.

Yeah, you type. It can be.

The response comes in only one word:

Good

You finish your coffee standing at the window, watching the city, waiting for later. The note stays on the table, and his sweater is still in your bedroom. He’s left it here again. Somewhere out there, Satoru Gojo is probably already back to being the strongest and untouchable and fine.

And later, when he shows up at your door again—sober this time, hopefully—you'll be ready. Or maybe you won't. Maybe it'll be messy and complicated and nothing like the easy thing you've built over the years.

But that's later.

[shrineofsorrows]

Satoru Gojo keeps the entire universe at arm's length, which makes it terrifyingly obvious when he forgets how to let you go.

Satoru is an incredibly tactile creature. For someone who walks through life with an invisible barrier separating him from the rest of the world, he has always possessed a profound, almost contradictory, need for physical contact.

You learned this very early on in your friendship. Satoru uses touch like punctuation. He drapes his long arm over your shoulders to announce his arrival. He presses his chin into the crown of your head when he's bored. He throws his full weight against your side on the couch when he wants your undivided attention, acting like an overgrown, lethargic cat until you inevitably cave and put on the movie he wants to watch.

You've never minded. In fact, you've grown to love it. Satoru's hugs are warm and nice. They are just another part of the chaotic, exhausting, brilliant package of being his best friend.

Until recently.

You can't pinpoint the moment the change happens, only that the ground of your friendship has slowly started to tilt. It isn't anything dramatic like a sudden confession or grand romantic gesture. The seconds between you just stretch on longer than they are supposed to.

It happens tonight in your tiny kitchen. The glowing numbers on the microwave read 1:14 AM. Rain is drumming against the windowpane. Satoru had keyed himself into your apartment about an hour ago, fresh off a three-day mission. He hadn't said much, just kicked off his shoes, shucked his jacket onto the floor, and folded his massive frame onto a stool at your kitchen island.

He looks exhausted. The dark sweater he's wearing clings to his broad shoulders, and his blindfold are pushed up into his stark silver hair, showing those striking blue eyes.

"I made hot cocoa," you murmur, turning away from the stove with a steaming ceramic mug in your hands.

"You're a lifesaver," he sighs. His voice is low, stripped of the booming confidence he parades around his students and the higher-ups.

You set the mug down in front of him. As you go to pull your hands back, Satoru slides off the stool and steps into your space. He's so incredibly tall, easily towering over you, but he doesn't feel intimidating. He just looks very tired.

"Welcome back," you say softly.

"Mhm." Satoru leans forward. His eyes slide shut, and Infinity disappear.

He wraps his arms around you, drawing you against his chest, and buries his face into your hair.

This is the routine post-mission decompression hug. You know the drill. You wrap your arms around his torso, resting your hands against the expanse of his back. You gently pat him a few times. Usually, this lasts for about five seconds. He inhales deeply, lets out a dramatic sigh about how awful the higher-ups are, steps back, and drinks his cocoa.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

You wait for him to step back. 

Six. Seven. Eight.

He doesn't move. In fact, his grip on you tightens. His large hands, usually resting lightly against your shoulder blades, slide down the curve of your back. He flattens his palms against your waist and pulls you closer.

There is zero space between you now. You are pressed completely flush against him. You can feel the heavy rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest, so strong it seems to echo in your own ribs. You can smell the petrichor of the Tokyo rain, the lingering scent of old violence, and the sweet body wash he uses.

Your hands, previously lying flat against his sweater, curl into the fabric. 

Nine. Ten. Eleven.

The kitchen is perfectly silent, save for the rain sound. The atmosphere in the room grows heavy with unspoken things. It feels like stepping right up to the edge of a cliff and looking down.

He's just tired, your mind rationalizes frantically. He just needs comfort.

But the way his thumb begins to trace the dip of your spine suggests otherwise. The touch burns straight through your shirt. The casual looseness of his usual hugs has turned so intimate.

Satoru dips his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. The friction sends a shiver through you.

He has to feel it. He can undoubtedly hear the way your heart rate has doubled. He knows exactly how this proximity is affecting you. He knows exactly what he's doing.

Yet, he still doesn't pull away. He merely sinks further into the embrace, hoarding your warmth like a man starving.

"Satoru," you say carefully.

"Just a minute more," he whispers. His voice vibrates against your skin, dark and velvety. "Don't move. Please."

You don't. You couldn't even if you tried. You loosen your death grip on his sweater and slowly, tentatively, slide your arms upward. You lace your fingers softly into his snowy hair.

Satoru makes a quiet sound at the contact. His arms caged you firmly against his body.

You stand there, wrapped in the strongest sorcerer alive, the lines of your friendship blurring, warping, and unraveling in real-time. Neither of you says a word about it.

But as the minutes tick by, and Satoru finally, reluctantly pulls back, you know you can never go back to just being friends.