#alexiroflife

[alexiroflife]

"bare minimum" 𓆩♡𓆪

something short and sweet for the nanami mourners

kento nanami x reader

Synopsis: After a lifetime of believing you are meant to be alone, Kento swoops in, ready to love you when you least expect it.

to sum it up: kento heals years of mistrust just by being himself

WC: 5,499

Warning(s): a little angst in there but it's mostly fluff

You always told yourself that you'd never turn into your mother.

The constant overextending. The subconscious, trauma-induced emotional manipulation. The sheer weight of her feelings that she never allowed herself to bear alone, always with the help of her daughter who carried the weight of her unhealed grievances on her growing back.

Your mother was emotional. Empathetic in that way that makes one feel suffocated, her emotions inescapable. Impossible to avoid feeling, and impossible to avoid projecting. How else is one woman meant to go on with the burden of such intensity all on her own? Someone had to act as a buffer, to shoulder it all, to take the heat of the manifestations of her haunting past.

She gave you better than what she had, but still inflicted damage nonetheless. You figure now, in your older age, that is the very curse of cycles and generational patterns. The inheritance is inevitable.

And growing up overly conscious of error, oppressed verbally, and trained to bear the plights of other people, you turned your nose away from any notion of vulnerability, and any possibility of you taking on your mother's flawed behaviors.

I'd never treat my kid this way, you would tell yourself, holed up in your closet with your face burrowed in your arms, tears streaking down your heated face as your mind replayed the accusations of disrespect and the belittling of your character for expressing opposing opinions. I never want to be like this.

For a while, you think swearing by this oath will work some kind of magic on you, wipe away your genes, and free you of all the memories and experiences you have with overpowering emotion, with your mother.

You think that when you fly the coop, you'll get a clean slate.

But suppression only leads to explosion.

You hide away behind a wall of toughness, as you've long struggled with letting people in, with letting them see the real you for fear of their judgment. Every time anyone has ever managed to peel away at the layers and expose the truth in your unsaid thoughts and your overthinking tendencies, they villainized you.

You've accepted a lot of bullshit in your early years, thanks to the skillful way your mother formed you into a durable doormat for others to stamp their complaints into. Boys guilting you into having sex, expressing insecure possession - declaring you too friendly, uncaring, rude for speaking your mind.

Excessive blame for things outside of your control, lies about secret attraction toward friends, forcing you to drive everywhere, to pay, to be at their beck and call but not to bother them while they're occupied.

Lack of communication. Hours into days without texts. Weaponized incompetence. Never thinking to hold the door, never cleaning you up after sex, gaslighting, lusting, preying.

And they were never like that in the beginning. Always scheming, always putting on a mask to be able to say that they could obtain you, a prize, then letting it drop once you were within their grasp.

Disheartened by betrayal, tolerance worn thinner with each disappointment, the very worst act upon your tender heart. You crumble, you burst, you pour out the years of pent up anguish. Every moment you've held onto when you felt belittled, or ignored, or unseen by those you've trusted rockets from your chest into a spew of heavy, harmful truths that sever the connection between yourself and others.

In moments of unreciprocated action and the antagonization of your pleading words, you step outside of your body to look down upon yourself - you realize that you aren't much different from your mother.

Overexplaining, pleading with someone to hear you though they can not provide the things you need, to understand your pain, to feel the sorrows you feel every day. You've begged for someone to lean on. Someone who can handle knowing you, who can learn about you without tilting his head and saying that your emotions are...

A lot.

But that someone has yet to come.

You recall telling your mother the same thing in your early college years, when you finally worked up the courage to advocate for yourself. To fight back. To create a sense of self separate from hers.

You shiver at the comparison. Kids really are doomed to be their parents from birth. You know, now, that there is no escaping it.

You aren't good with friendships. You're horrible with relationships. You don't trust others with your love, with your whole self. You've only ever truly felt safe within your own mind, where no one else can harm you. Where you can't harm anyone else.

You tell yourself that you don't mind being single. In fact, you're better off. You have more room to develop yourself, to work toward your goals, build upon your career, nurture yourself in a way that you know you can't when you are in love and consequently overextending.

You try to push down the feelings of loneliness that often consume you when you see a happy couple walking by. You ignore the longing, the desire to be seen and loved in such a way by someone other than yourself. You convince yourself that it will never come, so you don't wait for it. You push on and try to forget.

Then, you meet Nanami completely by accident.

You're having a particularly unpleasant day, and after your shift, you decide to treat yourself to a fresh baked pastry to soothe your troubles and consequently destroy the diet you've put yourself on.

You're in front of the line, scanning the assortment of baked goods, and you finally decide on a tea and a chocolate croissant half the size of your head that's been calling your name. The lady behind the counter smiles politely and tells you the total you owe. When you reach for your purse, however, you realize that it is not on your person, but recall that it is lodged under the passenger seat of your car, after you'd tossed it off of you upon leaving work.

Embarrassed and annoyed, you sigh heavily and close your eyes. "I'm so sorry. I - forgot my wallet in my car. I'll be right back to go get it."

Before you can turn to go, someone walks up to the counter beside you. You think, at first, that he is rushing you, so you shoot him a hard glare, but instead, you are met with the side profile of quite a handsome man, tired and softspoken as he interjects.

"No need," he starts, voice formal and low with fatigue. He slots his fingers through his wallet calmly, clad in a grey work suit that brings out the soft yellow color of his blonde, fluffy hair. "I'll cover hers as well as mine."

You freeze, face falling with shock. "Oh god, don't do that," you step toward him again, reaching your hands out as if you can stop him, but he's already handing the lady a couple of bills as he recites to her an order that she seems to be all too accustomed with.

He turns to look down at you with the kindest chocolate eyes. "I assure you. It's not a problem."

"Really, though, my wallet's only a few steps away. I'd hate for you to pay for something I can easily take care of."

"Perhaps, but then you'd have to wait in line all over again. I figure this is more convenient," he explains simply, and you furrow your brows with a blink. The lady behind the counter darts her eyes between the two of you, hesitantly reaching for the money that is still extended toward her, unsure of what the consensus is.

"Sir, please," you chuckle awkwardly. "You're... too kind, but I can pay for myself."

"I insist."

"No, I insist. You don't even know me."

"I hardly think that matters."

"But-"

"Girl, just let the man pay! Damn."

Both of your heads swivel to the older woman behind you, her hand propped on her hip with a sour impatience scribbled onto her wrinkled face. Your brow twitches, and you turn to look up at the stranger beside you and catch the ghosting smile that graces his exhausted, pretty features.

You open your mouth to protest, but then consider the long line behind you, and deflate. "Okay fine." You nod toward the lady at the counter who finally takes the man's money.

She grins, counting the bills then putting them into the register. "We'll have your orders out shortly. Thank you! See you at the end of the week, Nanami!"

You step to the side as the man who paid for you nods into the woman's direction with appreciation and familiarity, before stepping to the side along with you.

The two of you stand next to each other awkwardly, your arms folded over your chest, and you clear your throat. "Thank you," you manage.

The man shakes his head. "Don't. Really. It was my pleasure."

"Still, you didn't have to do that. It's not like I forgot my money at home."

"I was happy to. Regardless." You slim your eyes with skepticism, unsure of his angle. He seems to catch your suspicion with a soft chuckle, as he proceeds to ask, "I take it you don't believe me."

Slightly taken by his forwardness, you stumble to explain. "It's not that I don't believe you, I just don't really get... why?" you shrug, smiling awkwardly with your teeth.

The handsome blonde ponders you thoughtfully. "Does there have to be a reason other than me wanting to?"

"No one ever wants to cover someone else," you wave him off.

"I just did."

Your mouth curves up. "Out of obligation."

"Because I wanted to," he corrects you for the third time.

You press your lips together tightly, and he chuckles something light and unexpected. "Are you laughing at me?" you quirk a brow.

"No."

Your eyes slim. "Liar."

The handsome man shakes his head, a smile line creasing over his warm skin. Tired eyes blink before landing back on you out of the corner of his eye. "Not at all," he says earnestly.

You look away. So does he.

You find yourself unsure of what more to say, so you let more awkward silence fill the small space between you as the cramped bakery grows busier. You tap your foot against the floor as you wait, and the man named Nanami checks his watch multiple times. You're keenly aware of his presence beside you. You try not to let it further bother you.

It shouldn't bother you, but the excited flutter of your heart proves otherwise, though you endeavor to ignore it and brush it off as nerves.

The call of your name soon comes, and your brows furrow as you and the blonde stranger move to grab your order at the same time. With hands outstretched, you find each other's gaze again, and you frown skeptically - Nanami seems to have reached your warmed croissant and hot drink before you.

"I was closer," he offers as he turns to you, tea in one hand and bag in the other. Your brow twitches as you hastily take your order from him. He lets you, his hands falling instinctively to his sides as though to surrender power back into your jurisdiction. "You would have had to push through-"

"I'm aware," you cut him off. "You don't have to go doing everything for me now."

"That wasn't my intention..." the brown eyed man trails off. Suddenly, his name is called behind him, and his head turns slightly at the sound but his eyes remain on you as he fumbles with his thoughts, bearing an indifferent expression. "I'm sorry. I've offended you."

You watch as he grabs his own order, nodding toward the worker with pressed lips of acknowledgement. You look down at your own order in your hands, and back up at him. "No... you haven't. Sorry. It's - just been a long day. Not used to random acts of kindness," you say as an excuse.

The man faces you again, a large loaf now tucked under his arm as his veiny hand clasps his coffee. "I understand."

A lull in the conversation strikes once more when the two of you realize that you have nothing more keeping you within the establishment. "Well, thank you. Again. Really, that was... unnecessarily nice of you."

"You don't need to keep thanking me. It really was nothing."

He walks a few paces behind you as you both go to leave the bustling bakery, and as he lunges from behind to stretch his free arm toward the door, pushing it open from the angle he discovered just above your head, your brows pinch again. And you thank him. Again.

You give him a tight smile before turning over your shoulder to walk to your car, when you hear his steady, polite, subtly hesitant voice.

"Pardon me, but you're very beautiful."

Your heels halt their clicking against the pavement. You freeze, whipping your head over your shoulder with tight muscles and wide eyes. The suited man stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, face blank and eyes honest. He does not try to perform. Does not try to add anything more to the compliment. He simply lets it linger in the air, making himself known to you for fear that he would never see you again.

Your lips part, your breath hitches. You're hardly new to such praises, but the gentleness of his tone when he spoke, the humility in his words, the lack of expectation in his eyes is what frightens you.

You see his lips tighten under your gaze, and he shifts the bread under his arm. "That's all."

"Is that why you paid for my order?" you ask suddenly, cheeks warm and brain stirring with confusion. “Because I’m beautiful.”

Something in him dissipates, as though the tension in his body has eased slightly at your voice. "Partially. I saw you walk in before me. You looked stressed so, I thought I'd try to make you feel better."

"And how would you know if I was stressed or not?"

"Because I'm stressed all the time. I can sense it from a mile away."

There is, once more, no performance behind his words. Just truth in exasperation, in the lidded state of his warm eyes and the lines creasing beneath them. You inhale to speak, but the words get caught in your chest again. You have nothing to bite back with, nothing to scoff at, no excuse to chastise, and you're unsure of how to go forward accordingly.

You swallow hard. "Well, I hope you don't think that buying me something when I don’t even know you is gonna give you some kind of advantage."

"I don't think that," he shakes his head simply. "Like I said before, it was my pleasure. I don't expect anything from you in return."

You raise your brow, unconvinced. "Really?"

"Truly."

Your brows come down and your teeth sink into the inside of your lip. A light smile returns to the stranger's lips, something soft and observant. "Then," you start, drawing your tea close to your chest. "I'll be taking my leave now."

You wait for an outburst, an explosion, for him to go on a tangent about how you haven't even given him the decency of providing a number, or at least for his expression to shift with irritation. But none of which comes. Instead, he just nods simply and goes to walk off as well. "As will I. Have a wonderful day, miss."

Your jaw drops when he walks away, slow, easy, tired strides, and you stand frozen in place, watching the back of his head as he moves away.

You clamp your lips shut and swallow hard, moving to turn around as well, but something in you fights back. You clench your jaw hard and close your eyes before- "Excuse me!" you call out. Now a few yards away, he stops and turns over his shoulder with surprise and curiosity. Your lips crinkle, your skin flushing as passerbyers glance at you, and the blonde's attention is once again yours.

You can't believe you're doing this.

"W-What was your name again?"

He blinks, genuinely surprised that you stopped him to ask. "Kento Nanami."

You nod. “Okay. Good. Goodbye.”

You swiftly turn over your shoulder and leave, and the blonde watches you, shocked, before smiling.

You see Kento a handful of times before you finally give in and give him your number and your full name. You realize that, due to his frequent appearances in your recent life, that he must live within the same vicinity as you. A few hopeful conversations and approaches initiated by the blonde, cautious yet earnest, and a text from your friend is what pushes you to finally give him access to you outside of short interactions in the middle of the cereal aisle.

You're guarded from the beginning, terrified by his generosity, his respectful good morning texts, the way he checks in on how you're doing when he has free time in the day - unprovoked, unpressured, seeking no ulterior motive.

You would stare at the lit phone screen with your chin propped angrily in your palm, fingers thumping against your lips as your glare sharpens on his perfect grammar. You're waiting for the gentleman routine to die away, to fade out, but it remains steady over a week of phone conversation. Still, a week is just a week. Hardly enough time to know someone's true motivations, and you've been with men who have kept up the act for months before finally revealing his hidden, careless identity.

But then, Kento asks you out.

You read the text over and over after having initially dropped your phone and jumped away upon receiving the message.

Kento | I would love to take you to dinner, if you would be willing to let me.

It's a trap, you immediately think. You can't remember the last time you've been on a date, the last time a man actually asked you properly, the last time a man planned something for you without expecting you to jump through hoops to see him. You're prepared to tell him no, or that at the very least you'd think about it, but after leaving him on read for nearly six hours, and another call with your best friend, you accept, as she claims that you would be crazy not to go out with him.

But she can not account for the discomfort that seizes your body when he meets you outside of the nice restaurant he picked, after you insisted on driving separate cars; when he opens the car door for you and stretches his hand inside the vehicle to gingerly take yours in his; when his eyes capture your face and not your body as he tells you that you look absolutely stunning; when he pulls out your chair for you to sit down, having guided you by your hand throughout the twists and turns of the dimly lit space, an air of natural dominance crowding him when he interacts so calmly with the staff.

He does not suffocate conversation with arrogance, but asks you questions about your life, holding your gaze as you speak to show that he is truly listening. When you notice him staring, he apologizes, ducking his head with the intrusion of stifled shyness as he continues to compliment you, your mind, your beauty.

You're out of your depth. Your heart flutters the whole night as your (e/c) hues hold his warm ones, and your skin crawls with something you can't quite name. You don't remember the last time you felt so seen, so prioritized, so catered to. And more than Kento's swiftness to pay without blinking an eye or letting you even see a peep of the bill, and more than his haste to make sure you aren't too hot or cold, that your food is just the way you wanted it, is the manner with which he treats you. As though wining and dining you at some fancy place you always wanted to try is nothing near a chore, but something he feels that you are entitled to, that he is expected to do as a man in pursuit of your heart.

And at the end of the night, after he has offered to walk you back to your car, instead of expecting once more, he asks if he can take you out again.

You look at him with a dumbfounded gaze for a long moment, as you likely have for the majority of the night, and you mindlessly nod, your skepticism warping into fear.

Fear over the fact that this is the first man you've felt a genuine connection with after years of shielding your heart from any possible vulnerability.

You wreck your brain, wondering what this man could possibly want from you. Sex? A mistress? Someone to manipulate? 

The speculations die one by one with each date you have with him, with every fact you learn about his personality and his daily life, about his morals and values, his drive, his grit, his responsibility. Three dates fly by, and he has yet to ask you to join him at his place or to accompany you at yours. He keeps a respectful distance whilst continuing to pursue you, to treat you, to court you as a man should.

You feel yourself actually beginning to like Kento, and that prospect alone is enough for you to disappear for a couple of days after your discovery. You tell him that you've been busy, that you don't have the time you once had to talk on the phone every night or plan your next outing.

Ordinarily, you get away with your habitual isolation, but one rather serious text is enough to tell you that you won't be able to get away with such things with Nanami, especially since he has made his intentions with you very clear - that he plans to be yours.

Kento | Hello, beautiful. I understand you need your space. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but from your tone and distance, I've sensed that you are upset about something. I recall you mentioning that you tend to take steps away when you aren't feeling like yourself. I won't further intrude in honor of your space, but whenever you feel ready, I am here to talk or listen. I sent you something to help take your mind off of whatever is bothering you. I hope you like it.

You open your door to find a bouquet of flowers lying at your doorstep, and a note attached with Kento's name and I'm here written in cursive. Your nose flares and your eyes glaze over as you look down at the thoughtful gift. No one's ever sent you flowers before. Not like this.

And no one's ever noted your habits, ever paid enough attention to you to tell when you're overstimulated or overthinking. You'd mentioned that about yourself one time, and Nanami remembered. And he didn't just remember, but he acknowledged it. He didn't antagonize you for it. He made himself known, and reminded you that you aren't alone. That you don't have to be anymore. That he sees you and wants to continue seeing you in every sense of the word.

Your heart pangs. You like him and you're terrified.

You don't reach out to him until the next morning. You've placed your flowers on the counter for display and lean against the kitchen sink with your phone in hand. Your leg bounces restlessly against the cabinets as you harshly tap on his contact to call. It's the weekend, so he answers rather swiftly.

"Hello?"

"You scare the shit out of me," you bluntly confess into the speaker, voice tight.

The other line is silent for a moment before Nanami's voice, low and thoughtful, comes back in. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to," he apologizes. You click your teeth with a huff of a laugh. "Could you tell me what I've done to make you feel that way?"

You suck in a sharp breath, for there truly is no way to get this man to show any bad side. Your gut trusts him, but your mind screams at you to run, while your heart yearns to feel his arms encase you as he tells you that everything will be alright. You're at odds with yourself.

But you want him so badly.

"You're too nice," you exhale through an anxious laugh, looking longingly over at your flowers.

"...Too nice?"

"Yes. I-It's confusing. You don't need to check in all the time or - or send me flowers-"

"You don't like them?"

"No," you quickly say. You sigh. "I mean... no - yes, I do like them. They're very sweet. T-Thank you. But that's not what I mean. I just mean... like... you're so..."

You stumble over your words, struggling to find the right way to express yourself whilst evading judgment. Your mind frantically searches for the right path and you fumble.

"(Y/n)," Kento calls gently.

"What?" you heave.

"Take your time," he guides. "Just tell me how you feel. It's alright."

You freeze. "...Wha...What?"

"I'm listening, sweetheart. Just take your time to sort it all out," he assures.

Your lips press together in a pout as you stare ahead, wide-eyed, your heart pattering in your chest. Your eyes sting with humiliation, and that hardness around your heart softens as you feel that you will finally be heard, that someone is happy to hear you.

You take in a shaky breath. "Why are you so nice to me?" you whisper.

"I'm happy that you think I’m kind, but I’m not trying to be nice, (Y/n). I've only aimed to be honest. I like you, and I want to be with you someday if you would like that too. I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. In all honesty, I haven't done anything very remarkable."

"You haven't-" you stop yourself with another laugh, sniffling slightly. "Kento, what do you mean you haven't done anything remarkable? You - you're so sweet to me all the time. You go out of your way to do things that you don't have to do."

"Like what?"

"Like... planning our dates all the time, or picking me up, or sending me things, or-or listening to what I say-"

"(Y/n), those aren't remarkable things. That's the least I can do for the woman I care about."

"You say that, but you don't get it."

"Perhaps I don't," he agrees. "But I'd love for you to help me understand what you're feeling more."

You trace your finger over the countertop sheepishly, blinking back the tears in your eyes. "Can you come over?"

"Absolutely."

And he does. And the two of you talk for hours, or rather, he listens to you spill your vulnerabilities, your feelings, vent your concerns and frustrations with a trust that you did not realize you had formulated with him. And unlike every guy who brushed you off or told you that you were too demanding or too emotional, Nanami holds your hand, looks you in the eye, tells you he hears you, and means it.

Your bottom lip trembles as the past month or so spent with him flickers through your mind. You can feel the race of your pulse against the blonde's skin, and you frown at yourself. At how giddy he makes you feel. "I know how I get," you say. "When I have feelings for someone, they're not something I take lightly. I'm not casual. I can't pretend not to care, and I don't want to feel like I'm grasping for attention when you finally get me. I don't want to delude myself into thinking that just because you're nice, you can't do what other people have done."

Nanami watches you with a fondness you can't name, silent and steadfast, warm and enticing. His thumb traces over the back of your hand as he sits close to you on the couch, unhurried, patient, present, and grateful to be.

"I can't pretend to know what other men have put you through, or how deeply it continues to impact you. I know you're scared. You have every reason to protect yourself the way you do," he begins. "But I'm not that kind of man. When I say something, I mean it. When I promise something, I have every intention of fulfilling that promise. When I treat you one way, it's not for show. It is how I intend to treat you for as long as you will allow me. I know trust is not something that can be built overnight, but I'm willing to do the work. I want you to feel safe with me. I want to make you happy. I won't try to rush that happiness or that trust. You're entitled to your space when you need it. You owe me nothing. But when you're ready, I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."

You sink into his words, your walls cracking, your heart surging. Glassy, red eyes search his face for some trick, and you once more come up empty handed. He presses his lips together in that tired, half smile, reminding you that it's okay.

Moved, you lean forward and press your lips to his impulsively, parting shortly after with a soft smack and sad eyes. You go to start apologizing when his palms raise to hold your face and your lips are slowly brought back into his.

Nanami kisses you for the first time like he is holding something precious. He does not attack you, but he savors you, slow and kind like his voice and the way he interacts with the surrounding world. You feel your chest tighten and warm, your skin tingle all over, and your flesh run hot as he holds you to him carefully, politely, gliding warm lips over your own with an appreciation so firm, he can't bear the thought of breaking away.

You part for a moment with heavy eyes, his thumb tracing over the skin of your cheek. Your hands press to his shoulders as you release a hot breath. "Please don't hurt me," you plead against his mouth, surrendering yourself from this point forward.

Nanami cradles you close. "I'll do everything in my power not to."

And even then, his words ring genuine, for Kento is aware that he can not promise such things, that people hurt their loved ones without attempting to all the time. But more importantly, he will work to honor your desires, to remember your triggers and fears, to know you well enough for that not to happen as long as he can control it.

And that, to you, means more than he could even begin to understand.

The two of you take it slow. You don't have sex until after he has asked to be your partner, and when you do, Kento asks for your permission before making any move to touch you further. He sees, feels the anxiety in your eyes and your body language, the fear that sexual intimacy will draw him further away from you, but he stays.

He stays with you while making love to you, holding your gaze, interlacing your fingers, pressing his body flush to yours, eliminating any exposure to the cold, keeping himself present. 

He stays with you after, holding your shivering body against his, murmuring soft praises into your ear and pressing warm kisses to your skin.

And rather than creating a distance, sex brings you inexplicably closer. The passion is thick in Nanami's enamoured eyes every time he sees you, every time he utters your name. After months of chipping away, you mirror his smitten nature, opening yourself up to the affections he always, always provides.

That's what Kento is, a provider, financially, physically, and emotionally. You feel light with him by your side, like the burdens of the world have lifted from your shoulders just long enough for you to breathe and simultaneously enjoy the good that it has to offer.

You never find yourself overexplaining your frustrations, because Kento has already noticed them and taken action to help you through them. 

You never feel as though you are carrying anything alone, because Kento is always there to share the load or take it on himself.

And you never experience a moment in which you feel unloved, because Kento ensures that he spends every second of every day reminding you what you mean to him, showering you with unforced, unconditional ardor.

When you look back on your past, at the lengths you went to avoid further damage to your heart, you wonder what force in the universe brought Kento to you when you thought that you were never meant to experience the happiness you do now.

[alexiroflife]

"assumptions" ℘

gojo fics | in honor of a situationship ending today i present you the better, fictional ending of what bs transpired

-> "fears" [pt. 2 to this]

satoru gojo x non-sorcerer! reader

Synopsis: You consider yourself to be a pretty understanding person, but when the guy you're seeing fails to properly communicate with you, you begin to spiral.

to sum it up: why can't satoru just text you back?!

WC: 7,693

Warning(s): some angst, ends in fluff

There is one thing in this world that you truly can not stand. One thing that drives you insane above all other pet peeves, one thing that you just can't seem to react calmly to every single time it is presented to you.

And that is lacking communication.

When you started seeing Satoru, you didn't expect much from him. Tall stature, ivory hair, dazzling sapphire eyes were only a few signifiers of his popularity with the female population, and unfortunately, with you as well. 

You aren't quite sure how he roped you in. You'd known him long enough, been friends long enough to give it a little push, to entertain his flirtations just a little bit despite your gut screaming at you to turn the other way, to let him bother some other hopeless case.

But that look in his pretty eyes, the one soft and precious enough to make you give him a chance, the one that led you to subconsciously lower your guard as you gazed into authenticity rather than suave and arrogance for the very first time, is what made you give it a shot. After all, you decided, a few months of knowing someone is enough to have an idea of how they'd treat you on dates, how they'd handle you in a relationship.

And what you do primarily know about Gojo is not his occupation, which he brushes over rather frequently, and not his home life, but his wealth. The man is loaded. You can tell simply by glancing at the time piece wrapped around his taut wrist and the ridiculously overpriced sunglasses that he pulls down the bridge of his nose to wink at you. You know that, even if trying to get to know him romantically ends in disaster, that you'd at the very least get a good fucking date out of it.

But the problem is that it didn't end at just one good date. What you had assumed to be a little fling, a one time outing, a test of his confidence actually turned out to be one of the best dates you’d ever been on. Satoru's a gentleman, in an annoying kind of way. He'll sport that cheeky grin as he holds the door for you and leads you to the finest seat of the establishment, and he'll lounge back in his seat as he gazes at you fondly, lips curving into that devilish smile as the softest of compliments tumbles from them.

He calls you beautiful like it's the first time he's ever said it, and however skeptical you may be, you detect it. You hear it. You see the truth in his eyes, hear it in the stutter of his words that he attempts to hide with jokes and false suave. However pompous Satoru Gojo may be outside of this territory, he's humbled into a rather pathetic sap at your hand, and you... well you like it. You really do.

So you let it sweep you up just a little bit, easing the air as you laugh freely about work stories that he only listens to and does not share himself. And that is another thing that surprises you. He only wants to hear about you, to learn about you, to understand you and your functions and divert from any topic of himself.

You notice it. You've taken note of it ever since you've known him. You thought that going on a date with him would have reduced some of his mystery, but alas, he remains an enigma in your eyes. An overly sweet, rather playfully irritating, gorgeous enigma. Something in your gut tells you not to trust it, but the way your hand slips into his as the two of you stroll the city after dinner says otherwise - or at least says that you don't mind the mystique. That you can play pretend just for a little while.

He tells you he wants to see you again. That he's practically chomping at the bit to take you out once more. That he's got all these date ideas swimming around in his head that have been plaguing him since the very day that he met you. That befriending you has brightened his life, and you allowing him to court you has opened his eyes to the world's beauty even more.

Satoru is all dimpled grins and sweet nothings, and you hate that you love it. You slap him on the chest with a scoff of a laugh and shake your head, but he means every word he says. You know he does. You allow yourself to think he does. Because he doesn't want you to feel as though he's playing pretend. He wants you to feel alive the way you make him feel. He wants you to sink into the notion, and trust that someone like him could actually take care of you.

So you go home after your date and wait for him to text you, to respond to your message saying that you had a great time, that you want to do this again when he's free, but it remains unanswered for a day and a half. And the first seed of doubt implants itself into your gut. 

He comes back the following night like nothing, responding as though he's answered you in minutes, expressing how much he enjoyed the night and shares your sentiments, and you text him back with a wrinkle in your brow that you try to brush off.

you | damn, late response lol

satoru | sorry sweetest most beautiful princess😩 work's been crazy, please don't be mad

And you try not to be. You try to be the understanding individual that you are, though he still doesn't clarify just what he does for work other than the fact that he works with kids and helps with their training. Training for what, you aren't sure, but you don't push it any further since he does not willingly offer up the information. Perhaps he's just guarded in that realm. Perhaps he signed some NDA. Hell, perhaps work really is digging into his free time. Even when you and Satoru became friends, he never texted all that often. You only are now noticing it because you've stepped into a different territory regarding your relationship, and your heart and mind have inflicted unwarranted expectations onto the man who so desperately wants to see you again.

You're annoyed, but you let it slide. The first time.

you | it's okay i understand, just lmk when you're busy or i'll think you died or something

satoru | that should be the least of your concerns, but noted!!! i'll do better.

And you schedule the next date, and unsurprisingly, your heart tugs into his direction even more. He takes you to an amusement park, something you vaguely mentioned in passing that you'd want to revisit because you rarely got to go as a kid. Hours of cotton candy, kettle corn, ferris wheel rides, and teddy bears later, he looks you in the eye and tells you how much he likes you - even with lingering sugar stuck to your shiny lips and your eyes reflecting the fireworks that burst overhead. He peers down at you with that soft gaze and gentle smile, cheeks warm and hair tossed by summer breeze, and you lean up on your tip toes to kiss him on the cheek before he walks you to the car.

Surely, you expect some more conversation when you send him a picture of you and the bear he won from that carnie cuddled up in bed together that night, but once more, a day and a half passes, and he pops in out of the blue, responding like no time has passed again.

You feel yourself growing aggravated, but it's early, you tell yourself. He said he was busy with work, and it was nearing the end of the week, so you grant him that grace. You try your damndest to shovel down the doubts that begin to rise and focus on your own job, attempting to burrow the thoughts of him that begin to swarm your mind at the worst of times.

Then he calls you another day later, and you answer rather flatly.

"Hello."

"Hiii beautiful," Satoru sings into the phone. "What are you up to this weekend? Care to grace me with your presence?"

And his voice, so silky and playful, almost makes you forget your frustrations now that you're actually speaking to him. Almost. "Maybeee," you sigh.

"Uh oh. What's wrong? You hate me now?"

"No, I don't hate you. Stop saying that."

"Then what's wrong? You sound kinda... tired."

You rub your temple as you try to find the words. "Is everything okay with work? You've been really distant."

There's a slight pause. "Have I?" he questions as though he is genuinely confused by the sentiment. "I'm sorry, I honestly didn't realize. I'm not a good texter. You could ask my coworkers. I suck."

"It's fine. I know you're busy - it's just... I mean, could I ask what your intentions are with me?"

"Sure you can."

"...Well, what are they? Is this just a fling... or-"

"God, I hope not!" he chuckles, a hint of nervousness in his tone. "Why... is that what you want?"

"No. I just... if it's what you want then..."

"It's not," Satoru says earnestly. "I like you. I want to keep seeing you and only you. Seriously."

"So not like a fling?"

"Not at all like a fling."

"Okay..."

"Do you want that too? To keep dating me seriously?"

"...Yeah. Maybe," your cheeks flush.

Satoru takes the opportunity to lighten the mood and runs with it. "Maybe?? You tryin' to give me a heart attack?"

You snort. "You're dramatic."

"Only about you, pretty girl."

You close your eyes and exhale slowly. "Then... if we're being serious about this... I really don't care if you're busy. I promise I don't. But I get really weird about communication... and I'd prefer it if you told me beforehand when you'd be busy so I'm not expecting a text from you. Because... you really do respond late as hell. I know that's nothing new, but now that we're seeing each other... I just want more clarification. Is that... something you could do?"

He's silent for a moment, pensive, you think. "Of course it is, (Y/n)," he finally says, the humor leaving his voice. "I know you already mentioned that. I'm really sorry. My job is just - I don't have a lot of free time and things tend to slip my mind."

You store those words in a vault. You slip his mind? Does that mean he isn't thinking about you enough to care to reach out?

You try not to let the thought swallow you, and remain present in his words.

"Those kids must have you running ragged, huh?" you try to joke yourself, hoping for an opening to learn more.

"Like you wouldn't believe," he murmurs. "I'll tell you more about it some other time. Don't wanna bore you with the details."

"You could never bore me..." you trail off.

You hear a smile return. "You like me, huh?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Satoru laughs loudly, and you hate the way your lips twitch to smile as you duck your head and try to force it away. "So mean," he whines. "You could never bore me either, for the record. And I really am sorry about my texting. I get distracted easily."

You roll your eyes, heart pounding in your ears. "Yeah, yeah."

"...Soooo, this weekend?"

"I'm free, you idiot."

And this weekend, he takes you to the fucking opera. Why? God only knows, but he tells you to dress pretty and that he'll pick you up adorned in a dark tux, and the only thing you can think about as you sit on the balcony with those binoculars you've only seen in Pretty Woman is that this man knows exactly how to make you feel like royalty, as long as he's physically with you.

His hand grazes the small of your back and when you turn to look at him with the glitter of your dangly earrings shining against your (s/c) skin, and an awed smile stretched from ear to ear during intermission, he melts. And you do too. 

And you decide, in that very moment, that the opera is your new favorite place to visit.

"I've never done that before."

Your head snaps into Satoru's direction as he waits for the valet to bring his car around after the show, hand around your waist, his cologne clinging to your fabrics. "Done what?" you ask softly, your head still light from the amazement you witnessed in the form of grand voices that tugged at the strings of your heart.

He looks down at you, lids low. "Gone to the opera."

You furrow your brows, though smiling. "What?" you laugh. "Then why'd you take me?"

He shrugs. "Thought we could experience something new together," he says. "You also said once that your mom used to play a lot of Puccini, so. I don't know. Thought it'd be cool."

Your eyes slim though your heart soars. "Do you even know who Puccini is?"

"He's an opera singer."

You cackle. "He's an opera composer."

"Oh. Well, same thing."

"You're insane," you giggle, holding your abdomen as Satoru's hand glides up the silk of your back.

"Didn't seem so insane when you were crying during the last thirty minutes."

"Hey, I didn't say it wasn't good!" you finally calm down, looking back up at him. You sigh out. "It was really beautiful. I can't believe you took us here off a whim though."

"But you liked it, right?" he smiles with the tilt of his head.

You purse your lips as your cheeks glow with warmth. "I loved it."

His smile warms. "Then my job is done." The atmosphere thickens as he pulls back slightly to lift a hand to the side of your face, slender fingertips gently brushing at something under your eye. You blink, holding his gaze as his hand hesitantly settles upon your cheek, thumb caressing your flushed skin. "Eyelash," he mumbles, voice dipping.

You hardly hear him, the lights of the theatre aglow around you as your faces inches further toward one another. Satoru's bright eyes have grown heavy and serious, pupils swollen with the image of you as the distance between your lips shrinks.

"Was it really an eyelash?" you whisper as he looks over your face contently, completely swept up in you.

"No," he says.

And the distance closes. Your lips meet. His arms encircle you, and you can not go back.

You forget that he doesn't tell you about work like he said he would. You forget that his communication when the two of you aren't physically together is not ideal. You forget it all, and let him kiss you like you mean something to him, and let come inside with you when he drives you home as though he's promised himself to you.

You wake up the next morning to an empty bed and a text saying that he had to run much to his chagrin. But it's Sunday. No ordinary person works on a Sunday, so, rather abruptly, his sound excuse crumbles, and you are left with the empty imprint of his body in your sheets where he held you close.

You text him back expressing how much you enjoyed the night, and like always, nothing comes in return.

You elect to wash the sheets.

The assumptions come flooding into your mind as you busy yourself with cleaning the space after the two of you had left it in such a wreck. He couldn't even bother to straighten up on his way out.

Is he married? Does he have any kids? A secret family? Is he fucking other women behind your back and trying to hide it? Is he even employed?

The possibilities wreck your brain as time passes, and every second he does not respond weighs down on your shoulders, as you begin to think that this was all just a trap - that he successfully baited you into sleeping with him. Using false promises, pretty dates, and his charm to weasel his way into your body, pretending to be enamoured with you as he held eye contact through every second, as he talked you through every second, as he swore to do right by you every second he was inside of you.

And now he's gone. A memory that has tinged itself in resentment with the setting of the sun and his sheer lack of reply. You think of calling him, but you decide that would look desperate. You think of telling him off, but decide that would look too hasty.

You try to understand. Desperately you do, but how can you when you are left high and dry every single time he leaves your presence? How can you when he doesn't bother to think of you when you aren't around? How can you when he doesn't even have the decency to let you know that he's okay? To tell you the truth if he's hiding something? To be up front if he's kept secrets?

You don't do well with lack of communication. Even if he's a bad texter, your mind does not jump to that simple solution. In the absence of words, your mind jumps into overdrive. You conjure up the worst possible solutions, the most outrageous notions, and you stew in them until you get answers.

So that night before bed, you double text.

you | hey... you good? what did you have to go do?

And you wait with your phone clutched in trembling hands for a text that does not come. So you put his messages on mute, turn over, and try to sleep.

But your heart wails for its capture, as you realize you're falling for someone who can't even text you back. Your dreams are haunted by your anxieties, by the thought of him running off to his family, by the thought of him texting other women, by the thought of him hiding something monumental from you.

Because that is something that you know for certain, that he is protecting something with his life. Whether it is good or bad, you do not know, but you doubt that you will access it any time soon.

The next morning you get up early to go grab a cup of coffee. Your texts remain unanswered, despite having muted his messages, so to drown your irritation, you take a walk to the nearest coffee shop.

On your way out however, you see him. Clad in a dark blindfold that spikes his fluffy hair upward, the same hair that your fingers were entwined in two nights prior, and a strange black uniform adorning his entire body.

But next to him... next to him is a brunette woman with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth and heavy, yet entrancing circles tracing under her eyes. They walk closely beside one another. She says something. Satoru laughs. And your heart shatters.

She’s beautiful.

Not only did Satoru refuse to answer your text, but he refused to because he was busy with another woman.

And when you look down, that stupid phone of his is clutched in his hand.

You consider yourself to be a reasonable woman. You always try to exercise patience, to see all sides of a situation even if it makes you uncomfortable, to not act with your emotions first but with empathy, for you never know what other people may have going on in their lives.

Satoru told you he'd try, but weeks have passed, and his communication remains the same. And it's not because he's busy, but because he merely does not want to speak to you. Because his time is occupied by another bitch, who he probably ran off to the second he was done fucking you.

Anger bubbles in your gut. You knew it. You knew something was wrong. You knew that someone like him couldn't possibly be loyal to you. You knew that it was all too good to be true, that his silence answered for something he refused to name.

Now you see it. And against your better judgment, against your carefully exercised patience, against your logic, you steep in red. You're hurt, you're embarrassed, you're betrayed.

So instead of trying to understand, you let all of your insecurities and doubts pile up and explode, using them as a justification for what you see. You toss your overpriced coffee to the ground, it splatters at your feet, and you march across the street with steam rising from your head to save you from tears.

Satoru seems to sense you when you are halfway to him, and his laughter dies down. His face drops, and he turns to you in shock, or what you assume to be shock, as you aren't entirely sure due to the blindfold hiding his eyes.

The brunette's eyes float to you after Satoru's attention diverts, and she blinks cluelessly as you stomp toward him.

"(Y/n)!" he starts in surprise, but the very sound of his voice only infuriates you.

"Don't you fucking (Y/n) me. What the fuck is your problem?" you jab your index finger toward him. The brunette's eyes widen slightly, and she slowly looks up to Satoru as if she's caught a child getting in trouble.

Satoru stammers, hands raising at your foreign, accusatory tone. "What are y-"

"You just fuck me after a date and then disappear again? Like you fucking always do?" you shout. The brunette's hand goes to her mouth, but you doubt she's uncomfortable. In fact, it almost looks like she's enjoying this.

It pisses you off.

Satoru's cheeks flush red as he glances over at the woman frantically, then back down at you. "(Y/n), can we talk about this somewhere else?"

"No! No, we can't talk about it somewhere else! Have I not told you a hundred times that I need better communication if this is gonna work? Every time you tell me you'll get better, that you're sorry, but nothing fucking changes! I don't know why the hell I thought it would change after you had sex with me!" you pause to chuckle cynically. "That's fucking hilarious! What the hell was I thinking? That you'd suddenly be loyal to me because you called me pretty and took me out three times? Christ, I'm a fucking idiot!"

Satoru tries to take a step closer. "You're not an idiot," he reaches for you, but you swat his hand away. He reels, stepping back as though you've burned him with clamped, wobbly lips.

"Don't fucking touch me. You can't use me anymore. I won't let you. I'm done. I told you how I feel about this shit, and you've ignored me every single time. I don't wanna talk to someone who doesn't take me seriously and who lies about it."

"But I do take you seriously," he pleads. "I told you, I do-"

"If you did, you would have responded. You would have called. You wouldn't let me initiate damn near every single conversation. You'd hear me when I express something to you," you fume, tears building in your eyes. "How am I supposed to trust you if you can't even do that? If you won't even tell me what you do for work? If you're clearly able to pick up the phone, but not for me? If you're actively with another woman while I wait for you to fucking reply days later?"

The brunette raises her hand slowly, lazily, hesitant to interrupt. "Sorry, but," she starts, and your eyes snap to her heatedly. "I'm his-"

"I don't give a fuck what you are, okay?" you interrupt. Her hand falls and she nods, rather unintimidated. "I'm done. Hear me? Done. Lose my fucking number."

With that, you turn over your shoulder and march back off across the street, leaving Satoru and the brunette to reel in the aftermath of your outburst.

Satoru blinks, watching you retreat with his heart weighing down in his chest. A lump of shame builds in his throat, and he remains rigid as if he is still being yelled at.

"So," Shoko starts awkwardly. "That was her?"

"Yep, that was... that was her," he finally says, dejectedly.

There's a beat.

"You fucked her then left her on delivered?"

"Shoko," Satoru whines, turning to her with a slump in his dejected posture. "Please don't start, you just watched the woman I'm crazy about stomp on my heart and leave it on the pavement to get shit on."

"Okay well, if you're so crazy about her, why haven't you texted her back?"

The ivory haired sorcerer sighs. "Because I'm in too deep."

"Clearly you already were."

"That's not what I-" he glares with a pout at her innuendo, but Shoko looks up at him boredly, expectantly. Satoru groans. "Because I'm a sorcerer and she's not, and the kind of life I live isn't meant for her."

"Then why pursue her in the first place?"

"I couldn't help it," he ducks his head, scratching the nape of his neck. "She's sweet, she's smart, she's... she's strong, and so pretty. I’m obsessed with her," he shakes his head. "And you know Gakuganji's been sending me on all these stupid ass missions back to back too. He knows I'm gettin' distracted. Between that, and Yuji, and... I just don't wanna hurt her."

"Eh. Too late for that."

"You're not helping," he groans. "I'm serious. What if she becomes a target because I'm around her too much? What if she finds out what I do and thinks I'm crazy?"

"If you like her as much as you say you do, then... I don't know. Just be honest. Just go for it."

"And put her in danger?"

"There's always danger with you around, Satoru. Why should it matter if it means you can be happy?"

Satoru purses his lips. "It matters 'cause I'm not just some sorcerer. It matters because she could get killed."

"Is she worth it?"

He looks off into the direction you stormed off in and his heart aches at the thought of losing you this way. "Yeah," he frowns.

"Then protect her. She’s not gonna get hurt with you around."

Satoru turns back to look at his close friend, hooking a finger under his blindfold to peer at her with his icy gaze. "Why are you telling me that?"

Shoko sighs. "'Cause I haven't seen you this happy since Suguru died," she says rather casually, as if the very statement did not send memories flashing rapidly through Satoru's brain. "That and I like her."

"You like her?" Satoru squints his eyes. "You just met her, and she yelled at the both of us."

"Yeah, it was nice to see a woman give you her ass to kiss," she says flatly.

Satoru deflates, lowering his blindfold back over his eyes with a sorrowful exhale. "...It was kinda hot, right?"

"For the love of god. Go fucking text her, moron."

He will, for what you don't know is that every time he leaves you, he sticks around in secret to make sure you get to your destination safely as he watches from afar, six eyes detailing your every move. What you don't know is that during every mission, he stares at the contact picture he's saved of you mid-laugh, your eyes scrunched tight and all pretty teeth of yours on display, just to get him through the day. What you don't know is how he babbles about you, the amazing, gorgeous woman he's seeing that everyone at work thinks is fake, every single chance that he gets, hearts fluttering in his eyes at the mere thought of you, his constant babble in front of his students making them all want to gag.

What you don't know is how silently he yearns for you when he forces himself not to respond, when the fears of what could happen to you as a result of others trying to get to him stop his fingers from clicking the keys. When the higher ups barely allow him a moment to breathe as he teleports between countries long enough for days to slip into nights, and he's only back in time to realize that another day has gone by without him reaching out to you, texting you, hearing your pretty voice, seeing your pretty face.

What you don't know is the toll that his occupation takes on him. What you don't know is who he really is to the world, and how hard it is to balance having feelings for you with taking care of the entire planet.

But you are worth it. He pictures your sleeping form curled into his chest, your makeup smeared and your hair messy, and your heart peacefully pattering against his skin. His heart clenches.

You're so worth it.

"Shoko, tell Yaga I'm taking the day off."

"Ummm, sure, but he's not gonna - " Before she can finish, he's vanished into thin air, and she rolls her eyes. " - like it," she eventually trails off, pulling out her phone and continuing her walk.

You're at the door of your house, trembling with anger, when you feel a strange breeze pick up behind you, and when you turn around, you find Satoru standing there behind you in all of his six something glory.

You jump with a yelp. "How the fuck did you just - what the hell?!"

"Sorry. I'm sorry, pretty. Hey," he reaches for his blindfold and yanks it off. You watch as snowy hair falls back down to frame his face as he tucks the fabric into his pocket to look at you clearly, see you can see him. The pain in his eyes, the regret, the desperation, and you watch with knitted brows, red eyes, and a deep frown. He hates the sight on your face. "I'm sorry. For everything. I'm so sorry."

"Satoru, how did you - " you look around, still confused as to how he just appeared behind you like that, but then you remember your rage. "Whatever. Go away, I don't want to talk to you."

You go to reach for your door handle, but he grabs your hand. You yank it away, turning hotly on your heel to glare up at him. He holds his hands up in defense.

"(Y/n), please. I'm sorry. Just let me explain. You had every right to say what you said back there, but - "

"Damn right I did. You're a liar, Satoru."

"Okay, I'm not a liar. I've never been a liar."

"Then what do you call what I just saw? You were out with another woman! You told me that you were only seeing me!"

"I am only seeing you! That was Shoko, Shoko is my coworker!"

"Your-" you stop yourself, staring hard into his eyes as if trying to read if he's telling the truth. "Your coworker? She's your coworker who you were walking around with on a Monday morning while actively ignoring my texts? And you still won't even tell me where you work! How am I supposed to believe you?"

"Because, (Y/n), I swear to you that she has never been anything but a friend and peer to me. We went to high school together. We work at the same place."

"Which is?"

"I - " he hesitates. "I can't... tell you like this. It's not - it's hard to explain."

"Sure it is," you scoff. "Goodbye, Satoru."

"(Y/n), please," the sapphire eyed sorcerer begs, and he panics the moment your keys jam into the lock and your hand grips that handle tight. He panics, images of Suguru turning his back to him flickering through his head, years of loneliness flashing by, then you. You and your smile, you and your laughter, you and your sunshine that he's somehow turned to rain.

He can't lose you. Not to this. Not to any other threat.

"(Y/n)," he calls you, and when you still don't answer as you push open your front door, the words blurt out. "I'm a sorcerer."

You freeze. Satoru's heart drops to his stomach, his eyes wide, and you slowly turn over your shoulder. "You're what?"

The ivory haired man gulps. "I'm..." he gets lost in your harsh eyes, and all logic fails him. "I'm... that's what I do. I'm a... sorcerer."

You watch him, befuddled. "What the hell is a sorcerer? Like - like DND?"

"Kind of...?"

Your shoulders slump, and you stare at Satoru with a quirked brow. "Are you shitting me? Now you're gonna tell me you have a made-up job?"

"It's not made up," Satoru's voice dips into something more serious.

"Oh really? Then what the hell does a 'sorcerer' do?"

Satoru looks into your innocent eyes and sighs as he prepares to warp your perception of what is real and what is not. He hates to do this to you. He really does, but a woman like you deserves his truth. The good, the bad, the ugly. As long as you'll take him. It's a risk he's willing to take.

Suguru would have had his fucking head for doing something like this.

Your eyes go wide, as the man that was once in front of you completely disappears from sight. Your head jerks back, your eyes darting about the vacant space, and you breathe out a gasp of confusion. Are you hallucinating? Are you going crazy?

You step away from your door, which is now ajar, looking all around you like you've lost your mind, and for a moment you think you have.

"I'm here, pretty."

You rip your body around with lightning speed, shoulders bunched to your ears as you stare wildly at the vision of Satoru now halfway through your doorway. You're frozen with something between stun and fear, and you stumble back, dazed. You look behind you, then turn to face him again as he steps forward. "You - you - how did - you just - "

"I know," Satoru exhales, dimple poking his cheek as his mouth twists to the side. "I know. I'm sorry. That was probably really weird."

"Satoru," you murmur lowly. "How the hell did you just do that?"

"I'm a sorcerer," he says again, like it means something, like it could make any of this make sense. "Certain things I'm able to just do."

"You teleported?"

"Mhm," he finally is able to approach you in your state of shock, monitoring your rapid heartbeat and your doe-like eyes. "I do... a lot of other things, but I - I don't want to overwhelm you."

 Your hands fly to your head. "What the fuck," you breathe out, looking up and down his frame. "I must be - dreaming or something - "

"You're not. I'm real. This is real."

You shake your head. "It can't be."

Satoru presses his lips together, watching you carefully as he holds his hand out to you. "Try to touch me."

You scrunch your nose. "What?"

"Just try it."

Against your better judgment, you do. You inch a finger toward him slowly only to meet an invisible wall that blocks you from coming in contact with his open palm. Your brows knit, and you attempt to touch him again, but to no avail. You poke and poke, then slap a hand against the shield, before ripping away. "Ohhh, what the fuck," you murmur under your breath. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.”

"(Y/n), listen. C'mere. Please."

Satoru rushes around you as you turn to mull over what you've just witnessed, dropping his infinity the moment he's holding your gaze again. His hands fly to hold your shoulders, keeping you steady in your stupor. You look down at the hands holding you, wondering how he can touch you now. "Listen, okay? Please, please don't be scared."

"I'm not - scared, I'm fucking confused!"

"I know, baby. I know. And I'll try my best to explain everything, but listen, it's really dangerous that I'm telling you and showing you this, alright? You gotta promise me you won't tell anyone."

You squint your eyes. "Who would I-?"

"Just promise me," he says sternly. For the first time, you see Satoru as he is, firm, a force, a being to be reckoned with. Someone to take seriously. You stare up at him, dumbfounded. "Promise, okay? I don't want you getting hurt."

"...But how - "

"Please, (Y/n). Promise me."

You see the same truth in his eyes that first brought you to him, and you slowly relax as best as you can. "I promise."

Satoru exhales a breath he did not realize he was holding. "Good. Thank you." You nod mutely, still completely awed. Satoru notices and takes the opportunity to continue now that he's got you like this. Now that you'll hear him. "(Y/n), I really like you. I really, really do."

"...What does that have to do with - "

"I like everything about you. I like every moment we spend together. I like holding your hand, and kissing you, and feeling you, and the hardest thing I ever had to do was leave you alone yesterday morning to go to work. My job is... it's hard to explain, but I do work with kids. And I do train them... to become sorcerers. To become strong like me. That may not mean anything to you right now, but it's my life. My whole entire life, and because I am who I am, everyone expects a lot from me, you understand? Every day I have to drop what I'm doing to take care of really fucked up things, and I'm really sorry that I've left you hanging in the process. I'm really, so sorry, princess. I know I said I'd get better with communicating, but it's not really easy to tell the girl you're seeing that I had to go to Italy to exorcise thirty curses - "

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter. What matters is you. What matters is that I made you feel unheard and tossed aside because I was too scared of putting you in harm's way, or because I literally have no time to myself. The time I do have, I spend with you. And then it's all over so soon and I leave you hating me because I can't be there for you like a normal man. I so badly want to be that for you, but I'm just not. And I'm sorry. I should've found more time, I should've communicated, I should've done anything to make you feel safe but I just did the opposite. And I'll hate myself forever for doing that to you because you… because I just care about you so much. And I don't ever want to make you feel the way I have ever again."

Silence swallows you whole after Satoru has ceased his rant. You can feel his fingers lightly digging into your shoulders, eager for you to say anything in return, but you just stare at him in awe, overwhelmed, so so confused... but somehow relieved.

Satoru's brows curl upward. "Please say something. Anything. Say you hate me. Or you think I'm crazy - do you think I'm crazy?"

Your lips part, your eyes glassy. "A little," you say honestly. Satoru bows his head in humiliation. "...But... I think... I believe you."

He perks up immediately, big blue eyes blown wide with hope. "You do?"

"For some reason, yeah. Yeah I do," you swallow hard, still processing. "So that woman-"

"Shoko."

"Shoko. She's also a...?"

"A sorcerer. Yeah. We were going to pick up our kids from a mission."

"Your... kids?"

"Students! Our students!" he clarifies.

"...And you have powers...? That you teach the students? At a sorcery school?"

"...Kind of…?"

"And you teleport. And have an invisible forcefield."

Satoru tries not to laugh as you wrap your mind around the concept. "I mean... that's kind of what it is. Yeah."

“O-Okay… so, what else can sorcerers do?"

"We're not all the same. Everyone has their own technique."

"Technique?"

"Like a power."

"Oh. Then what's yours?"

Satoru smiles warmly. "Let's not worry about all the details right now," he chuckles. "I just wanna worry about you. Okay? Are you okay?"

You nod stiffly. "Yes. Yeah. I'm just... sorry. I'm sorry."

The reality of everything comes crashing down on you, but surprisingly, not what Satoru has just unveiled, but rather what you said to him on the street earlier. The scene you caused. The accusations you threw. The assumptions you made. How out of character you got.

"Oh Jesus," you groaned, bringing a hand to your head. "You really don't know what people have going on in their lives."

"(Y/n)? You sure you're okay?"

The kindest, most concerned blue eyes follow your every move as secure palms hold you, and you deflate. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just realized I cussed you out for no reason. I'm so sorry."

Satoru blinks. "You're not... mad about the sorcerer thing?"

"I mean, I'm still fucking confused, but no... I feel awful that I ripped you apart like that in front of your coworker. Oh god, and I snapped at her. Satoru, I'm really sorry. I had no idea."

"(Y/n)

," he calls your name gently. "How could you have known?" You go to answer, but you can think of no response. "I'm the one who kept you in the dark. I'm the one who hid this from you. I'm the one with a secret identity. You have no reason to apologize to me. I deserved it. From where you stand, you couldn't have possibly known."

"But now I do, and I... I mean, I knew you were hiding something, but... I should've paid more attention?"

"To what?" he chuckles. "I hid this from you every day. There's nothing you could have noticed."

"I notice how tired you are sometimes," you say softly. "I notice how quick you are to take care of everything. To pay, to splurge. Like it's your responsibility."

"That is my responsibility."

"But you do it like you're... trying to be seen... or I don't know.... appreciated," you say, and Satoru's smile slowly fades. "But I appreciate you without all that flashy stuff. And now I understand... you must be a really big deal where you come from. You must have a lot of pressure on you."

You have absolutely no idea.

But he doesn't even bother to confirm or deny. For once, he's happy to hear how a human being perceives him. "I don't know, I should've realized how much you have on your plate instead of constantly thinking about how you could make me feel better. I mean yeah, it sucked not hearing from you, but now that I - I know some shit like sorcery exists, the texting thing doesn't really seem like all that big of an issue. And I really am sorry I yelled at you like that. I swear, I'm not always like that. I just really like you, and when I feel like I haven't been heard or seen, I freak out and jump to the worst-"

You feel hands cup your face and draw you upward, and your eyes go wide as those soft lips press to yours passionately. You hum in shock before sinking into the warmth that you desperately longed to feel again. Your hands go to hold his wrists as you reach up on your tip toes, and his lips slowly mold against yours in three, prolonged smacks.

He pulls away, and you bat the cloudiness away from your eyes as you look up into his own. Satoru beams down at you with a love struck grin, cheeks rosy and pupils blown, snowy lashes low over his irises. He ducks back down to kiss your forehead, and your heart thrums.

"I just told you that I'm a sorcerer, and all you can think about is how you made me feel?" he murmurs sweetly. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"I didn't - do anything?" you say slowly.

"You did," he smiles, skin creasing at the corners of his eyes. "I understand why you yelled, (Y/n). I deserved it. And honestly... I kinda liked it."

You can't help the snort you let out. "You what?"

"I liked that you stood up for yourself. That you don't take any crap. You know your worth. And you should. You're perfect."

"You freak," you push at his chest so that he releases you. His hands fall to his sides, yet his love dazed expression remains as he looks at you. "You're insane."

"I know," he agrees happily. "I really like you."

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek, fighting your smile. "I really like you too," you admit. "But you're a fucking weirdo. Teleporting and shit. What the fuck is that?"

"I know," he says again. "You don't even know the half of it, sweetheart. It gets a lot weirder."

You scrunch your face. "Do I wanna know?"

He shrugs. "Do you? I got all the time in the world."

"I thought you were busy. Don't you have to go to work?"

"Mmmmm, I took off."

"You can do that?"

"Not really. But I'm the big shot around there, so they can't really do shit about it." You look at him skeptically and he grins. "Enoughhh, today's about you, and repairing the damage I've done. So ask me all the questions you want. I'm here. I promise."

You pucker your lips in thought. "No more shitty texting?"

"No more shitty texting. For real real this time."

You turn and gaze at your ajar front door. "Alright. Come inside. I've got two hours before my shift."

You can hardly get your sentence out before he's scooping you up bridal style into his arms and marching you through the threshold of your front door. You squeal, gripping onto his shoulders tight. He kicks the door closed behind you and looks down at you with a devious, heavy haze in his eyes.

"Plenty of time."

[alexiroflife]

"fears" ཀ

part 2 to "assumptions"

satoru gojo x non-sorcerer! reader

Synopsis: In the time that Satoru has spent getting to know you, dating you, and falling completely for you, his paranoia regarding your safety increases tenfold. His fears unfortunately come to fruition when you suddenly go missing.

to sum it up: when a curse user organization kidnaps you, satoru prepares to rip the world apart to find you.

WC: 9,103

Warning(s): angstyyyyyy, kidnapping, hinted attempt at forced curse reincarnation, feral gojo but not in a funny way like he actually loses his shit, violence, mentions of torture, graphic/gore depictions

"What am I looking for exactly?"

You quirk a brow as you gaze up at the elementary school before you from where you stand in the vacant parking lot. Satoru's hands grasp your shoulders from behind, the warmth of his chest brushing gently against your back as you peer around the dimly lit space with confusion scribbled across your features.

Your ivory haired partner comes to your right side, his hands still on your shoulders, to duck his head beside yours. He is wearing his blindfold, a commonality that you've come to know in the past few weeks of officially being with one another, as he wears that thing more often than he does not. In your early days of courting each other, you could have never guessed such a thing, since he was always adamant about keeping such identifiers out of your sight.

But now that you know him, the real him, he's less inclined to change his appearance in such a way. Besides, the migraines he's told you that come to him due to the intensity of his Six Eyes, which you still struggle to understand the function of, are enough reason for you not to care in the slightest.

Your hair tickles his ear as he hovers next to you, voice vibrating against your skin in the eerie stillness of the night. You glance at him before looking forward again, squinting your eyes.

"Anything that your mind tricks you into thinking is fake," Satoru's firm voice comes, tone mellow, serious. He gets this way any time he shares things with you about his profession, any time he attempts to bridge that gap between you and the sorcerer-world. You purse your lips and glare hard, at the dark windows reflecting moonlight, around the blue double doors signifying an entrance and exit. "Any shadows. Any feelings of dread, or sadness. Just an unknown presence."

"An unknown presence," you repeat slowly, (e/c) eyes skittering across the area. "So it'll look like a shadow?"

"No. It'll look more like some kind of monster. You'll know it when you see it. When you feel it."

Something unsettling sits in the pit of your stomach as you furrow your brows. "Okay," you murmur uncertainly. Satoru notes the subtle shift in you, the displacement and unease, and his hands hold you tighter.

"I got you. Don't worry," he assures. You nod, swallow hard, and focus.

Despite how firmly Satoru stands his ground for you, and the confidence he very clearly withholds regarding the foreign things he introduces to you, the ivory haired man shields his anxieties regarding your wellbeing deep within, locking them away to be uncovered in the privacy of his loneliness, when he's separated from you, far off in a territory that you can not fathom. That you do not know.

Months of puppy love have passed, of Satoru sneaking off to see you every second he can, of him juggling his students and responsibilities with the love that is blooming in his soul, and that has been from the very moment his eyes first lay on you. Months of carefully feeding you information in increments, of him unveiling truths and secrets to your virgin eyes and ears that have your head reeling at the insanity. And he hasn't even told you who he is yet. Not really. Not fully.

Satoru tries his very best not to overwhelm you. He started with little tricks, like his teleportation and his infinity when it takes the form of a shield around his body. Gradually, notions of cursed energy, cursed techniques, and weapons floated into conversation. And even that was a lot for you to grasp. And hell, the sapphire eyed man does not blame you.

Life with you has been refreshing, yet so odd. He has never spent such a prolonged amount of time with someone who does not know who he is off the bat, with someone who has never heard of the horror that he is, that he deals with day in and day out. You're completely ordinary in that aspect. No cursed energy. No untapped technique. You're just you, just a human being. And yet, that is one of the most extraordinary things that Satoru has come to find about you.

Because you are just a human. You're independent. You're kind. You're emotional, you're passionate. You're motivated. You're strong, like very physically strong - one time you kneed Satoru in the gut accidentally while he straddled over you and attacked you in a fit of tickles. The very action knocked the wind out of him and sent him toppling onto the other side of the bed from the shock, his hands clutching his gut. He at least knows that he does not have to protect you from human dangers, though he absolutely still plans to.

You're everything that Gojo never knew he wanted in a partner. Loyal, opinionated, outspoken, gentle, nurturing, sweet, and you are one of the greatest beings he has ever known. But you aren't a sorcerer. And while he finds that he loves that about you, that he can breathe and let himself simply be in your presence without the burden of having to keep appearances or adhere to the name that nations beg sanctity from, you have absolutely no way of confronting the supernatural evil that lurks if it ever faces you.

It terrifies Satoru more than anything else in this world, and Satoru Gojo has never experienced such fear before in his life. He's never really had reason to be afraid of anything before meeting you.

And if basic concepts and principles of sorcery overwhelm you, then how could he ever begin to tell you who he is? The weight of his presence in any room? What it really means for you to be with him, and how he frets every day for your safety solely because he cares so deeply for you?

You don't know that you're dating the strongest sorcerer of the modern age. You don't know that you have the honored one, feared and esteemed by the whole of Jujutsu Sorcery, wrapped around your perfectly manicured finger, as you go to work every day to fulfill your duty while Satoru fulfills his. Your ignorance to the weight of the situation is one of the only ways Satoru really knows how to keep you and himself sane, for if you knew what he could do. If you saw what he could see. If you heard the things that monsters and demons say about him... you'd certainly go running for the hills. He swears you would, and you'd have every right.

He wants to tell you enough to keep you safe, to bring your guard up in case a threat imposes itself on you, but he wants to hide you away from enough to maintain the peace of your own stressful life. Because even if Satoru did tell you that he is the greatest sorcerer of all time, the infinite layers that come with such a title would be too much to throw at you, too much for you to bear. It already is for him, for his students, for his coworkers, so he couldn't imagine what it would do to you... how your opinions would change, the light you would begin to see him in.

It's all so tricky. A very slippery slope. But Satoru's very life has been constructed around the protection of the weak and vulnerable, therefore to prioritize you feels like something of his birthright. The whole of humanity is one thing, but what would he be if he could not protect the one human being who actually, truly, deeply means something to him?

Satoru thinks of Suguru more and more each day as he falls deeper and deeper into your entrancement. He thinks of what he would say. How he would respond. The disgust with which those hazel eyes would look upon him. The pity he'd hear in that voice.

You just couldn't help it, could you?

And he would have been right. Satoru couldn't help it. He couldn't help but to fall for you, and perhaps his love for humanity will be the very thing to end him one day, but the ivory haired sorcerer doesn't care. Suguru chose hatred and bigotry. Satoru chooses love. In every single universe. Every single time.

And it's aching all over his body. It's making his mind spin, his stomach churn, his fears rise and rise and rise. The thoughts of someone discovering you, someone stealing you away, someone using your weakness to their advantage to get a rise out of him haunt the blue eyed twenty eight year old to no end.

He can't sleep when he's not around you. When he can't see you. When he can't physically feel you breathing against him.

He pops into your life without warning every day, teleporting mid mission to your office or your room, swooping in to dot kisses on your stunned lips and to check in and make sure you're still breathing. That your doors are locked and your blinds are closed. That no curses have clung to your body in his absence. That no unwarranted eyes are surveying you outside of his.

Like he told Shoko that one day a few months back, he's in too deep. And now that he's unveiled his truth to you, he's in much, much deeper. So deep, that he feels he couldn't exist if something were to happen to you, that he must be near you at least twice a day or else panic will settle in, and the fears concerning your safety will wreck his erratic brain.

So, he's decided to try to further push you, to test just exactly how estranged you are from curses and jujutsu. What you can sense and what you can't, to get a better grasp on how imperative it is for you to be mindful of your surroundings.

And you are, but what you look for aren't curses. You look for strange men, weapons, robbers, the typical ailments of everyday life for everyday people. But you need to look beyond those, to look for the entities inspiring such behavior, to seek safety beyond human reason.

Hence, why he's dragged you out of the coziness of your bed in the middle of the night to an elementary school he frequents, one where he knows a number of curses linger about the space. To see how much protection you need. To measure the circumstances.

He waits as patiently as he can, rising back to stand upright, keeping you safe within his hold where no vermin could even think about inching toward you. He admits, his presence alone is likely enough to send all the lingering curses running into the opposite direction, but he senses the presence of a few. They aren't very strong, but they are strong enough for you to pick up on. For you to be mildly impacted.

But can you see them? Can you sense them?

"Uh," your voice finally speaks up after a prolonged period of silence, and Satoru looks down at you, alert, eager to know if there is something there that he has to work with.

"What is it?" he asks lowly. "What do you see?"

Your lips twist, your head angling slightly. Satoru feels your shoulders tense up a bit. "I don't... I don't see anything," you admit. "But I feel really, like, sad all of a sudden. Like heavy."

Satoru surveys you, releasing your shoulders to angle your body slightly toward him, his hand clasping gently around your arm. Your eyes snap up to him as you let him look over you, then you look back over your shoulder at the school, visibly troubled.

"I see," he says. "And... that's all you feel? You sure you didn't look over anything?"

"I'm pretty sure, Toru. We've been standing and staring at this place for fifteen minutes. If something were there, I would've seen it by now," you rub your forearm awkwardly.

Satoru fights the way his heart plummets. He fights the disappointment and further fear that grips him. He fights anxiety that wages behind a wall of feigned calmness.

He releases you gradually, placing a hand on his hip and one scratching the back of his neck. He turns to look back up at the array of curses that wiggle around the school's entrance, peaking out from cracks and crevices and bushes, and he exhales. "Alright..." he mumbles.

Your lips purse as you look between him and the school with sudden shame. "Sorry," you apologize.

This snaps Satoru out of his thoughts as he looks at you. "Hm? For what?"

You shrug, looking down. "It seems like I was supposed to see something that I just can't," you frown. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to stress you out."

"You're not stressing me out, baby," Satoru says, his tone shifting from that steady seriousness to something comforting and sweet. "It's not you. You don't have to apologize for something that isn't your fault. You didn't ask for the world to be like this."

"Yeah, I know, but..." you hesitate as Satoru's arms fall and he turns back to you completely. "it's bad that I can't see those things, isn't it? Doesn't that just make everything harder for you?"

"There's only one thing that's hard for me, (Y/n), and that's being away from you." His arm slips around your waist, bringing you closer to him. In his attempt to make you crack a smile, you stare up at him with lips curved downward and doubt creeping over your pretty face.

"I'm being serious. You always downplay everything you have going on."

"And you worry about me too much."

"You try having a sorcerer for a boyfriend and see how you feel," you roll your eyes. Satoru chuckles away the layers that could be lying within your words and tucks you against his side, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. "And you worry about me way more. Clearly. So I'm asking you, does this make things harder?"

Satoru sighs, resting his head against yours. "It adds extra steps to my plan," he elects to say instead.

"What plan?"

"My plan to keep you safe," he says. "But it doesn't make anything harder. Nothing with you is harder."

You lean back to look at him, and he lifts his head. "I feel like you're lying."

He smiles. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not a liar."

"I know, but -" you stop yourself and shake your head, leaning back into his side. "Nevermind."

Your boyfriend leans his head forward slightly to get a better look at you. "Hey. Don't beat yourself up about it, pretty girl. It's not a big deal. I promise."

"I don't know. It seems that way, though."

"Maybe it would be if there weren't other ways for you to see curses, but there are."

You perk up, meeting his gaze hopefully. "Yeah?"

He hums, a smile growing at the sight of your hope. He starts to turn the two of you around, guiding you away from the haunted school so that you won't have to be within the vicinity of such negativity anymore. "Remember those cursed tools I told you about?" he asks, and you nod, your own arm raising to wrap around his long torso as the two of you walk together. "Well, they come in all shapes and sizes. And there's glasses you can wear if you can't detect curses or cursed energy on your own that can help you see everything."

Your brows raise, your other hand coming to press against his chest. "You mean I could see everything that you see?"

Satoru grins. "That's right."

You gasp. "How do I get them?"

"I'm ten steps ahead of you. Let's call it a night, and I'll run out to bring you some tomorrow morning, okay?"

"Okay. Okay, cool," you nod, solidified in a newfound relief that you wouldn't be a complete basket case after all. "That's good. Thank you."

"Anything for you,” he beams. “But when you get them, you're gonna have to sit with me so I can go over a few things, okay? I'll need you to listen carefully."

You click your tongue. "I always do."

"Yeah. You do," he pecks the side of your head again. "We can make it like roleplay. Professor Gojo and his really hot, over qualified college student. What will she do for extra credit if she can't understand how cursed tools work?" he purrs suggestively, and you roll your eyes with a laugh. Satoru swells with pride, happy to make you smile again.

"Stop being such a freak."

"Baby, how can I when I've got you?"

The next morning, Satoru makes good on his promise. After some private conversations with Shoko and Maki and a few errands, he's able to get his hands on a pair of frames for you. He is purposely discreet, as the only people who know about you in depth are Yaga and Shoko. Back when the two of you started dating, he bragged, but after he unveiled the Jujutsu World to you, he decided to tell everyone that you dumped him. And that Shoko saw it with her own eyes - and, technically, she did. She was at least able to vouch for him.

He can't risk news of you getting back to the Higher Ups, especially now that they've been on his case more and more lately. He knows they suspect something is afoot, but he'd like to keep those thoughts as speculations and nothing more.

Though it is currently the slot that Satoru is meant to be teaching, he teleports back to your room for what he thinks will be a quick drop off until his time is freed up.

But the second his feet land on the carpet of your floor, the stench of an intruder reeks throughout your space, and pools of cursed energy drag across the floors and walls. When he looks, there's remnants across your bed as well.

Something cold washes over Satoru's bones as your glasses drop from his grasp and onto the ground with little commotion. He freezes, taking in the space, six eyes capturing every single detail out of place. Your window is broken, shards of glass littering the floor. Your sheets are rumpled as if you picked yourself up from them in a hurry. Your phone is left open on your nightstand, and facing the ceiling is the text thread between you and him. You were about to text him.

He doesn't feel you anywhere. He can't sense you within this space, nor within five miles of your apartment.

Your room is still as the breeze wafts into it, like it was frozen in time the moment you left. There's clutter that dropped from your stand beside your bedside, and god, that smell. It smells nothing like you. It smells like a fucking plague.

Satoru's blood runs icy. His pupils are small behind his blindfold, his voice stolen from his throat.

At first glance, things are off. Your broken window, your messy bed. He knows. He fucking knows someone was here, that some curse user was rummaging through your things, breathing your air, existing within your well kept environment.

He does not need to search the house to know that you aren't here, to feed the denial that is attempting to combat what he knows and sees and feels in his gut, with all six of his senses. But he instinctively does anyway.

He teleports downstairs, to your living space, and finds the same remnants of cursed energy tracked across your floors. When he turns to look, the forced entry is evident by your front door thrown ajar. He moves to the kitchen, to your bathroom, to the small patch of green out back that you always try to swear up and down is a backyard. This fucker was everywhere. 

And when he turns and looks out front, your car is still parked next to the sidewalk.

No. No way.

Satoru's hands twitch at his side, and his entire body begins to tremble. His nose flares, his breathing escalates, and Suguru's voice pops up in his head again, yammering away.

You knew this would happen. She's a human after all.

There are no words for the feeling that overcomes Satoru's body and mind, that completely encapsulates him as he teleports back to your room and picks up your phone with gracious, wobbling fingers. In the text box he reads an interrupted sentence. “I think someone- “

Then nothing.

There's nothing. You've left nothing behind but your scent dominated by someone else's, and the strongest sorcerer of the modern age sees red. Crimson drips into his vision, seeps the world in its tint, and an anger like no other births itself in his core and makes every nerve in his system vibrate.

His head wails with all the things he can't verbalize, as anger chokes the words in his throat. He knew it. He knew something would happen to you. How could he let something happen to you? Why wasn't he there? He always promised to be there. Where did you go? Who took you? Why? Why didn't you-

Satoru rips his wild eyes back over to your new glasses on the ground, and a lump builds in his throat. There was nothing you could have done. Nothing you could have fought with to protect yourself. You probably didn't even know something or someone was pursuing or stalking you.

You're a human who can’t see curses. How could you have known anything?

Someone knew this. Someone stole you away because you're weak. Because Satoru wasn't around. His worst fear, the very thing that keeps him awake at night, that makes him lose increments of his sanity every day, has come to life.

You're gone. Someone has you.

When Satoru's blurry gaze turns back to your nightstand, to the space where your phone that he clutches in his hand once lay, he sees it. Specks of blood freckled on the wooden surface.

Gone is the savior. Gone is the providor. Gone is the friend, the humor, the happiness, and what remains in the vessel of Satoru Gojo is not mortal. It isn't merciful, or accepting, or understanding. It’s vengeance.

The white hot urge to kill takes over, to smush whoever did this to you between the concrete and the bottom of his foot. To stomp upon the fucking idiot who mustered up the courage and stupidity to take you away, to make you bleed, to use your human-ness - your unapologetic, beautiful humanity - to their advantage.

What your abductor wants and who they could possibly be to Satoru, he doesn't know. And he doesn't care.

What he cares about is finding you. Bringing you home. And giving your abuser hell to pay.

A weapon remains, rigid and unfeeling. That is what Satoru is. That is what he becomes in your absence.

Satoru tucks your phone into his pocket and rips down his blindfold, strays of snowy hair fluttering about the frame of his face, and crystal eyes pierce the air like a nocturnal beast seeking prey through the darkness of the night.

Where the hell are you?

You feel weak.

Your head rolls to the side, the room spinning on an axis through a blurry haze. You see three visions before you before your sight eventually focuses, and the pain comes quickly, shooting up through your back and into your head. Your legs, bound to the legs of the chair that you sit upon, ache from thrashing and kicking for survival. Your arms are strung behind you, wrists bound tightly, and all you can hear is a piercing ring through your ears.

You don't know what happened. One second, you were waking up from your sleep, then the next, the sound of your front door slamming open startled you up and out of bed. Something unseen barged in with the whip of your head upward. Hands gripped, something smacked across your face, and you could hardly see, but you thrashed, kicked, clawed. There was a struggle, the glass of your window shattering with the collision of your bodies. You were slammed onto the bed, then your head was knocked against the corner of your nightstand, and everything went black.

The course of events makes no sense when you mull over them. It was as though a ghost had appeared and ripped you away. As if a magical force had seized you.

You thought it was a man. The grunts that transpired behind your ear when you kicked were a man’s. The hands that groped and pulled at you felt like a man’s. But you couldn’t sense anything. It was as though he was invisible, as though the very thing that took you didn’t even exist.

You breathe in shakily, a dribble of blood spilling from your nose and onto the floor.

You can not register where you are. Only that you are not alone. That beady eyes are watching from a distance as you come to beneath harsh lights and amidst the scent of something nauseatingly sterile. After a few seconds, you hear footsteps wander, echoing about the vacant space, circling toward you like sharks in water.

Your head is pounding, and you blink, trying to see properly ahead of you. That is when the throbbing in the right side of your face settles in, and you whimper, squinting with a wince.

The alarm starts to sink in when you look down and find that your clothes have been changed while you were unconscious. You're sported in an unfamiliar grey shirt and shorts that leave very little to the imagination, and that little pool of blood from your nose settles between your bare, tied feet.

Your heart pounds, and your eyes roll around in panic. You go to scream, but cloth is taut around your mouth, knotted at the back of your head.

Oh fuck. You're so fucked. What do you do? Where are you? Who are the people you hear approaching you? Why are your senses so muddled?

Then it dawns on you.

"What d'ya think?" one grimy voice startles from behind you as three men step out of the shadows and into the harsh light that beams down on you overhead.

You tense, looking frantically about you. You immediately start to jerk and thrash against your restraints, your body jumping back into survival mode as the rope holding you back burns your skin. You feel something incredibly wrong, more wrong than the circumstance you are in. It's the atmosphere, something in the air that is sinking down on you and flooding you with an overwhelming sense of dread. Similar to the brief dread you felt at the elementary school.

It clicks. These aren't ordinary abductors. Your senses are blurred and your mind is playing odd tricks on you. Sorcery must be involved. These people must be sorcerers... or curses... you aren't sure. You just know, suddenly, that this is beyond you.

Within seconds, you feel pale as Satoru pops into your mind. This is exactly what he was talking about. This is exactly why he wanted you to be able to sense this energy, to see the curses.

There are things out there beyond your comprehension, and he always feared over whether they would collide with you outside of his influence. Now they have, all because you can't see.

You're just a regular person. Weak. Fragile. A target.

And here you are, subject to things you can't understand.

You've never been more afraid for your life.

"Where'd you find her?" a woman's voice rings out much to your surprise, stepping closer with a wicked smile. Two other men linger with mirrored smirks, and a hand reaches around from behind to grip your jaw and raise your head. You whimper through squished cheeks, brows angling as the light stings your eyes.

"On patrol this morning," the owner of the hand gripping you says proudly. "In one of those houses on the east side. Thought I’d break in, and happened to find her. She’s perfect, huh?"

The woman bends over before you and tilts her head, raising a brow. "You weren't supposed to bruise her," she says with a grimace, as if you are too unpleasant to her eye.

"The bitch put up a fight. What was I supposed to do?"

"You let a human give you a hard time?" one of the other men cackles. "Pathetic."

"She didn’t give me a hard time," the voice behind you hisses, the voice of the very man who stole you away from your home. His nails dig into your skin as his grip on your jaw goes taut, and he jerks you again. You release a muffled yelp, a wildness in your frightened hues. "Whatever. Where is it?"

The other strange man halts before you, stopping right beside the woman as she lifts herself back up to peer down at you as if annoyed, dark lips curled in distaste. The second man fishes something out from his pocket wrapped in dirty cloth, and slowly unwinds it.

You don't know what the fuck is going on. Your hasty, pitched breaths are audible with each second that passes as you watch, as voices murmur about nothing that is of value to you. You are out of your depths, overpowered, bound.

And when the cloth drops from that object, your eyes process the vision of what looks to be a severed, decayed human ear.

You scream, thrashing about, your cries ringing out hoarse and sustained behind that cloth. Dark chuckles rise over the sounds you emit as if you are a form of entertainment, as if this torture is funny to them. Watching you wiggle and squirm and fight against the inevitable. And what the inevitable is still remains a mystery to you.

The one with the ear steps further toward you, hovering just inches away. The piece of flesh is presented before you as if he wants you to take it, but when you look up in his eyes, you can't read his sadistic intentions. You can't read anything.

"She's gonna keep screaming when we take the tie off," the other man standing behind the woman says.

"Who cares? The result will be the same regardless."

"How are we gonna make her eat it?"

Eat it?

"If you don't just fucking force her mouth open," the woman snaps, eying the figure gripping you. "She's a human. She's tied up. Are you seriously scared?" she teases.

"I ain't scared," your abductor growls. You feel his other hand moving to untie the cloth around your mouth. You feel the fabric slip and loosen, your hefty breaths ragged when it finally falls around your neck with a stretch of your saliva connecting it to your lips. You cough and sputter, and before you can think, the same hands curl into the inside of your mouth.

You act quickly, chomping down as hard as you can the second you feel an invasion. Metallic blood filters into your taste buds, followed by the curse of the man behind you as he rips his bleeding fingers away.

"Fuck!" he curses. You hear footsteps shuffle as he clutches his hand. "She fucking bit me! I oughtta -"

His words collide with the fist that knocks your skull into the opposite direction with a force you can't quite name. Blood splatters from your lips onto the floor, and that ringing circles back in your ears, intensifying, as you filter between consciousness and unconsciousness from such a blow.

Voices overlap in a haze. Figures surround you. Everything is spinning, and you no longer have the strength to move about as new fingers pry into your mouth, hooking behind your top and bottom rows of teeth to force your jaw open wide as he hovers over you.

Someone grips around your neck, and before you, the ear is lifted from its cloth and inched toward your mouth. Through the dizziness, through the searing pain, alert strikes your body once more as you tense every muscle you have. You can't move away, can't do anything but stare in wide horror as it is drawn closer and closer to your open mouth.

Your body coats itself in goose bumps, the hairs on the back of your neck standing upright as you shake and choke from the discomfort. What do you do? You can't kick, you can't yell, you can't punch. You're alone. You can't understand. Sweat drips down your body, mixing into the blood dripping down your chin, and tears of sheer anguish, terror, and humiliation rise.

Satoru left you for one second. One second, and that was all it took for you to be stolen by sorcerers - no, by curse users. That's what these people are, aren't they? Monsters. Villains. Sadists with techniques. You remember your boyfriend told you that very briefly once. That not all sorcerers are good.

Your poor boyfriend. He's probably worried half to death trying to find you. Guilt wracks you in the seconds before your forced consumption of this severed body part, a tear streaking down your aching, stretched cheeks.

Satoru. He doesn't say it, but you know how deeply he worries. You know how anxious he gets about you. You know that there are still things he withholds from you in order to protect you, in order to give you as much normalcy as you can with someone like him by your side.

You wish you could have eased his mind more. You wish you didn't need stupid glasses to sense cursed energy. You wish you weren't so... helpless.

"Look at that. She's crying," someone coos viciously. "Don't you just love when they cry?"

And just as the ear hovers centimeters away from your tongue, the harsh light clicks off, and the sound of a generator dies with a sinking whir.

A chorus of confused grunts and huhs lift, and the ear is frozen before you. You hyperventilate, now unable to see what is happening around you.

"The hell happened to the lights?" one of the four speaks up.

"Fuck if I know. Go check," the woman orders.

A hand slips away from your neck, but someone keeps your mouth pried open.

The man holding the ear grumbles, using his free hand to fish into his back pocket for his phone. The screen lights up his face momentarily, his occupied hand pulling the ear away from you subconsciously as it hovers by his side.

Suddenly, you feel the curse users behind you hold their breaths. The man in front of you tenses as well, a paling look crossing over his face as he stiffens.

There's silence for a moment as everyone stills. "Do you feel that?" your abductor speaks.

"It's so..." the woman starts, before freezing with the realization.

"Is that...?"

"Can't be. No way."

"There's only one being whose... cursed energy is that strong!"

The room thickens with sudden understanding which, once more, fails you. Then panic rises.

"Hurry up! Feed her the fucking ear and let's get out of here!"

"We won't have time! If we feel him now, then he's already -"

"Already here?"

A new, disembodied voice echoes lowly, menacingly throughout the space. A voice familiar to you. A voice that makes your heart pound with disbelief, with hope that the owner is actually present. Are you dreaming? Are you still alive?

The hands gripping you immediately rip away, and you sputter, leaning over with heaving coughs. The phone screen waves about in a panic, your abductors’ abruptly stricken by fear. You hear feet shuffle in a hurry and curses fly. The ear drops to the ground before you, and the phone flashlight is hastily turned on to sweep the area to locate whatever or whoever they are suddenly so afraid of.

You lift your head, and through a searing squint, the flashlight turns and freezes on a pair of glowing celeste hues. Hues that gaze upon you with gentle love each day, now bold and almost alien.

And utterly blood curdling.

The man yelps, dropping his phone to the ground with a clatter. Your other abductors attempt to flee. Feet pound against the ground and scatter into different directions. The flashlight faces the ceiling from the floor, giving you a view of the man stepping away slowly in fear as Satoru approaches him slowly, methodically. 

Bright eyes cut through darkness, and you stare. He doesn't look at you. His eyes are locked on the curse user ahead, like some kind of beast pursuing a meal. His expression is neutral, lips pressed in a firm line, but the chaos roams in those eyes, wide, focused, thirsty for blood.

You've never seen your boyfriend in such a light, and by the reactions of those around you, he is just as terrifying to them as he appears to you.

They recognized his presence before he even physically appeared. Satoru is... known.

"Please," the man begs as they step into darkness again. "Please, Gojo. No, please - please don't!"

A sweep of air cuts through your earshot. Satoru thrusts a hand forward, sending the guy flying back into the concrete wall with a loud commotion. A terror stricken scream rings out, followed by the horrid squelch of flesh, the sound of blood dripping, then nothing more.

The sorcerer's head rips back into the direction of the scattering curse users, and his focus lands next on the woman. Cutting through darkness with lightning speed, he gives chase, breathing harshly through flared nostrils. Attempts at the expulsion of cursed energy are made, but they fall through, as Satoru's technique cancels them out.

They don't stand a chance.

If you weren't in this building, he'd use his domain. He'd hollow purple the whole fucking establishment, but the sight of you there, tied up, battered with bruises blooming over your skin and those dirty fingers prying into your mouth drives him to use his own bare hands, his own strength to rip these fuckers apart without so much as touching another hair on your perfect head.

How dare they.

His hands reach out and grasp the head of the woman mid flee. She cries with anger and fear, reaching back to try to pull away. But Satoru expels energy through his hand and squeezes, just a bit, just enough for her skull to crack under the pressure. Blood seeps from the sockets of her eyes as she wails, and then gargled silence as the head capsizes and explodes, chunks of brain and blood and skull fragments flying across the room, bouncing off of his infinity.

How dare they do this to you. 

How dare they soil your innocence, how dare they so much as lay a finger on your skin, how dare they pierce it, how dare they bruise it, how dare they attempt to steal you away forever to turn you into a curse no one even remembers.

Your poor face. The way you must have suffered without him there.

Oh, he'll fucking kill every last one of them.

His head snaps up. Speaking of... who's next?

Satoru locates him in an instant, teleporting across the base to cut off his path. He skids to a stop far too late before Satoru plunges a fist forward to pierce his chest, then pry him apart from the inside. The honored one is insensitive to his cries, to the tedious way flesh tears through his infinity, the way it burns, bubbles, and flops to the ground in two heaps.

Satoru stares down at the mangled corpse harshly, breaths weighted.

Then he smells it again. That scent that invaded your home, that was plastered over the walls, that was blooming over the injuries on your body when he found you.

Slowly, his head lifts and turns to locate the one who took you away. The one who started all of this.

He sees past the pitch black. Past the technique that likely allowed him to sliver into your home undetected, past that veil of transparency - the way his technique toys with light and shadows to fade into background as though invisible. Then cancels out.

Oh, Satoru sees him plain as day, the way he inches toward the back wall in search of the door. He sees how he tries to escape the pit of hell that narrowly awaits him.

With a flash of speed, he arrives, hovering behind the perpetrator who once appeared invisible to the naked eye. He trembles with the imminent presence of the honored one too close for comfort, knowing that he's been spotted, knowing that his life is over. He'd end his own life right there if he could, to prevent himself from experiencing the agony of Satoru Gojo's wrath.

The snowy haired sorcerer glances down at the guy’s fingers, noting how he clutches them as they bleed red down his wrist. A flicker of pride swells in his heart, as it seems you did your best. You fought back the only way you knew how.

That's his girl. His precious girl. He's so proud of you. Proud of you for staying alive long enough for him to get there. Proud of you for using the tools you do have in this likely horrifying, confusing situation.

He hopes you feel relief. He hopes your nervous system is resting now as he finishes what you started.

Satoru's firm hand rockets forward to grasp your abuser's neck. He chokes, reaching up to claw at Satoru's veined hand for air fruitlessly, as he can't even touch him. He can hardly even move.

Gojo keeps his eyes peeled wide as they bore into the curse user's, watching as life leaves him in seconds, as air sucks itself from his lungs and stops at Satoru's relentless hold. Satoru's eye twitches, his breathing growing louder. 

Then SNAP!

The man's body goes limp, his neck snapping back. Satoru releases a coarse breath and drops him to the floor, raising his foot high above to stamp down hard on his head. Then again. And again. Each blow, each crack for every second you spent in torment, for every scar that decorates your skin, and for every moment this will haunt your mind going forward.

He stomps and stomps, animalistic grunts flying through gritted teeth. There's nothing left beneath him but a pile of mush and blood at the end of the corpse's neck. But Satoru doesn't care. Not one bit.

And when he's finally done, he lifts his foot, steps back, and leans his head back with an exhale. His adam's apple bobs as he swallows thickly, eyes lashes fluttering against his skin as he allows himself to blink.

Then, he turns to you.

In your perception of time and space, what just transpired only happened within a few seconds, at best. You listened as death rang out from every corner of the space, and flashes of harsh air and the stench of blood wafted about you. Your breaths ring out as you twist and turn to look around, still bound.

"Satoru?" you call out in the emptiness, uneased by the sudden lack of activity. Your throat is sore, your voice torn when you call out. Where did he go? Is he okay? "Toru? Toru!" you shout again.

"I'm here, pretty."

And suddenly, he is standing right before you. The lights slowly flicker back to life, revealing him in all of his glory as he looks down at you with devastation in those eyes, sweet and lidded on you, a sheer contrast to what you saw and heard not even a few seconds ago. You gaze up at him in awe with curled brows before looking about and registering the dead bodies around you. You suck in a sharp breath, but he moves to untie you quickly, freeing from your restraints.

He drops to his knees before you, the greatness fading from him at your feet. He can breathe now, he can think now that he's got you. Now that he's protected you. Now that he sees you're okay.

He slips his arms under your weak ones to pull you down against him, embracing you tight. He holds your frame tight to his, breathing you in. A hand raises to clutch the back of your head, and you slip your arms around his neck clinging tight, afraid to let go.

"My baby," he huffs, tucking his nose into the crook of your neck. He dots kisses to your skin, adjusting his hold, pressing you in safely. "I'm so sorry."

“Satoru,” you whimper, finally safe. “You - you found me.”

He pulls back to look at you. You're curled up against him, your knees sprawled on the ground, your hands tucked over his undercut. His hands reach to cup your cheeks carefully, bringing your attention to him and only him.

His thumb grazes the purple and red swelling over your cheek, the blood trailing from your nose and down your chin. He looks into those big (e/c) eyes tinged in red, the tears collected on your lashes, and he feels the chill of your flesh when he touches it. You're shaking uncontrollably as he looks at you, and his lips tremble.

"Of course I found you. I always will. I'm here," he says again softly. "Just look at me. Don't look anywhere else. Keep your eyes on me, baby. I'm here."

"But how? How did - what did - " you can't find the words. Satoru shakes his head, wiping tears and sweat and blood away. Your nose flares and tears well in your vision as security and warmth swarms you, despite the monstrosity you saw in his gaze, despite the corpses that surround you. You're safe. "I thought I was gonna die before I got to see you again."

Satoru's heart shatters. "No. Don’t say that," he asserts sternly. "I would never let that happen. I'd give myself up before I let anything happen to you."

You don’t know just how heavy his words are.

Your chin wrinkles as your lips wobble. Satoru's hands smooth over your hair, helping to tame it, to bring you some sense of consolation and comfort as he kneels before you. He brings your head in to press his lips to your forehead, letting his kiss linger as long as he can as he savors you, savors the fact that you survived, that you didn't die on him.

Satoru expects questions. He expects your fear. He expects you to look at him like he's some anomaly, like he's a wild monster that you just happened to be stuck with. He expects you to interrogate him, to ask why those curse users reacted the way they did when they saw him, why killing comes so easily to him - as easily as breathing, why his speed is practically inconceivable, why the blood dotting his cheek does not faze him in the slightest.

Why he exhibits such power.

But instead, he feels your shoulders jerk and hears your soft cries. He pulls back from his kiss to look you in the eye again, and he feels his heart twisting. He feels his chest tightening at the sight.

You're in pain. He knows. You're traumatized. He knows. He should've found you sooner. He shouldn't have even left. But instead of expressions of your own pain, you whisper: "I'm sorry for making your fears come true."

“What?” He falls apart. "(Y/n). You listen to me," he ducks to hover mere inches away from your face as you fight the tears and humiliation and pain. "You didn't ask for any of this. This isn't your fault. You couldn't have known -"

"But that's the problem," you tremble, eyes glossing over. "I never know anything. And it's too much on you to have to be responsible for me like this."

Satoru has been used as a weapon all of his life. Ordered around, tossed about, spoken to like an object of orchestration rather than a human being with thoughts and feelings. All of his life, he's been othered, treated as some glorified, inhumane, aggravating thing. He lost his childhood. He lost his best friend. And yet, the world pushed and pushed and pushed until Satoru lost any hope of being taken seriously. Of truly being seen.

But then, you.

As he holds you in his arms, as you bleed and shake and suffer, as you reel from the events you just witnessed, from the carnage that Satoru just lay, all you can think about is the toll that being human takes on him. The extra burden you pose.

And Satoru is floored. How can you think that the most beautiful thing about you is a burden to him? How can you sit there in your own dread, blaming yourself instead of him?

How can you continue to think of him when no one else on this planet does?

"Too much?" he repeats incredulously. "(Y/n), there are a lot of things in this world that could be too much. That I do everyday. That everyone expects from me. Things come to me because of... because of who I am, and it’s hard to explain any of that, but you?" he gazes at you with such sincerity and sorrow. "You are the very last thing that could be too much for me. Looking after you and taking care of you is my priority above everything else. Everything. That's not because you're a burden. It's because if something were to happen to you like it just did, I wouldn't be able to forgive myself. I can't forgive myself."

"You didn't ask for this either," you sniff.

"It doesn't matter," he breathes. "You're what matters. I couldn't breathe until I found you. I couldn't think of anything but getting to you because you mean more to me than anything else in this world. You're everything, and I have been trained to be ready for every possible obstacle on this earth except losing you. It's not an option. It will never be an option. I worry because i care. So much. Your humanity is not a burden. It's perfect. You're perfect," he confesses as though the words have been jumbled inside his soul for months. Tears slip down your face as you listen to him, as his fingers swipe over your face tenderly, as he keeps you near. "I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner. I'm so sorry you got hurt."

"It's not your fault," you echo his words through tears. "You found me. You saved me."

"I was late," he argues, tormenting himself. "Look what they did to you."

"You're here," you emphasize. "I'm alive because of you," you shudder. "Thank you."

Such gratitude like this has been foreign to Satoru, because this is intimate. It's real. It's laced with love and truth, and the sapphire eyed sorcerer feels his heart swell.

He knows he loves you right then and there. He can't deny it. It smacks him clean in the face.

He pulls you back in, scrunching his eyes tight as he hugs you. You cry into his uniform, your fingers gripping the fabric tight as your cheek settles against his broad shoulder.

"I won't let anyone touch you ever again," he promises you. "I swear on my life."

Satoru eventually teleports the two of you back to his home, secluded in a jungle of bamboo trees, quiet and sterile with the scent of his cologne staining the air.

You sit on his bathroom counter as he stands between your legs, holding your chin cautiously, dabbing your wounds with antiseptic soaked cotton. You're fresh out of the shower, clean of the dirt and grime and blood that ailed you, and draped in an old shirt of his. He was sure to light the clothes he found you in on fire.

The two of you don't talk about curses or sorcerers. You don't talk about the display of power you witnessed. You don't talk about the weight that his very name carries in the world of sorcery. You don't talk about the fists that collided with you, the attempted reincarnation that you were almost utilized for, the weakness in your knees, the rope burns on your wrists and ankles.

Instead, Satoru spends a human afternoon caring for you. Fixing you a bowl of cheap ramen the way you like. Turning on a movie you always watch. Lifting you into his arms as you straddle his torso, and carrying you from room to room until you make it to the soft sheets of his bed.

Satoru lays you down on his pillows softly, handling you like pristine glass, and helps you under the covers. Exhaustion swirls in your eyes as you look up and reach for him weakly, wordlessly begging him to join you. And how could he not?

He slips in beside you and melts into your arms. The two of you mold together like malleable clay, sinking into sweetness and safety, expelling breaths that were caught in your throats.

You nestle your unbruised cheek against his chest, breathing him in, securing your arms around his middle as he does yours. There is nothing to say, as your hearts and limbs speak for themselves. And you both feel it. The shift. The tenderness.

You feel lips peck your head, trailing down to your forehead, then your nose as you tilt your head up to meet his eye. Fingers caress the small of your back as you hold one another's gaze, a silent exchange transpiring.

You see one another clearly. For your weakness, and his strength. Exposed, bare, vulnerable before one another, and yet, safer than either of you have ever felt in your entire life.

Satoru cranes down to kiss your lips. Softly. Appreciatively. Relieved. Your entire body vibrates down to your toes, your skin warm, your soul secure. He pulls away slowly, nose brushing against yours, sharing gentle breaths. And his eyes convey his truth, just as they always have.

That no matter your weakness, no matter your humanity, Satoru will love you until the day you both part from this earth.

That he will protect you with every ounce of infinite power coursing through his bones. And anyone who gets in his way will pay.

Of course, Suguru's distant voice sighs out in his head, though Satoru's too enraptured in you to quite hear it this time.

Humanity once again proves to be your downfall.

[alexiroflife]

"shut up, enjin" ⌯⌲

enjin x reader

Synopsis: Enjin is an infamous flirt, and you are confident that any time his auburn gaze lingers on you with a lazy smirk pressing in his dimples, that sultry voice of his addressing you by every pet name but your own, he is merely teasing. And while Enjin loves to tease you, he isn't exactly sure how to admit he is serious about the way he is obsessed with you.

to sum it up: jeez... how can a man prove he wants you when he struggles to accept it himself?

WC: 7,036

Warning(s): noneeee

"Shut up, Enjin."

Those three little words are like music falling gracefully upon the said man's ears, as his cheeks wrinkle with a satisfied grin that you are all too well-accustomed too. Your brows dig deeper into the crease between them as you glower up at the dirty blonde in all of his six something glory, your hands crossed firmly over your chest as a frown drags your pretty lips downward.

(E/c) eyes rolling, lips kissing teeth, the wrinkle of annoyance plaguing your beautiful face, the very curse of his name to top it all off. Like he's a plague to your existence, and you just love that he is. Sinking into the routine of denying his little flirtations, swatting a hand at his chest or arm when the wrong words tumble from his lips at the wrong time, landing rather poorly in taste.

And with skin buzzing from your previous, stinging point of contact, Enjin revels in the bliss that is watching you get all riled up on his behalf. You tell him to shut up at least twenty times a day like it's your mantra, and you would think that Enjin would have grown tired with your aggravation toward him by now, whether feigned or authentic, but he doesn't think he ever will.

Enjin knows he's a cheeky bastard.

He laughs obnoxiously with his whole body, large palms flat to his abdomen as tears spring to his eyes through unrestrained guffaws - and he always laughs like that at someone else's expense. You can't even count the number of times you've approached Enjin with something embarrassing and he's snorted in your face, cheeks puffing, air spewing through scrunched lips, and hand slapping over his mouth to conceal his entertainment as you bark obscenities at him with flushed cheeks.

He's loud, from the music he blasts through that company jeep to the very manner in which he wrangles it around like it's some kind of cattle rather than a vehicle under his own manipulation. His voice carries across halls, thuds through darkness and early mornings, blabbers the stupidest jokes and slang that you've ever heard in your life coming from a twenty eight year old’s lips.

He eats like a pig, with no manners except for the appreciation he shows toward the person who prepared his meal. He smokes at the drop of a hat, making his presence to a room known with the familiar flick of a lighter and the sound of singing tobacco.

He cheats during card games, roughly nougies the top of Rudo's head in a light headlock just because he knows that it pisses the fifteen year old off, and he flirts like he's flaunting his body around to sell to the entire world.

Oh, he knows he gets on everyone's nerves. In fact, he's proud to. He decided long ago that ragebaiting the people he cares about is his love language, for he's not too good at words or any of the other crap.

And, yeah, it's funny when he's got Semiu threatening to strip him of his choker privileges when he consistently abuses them, calling her in the middle of completing important paperwork to bother her about absolutely nothing, or when he manages to get Gnomulas to flip a table over in the middle of a poorly executed game of Spades.

But nothing compares to when it's you grinding your teeth in vexation as Enjin pushes every single button you could possibly have. And of course, it's different with you. He picks at everyone, but with you, his sincerest form of pestering is by flirting with you.

"You really sure you want me to shut up?" he tilts his head down at you, grin stretching over his face. He's got the doorway blocked as he stands before your room with his elbow pressed above his head to the frame and his other hand planted on his hip. Soft tendrils of his wild hair sway with his movement, and his brow lifts playfully. "You tell me to every day, and yet you always let me come in here and talk your ear off."

"How could anyone ever possibly get you to stop talking?" you mirror the lift of his brow, shifting your weight onto one foot as you glare up at him with weary eyes. "And I don't let you talk. You just don't listen. And you barge in here yourself, by the way."

His brows pinch with his grin, as if to pretend that he is a offended. "I listen to ya plenty! All the time."

"No you don't," you scoff.

"Sure I do. I listened when you told me all about how much you hate super sweet stuff-"

"That's the most useless piece of information you've ever chosen to remember about me."

"No way. It's especially important 'cause you would think someone as sweet as you would prefer otherwise."

You give him a deadpan stare. "You're being gross."

He laughs out, head tossing back. "Didn't like that one either, huh," his voice dips at the edge of his laughter, and you fight the instinct your body has developed to shiver when his words land so seductively. You aren't sure whether it is on purpose or not sometimes, but there is something incredibly lethal about the delicious scratch of Enjin's voice each time he speaks lowly.

And that's what truly bothers you about your coworker and rather close friend of the Cleaners. You've heard that tone time and time again, over and over.

There are times when it's innocent. When he’s simply ruminating in agitation or grumbling incoherently to himself, mulling over something quietly with skepticism and focus. But then there are the times when it's not, when you’ve caught wind of him talking all sweet to some woman in the next town over, loitering outside of a grocery store with heavy lids and telling grins.

You can't stand the way it makes your stomach twist, the way your eye twitches at the very sight any time you happen to intrude. Yet even so, you observe how he keeps every woman he flirts with at a distance - never bothering to offer up means of communication or otherwise, and even far less willing to indulge anyone physically or sexually. He's made the mistake of going home with women before, only to be bombarded with the neediness he so adamantly claims to find unattractive in women.

Enjin avoids the intimate, evading anything that could possibly lead to emotional connection outside of the family he's already built within his occupation. When Enjin flirts, he flirts for fun, for that little thrill of being wanted, of established mutual attraction. He never goes beyond that. Not anymore, and somehow, that only makes it all worse.

Enjin is never serious about anything when it comes to matters outside of what he ordinarily has the capacity to handle. When emotions swarm around, he takes a step back, letting those better equipped to tackle such things take the lead. And it's not as though he's horrible with such things. He's observant, and he gives rather valuable advice to those younger than him. Despite your previous argument, he does listen when it counts. When the kids are struggling with mental ailments. When you demand to be heard, and his playfulness dissapates under the severity of your countenance.

God, he's obsessed with that about you. How hot you get when you're actually serious about something. When you emphasize that you are no longer playing around, and that Enjin will shut up and hear you out as you lecture him about being careless.

Hell yeah, he listens when you have important things to say, but when it comes to anything further than that, like comfort, words of affirmation, and commitment, he's toast. A lost cause. An empty noggin.

So when he does flirt with you, you don't take him seriously. How could you, when he has never taken a single woman seriously himself? Enjin lives to pester, and he has discovered that the easiest way to do so to you is to persistently bombard you with stupid little looks, and that stupid sexy smile, and the stupid twitch of his fingers against your back or your arm or your cheek that you always push away with haste.

You fight against his charms aggressively. You really do, but it becomes harder and harder to do so each day as your true feelings for him blossom under all those disgusted and angry looks you send his way on a daily. Because it's not that Enjin is a bad person, he's just a horrible person to have developed feelings for.

Nevertheless, he's reliable. He's consoling in a silent, effortless way that is far more effective than when he is actively trying to step into a role unsuited for him emotionally. He's thoughtful and encouraging. And while the way he laughs shamelessly into your ear grinds your gears, laughter loud enough to burst an ear drum, he always raps silently at your door at the end of the night to check in on you and make sure you're doing okay.

While his presence is big, he knows when to shrink himself into the warmth of moments where the two of you sit quietly next to each other after a long mission, your head knocking against his broad shoulder as his voice lowly rumbles against you as he speaks to Gris, cigarette hanging from his lips, leg pressing into yours, large arm tucked around your frame like it's nothing.

He tosses your favorite drink to you with a wordless grin when you trudge tiredly into a room. He lets you sit shotgun during every mission the two of you are assigned on together. He lets you braid beads into his hair when his inhibitions have lowered, his body almost numb from alcohol consumption.

He's a good friend. A good guy. Stupid, and unserious, and annoying, but a good man nonetheless. Someone you put your trust in wholeheartedly. Someone you are proud to work alongside at the best of times, and to like him is to doom yourself to an existence of misery and shame.

For your emotions can not seem to get the memo that Enjin is not a contender for your heart. He can't be. That's just not the kind of person he is, and you know it better than anyone.

"Enjin, will you move? Come on, I'm hungry," you groan, moving to push past him, but his ass doesn't budge. He simply shifts his weight to block each direction you attempt to head into, and you grip your hair with a loud sigh. "Oh my god, get out of the way. I'm gonna kill you."

"And I'd be honored," he grins. "You still haven't answered my question, though. I'll let you go once you answer."

"I thought I already told you to shut up."

"You did, and it was nice and all. Really," his golden eyes trail to the ceiling as he pretends to think. "But that still wasn't an answer."

"Why would I give an answer to such a stupid question?"

Enjin pauses, blinking hard and locking eyes with you as his smile diminishes. "Ouch," he drawls. "You think my question was stupid? Just kill a man where he stands, why don't you."

You huff. "Don't play that. We both know you didn't mean anything by it. I'm not feeding your ego with hypotheticals. Your head is already big enough as it is."

You lean up to flick your fingers in the middle of his forehead, and his head jerks slightly, sandy lashes batting at the sensation of your fingers plucking against his skin. Though his ego has been slightly wounded, the corners of his lips curl deviously as he rubs the spot with his tattooed fingers. "Ow... again..."

You smile softly with the shake of your head, turning over your shoulder to move further into your room. Enjin lowers his arm from the door frame, moving to follow you inside.

"Come on, girl," he coaxes through gritted teeth. "It's a simple question. I won't hold any response you have against you."

"That sounds exactly like something you'd do."

"Well, I won't. This time."

You give him a look as you stand beside your bed. "This time?"

He shrugs with a smile, and you click your tongue again.

Watching you turn back around, your back facing him, Enjin deflates slightly. Something nags at him in the back of his mind, tugging heavily and uncomfortably at his chest as he tries to find a way to hide how desperate he is to actually have this conversation with you. But by God, the man doesn't know how or where to even begin with you. Especially when you're so mistrustful of his intentions that you don't even bother to take his questions or words seriously anymore.

He sighs softly, scratching the nape of his buzzed neck. He supposes you have every right not to take him seriously, for Enjin has never once presented himself as a serious guy to you. Or anyone. A wall of ease guards him, and blocks women out from getting too close. He distracts them with false promises, sly looks, and kisses to the cheek, and then he runs. Dangling a carrot from a stick that sways ten kilometers into the sky. Out of reach. Untouched.

The dirty blonde truly isn't as bad as he used to be. Hell, his early twenties were monstrous. He woke up nearly every morning in someone else's bed, smelling of someone else's life, and each time he slipped away in the silence of the early morning, he'd have to watch his back for those of his flings who were insane enough to track him down in public, hounding him about why he never reached back out.

Enjin shudders at the memory. He was so stupid back then, and all those women didn't deserve his horrible lack of communication development and emotional maturity. At least now, pushing thirty, he's sharpened the former a tad, but unfortunately, the latter still needs some tweaking. And it always will. Enjin is man enough to admit that.

But what he is painfully not man enough to do is look you in the eye with no trace of silliness and bear himself raw to you, for the years of pining have finally snapped something in his brain, which he starts to think was the remarkable restraint he has shown in your presence thus far. Only now, he can't take it anymore. He doesn’t want to hold back.

Enjin can't necessarily pinpoint the exact moment he knew you had him screwed, but it certainly began around the time the two of you first met. Your looks, of course, had been the first thing to catch his attention, as Enjin can recognize a beautiful woman from a mile away.

But it wasn't just that you were a beautiful woman. Oh, you proved to be so much more than that not even ten minutes into your introduction to one another. Enjin can envision the way your nose wrinkled and your eyes slimmed when he first greeted you with that flirtatious musicality in his subconsciously sensual tone. The second he called you gorgeous, you were souring, striking him swiftly with a rejection so vile that Enjin can feel the way the color drained from his face to this day.

Then after you humbled him, you clasped his outstretched hand, snapping him out of his stupor as you shook it genially.

At first, teasing you was all it was. Seeking a reaction for entertainment. Giving the newbie a hard time. 

But then he saw your strength honed into the effortless manipulation of your jinki, the way your eyes sharpened as you soared through the air and slashed your anima powered weapon through the thick hide of a trash beast, hair whipping about your head as your body twirled, landing perfectly and solidly upon two firm feet. 

He saw the maternal instinct you developed toward the children in the Cleaners' care, always eager to pop a squat and sketch out pictures with Remlin or take Rudo shopping for snacks. 

He saw, beneath the irritation you've felt toward him from the very start, the underlying passion and care that swam in your eyes each time he came back from a mission that almost cost him his life.

He saw your honest, selfless spirit in the way you muttered angrily to yourself as you dabbed alcohol soaked cotton to a thin gash on Enjin's forehead, standing between his outstretched thighs as your warmth and scent, clean and safe and spiced, washed through his senses. Your other palm pressed to his skin, shielding his hair from his forehead with a long exhale.

And in moments like those, when the silence was stagnant after giving Enjin an earfull on responsibility and safety, he would move his eyes to glance at you mid-pout, studying your face with quiet consideration. His hand would twitch from where it dangled over his knee, itching to touch your thigh. He’d tense, shoulders eventually slumping. You'd mutter something about keeping still, and he'd crack a joke to hide the way his skin burned in your wake.

The twenty eight year old thought that he just might have been in love with you this entire time when he saw you limp into the compound a few months back after a particularly rough mission that he had not been assigned on with you.

Ever a man of dramatics, Enjin flipped, demanding to know what happened and why you were refusing assistance when you were actively holding a hand out to Rudo and Delmon to prevent them from alarmingly moving closer to you. They'd learned not to argue with you when you got like that, stubbornly stewing in your pride, refusing treatment that might have stripped you of your dignity, but Enjin had none of it, as he was hot on your tail.

The two of you got in an argument that day. Enjin had kept moving in to support your side, and you kept pushing away, your bickering traveling down the halls as it escalated into a rather rare, loud disagreement. The only way Enjin thought to find a solution was to carefully swoop in and lift you into his arms bridal style, minding the blood seeping through the gauze wrapped tightly around your shin and the curses you spewed at him. He redirected the two of you to the infirmary, gaze stern as he looked ahead and ignored your protests.

And when he set you down on that hospital bed, arms caging either side of your legs as you both barked in each other's face, he wondered in that very moment why he'd grown so angry with you. Especially when he knew why you so consistently refused help. That nasty habit of independence of yours that he usually found so alluring was both your curse and his, for you'd long convinced yourself that relying on others meant submitting to inferiority.

He just had to have a thing for women who weren't needy. This was where his preference led him, fighting with the most gorgeous woman he'd ever seen in his life until your hand struck him smack across the face.

The slap echoed throughout the hospital room, and as soon as your hand made contact with his cheek, his head snapping into the opposite direction, you both froze. Your hands rose to your mouth as the reality of your actions weighed down on you, and you watched terrified as Enjin remained still.

And he really should have been mad in that moment. He felt the white hot sting of your palm buzzing over his cheekbone. His eyes were shrunken and his posture thrown off kilter, and neither of you said anything as you watched in horror, waiting for the worst to come.

But stupid Enjin couldn't even bring himself to be upset anymore, for that slap of yours did nothing but make his heart burst and his skin tingle.

'Cause damn girl, you've got one hell of an arm. 

And that tenacity, that fire, that unbridled, unapologetic determination - the kind that drives you to blindly smack the shit out of one of your best friend's face - is what got Enjin malfunctioning with the realization that you could do anything to him and he would bask in it.

The severity of this revelation crushed down on him without mercy. He lay awake that night with wide eyes and sprawled limbs, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as his mind plagued with thoughts of you. In the silence of nightfall, nothing could buffer the fears that lay dormant within his core. Fears that you could have died. That the sight of your blood is a reminder of your mortality, and Enjin wasn't there that day to back you up, to push you out of the way, to keep you from crossing the line and fucking up your pretty leg.

He doesn't know who made you feel like you need to perform as an unfeeling soldier all the time. He doesn't know who shamed you in the past for needing basic human connections and support, berating you to the point where any gesture of kindness or concern sends you reeling with discomfort and shame. Enjin's talked to you about it. You've gotten better over the years, but the thought alone wrecks him during the times he can't outrun it.

Times like now, when his feelings for you swallow up his dignity in the worst way possible and actually start to make him unsure of what to say next, how to continue, how to keep the conversation between you alive.

"What is your deal, today?" you eye him in the middle of straightening up your sheets, watching as he stands before you with a sudden silence that catches you off guard.

"Well for one, you still won't answer my question," he manages to say coolly.

"Seriously?" you scoff. "I don't understand why you're so pressed about me answering a dumb question that you don't really want the real answer to."

Enjin's brow curls, eyes roaming over you as if to visually check your attitude toward the issue. What a weird thing to say. "Oy vey. Care to explain what that means?'

"Do I really need to?"

"I think so," he tucks his hands into the pockets of his baggy pants, red shirt hanging loosely over his tall frame, fluttering softly around the length of his inked arms, black and red swirls tracing the curve of skin. You side eye him as your hands busy themselves with folding your little blanket, your side profile to him. He steps closer, lingering by the foot of your bed. "You think I'd ask a question I don't care to hear the answer to?"

"You know what I mean, Enjin. You don't mean any of that stuff you say," you exhale.

You don't even have to further explain yourself, for Enjin receptively catches wind of what you're saying. His heart pangs, but his eyes close calmly. "If it bothers ya so much then you can tell me to stop."

"I tell you to stop all the time, jackass. You don't."

"Well, duh, because I know you don't actually want me to stop," he complains, eyes opening and darting to the sky with softly angled brows. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be so close."

"That doesn't even-" you toss your folded blanket atop your sheets, and stop yourself with another loud exhale. "The point is, Enjin, we're friends. The question is stupid. Doesn't even make sense."

"How is asking you if you'd ever kiss me stupid?"

Silence hangs in the air after the words leave his mouth, and against his best wishes, he feels the tips of his ears burn with the attention.

"Really? How is it stupid?" you prop a hand on your hip.

"I wonder if you think the idea of kissing me is stupid and not the actual question."

"Why does it matter?! We would never kiss, so who cares!"

He puckers his mouth as humor catches his golden eyes. "Never?"

"Shut the ever loving fuck up, Enjin. GOD almighty."

He can't help but chuckle, moving in toward you with a hand reaching out. "(Y/n), listen. Friends kiss all the time. I doubt y're actin' like this because you're not attracted to me."

"What if I'm not?" you bite back. "What if I think you're ugly?"

"Then, I'd have to offer myself up to a trash beast as a sacrifice, wouldn’t I?"

He stops directly beside you, and you look up at him with cynical eyes. "Better get to it, then."

Enjin groans. "You're the coldest woman I've ever met."

"Funny, a few minutes ago you were calling me sweet. So which is it?"

"Both. Your ass gives me whiplash all the time, girl. Quit playing around with me," his voice drops lightly. You take the time to still yourself as Enjin enters your personal bubble a few inches away from you. This is not anything new, for the two of you are rather invasive of one another's space on any given day. But you don't exactly know how to fare with the way he's looking at you now, like he does not know how to communicate all the reasons behind his ridiculous ass hypothetical questions. And Enjin thinks that he is officially losing his touch, for he realizes that he is going back and forth with you about the idea of a kiss. It is stupid, like you said, but once the thought formulated in his mind, he needed to know what you'd say.

It's partially because he enjoys your reaction, enjoys seeing the way you get all flustered and annoyed when his words hit your ears. It's also partially (well more so mainly) the fact that he has no other ideas on how to express that he needs you verbally. The two of you have been dancing around each other for years, and now that Enjin has finally reached his limit for all the tension that he can tolerate in your presence, he is truly struggling to find ways to break the barrier, to get closer, and to mask this genuine desire with something flimsy, fun, and unserious.

Because that is how you regard him. As unserious.

But when he thinks about it… maybe Enjin does not want to be unserious in your eyes anymore. He does not want you to look at him and see someone who is incapable of fulfilling your needs as a man. He does not want you to roll your eyes at any true prospect of the two of you being something more than friends, for you always do when Gris or Semiu approach you with smug skepticism regarding your relationship to Enjin.

The golden eyed man really thought he hated neediness, that he despised the notion of commitment and would never be ready for it, but he thinks now that he's only thought that way because he didn't know you. Now he does, and Enjin doesn't even bother to sleep with anyone else under the guise of not wanting to complicate things, when it is really just because he has no interest in doing so anymore. Not with anyone who isn't you.

He blinks those long, blonde lashes down at you as his smile returns, lighter this time. You can smell the faded air of ash that captures his scent, intertwined with something safe and comforting that you always associate with the image of your blonde friend. He tilts his head slightly as he looks down at you with a softness, a heaviness you don't like, and your head spins while you try to remain vigilant.

"Yes or no. That's all I'm askin'," he says gently, voice rumbling with warmth. You're all the more confused, for you don't understand why Enjin is so hellbent on getting an answer from you that he would surely hold over your head for as long as he possibly could.

His flirting means nothing. You know that. But it's hard to focus on that fact when he's looking at you all soft and mischievously, crowding your air, filling it with himself. When the vision of his bare chest is so close to you, as it peaks out from the loose drag of his shirt, swirls of tattoos curling over his bare collarbones and up his neck. Your heart hammers, and you resent yourself for it. Because this means nothing to him. It always has, so what is the point of mocking you with such a question?

You exhale, for the only way you're going to get out of this is by playing along.

"No," you say bluntly, and Enjin shortcircuits. "I'd never kiss you."

He mulls over your answer with a blank face. You wait expectantly, feigning indifference as you tap your foot. "...So you do think I'm ugly," he concludes.

You snort, laughing loudly in his face, and Enjin gets a taste of what you have been putting up with for as long as you can possibly remember. His shoulders slump and his expression falls flat. 

"Just because I wouldn't kiss you doesn't mean I think you're ugly,” you chuckle.

"Well, what is it then? What's the reason?" he probes.

"You're not my type."

You smile innocently and Enjin gapes at you. Low blow.

You giggle softly, brushing your hand over his arm as you move around him to head toward your door. Once Enjin snaps out of it, he's on your heel. "Not your type? What the hell is your type? Friggin' bums?"

"If that were the case, I'd rethink kissing you."

"Oh ha ha," Enjin walks close behind you as you venture out into the hall and toward the kitchen. "You got jokes, missy."

"Yes, Enjin, because this is a stupid ass conversation."

"You ain't takin' me seriously," he states.

"'Course not. I know you're joking too."

"What if I'm not?"

You freeze, stopping dead in your tracks before turning slowly over your shouler. Enjin is already watching you with a neutral face, eyes unreadable. Your heart pangs. "What are you on about?" you eventually ask, slowly.

"Does that change your answer?" he asks, sincerely. "If I wasn't messin' around. If I was bein' for real for just a second. Would you still say no?"

Your brows draw together as your skin warms, and you hesitate, struggling to find the next words. "This is a trick, right? You're messing with me by saying you're not messing with me."

Enjin takes a moment to observe you and he notes your sudden stiffness, the staggering of your once smooth and steady speech, the widening of your eyes, and his manner eases slightly. You're just as anxious as he is.

He smiles. "I'm askin' a question. No tricks. No messin'."

You scrunch your face. "Why?"

"I can't ask my friend a question?"

"But why - why that of all things? Do you want me to kiss you, or what?"

He pretends to ponder it. "It wouldn't hurt," he shrugs. What he really means to say is that kissing you may be the final thing that makes his resolve snap and push him over the edge, tossing aside restraint to finally, finally get his hands on you.

But hell, Enjin's out of practice when it comes to you. You flip everything he thought he knew on its head.

You frown, turning fully to face him with both hands on your hips. "Seriously, Enjin," you exhale. "What's this about."

"You're reading way too into this, sweetheart. I'm just lookin' to iron out the possibilities in case we ever get to that point one day."

"In what world would we ever find ourselves in a situation where I'd kiss you?"

Enjin hums a nonverbal 'I don't know,' and your eye twitches. "Anyway. Thoughts?"

"I would never kiss you, Enjin. Joking or not."

"What if we're drunk?"

"That's different."

"You think?" he asks and you scoff.

"If I'm drunk and I kiss you, it's because I'm drunk. Not for any other reason. And it would only ever happen if I'm fucked up."

"It's a kiss either way. I'll take it."

"Enjin, be serious," you start.

"I am being serious."

You squint at him as if you want to believe him, but you just can't. "I'm gonna go make a sandwich," you shift the subject.

You go to continue walking, but Enjin's next words keep you grounded. "If it's not 'cause you think I'm hideous, then why don't you consider it?"

You throw your arms out to the side. "Because you're my friend? Because you flirt with everyone all the time? Because I know at the end of the day, you wouldn't actually kiss me, so it doesn't matter."

"I never said I wouldn't kiss ya. You just assumed that."

"I-" you flush, clamping your lips shut. Enjin regards you and a soft smirk graces his features, for he's never seen you so exasperated before. "I'm going... to eat." You try to go again. You try to end this before you act stupidly.

"What if I wanna kiss right now?"

Your neck cricks. "Enjin," you warn.

"What? What? Relax. C’mere, pretty thing," he grins deviously, moving into you with open arms as you catch him with a palm to his firm chest. He looks down at your hand pressing to his frame, then back up at you with a wider beam, dimples poking. "Just one kiss."

"Stop being such a freak. Go kiss one of your other girls or something," you screech as Enjin chuckles darkly, enjoying every bit of this.

"I don't have any girls, (Y/n). Just you."

You fume, lifting your other hand to slap at him. "Shut up-" his large hand clasps around your wrist mid air, catching you before you can inflict any further damage on his body and soul.

And while you are accustomed to fighting back, your body does not seem to react in such a way this time around. Instead, you go completely still, allowing Enjin's touch to sway you.

"All this beatin' on me and tellin' me to shut up," he tsks lowly. "You know I love it, but sometimes a man just wants a little reassurance. That's all."

Your eyes flicker over his face, bouncing between alluring golden hues and his lips, and you know he notices by the way his smile continues to spread. Hell, Enjin seems to notice everything about you these days.

"You get me?" he hums. "I'm not too good with words, but askin' for a little kiss should be enough to put me out there, yeah?"

You swallow hard, twitching when you feel the familiar thrum of his thick fingers reaching to brush your waist experimentally. Your hand has yet to leave his chest, and he's still clutching your wrist tight. The proximity between you has shrunken significantly, and you aren't sure why you've allowed this to happen.

Of course, you've noticed the tension bubbling between the two of you for as long as you've known one another. You feel it in his stare, in his passing touches, in the way he knows you so well.

But you've pushed it away time and time again out for fear of vulnerability, of rejection, of the hell that it is to admit that you've been in love with the idiot for god knows how long.

Still, he manages to stun you when you least expect it. He manages to unveil you, strip you down to the simplest, pathetic mess of sap and yearning for him when he dares to treat you like he could ever focus his attention into you as a potential partner.

And you've thought, for so long, that the notion was impossible, but here Enjin stands before you with softness and heat in his eyes that only he knows has been reserved for you and you only.

It makes your knees weak. And the very fact that he's fine as all fuck is not helping. It never does.

And part of you still isn't convinced that he isn't joking, until his hand releases your wrist and traces up the curve of you inner arm, to your palm, then swiping away to reach for the other side of your waist.

"Enjin, what are you trying to say...?" you question, watching him carefully with a knit between your brows. "...You actually want to...?"

"Don't worry. I won't make you do anything you don't wanna do," he murmurs, orbs dancing over your face. His fingers dip further into your sides, testing, inching you a little closer. He's more surprised that you aren't pulling away, and he edges closer and closer toward your limit, searching for if you even have one right now. "But... hell, if you wanna. I ain't gonna stop you."

You narrow your eyes, your other hand subconsciously pressing to his chest next to your other one. Enjin feels his skin burst where your hands settle over the thin fabric of his shirt. "Enjin, if you want to kiss me, you need to say it and maybe I'll think about giving one to you."

You know you've got him when you feel his hands tense against your middle, and you can not help the smile that breaks onto your face from the sheer joy of finally getting his ass to shut the fuck up.

All that talk, and the thought of actually putting his desires into words forces a lump into his throat.

You tilt your head, mimicking the way he so often does, with the drag of your finger teasingly under his chin. Enjin gulps, grip slacking on your waist subconsciously. "Cat got your tongue now, mouthy?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. You smile, patting his cheek softly before pushing lightly against him.

"That's what I thought. Now let me go so I can-"

You're cut off when you feel warm fingers clasp around your chin as you turn your head, bringing your face forward to face him. Your words die in your throat when the fan of Enjin's breath wafts against your skin, for that is how close he's got you to his face. Auburn hues capture your (e/c) ones with intensity, and for the first time in your life, you see no trace of amusement on his features.

Your eyes shoot wide, your mouth runs dry, your heart damn near stops. And Enjin sighs.

"All I gotta do is say it, then, right?"

You blink. "Wh-"

"Then you'll give me a kiss?" you don't answer, and he frowns, hand sliding over your cheek, thumb slipping over your hairline. "Huh? C'mon, help me out. That a yes?"

You gulp. "You won't do it," you test.

"No?" he dips in further, nose brushing yours. You suck in a sharp breath, pressing closer to his chest, allowing his inked arms to snake all the way around you.

Your lashes flutter with an exhale. "You still haven't."

"I don't have to tell ya somethin' you already know."

The air grows thick around you as his forehead bumps against yours, weighted eyes following the curve of your soft lips, flickering back to your pretty (e/c) eyes every now and then. His body is firm against yours, his mass towering over you, shadowing you, pulling you in like some mystical force.

And you almost let him get to you, as the drag of his fingers along the curve of your spine sends chills running down your back. His lips carefully, slowly chase yours, seeking them out like they are meant to be connected, and your skin jolts with an electricity you can't name when you feel the bow of his lips graze yours.

A gentle hum rumbles through Enjin's chest, against your hands. You almost forget where you are and let him take you, as the hover of his warmth brings you enticingly into him. Your mind is fuzzy, your nerves alive.

He's almost got you. He's centimeters away from having you.

But then, you snap out of it. Because you realize that, despite what you now see as something blatantly mutual, he still has not grown the balls to actually tell you what he wants.

And if Enjin thinks he has feelings for you, you're not going to reward him for skittering around your demands.

So you lean your head back and slide your palm against your mouth, blocking Enjin's lips from yours as they meet the back of your hand. He pulls back, blinking hard as he adjusts to the sudden barrier between you. He looks down, then incredulously up at you with angled brows.

You giggle, moving to hold either side of the man's head. "If you really want to kiss me, It’s not gonna be that easy. Talk to me when you learn how to use your words."

You lean up on your toes to press a chaste to the center of his forehead, where you flicker him earlier. Enjin's tan skin pinches with heat as he watches you lean back, baffled, his hold on you going slack so that you may step out of his arms.

"Now I'm going to go eat, and until you can lock in, don't ask me any more stupid ass questions."

With that, you turn on your heel and hum a tune as you strut down the hallway, leaving Enjin, once more, to pale in the humility of your absence. 

His skin is still tingling where you kissed and touched him.

He growls to himself when he manages to recover, sliding a hand over his hair as he looks to the ceiling as if it could grant him the strength to deal with you.

Because now that he knows that you know how he feels, in true fashion, you're going to make him work hard to be better, to give you the honesty and transparency and dedication you deserve if he's really serious about it.

And with a smirk, and the swipe of his hand down his face, his chest broadens with the excitement of you putting him in his place. Again.

[alexiroflife]

"personal space" : ̗̀➛

first higuruma fic!! fluff with my sexy sleep deprived attorney, the man is losing it

second part

hiromi higuruma x secretary!reader

Synopsis: you're the perfect hire. attentive, engaging, sweet, and intelligent. you enliven hiromi's stuffy little office without even trying. you handle things before he can even think to tell you to get them done. you're incredible... save for the fact that you can't for the life of you comprehend what it means to give him some personal space.

to sum it up: you are a subconsciously touchy and clingy person. you don't mean to throw your handsome boss off his game, you just can't help but to gravitate toward human warmth!

WC: 7,766

Warning(s): nothing really, you're stressing the poor man out even more (but it's good for him)

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Hiromi is a profoundly intentional man.

Every act and decision in his life is calculated, as he was trained to think with incredible precision, with swiftness, with efficiency. He takes his coffee black every morning when the sun just begins to peak over the horizon. 

He annotates every case he is working on, first, with red pen, then back over again with yellow, orange, and green highlighter by noon, alternating between each hue in accordance with the material emphasized. 

At the end of the day, when patience has worn thin, and aggravation with the difficulties of the legal system as settled into the hypertension tensing his neck, his strained eyes habitually fly to Shimizu's desk, and he counts the pens in her pencil holder, the ridges in the edge of her desk, the amount of time she taps her foot restlessly against her chair like routine, then he’s back to work. Back to focusing.

Justice remains the motivation in a world that favors deception, and the burden falls to him to fight back, to combat manipulation, and crime. The world's issues never cease, therefore, neither does Higuruma. Sleep comes rarely, and sanity even less so, but he's done this for so long it practically feels normal. Shimizu claims it's not.

Nevertheless, intentionality is Hiromi's motto. He lives it. He breathes it. There is no ambition, no justice, no integrity without tireless work, without precision and routine and carefully thought out, yet incredibly crammed, days and nights in the office. Lack of care and intention can only lead to a road of failure, a road that fosters malfunction and oppression, that swallows up any hope for a better life and future for the wrongfully accused.

Hiromi can not afford to operate any other way.

Which is why you pose such a problem to him.

The inky haired man would like to tell himself that he does not recall the exact day you first arrived at the office to settle into your position as the office receptionist and intake specialist. As a man who practices such precision and observation in daily life, however, he can not deny the fact that he has the exact date and time of day you first walked in and shook his hand tight engrained in his damn brain.

Hiromi is a private attorney, therefore, his office isn't too big. It holds a few cubicles for himself, his assistant, and other clerks and accountants, but otherwise, it is a very intimate space. In contrast to a public attorney's office, funded by the government, his space is more cozy, a little cramped, but close-knitted. 

When he was searching for a new receptionist a year or so back, he needed someone who could serve as the friendly face and voice of his firm that he did not have the ability to present himself. It is not that Hiromi is necessarily unfriendly, but his countenance is tightly wound, cautious, deliberate. 90% of the time, he appears more exhausted and drab than he does enthusiastic and sociable. In moments where he does feel the latter, it only shows in the smallest ghost of a smile formed by the tight pressing of bowed lips.

Despite being a man of the people, he's not really a people person. As in, he's not good with easing clients with tone or presence, but with facts.

His last receptionist had been with him for quite some time, but fell severely ill one day and took permanent leave to heal. Despite Hiromi's loyalty to his team, he admits that her demeanor closely matched his. She was older, maybe mid sixties, and she would pick up the phone with sloth-like urgency and drone into the speaker hoarsely - polite, but oh so emotionless.

Shimizu suggested a brighter replacement, someone to bring back a bit more color to their world. And you fulfilled those requirements with flying... well, colors.

You stepped into his space with an unshakable confidence, a warm smile that does not align with dread that swirls in Hiromi's chest day in and day out, a happiness and implied innocence that rivals the world you inhabit. Hiromi greets all his team members the same, whether new or old. Tight clasps of hands, a nod of acknowledgement and appreciation, a soulless rundown of their responsibilities and expectations. 

Intention.

But when he sees you for the first time, adorned in a navy pencil dress that touches your knees, black heels that click eagerly against the floor, your professionality accentuated with a breathless grin and shining eyes, intentionality staggers. He almost hesitates, buffers, when he reaches to clasp your hand as a formality and your warm palm folds against his, your dainty hand small and sweet in his grasp.

You introduce yourself with a smooth airiness in your syrupy voice, (e/c) hues locked onto his with no trace of anxiety or uncertainty. You show him, within just a few seconds of meeting, that you are where you want to be, and you will enter your role with class, dedication, and a strong desire to support.

Hiromi swallows thickly, shaking your hand a second too long before releasing it, fingers twitching momentarily at his side before sliding into his slacks pocket. Your touch still buzzes throughout his palm. He finds himself giving another short nod again, lips set in a flat line, before he clears his throat and shows you around, giving you the rundown of where everything is located, what he expects of you, and how you will contribute to his small family.

You're a perfect fit. You're perceptive, you listen, you take marvelous notes, but there's one issue Hiromi has with you that he notices from the get go.

He first notices when he's showing you around, and you're waving at the members you pass after Hiromi's curt introductions, heavy eyes staring forward. It starts with the invasion of your perfume. Something sugary, but not vibrant. It's calm, almost suave, buttery and warm and practically luxurious. Hints of vanilla, dashes of cinnamon.

You smell intoxicating.

The scent jumbles his brain, and for the first time in Hiromi's life, he finds himself struggling to remember what he is prepared to say and show you next, stalling to find the forgotten thoughts with a thumb and index finger brushing his chin. In reality, he only stumbles for a split second, but in his mind, it feels and sounds like an eternity.

He finds that you smell so strong because you're standing so damn close to him. He can feel the heat of your chest radiating against the back of his shoulder as you follow him around closely, inches away from clinging to the outer layer of his tailored blazer, which apparently is not thick enough to block out the sensation of you.

When you speak, making an observation or asking a question, the vibrations of your voice settle just below his ear, the warmth of your breath fanning the sliver of his neck between the tight cuff of his collar and the wavy strands of silky hair that stop just above there.

He does not plan his bodily reaction, the goosebumps that dash over his skin, the spike in his heart. It all just happens, and he wonders if you notice. He wonders if you're doing it on purpose.

He turns over his shoulder to glance back at you, acting as though he is checking to make sure you are still on track with him and keeping up, but what he is really doing is studying you briefly. Tired eyes fly over your face, searching for any tell of mischief or seduction, but instead, he is met with your eyes again and a calm smile of assurance, showing that you are still engaged, that you aren't at all thinking about how close you are to him.

Hiromi turns back around and goes on, monotonously rambling, and decides to brush it off as your underlying nerves. As a subconscious human desire for closeness and familiarity in a foreign space.

After all, you'll be practically glued to the front desk all day. With your skills, prowess, and kindness, a perfect fit for his firm, your little lack of personal space upon first meeting should not pose as a severe complication in the future.

You should not interfere with his daily life, for nothing is strong enough to deter his efficiency and intentionality. Not even the lacking personal space of his pretty new information specialist.

Consequently, Hiromi is damn near distraught when not only your lack of personal space proves to be a recurring habit of yours, but when it significantly impacts his proficiency.

The distant sound of you picking up the telephone carries through the small office, and the melodious chirp of your voice greeting potential clients falls comfortably on his team's ears.

"Higuruma Law, how may I help you today?" you greet kindly, the smile evident in your voice alone from down the hall. Hiromi is certain that if his life had somehow panned out differently, if he was seeking representation after having been wronged by the legal system, your voice would immediately put him at ease.

The office feels almost safer with your presence. You bring in little treats like donuts and coffee almost every morning, and you're always the first one there to greet everyone with a grin on your beautiful face and the scent of pastries swirling throughout the space, intermingling with your perfect perfume.

And when you see Hiromi, you always light up more. Out of respect or obligation, Hiromi is not sure. For once in his life, he just can't name your intentions, but the way you perk up with the offer of a second black coffee and some notes from early calls, his name sweet on your lips - "Good morning, Mr. Higumura! How are you this morning? Get any sleep last night?" - has him almost forgoing the urge to analyze you, as his first instinct is to just sink into your optimism and sweetness.

And if all of that isn't bad enough, the true complications lie in moments where you have to depart from the front desk to deliver new information to him.

He'll hear your heels clicking for a mile away, your scent wafting into his shared space with Shimizu before you even enter the room. When you do, you're a sight for sore eyes. Hair pinned up, new tight, yet modest dress accentuating the curves of your body, the fabric tightly stretching over your thighs as you walk toward him with a calm smile and arms full of papers. You'll greet his brunette assistant first, the two of you exchanging smiles and a brush of her shoulder as she twirls in her chair, then you head straight to Hiromi. 

His eyes are already on you. They have been since you walked through the door.

And then you come closer with a breathless 'hi' as you settle the papers into a neat stack beside him on his desk. Hiromi fights the twitch of his eye as his hues jump from you down to the stack before him, your hands pressed to the surface. Instead of moving away, you lean in close. You hover directly behind his chair as he shifts to interlace his fingers over his mouth, elbows to his desk as he looks over the notes you present him, your necklace dangling right next to the side of his face. You crane over him, hand gripping the back of his chair, and your voice soothingly details each note you present him as he hunches over, trying so damn hard to concentrate but he just can't.

The words blur on the page as he rereads the same damn line over and over, his mind completely unable to process what you are telling him. It gets even worse when your finger stalls on one specific note, one that you have to take a minute to think about. You consequently lean in further, your head directly next to his. Your brows narrow with concentration, something that has long fled from Hiromi's ordinarily pristinely constructed routine.

He breathes in slowly, silently as you hover. His eyes trail to the side, and swiftly, they find your side profile again. So fucking close, one would think that the two of you are close friends or dating. Chocolate eyes jump to the way you pucker your lips slightly in thought, nose scrunching. Suddenly, you gasp upon recollection, and turn to face him with an apologetic grin as you proceed.

Hiromi holds your gaze for a moment before tearing away, staring harshly back down at your papers as you proceed with your debrief like nothing. Like you aren't within kissing distance. Like he can't smell the peppermint on your breath as your scent traps him. Your voice is softer as well as you speak, the proximity between you leaving little room for any noise above a mumble.

How can you not realize what you're doing? How can you be so spatially and socially unaware? You're practically purring potential clients into his ear, clinging to his space like it's normal. Like you aren't stealing the breath from his lungs as he holds it, afraid to exhale in your company.

He plans to sort back through all of your neatly written notes once you leave, as he is completely unable to retain anything you are saying.

You give him one last smile and ask if there's anything else he needs. He waves you away, shaking his head as he pretends to be too preoccupied with the content in these papers, and you nod and turn to go. Shimizu watches as the dark haired attorney looks back up at your retreating figure, hooded eyes almost tormented, confused, entranced by the vision of you walking away accompanied by that click clack of your cute heels.

His brunette assistant twists her lips playfully, leaning back in her chair as she fiddles with a pen in hand, turning to face him once more. He blinks and looks back down at his desk. "Get back to work, Shimizu," he says calmly, feeling her eyes on him. She stifles a smile, sighs, and obliges.

Then there's all the times he's accidentally bumped into you, the office space often too cramped for multiple people to walk around at once. Leaving his section of the space, his body has collided with yours on numerous occasions. You would either be on your way to the bathroom or into his section as he goes to step out when your body collides with his, chest to chest. You would stumble back in surprise, his hands reaching out to subconsciously catch you by your shoulders to keep you from falling or losing balance. Papers fly from your arms and to the floor in a gentle shower.

You blink up at him in shock, and his large hands linger on your arms a second too long before dropping to his sides. "Mr. Higuruma! I'm so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," you rush out, dropping swiftly to your knees to gather papers.

"No need to apologize," he assures you. "I shouldn't have been so careless.” 

He stops himself, looking down at you from this position. You're on your knees at his feet, peering up at him through your lashes with an anxious smile. Hiromi's eyes widen, this position allowing him a clear angle of your ordinarily hidden cleavage. 

"Let me help you," he blurts suddenly, kneeling down before you in a similar fashion with his gaze downward and a lump in his throat.

Your hands fly about the sheets, and in your haste, you both reach for the same paper. Your fingers brush, grazing, and you both retract like you've been shocked. You sit back on your calves, giggling bashfully. "Sorry."

"It's alright," he murmurs.

His entire body tingles for the rest of the day from your previous point of impact. Your body had felt so soft and warm against his firm chest, the angle of you from above so pretty and sinful that he almost felt the need to take himself to HR for viewing you in such a manner.

There are moments in the break room. You're inside, already fixing yourself some lunch as you hum a gentle tune to yourself. You don't hear Hiromi come in, as you are in your own little world. He swiftly moves to brush behind where you stand at the counter beside the fridge, but as fate would have it, you finish making your sandwich just as he moves behind you. You turn around and collide with him. His hand finds your forearm this time, the collision not as bad as others, and you wince up at your handsome boss.

"God, I don't know why I keep doing that," you laugh, shaking your head at your own clumsiness. Hiromi lowers his hand and shakes his head to dispel your embarrassment, lips pressing together.

"It's my fault. I seem to always be in your way."

"No, it's me who's always in yours!"

He ducks his head with a low, breathy, awkward chuckle, one that stuns himself as much as it stuns you into laughing along with him. "Are you getting lunch?" you ask as he moves to open the fridge, your sandwich clutched tight between your hands.

"Just a drink."

You tilt your head. "Have you eaten at all today?"

You both know the answer to that.

The fridge door closes behind him as he clutches a beverage in his well sculpted hand. "I don't have the time."

"Sure you do. Why don't I order you something?"

"There's no need, (Y/n). I'm okay, but thank you."

"Nonsense," you step toward him. "You can eat while you work."

"I don't like a messy desk."

"Who says it has to be messy? Come on. You can't keep working on an empty stomach. It's not healthy."

You sound just like everyone in his life who cares for Hiromi's wellbeing outside of his occupation. Ordinarily, he'd brush them off, stubbornly refusing help as his mind swarms with more pressing matters, with data and evidence and arguments and hell.

But in your presence, he finds that his mind can't swarm with anything but how charming you look with a sandwich in your hands and hope in your (e/c) eyes. A passion within you that eases his nerves. How can he say no to that face?

Here you are again, disrupting his way of living.

"Something light is fine," he murmurs, starting to walk past you toward the door. You light up, following close on his heel.

"Yeah?"

"And inexpensive."

"Yes sir. I'll bring your food to you when it gets here."

"...Thank you." He halts in the door, turning to look down at you, as you are - of course - directly behind him. "You don't need to call me sir."

"Oh," you furrow your brows. "I didn't even realize I did. Sorry, Mr. Higuruma."

Hell, the way you say his name like that is no better than the former. It is his title, the way everyone in the office or any of his clients address him, but fluttering from your lips, the title feels intimate, a very contradiction within itself.

Yet somehow, you make everything feel informal. Like you're more than an employee. Like you're someone more.

Late nights in the office are worse. Ordinarily, the wee hours of the morning are reserved for him alone or him and Shimizu, who often struggles to keep up with his pace and insomnia. He once realized that you tend to stay late with him from time to time when he walks out of his office, having shed off his suit jacket with sleeves rolled to his elbows and tie loose, to retrieve some extra paper from your desk, and you're there. Face lit by the dim light of your computer, circles tracing under your eyes, yet peace evident on your expression.

"What are you still doing here?" he asks, approaching your desk slowly. You perk up, meeting his gaze with a tired smile.

"Oh, hi Mr. Higuruma," you hum, your voice soft enough to sound like a lullaby at this time of night. Sleepiness glimmers in your eyes, but you remain engaged. "I saw that you were staying late to finish some stuff up so I stayed to catch up on some things too. In case you needed anything from me."

He checks the clock behind you. "(Y/n), it's two in the morning. Go home."

"I don't mind, really. Honestly, it's kind of cozy here and I didn't really feel like going home yet, anyway."

"Why is that?"

You shrug. "It gets too quiet. I feel better sometimes knowing I'm in a space with other people."

"Mmm."

You watch as Hiromi rubs at his eyes, blinking harshly. Your paired exhaustion breeches some kind of boundary. He does not have the energy to exude professionalism, nor do you, so in the silence of the empty, dark office, you share an unspoken, weary connection.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" you ask kindly.

He looks at you for a long moment before speaking. "I just need some paper. I'll get it."

He moves to round your desk, but you are already scootching out of your chair to assist. "No, it's okay. I've got it."

Despite both of your claims, you end up reaching for the same drawer at the same time, the two of you now behind your desk together. He looks down at you out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You don't quit," he says lowly, pulling the drawer open the moment he distracts you. "I told you I'd get it. Sit back down."

Your brows curve, something toying in your expression as you smile. "What sense does that make if I'm already behind the desk, next to the paper?"

"Enough sense if it's coming from your boss."

You laugh slightly, raising your hands, but not stepping away as Hiromi gathers a fresh stack. He closes the drawer and lifts himself back up, his shoulder bumping yours. He looks down where the contact occurred, then back at your face.

"Seriously. I think you should go home. You shouldn't stay just because I'm here. There's no telling when I'll leave."

"I appreciate the concern, Mr. Higuruma. Really, but I told you. I prefer being here."

"You very well may be the first, then."

"I can't be. Not if you're here more than anyone else."

"That's different. I don't have a choice."

"But you like what you do, don't you?" you ask. "I mean, as much as anyone can in this field. When you're able to help people, it makes you happy. Right?"

He turns, setting his forearm against the surface of your desk as you stand before him, your voices hushed. "I think relieved is a better word for what I feel. I can't fully be happy knowing that things could change any second."

"Still. It seems like you were made for what you do. You do your job so well."

His shoulders jump with an amused breath. "I'd hope so."

"You do! You're the main reason why coming to work doesn't feel like a chore. It pays to have a passionate and talented employer."

Unceremoniously and unexpectedly, heat burns at the tip of Hiromi's ears. "Flattery won't get you a raise, you know."

You gape with a smile on your lips. "Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?"

"I make jokes all the time."

"You do not."

"I do. It's true," he challenges. "Maybe you're just not paying close enough attention."

You know he's joking again, because your entire position revolves around you paying attention to every little detail of potential cases brought to your office's lap. You laugh, the very sound carrying through the space like the symphony of birds chirping melodiously. Hiromi's eyes are heavy, they burn each time they blink, but they're soft on you. His smile is gentle, barely there.

"I'll have to step it up then if you think that's the case," you counter.

"No," he denies, amusement fading. "You're doing wonderful work."

You smile warmly with a slow blink and a nod. "Thank you," you grin.

The air stalls between the two of you for a few seconds as you look at one another, unsure of what more to say, your closeness keeping him grounded there.

"Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Higuruma?" you ask, the computer screen light shining in your glassy eyes.

He shakes his head, swallowing. "No. Just get some rest."

He does not leave without you reaching a hand out to hold his upper arm, a gesture of gratitude and departure, yet the very thing that spikes Hiromi's heart rate. "You too," you smile.

He nods one more time, pursing his lips, before turning away from your light.

You are a huge problem.

Hiromi can't get you out of his mind. A brain once too crowded with the details of his work now struggles to balance the intrusion of your face, your smile, your body, your energy, your touch.

You haunt him. You wreck his mind, destroying all that he has sorted into organization for the sake of a sliver of his wellbeing and all of his legal ambition.

Hiromi tries to observe you around others, tries to see if you act with the same lack of personal space with your coworkers. Sure enough, he's caught you invading Shimizu's personal bubble as well as his accountant's multiple times, but it looks much more casual on the outside looking in. Others do not appear as affected by it as he feels deep within, and he wonders if he is reading too much into it. If his mind has finally turned on him and he's mentally snapped. Maybe it's all just a figment of his imagination.

But how could it be, when images of you sneak into his head when he's trying to focus, the butt of his pen rubbing against his temple? He feels the phantom of your body hovering close when the night drags along, a subconscious effort his mind and body make to comfort itself. And it's you. It's always you he goes back to.

It's more than your touch and your closeness. It's the impact you've had on his office from the moment you stepped into it. It's the life you breathe into moments of helplessness and frustration. It's the motivation you inspire with your grins and those bright eyes, still free of trauma, still full of promise.

You bring Hiromi back down to earth, and you throw him off kilter all the same.

Higuruma storms in one day, unfathomably tense. He swoops past your desk without greeting, mind running, and you look up upon feeling the wind of his pace that flickers papers upward. He keeps his door closed all morning, and you ruminate in the suspicions, concerned. You know Hiromi carries the world itself on his shoulders and he consistently works himself into the ground without fail.

You're sure today he's stressed about a big case he just decided to take - another one where the evidence seems damn near impossible to point into the direction of his defendant's innocence. You hear much speculation about the seemingly unreasonable choices he makes every now and then, how he seeks to challenge himself with the absolute worst possible cases. Some say he's crazy, others say he's a masochist.

But you say that he's just a man yearning for a better world, a man who knows not what it means to make easy money, but to prioritize the person over the pay, the truth over duplicity.

He just wants to make a difference. And he's willing to kill himself to do so.

You wonder if he's eaten. You wonder if he's slept. You wonder if he's alright.

You rap at his door during lunch, a muffled ‘come in’ greeting you from behind it. You turn the handle with your elbow, arms full of a lunch order and some other papers.

You peek your head in cautiously. You see Hiromi at his desk with his cheek propped on his fist and his brows tightly angled. His jaw is set, and his dull eyes bore into his computer screen as if it is plaguing him. Shimizu is out to lunch, you assume by her empty desk, and you slowly proceed.

"Hi Mr. Higuruma," you sing. His eyes dart up to you, sharp and intense. You remain unfazed, keeping your smile as you step into his space. You're wearing a black pencil skirt today with a frilly white blouse tucked into your belt. Worn down, his eyes flicker over you rather knowingly, but you don't seem to notice. You never seem to notice anything within the realm of how crazy you've been driving Hiromi for the better half of a year.

You kick the door closed behind you with your heel, and strut your happy ass over to him. His eyes don't leave your figure, and like routine, you settle just beside him, organizing the things you brought onto his desk neatly. You know he hates clutter.

"I hope you don't mind me bringing you lunch again. I ordered your usual from the place across the street. Light and inexpensive," you quote him from some time in the past. He remains silent, looking over the container of food you sit at the right corner of his desk, followed by some new notes you've brought him on big index cards.

You go on to explain everything else you have for him. Your hip hits the arm rest of his chair, your back slightly arches as you bend over beside him to drag your finger over everything with expert memory. Your perfume wafts into his face, circling through his room and through his nostrils. 

His jaw clenches, the crick in his neck tight today, and he leans back into his chair, pen tapping against the table as you talk.

He sees your lips moving, but does not hear what you're saying. He studies that gentle way your lashes brush against your cheek when you blink, the indentations at the corners of your mouth when you speak. Your necklace dangles again, swaying over the peek of your collarbone and around the dainty stretch of your neck.

You're all up in his space. As usual. Breathing his air, brushing his arm, staining the atmosphere.

Hiromi has had a horrible past two days. He's drained. Irate. Sleep deprived. Every little thing has been working his last nerve as of late, and here you come along, looking the way you look, talking the way you talk, acting the way you act.

Hiromi can't take it anymore.

"(Y/n)."

He calls your name gravelly, his voice firmer and lower than usual. You hum, turning to look back at him from your current position. Your smile diminishes ever so subtly when you catch his expression. He's slouched back into his seat, fingers shielding his nose and mouth with his elbow propped on the armrest, his other hand still tapping his pen restlessly. Those sunken eyes of his bore into your soul and carry something weighted that you do not recognize, something dark and testing.

Tendrils of his hair fly from his messy slickback, and his jaw clicks every two seconds as he watches you, calm yet daring.

"Is something the matter?" you ask, smile completely dropping now. Your brows pull together with worry, the stress very evident in his composure. "I know you've had a rough couple days. Is there anything I can do to help?"

His lack of urgency to respond starts to make you nervous, as you raise yourself from your bent position to frown at him.

"Mr. Higuruma?"

"Stop," he orders. Not loud. Not aggressive. 

Stern. Strained. 

You blink, tilting your head. "I'm sorry, sir, did I do something wrong?"

"I thought I told you not to call me sir."

"I-" you realize your mistake and clasp your hands before you humbly. "Right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"(Y/n)," he inhales slowly, closing his eyes as he runs his hands over his face, shifting to lean forward and set his elbows back onto his desk. "I need you to step back."

"Step... back?"

"Yes," his chocolate eyes snap back up at you. "Now. Please."

You take a moment to process what he is asking of you, therefore, you do not do as he says right away. You're too busy trying to piece together what you did to annoy him and how you can fix it. Do you smell bad? Did you come in at a bad time? You did knock.

Your lips part to further pry, missing the way his eyes drop to your lips. "Mr. Higuruma, what-"

"I'm asking you nicely as your boss to give me some breathing room before I act inappropriately and do something I will surely regret."

Your eyes go wide, and his are steely as they search yours. He is deadly serious.

Dazed, you take a cautious, tiny step backward, freeing up an inch of space. Hiromi inhales, shaking his head. "That's not far enough."

"Mr. Higuruma, I'm really sorry but I'm very confused. If you could explain where this is coming from... I mean, I didn't mean to offend you. Was I too close to you?"

"You're always too close," he cuts in, and your lips clamp shut. "Do you realize that?"

Your mouth runs dry. "...No, I... I didn't know."

"You didn't know," he repeats. You watch as he sets his veiny hands flat to his desk, settling there momentarily before he pushes himself up. His chair rolls back as he rises. Slowly he turns to you, one hand tucked into his pocket, blazer flapped over it. "It would be much easier for me if I didn't know you were telling the truth. You don't even think about what you're doing, and somehow it's all I can think about."

His free hand reaches out to methodically straighten a manilla folder in front of his keyboard. It stalls there as he ponders. "Every day. You wear the same perfume, and you stand so close to me that I can't think straight. Our arms touch. Our hands touch. You're never more than a few centimeters away. Do you realize the predicament that puts me in? As your superior?"

Your heart pounds into your chest, your posture suddenly rigid. Hiromi can see the gears turning in your head. He realizes this conversation in itself is extremely inappropriate, as you've been nothing but polite. It really isn't your fault that you lack so much spatial awareness, but Hiromi is at the end of his rope.

You've come in at a very bad time. Hiromi's so stressed that he's willing to refrain from excessive thought for one second and give into the desire that has been consuming his entire being.

He sees the dumbstruck look on your face and starts to feel remorse and shame, for he's never seen you in such a state. He sighs heavily. "You should leave."

You snap out of it. "What?"

"Thank you. For the food and for the extensive notes. But you should leave now."

"But I-"

"I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable. I apologize. I shouldn't have said any of that. Please. Just leave."

"You haven't even let me say anything, though."

"(Y/n)," your name comes as a warning this time. The tension thickens between you as his chest stutters with a shaky breath. He eases his hand out, as if that's enough to cut through the thickness, to keep you away. "Leave."

He's begging you at this point. Like he is unsure of what he'll do if you stay any longer. You know that, by the look on his face, you should listen to him and walk out of the door, but every bone in your body keeps you stationary. You don't want to go.

You respect Hiromi. You admire Hiromi. You really like Hiromi. He's your boss, but he makes work feel breathable, like you are accomplishing big things, doing life changing work. Despite his calculated countenance, Hiromi is thoughtful. He's passionate. He's dedicated. He's an inspiration. You've come to truly appreciate him, as an employer and as a man.

It doesn't hurt that he looks the way he does either. Dark inky strands of cropped hair. A heavenly sculpted nose. Haunting, shrunken eyes that send a pit to your stomach each time they lock with yours. The moments of freedom in which he allows himself to smile, the way his shoulders sag.

He’s a beautiful specimen, inside and out.

You truly did not know that you had such an impact on him. You've been told in the past that you tend to linger close to people, but you thought you'd gotten better. You thought that you weren't being too bad about it.

But, apparently not. It's been so bad that your boss now has to physically bar himself from you, kick you out of his office before he...

Before he what exactly?

And would that what be so terrible?

You twist your fingers around, nervous, jittery. "What if..." you start carefully, walking over eggshells. "...I don't leave?"

You can see the pattern of his breathing in the distinct rise and fall of his chest, his tight work clothes expanding. His eyes flick to the closed door, then back at you.

Your expression is blank as you await his response, the silence within the office blaring in your ears. You can’t read him. You can’t pick up on anything but his intensity, and how he’s mulling over all the possibilities and consequences in his head.

Suddenly, he moves out from his desk, taking two slow steps into your direction.

You watch him patiently, anxiously, excitedly, until he’s hovering mere centimeters away, heat to heat, chest just barely away from chest. You breathe in slowly, eyes trailing up.

You see his jaw clench as he thinks this over again and again, until you see the very moment his resolve crumbles. "Then you're giving me permission to..."

"To what?" you ask eagerly.

His eyes soften. He inches the curve of his knuckle forward, grazing it over your shoulder experimentally. You tense, breath hitched. "To touch you," he eventually says.

You nod as if entranced. "You can," you assure him. "I mean it. If it'll help with your stress."

His hand freezes on you. "Just for my stress?" he murmurs. "Not for you in any way?"

"That's not what I meant," you defend quickly. "I mean - I want you to."

"To what?" he resumes the graze of his knuckles over the curve of your shoulder, down the expanse of your arm. Chills sprout across your skin in the wake of his hand's trail, and warmth swirls over your cheeks. "To need you? To want you so badly you distract me from the one thing in this world I'm good at?"

His hand slips down to clasp yours. You look down, following his movements as he brings the back of your hand upward to his lips, all while his eyes remain on you. Your brows curl, a hum catching in the back of your throat as his bowed lips brush your skin, pressing a kiss gingerly there. 

He monitors you to ensure that you are okay with this, that he isn't pushing any limits. He could already get himself into a world of trouble for even being seen this close to you in such a manner, but the world be damned for one second. All Hiromi has ever thought about is this godforsaken planet, and time and time again, it has chewed him up and spit him back out like a stale piece of gum.

Through the hell he calls his life, he thinks he should be awarded at least this one little treat. This one pleasure, this treasure that is his secretary. That is you, efficient, kind, beautiful in more ways than he can count. You're the only thing his aching body deems as a remedy for his inner turmoil.

"I already do," he tells you, tugging you gently by your hand, bringing you unfathomably close with a hand sliding over your cheek to cradle you. Sharp eyes look over your face, detailing everything from your forehead to your chin, you brows to your enticing lips. "Tell me, do you feel the same? More than just an obligation to me as your boss?”

You nod slowly and look at him with a neediness in your breathtaking (e/c) eyes, and your lips part to answer. "Yes."

He hums, neck and ears blooming with heat. "You want to help me?"

"Yes, Mr. Higuruma."

"Hiromi," he corrects.

"Hiromi," you try it on your tongue, and the said man feels himself shudder.

He exhales, releasing your hand to cup your other cheek. He cranes his neck slightly to look directly into your eyes. "Thank you," he breathes, desperately appreciative.

He ducks in to kiss you with a delicacy you can't put into words. The journey to your lips is slow, as if he wants to savor every second of what leads to the gentle connection of your lips.

He's soft, cautious, like he does not want to harm you or push you away. Your hands raise to his sides, your eyes fluttering closed as you hum softly into his lips. You feel the dark haired man relax into you, shoulders dropping and groan bubbling from his chest, long and sustained. Your scent practically molds with his, encapsulating the two of you in its own bubble.

He pulls back to breathe, tilting his head to push back in. Fingers thread into the back of your hair and gradually bring your face close, his shoulders bunching and brows arching as he melts into you like a dream. He hums again, a wrecked sound of relief that you catch with ease, lips slowly swimming in gentle unison.

Your body feels fuzzy from the way he kisses you, like you are a glass doll he does not wish to break, one he cherishes with all his soul, one he wants to shower with care and affection the right way, the gentlemanly way, the earned way. Yet he's hungry, unraveling at the seams with each passing second your lips remain locked. You taste like a dream Hiromi once believed he could not achieve. Like a pastry he told himself was too good to eat.

Like you. Soft and delicious and... and not close enough.

The kiss proceeds between short breaks away, intensifying as his hands move to wrap under your arms, sliding over the fabric of your work clothes, tucking safely around your waist. Your arms move accordingly, raising into the air before falling to his shoulders, wrapping snugly around his neck.

He pulls you flush to him, encircling you tight between languid kisses. Slow and meticulous like the way he works, capturing every element, failing to let any of you go to waste.

The two of you are practically molded, heads angled with the deepening of your kiss. Hiromi groans, lifting you up carefully and effortlessly to twirl you around and set you on the middle of his desk. His hands fly to your face again, pressing soft, thoughtful pecks to your plush lips, the bridge of his nose bumping yours occasionally.

He smoothes some of your hair over your shoulders, only pulling away to peel his lidded eyes open and admire you tenderly. You can't think. You just lock eyes, searching within one another for the deeper thing you felt in your kiss.

He kisses you once more, a bit firmer this time, sliding a palm up your thigh, gripping your hip, rolling a thumb back and forth. You moan sweetly, and Hiromi grunts.

"That's lunch," he breathes hotly into you, a thin string of saliva snapping as you chase his lips.

"Huh?" you furrow your brows, following the warmth of him blindly. He pecks your lips again, then your cheek sweetly.

"That's lunch, sweetness."

You blink. Upon processing his words, you tilt your head to look up at the clock. He takes the opportunity to plant a kiss on your jaw. 

Sure enough, lunch ended a minute ago. You assume Hiromi knows the routine by heart, as he does not even have to look at the time to know that break has ended, and therefore, his assistant will be returning any minute now.

You look back at him to find that he's smiling. Not something barely detectable, but something real and relaxed. You ogle him openly, looking over the crease at his hooded eyes and the color on his pale skin.

"You have to get back to work now,” he says affectionately.

You nod slowly. "Okay. Right. Oh, right!" The realization finally comes to you that there is a risk of you getting caught, and you go to fix your hair and straighten your clothes.

Higuruma chuckles, assisting you by adjusting the collar of your shirt and the clasp of your necklace. "Are you alright?"

You flush, going to jump off of the desk when he lifts you from under your arms instead, setting you down on your feet where you first resided upon intrusion. You giggle nervously, brushing yourself off and chewing on the inside of your lip. "Yes, I'm more than alright," you say. "...Are you? Did that… help any?"

He smirks. "You have no idea."

Just then, the door clicks open revealing Shimizu, who steps in casually, unfazed by the two of you standing next to one another. 

You jump, clearing your throat. "Okay, so I'll be back to - to bring you those last contacts in about an hour, Mr. Higuruma."

Hiromi watches you knowingly, greedily. "I'll be waiting."

You nod curtly before turning on your heel, brushing past Shimizu with a quick wave and out of the door.

The brunette turns to look back at her boss as he settles stiffly into his seat with a lingering smile. "Mr. Higuruma! You're smiling! Did you get some good news about the case?"

"No," he breathes, reaching to sort through the things you brought him, then stopping himself when his eyes catch the food you so kindly brought out of concern for his wellbeing. His smile softens as he goes to eat first.

Shimizu puzzles. "Then what's with the attitude shift? You were just so upset."

Hiromi shrugs. "Second wind."

[alexiroflife]

"homecoming" : ̗̀➛

MDNI, suggestive themes, christopher nolan's odyssey spoilers, basically follows the plot of the ending of the film with my creative liberties (i don't own rights to this film nor do i take credit for its plot and how it is incorporated it into this fic) - super brief intermission for this surprise fic no one asked for bc it popped into my head the second i watched the film AGH | gojo fics

odysseus! satoru gojo x queen! reader

Synopsis: Satoru Gojo, hero of the Trojan War, finally returns home to his wife in Ithaca... only he must first disguise himself and rid his infested palace of all the suitors who have come to claim you in his absence before revealing his return to you.

to sum it up: after twenty years away, Satoru Gojo finally returns to you, his loving queen, who refused to remarry despite how long he was away.

WC: 11,552 (this was deadass supposed to be a quick thing whoops)

Warning(s): smut in the last section, fingering, descriptions of reunion sex & love making, a little angsty, mentions of violence, graphic depictions, spoilers from the odyssey but tale as old as time fr

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“The Queen would like to speak with you.”

Satoru Gojo feels his heart crack against his chest with the force of Poseidon’s rage splitting his crew's ship in two all those years ago, the very weight of your title, with the knowledge of your presence just slightly out of reach, sending the contents of his stomach churning.

Shrowded in tattered cloth, Satoru ducks his head, allowing the hood to further conceal his features from the handmaiden that beckons him to the cratered walls leading to you, blocking him out, separating himself just a mere few inches from the woman who he only just allowed himself to remember, the pain having crept back into his chest in with the slow, agonizing ache of lotus-starved consciousness.

Satoru rises slowly, moves across the stone as if each step pulls him further into the ground. He keeps his forearms hovering before him, his shoulders hunched to minimize his height, eyes bright enough to pierce the veil of frayed sanity holding his kingdom together shielded away from the light.

His son watches tense from where he sits afar, the soft crackle of fire filling the space occupied by Satoru's calculated, pensive steps.

The sun soaked palace is not how he remembered it all those years ago. The orientation of these stone walls are the same, it takes the same amount of steps to lead from the main hall to your guarded chambers. The lingering scent of the sea still drafts in through the cracks in the walls. The same chill that shocks his body when his knuckles brush the cool bronze plates lining his... crowded dining tables.

A spark of rage strikes his brow, forcing it to twitch at the very thought of those suitors clanging his challises loudly at dusk, feasting over his food, lusting over his wife in his absence. To think of how loyalty has soured with him gone, to think that men from across the Mediterranean have damned his glory, his respect, his very name for the chance to steal you away as their wife, to become king of his castle.

He will see to it that they will pay. They will all pay.

Satoru allows himself to peak upward when he hears the familiar rustle of your gowns as you rise, your sweet smell drifting through the intricate grating of your sliding walls soon following. His nose twitches, his heart lurches at the scent, the distant memory that springs to life in mere miliseconds.

The ivory haired warrior has conquered Troy, escaped the clutches of a wailing Cyclops, wrecked his ears and very soul with the screech of a siren's delicious song, watched his man love him, hate him, turn on him, and die just as Tyresius promised him before the gates of hell, where all of Satoru's mistakes stood before him in a crowd of soiled men hungry for vengeance, hungry for answers that death did not provide. Satoru has lived a thousand years within his mind, allowing the fruits of the earth to tear the memory of you, sweet you, from his head, along with the sting of a million miles separating you from him.

Satoru has looked into the very eyes of the gods' wrath, of death itself, and yet, his heart has never beat with such brutality the way it does now, when he allows himself a sliver of light to catch a glimpse of you as you stand before your barrier with your hands clasped polited before you. Satoru lets out a strained sigh, ducking his head once more, tearing his eyes away from your beauty, for he knows you too well. If he allows you even just a peak of his face, you'll know. You'd know your husband anywhere.

But even the slightest glance at you without being able to throw himself against your gates, ripping them open, and pulling you into his arms, smashing his lips against yours to make up for the two decades he spent away, he spent making you wait, chips away at Satoru's heart. He never thought himself to be much of a patient man before the gods forced him to know it up close, forced him to trust in fate rather than his own control.

You're encased in emerald that flutters around your ankles, gold necklaces stacked up the expanse of your lovely neck, flittering earrings shining in the firelight crackling behind you. You're a vision of grace, one that keeps these crumbling walls hardly intact. Raw beauty that spites the likes of Aphrodite, that lures men of ill intent to your doors like vermin.

But Satoru did not see your eyes. He couldn't bring himself to look into them, for he'd see the years of heartache he inspired, the grief that you have yet to accept, the life lost in your gaze.

He settles down to sit slowly, back pressing to the gate. He listens intently to every step you make. The way your sandled feet grace the floor, the way the flutter of your gown cuts through the air as you sit just inches away.

Satoru’s eyes flutter shut and his throat runs dry when you speak. “Hello, traveler,” you greet kindly despite the thick blanket of sorrow that lingers in your once airy tone.

Satoru gulps. His heart flips. Whispers of his name on your breath, that very same voice, flutter through his mind from a past long cherished, long abandoned, and he aches with anticipation. Fighting against his own will to remain disguised.

“Please, make yourself welcome. My maid will return to wash your feet so that you may rest in comfort.”

Satoru’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he presses his lips together to maintain strength. After twenty years, he’s finally made it home to you, but you still feel so far away. He attempts to evade the sting of your amiability, so distant and unfamiliar, driven by duty and generosity rather than love. Rather than knowledge.

He clears his throat. “You’re too kind, but that’s unnecessary. Please don’t waste your water on someone like me.” When he speaks, his voice is gravelly, worn, and hoarse with age and nerves and exhaustion and anger and desperation. All of which he keeps burrowed just at the surface, blanketed by the croak of exaggerated starvation.

He tenses slightly when you take a moment to respond, registering the sound of his weathered voice, toying with it in your mind. He prays you do not recognize him. He prays you’ve at least forgotten the sound of his weariness. “Someone like you?” you repeat slowly. “In Ithaca, we welcome all. We treat the needy and hungry as family. You would not impose. I insist.”

Still, so kind. So thoughtlessly, beautifully generous. It's that very generosity which pulled those men to your door, which allow them to trample over your grace.

At that moment, your elderly servant returns with a basin of water and cloth. Satoru recognizes her, sees the definition of wrinkles worn over her skin. He remembers her careful, maternal touch. How she always mended his split flesh after foolish accidents. If the ocean eyed warrior were less distracted by your warmth radiating just behind his back, he would have remembered the chunk of flesh that was torn away from his shin long ago during a hunting accident with a boar which she patched up herself. He would have been more cognizant of the way her cautious, trembling hands gently unwind the tassles of his sandles, removing the footwear from his person slowly.

"You are... too kind," he mumbles in response to you, as well as to the servant before him.

She moves to bring a soaked cloth to his scarred shin, but when her hand drags his leg forward by the back of his ankle, the strangely familiar callous of his heel brushing her palms, she jumps when her eyes land on the brutish, healed wound, the battered flesh she sewed all those years ago.

She jumps. The water topples over and splatters down the stairs. Satoru's son jolts at the sight, and Satoru's eyes jerk up in slow panic at the commotion.

His eyes go wide when they meet hers accidentally, and he watches as stun gradually morphs her expression, the light catching emotionally in her glistening gaze. Satoru acts quickly, his scarred hand shooting forward to knowingly graze her chin, an urgent fire in his crystal hues.

She shudders a breath of disbelief, awed smile catching her lips. Satoru shakes his head, the corners of his lips curving with nostalgia, and she blinks in her stupor before nodding slowly in understanding, scrambling to get more water.

"It is not kindness. Just humanity. Acknowledgement," you argue softly, and Satoru ducks his head once more as an amused, warm smile tugs at his lips, for you always deny your goodness even when it is presented before you. Satoru hums, allowing his cloak to shield his face once more, tugging the fabric forward. "What is your name?"

"...Senon," he lies.

"Senon," you try the name on your tongue warmly, scooching slightly forward. "Where are you from, Senon?"

"...I am a veteran of the Trojan war. I've... traveled very far."

He hears you pause, feels you tense behind him.

You bring yourself closer to the gate, eyes glittering with mourning as your brows pull together in a hopeful tug. You have been wearing your grief on your sleeve for twenty years now, the very mention of the war that stole your love away bringing a lump to your throat and making something hard and hot and unforgiving settle in your chest. Your breath hitches as you inhale, and he hears you swallow, feels the ghost of your breath.

Gods, he's missed you. He misses the breath warm against his lips. He misses your sighs against his heated, balmy skin.

He's so close, but still not quite home.

"A veteran...?" you whisper. "Then... you knew my - my husband?"

Your voice falters under the mere word, shattering into something momenterily fragile and week. Satoru clenches his jaw. He wants to assure you of his safety so badly. He wants to tell you that he is here. That you have to wait no longer, but he would be lying. The fight is not yet won, and his home - you, his son - are not yet saved.

He must wait. Play his cards correctly.

Satoru angles his head slightly to the left, into your direction. "I did," he says. "Very well."

You lick your lips, failing to hide your hope. Not even trying to. "And? What of him...? Do you... is there any word of..."

"He's alive."

You gasp out.

"And he will return. He swears it." He swears it.

"Then where is he?" you urge, abandoning your poise, voice dipping into something heated and desperate and drastic, yet achingly quiet, as though you are afraid to let your hope ring out too loudly for the fear that it will be crushed. "How is it that you were able to return before him? Do you know where he is?"

"He's close," he says.

"Close?" you almost laugh, eyes wide. "How close? It's been years. I've waited - how close?"

Oh, you are so sweet. You are still the same, after all those years. So fiercely loyal. So unapologetically in love. Satoru was truly blessed in this life to have been able to take you as his wife, to know that you have waited so long knowing, praying that he would one day fight his way back to you against all odds, against all unfavorable winds.

"I don't know," he elects to say. He feels you sink. "But I know that he will return."

"How," you shake. "How do you know? When was the last time you saw him, last spoke to him? How could you know that he is coming, that he is close, if he is still not here?" you ask.

He is here, he wants to say. He's here for you. He's come home to you. He will fight for you.

"The Satoru Gojo I know would have fought with all his life to make it back to me," you shudder out, and Satoru aches, for if only you knew. If only he could show you.

"He still is," Satoru says. "Fighting his way back."

"Then where. Is he," you ask once more.

Satoru sighs softly, looking down at his crooked, scarred hands, a reminder of the years away, of the war that waged within the walls of Troy and against his mind for years to come. “He’ll be here when you need him most,” he answers.

You scoff a sound that Satoru knows so well, your irritation bleeding through the devastation over word of your husband always being just out of reach. You attempt to fight the tears that have come so easily in his absence. You look away for a moment as your eyes sting, your nose scrunching and brows curling.

You catch sight of your son sitting afar in the corner, the eyes of his father shining brightly throughout the room, eying your interaction with this stranger. You assume that he was startled by the commotion of your maid fumbling the bowl of water, your mind too clouded by this stranger’s apparent closeness to your husband to see the knowing tension in your boy’s eyes.

Twenty years. Twenty years have dragged by with no word of your husband but a cloaked stranger’s distance promise. Twenty years since you’ve gazed into the sapphire ocean in Satoru’s eyes. Twenty years since you’ve felt those warm hands caress over your own, traveling teasingly up your arms and over your skin, bringing you close, his voice whispering declarations of passion in your ear. Twenty years since you’ve heard his laugh, since you’ve seen his pretty smile wrinkle his eyes and cheeks, since his humor has poured through the halls in thunderous echoes.

Twenty years without his prideful performances, without the familiar bend of a bow that only he can mold to his will, with his muscles tensing with focus and concentration as he strings his weapon, finishing with the triumphant pluck of a taut string for show.

Twenty years without his sound reign. His wisdom. His control. His heart.

Twenty years not knowing whether your husband is alive or dead. If he’ll ever come back to you.

“Promise me,” you recall him pleading with you in the intimacy of your bedroom all those years ago, before he left for the war.

His large hands had clutched your face, his eyes holding your gaze assertively as your chin wrinkles and your lip trembles. Ocean pools attempt to ease you as he looks into your (e/c) eyes, his thumb smoothing over the curve of your cheek.

“Promise me that if I don’t come back, you’ll remarry.”

The sentiment offended you then just as it offends you now. You frown, nose flaring as your hand instinctively raises to slap him. It’s a swift clap against his jaw that startles him, wide eyes blinking before something soft and tender melts over his gaze despite the subtle sting buzzing over his cheek. So stubborn.

“How dare you ask me to do that, Satoru?” you growl, eyes glistening over. Satoru smiles sadly, with all the world’s knowledge brewing behind his eyes. You shake your head, raising your own hands to hold his face in turn. Snowy lashes flutter, his pupils expanding as you bring yourself closer. “You promise me you will come back.”

Ever the ordinarily sure man, Satoru hesitates. He brings his forehead to yours, and you whimper out something broken, your nose brushing, your hands keeping one another connected. You’ve seen your husband overcome the impossible. You’ve seen his wonderful strength. You’ve seen his power.

But here, before you, with uncertainty lying ahead, he is just a man. Unsure.

“What if I can’t, baby?” he murmurs as though it pains him to say, but it is the reality. Many men die overseas at war. Even more die trying to get back home. “I’ll fight with everything I can to come back to you, but what if I can’t?”

“I won’t remarry,” you hiss. “I’ll never remarry.”

“This home will need a king of I’m gone too long.”

“It will already have one. You.”

“(Y/n)…”

“I won’t.”

He smiled again, full of love and despair. “You’re stubborn.”

“You’re worse,” you bite, and Satoru huffs a weak laugh, closing his eyes, feeling you close against him. “Toru, what if we just run away?”

His eyes peel open, meeting yours as he lifts his forehead from you slightly. A desperate craze holds your gaze as you speak.

“You wouldn’t have to fight in this silly war. We could take Telemachus and go. Get a ship. Take the loyal. Chase the escaping sun on the horizon.”

Satoru clenches his jaw, allowing himself to imagine your fantasy. He feels the imaginary salten wind toss through his white strands as he holds you to his chest, your head tucked under his chin as you watch the sun set behind the line of the sea.

“You know it’s not possible,” he tells you longingly. “I’d rather be killed in war, or trying to return to you than for mutiny. I won't soil my legacy or yours, or my son’s for a dream. I have to go, my love. It’s my responsibility.”

You, of course, know this is true. That does not prevent you from trembling with sadness as you stare into your husband’s eyes, knowing from just a glance that he will be gone for a very, very long time.

“I’d rather you not be killed at all,” you say in a hushed voice. He frowns.

"(Y/n), I'll do everything I can," he promises urgently. "We'll win the war, and I will rage against the gods to return to you."

"Gods do not want your rage, Satoru. Rage is what will anger them in turn. Trust them as you trust me," you say. You catch the hesitant look in Satoru's eye. You release him to fumble with your nightgown, unpinning the golden brooch that frequents your sleeve. He keeps his hands on you, touching, tracing, watching tenderly.

You bring the brooch to his eye level, holding it tight in your grip. He glances down at it: a brooch of the goddess Athena shimmering in the firelight.

“Take this with you. Keep it on your person. Wear it always. Athena will look after you as I long to. I’ll be with you throughout your journey, and so will she.”

Your words are whispered against the bow of his pink lips as his hands pull you back in closer, eyes lidded as your skin brushes. He nods slowly against you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips.

Your mind plays that night on repeat as you listen to this stranger's broken words. You replay the way Satory climbed over you in a haze of dizzy kisses, a long night of passion following that still could not account for how long he would be away.

You miss him terribly.

"I've needed him for twenty years," you tell the beggar who you do not know is your husband. "What is keeping him from me now, if you are here and not him?"

...What could Satoru tell you?

That on the night of Agamemnon's infiltration of Troy, he watched a city light ablaze at the hand of him and his men? That he watched women's knees drop to the dirt as his comrades held swords to their throats? Their pitched screams haunting him to this day, before the merciless slice of a blade cut their cries short?

What could he tell his grievihg wife, desperate for answers, that Satoru Gojo's conscience could not bear the weight of what he'd done to those people - so much so that he allowed the tides to pull himself and his men further away from you while he thought that he was bringing them back home by his own accord? Untethered to Agamemnon's curse of glory?

He feels the blister of fear hot against his skin. Sees the shadows of the dead marching in the back of his mind when he is ripped from his sleep. Remembers the face of that young girl as his men dragged her to the top of a temple's stairs, hands firmly outstretching her arms as she begged for her life at Satoru's feet. And he could do nothing but watch as her head was sliced from her body, and could do nothing but fear as the very same face came to him in the guise of Athena, haunting him, forcing him to remember the blood that stains his hands.

How could he have brought himself back to you, knowing that he had done to the Trojans what he would slaughter millions for if the very same had been done to Ithaca, to you?

Your breaths grow shaky as you listen to the stranger's weathered, intimate tale of your husband's perspective of the war, of all that he and his men did in the sake of Helen's name. Anger bubbles beneath you as you envision the tolls this violence has taken on your husband, who never shied away from battle, but always wore his heart on his sleeve like armor.

The tears come as easily as they have for the past twenty years. You pinch your lips together, fighting sobs as you listen, such familiarity in the beggar's voice that reminds you so much of him, so much of the fact that he is still not here with you.

And if he isn't now, he never will be.

You tear yourself away from the stranger with finality, bidding him a bitter good night as you retreat to wail. As you retreat to succumb to the reality that you know your husband wanted you to live, to the reality that Satoru has manipulated you into fulfilling.

You will seek a new husband.

And your husband will come. He will make sure of it.

"Just a little longer, baby," he murmurs to himself, to the space you just left. "I promise. I'm here."

ׂ╰┈➤

Suitors crowd the very room that Satoru occupied the previous night. He sits on a stump of stone stairs in the very back, cloak shading his figure as he eyes the monsters who seek to take you for their own. His brows angle, a potent rage simmering in the silent stun of your presentation.

There you are, at the front of the room, looking like a vision the very gods sculpted themselves. Your pain is raw on your expression as you stare resentfully out at the sea of suitors before you with your husband's bow gripped tight in your hands.

Before the suitors, in the middle of the room, lies a row of bound pairs of axes, one before the other, lined up in front of a wooden board. Those who were around to witness Satoru Gojo's old performances of strength and accuracy recognize this set up, for it is the very same party trick that the old king used to showcase during warm nights after filling dinners, when the wine has numbed his cares and the bashful look in his wife's eye encouraged him to parade his strength about.

Telemachus, his son, lingers in the corner beside an old, blind friend, his jaw set as he ruminates over the last twenty years. Satoru, having mistakenly unveiled his identity to his son when he approached his old, weak hunting dog, and the very animal relinquished life the moment his master returned to him with the touch of his warm hand against his fur, keeps his eyes elsewhere to preserve himself from others. Telemachus knew instantly then, recalling that his father's pet was waiting for his master to return home before giving into death.

Satoru had ordered for all the weapons to be stored away by entrusted servants, and for the room to be boarded shut when all the suitors gathered. He knew what was coming. He knew by the determination of his wife's depart from his conversation with her.

And he is ready. Finally ready to reclaim what is his, to return home rightfully.

"I will marry any one of you in this room," your voice booms out, ringing against the stone. "If you are able to complete my challenge."

You hold out your husband's bow, attempting not to break away at the feel of its weathered wood in your hands, the memory of the man you love before those who wish to wipe him away.

The room is still, hanging onto your every word, and Satoru’s eyes gleam at the sight of his prized possession in your dainty palms.

“Whoever can string this bow,” you begin. “And shoot an arrow through these six pairs of axes, hitting the wood behind them, is the man I will take as my husband… and the new king of Ithaca.”

Murmurs rise. Chuckles of the unknowing ring out confidently. The silence of those who are knowing is steady.

Satoru grins.

“Who’s first?” you ask.

The low rumble of voices eventually evens out into hesitant silence before the first suitor steps up arrogantly.

“I’ll go,” he grits. You nod, pressing your lips together, before handing the bow off to your son, who passes it to the eager man.

Tension fills the room as he props the bow upright, pinching the string between his fingers, and stretching it up, up, up.

He grunts, hand trembling, string hovering inches away from the tip of the bow. He remains struggling that way for a moment, bent on one knee, before giving in with a huff, the string snapping back to the floor.

A rumble of laughter erupts and you roll your eyes. “Not enough protein in the diet, huh?” some man shouts out, further encouraging guffaws and chuckles.

The suitor scoffs and turns away with the flick of a dismissive hand, pride wounded. Then comes the next suitor, believing he can show the previous up.

He takes the bow. Kneels down. Brings the string up, up, up. It stretches, he grits his teeth and trembles, cheeks flushing, before stumbling with the snap of the string back to the ground.

More laughter.

“It’s impossible!” he hisses. “No one could do it!”

“My husband could,” you cut in, and the room goes silent once more with resentment and a sudden urge to prove you wrong, to prove that any one of them could take Satoru Gojo’s place. "Who's next?" you raise your brows challengingly.

Satoru swoons. Oh, how he loves you. How he will make up for all the time spent away once he proves himself worthy again, once he rids his home of the plague that is these stupid men.

One by one, suitor after suitor lines up to try and fail miserably at stringing the bow that only Satoru is known to be capable of stringing. The laughter soon dips into gradual panic, and the realization that the task truly is impossible settles in, the challenge unbeatable for all those who are not the very owner of the weapon himself.

"My queen, we get it," one suitor speaks up bravely, wearing a mask of vulnerability and sympathy that Satoru assumes is meant to gain your good graces. The ivory haired warrior scowls and your eyes turn to the man talking.

Dark hair and eyes. A handsome smile. Something snaky behind his eyes that he attempts to soften for you. He steps forward.

"We know what this means. Nearly all of us have attempted to beat this challenge that none of us could ever overcome. We understand what you are trying to say, that we will never fill Satoru Gojo's shoes. But if I may offer myself up as a man who will try, knowing the great shadow that looms over me. Knowing that I will fail. I will do all that I can to please you, to mend this kingdom. I may not be able to win your challenge, but I am eager to win your heart."

No one says a word. Telemachus' eyes fly around the hardened faces of the suitors, discouraged by their own failure, and the mischief of the man who just spoke up. He swallows, and you merely look the man in the eye, doing all you can to remain polite. To stand tall. To give him a chance, when what you truly wish to do is lock the doors behind you and set the entire room ablaze.

Satoru has had enough.

Slowly, he rises, his cloak fluttering around his figure. He is cautious to keep his posture slightly slumped, his head bowd, and his voice low. As if unsure.

"I haven't tried yet."

All heads turn to the back of the room where the former king stands as a beggar. The silence is piercing before it is interrupted by an outburst of laughter, laughter that makes the suitors' inadequacy feel much lighter.

The suitor who had just spoken freely to you chortles particularly loud. "You? A beggar?!" he sputters. "What could possibly make you think that you would succeed if none of us could? You're nothing," he spits.

You watch the beggar slowly step past the man taunting him, his footsteps echoing throughout the space. Your brows knit with curiousity, and something you don't quite allow yourself to acknowledge gnaws at the back of your mind.

The dark haired suitor scoffs as the beggar stands before him, throwing his arm out in disdain. "Your majesty, you can't possibly-"

You raise your hand, and the man immediately cuts himself off. You keep your eyes on the cloaked face before you, the way this stranger approaches so humbly, so surprisingly willing to try after watching everyone fall short of what your husband was - is.

Something is... off here. You can't quite name it, but your heart knows.

The beggar stands still, presenting only himself before you. No titles. No land. No pride. Merely his own hands, a veteran's status, and a face you have yet to see.

You inhale slowly, something scratching at the back of your throat as you lower your hand. You nod toward Telemachus, who holds the bow toward his father.

"Please. By all means," you encourage him. "Good luck."

Satoru reaches his hand out and wraps his worn fingers around the wood soundly. He expels a long, gentle breath as he reunites with the weapon, taking it carefully out of his son's hands, who slowly backs away to stand at the far end of the room, knowing what is to come.

You notice. You notice every movement that occurs from this moment forward.

Sunkissed hands trace over the intricate detailing, following the curve of the bow as he sinks slowly down to his knee. Memories of hunts, of teaching children archery, of battle come to his mind as he methodically fiddles with the bow, then soon comes the memory of his performances in the banquet hall. The roar of triumph. The raise of his bow in the air. Your proud grin and flushed cheeks.

Satoru breathes in. Taking his time. You hang onto each second, brows coming together as you watch this stranger touch your husband's bow just as he would, pinching that string between all thick digits.

Suddenly, arms curve inward and biceps puff. Veins bulge in the strangers muscular forearms and hands as he clutches the top of the bow with one and the string with the other, arching his body inward as the weapon curves and stretches under his force.

Your heart drops.

The beggar gives way for a moment, releasing the string due to misuse, and takes a breath. A rumble of further laughter comes once more as the suitors prepare to throw more doubt at the man, but the room goes silent again when the beggar repeats the action. Only this time, he twists the bow backwards.

He stretches the string. He curves the bow inward. His muscles flex, and his shoulders round. The bow folds, the room freezes, the string catches, and connects.

The bow is strung.

The breath leaves you as your knees suddenly go weak. Your mind spins, dizziness overcoming you, and before you can allow your emotions to get the best of your senses, he does it.

He grips the wooden arch in one hand and plucks the string with the other, a resounding single, daunting note ringing out into the space.

A predator warning its prey for what is to come.

And with the force of his pluck, you almost faint. For you know this motion. You know this presentation. You know those hands, those veins and the way that body curves to match his weapon's mold.

Your husband has returned.

You gasp out a shuddering sigh before retreating back to your chambers. You have no time to think, to process, for you know what is coming the second that bow is strung.

The room is heavy with shock as Satoru rises to his feet, taking the arrow, hooking it, and shooting it through the axes. The arrow flies with a sharp whistle and hits the target in one shot.

Telemachus, who has only heard stories of such demonstrations, lets a grin slip onto his face. The room remains eerily still in the man's victory, and his shoulders gradually ease back, his posture straightening to reveal his true height.

You make it to your doors, hand on either one as you watch from the top of the steps. Your world goes quiet. The beggar you spoke to the previous night stands suddenly tall, and his cloak slips away from his face with such stature.

Sapphire pools. The same ones that have haunted you every night for two decades meet your gaze.

Tears stray past your lashes, dribbling down your cheeks like shooting stars as you take in his face, your heartbeat and his steady breath the only things your ears can catch.

Skin tanned and aged by the merciless beat of the sun. Snowy hair bright and graceful, slipping down to his ears, swiping across his forehead in ivory tendrils. Sharp cheekbones, facial stucture matured, hardened, a beard that garaces his once clean shaven face, and his heart on his sleeve.

Your love incarnate. Disguised as a beggar. Nothing but a man before you, once more seeking your hand the only way he knows how.

He's come back to you.

"You're..." a suitor begins. "You're him. You're Satoru Gojo-"

An arrow pierces his neck before he can finish his sentence, and when everyone focuses, they see the stance for battle that Satoru has taken. Ocean eyes ablaze, arrows hidden under his cloak, teeth grinding.

One down. The rest to go.

A breathless grin breaks across your face, your teary eyes blurring your vision as you close the doors shut before you, granting your husband complete free reign. To kill every last one of them.

Satoru's focus is the sharpest it has every been as his arrows fly and strike through the flesh of one man after another. Chaos breaks out as suitors attempt to search for weapons that were hidden from them. Servants fly to the boarded doors, banging helplessly, pleading for escape as Satoru lays waste to every man he sees.

His hair flies about his face as he whips his head around, locating each incoming attack and stopping it before it could reach him. His pupils are shrunken, face straight and seemingly calm, eyes edged with a hint of insanity and anger.

These men think they can walk into his home? Make themselves cozy within his walls? Drink his wine? Kick his son and dog around? Pursue his wife, the very love of his life, the greatest thing to ever happen to him, and walk away without punishment? Without paying?

Satoru's teeth bear as he reaches forward to grab one pair of the bound axes from the challenge, swinging it around to thrust into an attacking suitors face, the blades chopping away at his flesh, knocking him dead and backward onto the ground. He uses the hilt of the axes to thrust backward, plowing into another suitor's gut blindly, sending him rocketing back into the stone walls.

Satoru huffs. Not a fucking chance.

Droplets of blood splatter as the suitor who spoke freely to you orders for someone to find and retrieve the weapons. One disloyal servant manages to thrust himself out of the wooden barred doors and run for the storage room, a tip having been provided by another servant. Telemachus pursues, engaging in a brawl with the bald headed man as punches are thrown. The servant manages to send Telemachus flying across the room and to the floor with a bloody nose as he thrusts a hole into the wooden floor below, leading into the room where Satoru's murder spree transpires.

He throws spears through the hole, equipping some suitors with weapons to corner the King of Itchaca. Satoru persists, rocketing arrows left and right, when he feels sharp blades pierce his shoulder blades from behind, the long weapons trapping him inside a small circle at a distance.

Telemachus, eager to assist his war hero father, scrambles to his feet and tackles the servant once more. He plunges his fist into his face, pinning him against the wall of weapons. The blue eyed boy stretches his arm to reach for another spear, which he hastily grabs and tosses through the hole for his father to catch. The servant finds an opening, reaching behind him for a dagger, and thrusting it into Telemachus' side. The boy hisses and stumbles back, and the war between the loyal and disloyal persists.

Satoru catches the spear tossed overhead to him and slices it through the air, knocking the other spears into a strayed direction, allowing him the freedom to use his bow once more before thrusting the spear into the hearts of other men.

Above, Telemachus scrambles beneath the weight of the servant pinning him down. His eyes shoot up to the table next to him, spotting a sword dangling off the edge of the wood. Just as the servant raises the dagger high above the boy's face, he narrowly dodges, mustering up all the strength he can find to flip himself over, rolling over to the side as the dagger comes down to split the wood. Telemachus jumps for the sword on the table as the servant rises to his feet, and in a flash, he pulls a swift move, sweeping the blade under the servant's neck stealthily, watching as blood sprays and the body falls limp at his feet.

Beneath him, broken spears impale Satoru's back, but he moves on, three weapons wielded in his hands, alternating between each like a monster as men continue to follow around him. A spear thrusts for your honor. An arrow flies for his son's safety. Two axes slice for his home.

And as blood trickles through the crevices and cracks of stone, heaps of bodies scatter the ground. Those who no longer wish to fight, who no longer desire to risk their lives for an unbeatable battle against and unbeatable foe, drop to their knees and the weapons they happened upon, ducking their heads in homage.

It is not over until Satoru finally corners the dark haired suitor who was mouthy enough to present himself to you in isolation, using the hilt of the axes to thrust against his chest and pin him down to the floor. He stares up in horror as blazing sapphire eyes glare down at him wide, disconnected, furious.

The king's chest rises and falls slowly, his cloth now half ripped from his exposed body. His skin is bare, pectorals swelling and falling with his heavy breaths, lines of blood trickling down his well defined abdominals from the wounds that pierce his flesh. His foot raises to press down into the suitor's shoulder, all of Ithaca's might and Troy's victory hovering over the man who thought he could stand a chance, who spoke far more than he could ever take action. A pitiful coward who Satoru recognizes from youth, who once wanted to follow his footsteps into battle at such a young age.

He grew into a pathetic excuse for a man.

Satoru bends over, leaning in close as the suitor watches with frightened, blown eyes. "My wife," he grits out huskily. "would sooner see you in Hades than by her side. And I'll be sure to fulfill her wishes."

With that, Satoru raises his spear gripped in his right hand and thrusts it down into the man's chest with a strained rumble in his throat.

With the leading suitor dead, all other contendors go mute and drop their weapons in defeat. The ivory haired man slowly lifts his foot from the corpse before him, lowering his arms at his sides to turn around. Before him, the sight of all those who attempted to kill him moments ago now kneeling in a crescent around the room greets him.

The hilts of spears thud into the ground, the rhythm of victory, the beat of recognition for the king's homecoming. Satoru stumbles slightly, muscles stinging under to pierce of spears. He looks around, and finally drops his weapons to the ground with a resounding clang.

He won. The King has finally come home.

But Satoru cares not for the men who kneel at his feet. He cares not for the walls he has reclaimed, for the title he has settled back into, for the fame that his name brings.

What he cares for now lies behind those deep, wooden doors just at the other side of the room.

He shuffles, slightly dazed from bloodlust and domination. The remainders of his cloak drop softly to the ground, revealing him in all of his six foot three mass, all of his rippling, sweat drenched, blood smeared muscles. The very sight of him speaks volumes, exudes power, and strength unbridled.

But he does not care for such things as he trudges toward your doors, limping in a trance. He can hardly feel the little blades sheathed into his skin as he walks, for his mind is fuzzy with adrenaline and the image of you that he can now savor, hold, treasure.

Telemachus rushes back through the busted doors in search of his father, finding that he has already won, and that he is already making his way toward his mother.

Satoru stops before the few steps leading up to your doors. They slide open cautiously, revealing you standing there, awe scribbled over your gorgeous features.

You're as beautiful as the day he left you behind.

You shiver, tears staining your (s/c) cheeks as you stare into your husband's eyes. You ask yourself if this is a trick of the gods, of the light, or of your mind, but as your eyes momentarily sweep over the damage he has done, taking into the kneeled stances of the surviving suitors, you finally breathe.

Your husband came back to you after all those years.

You tremble with soft cries as Satoru stares at you with all the love and relief the world has to afar. His eyes have softened, his pupils growing in your presence, and he carefully reaches back into his pants, lifting his hand to reveal the golden brooch that he promised he'd bring back to you after keeping it on his person at all times.

You blubber out a laugh, overjoyed, overwhelmed, and you rush to your husband. The moment your arms reach out to him longingly, he submits to the exhastion and collapses to his knees with a warm grin and creased eyes. You follow him instantly, dropping to your knees in turn and gathering his body, bringing him close to you. You lay him over your knee as you cry gently, droplets of your tears dotting onto his skin as he looks up at you like you've hung the moon and the stars. His hands grip your waist and upper arm as you prop him up to meet your gaze.

"Satoru," you whisper tenderly, his name no longer a hush that torments your dreams at night. Your shaky fingers trace over his skin as his always did yours, experimentally stroking over his white beard, tracing the lines beside his eyes, his sharp nose, his pink bowed lips. Your heart races, your skin flushed, your mind at ease.

"Hi, baby," he beams despite himself and his wounds, all sap and softness in your embrace, a stark contrast to the raging monster he was moments before. "I'm home."

You laugh, or sob - you aren't sure, disbelievingly. "My love. My Toru," you coo, stroking his lengthened hair. "You came back to me."

"Of course I did," he mumbles, reaching a bloody hand to your cheek. "I'm sorry I took so long."

You shake your head, uncaring of the time anymore. Your husband is here, after so very long, and that's all that matters. "I thought you were never coming back,” you croak.

"I know, pretty. I know," he soothes, brushing a piece of your hair from your face. "But I'm here now. It's been a long journey, but I'm here. I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere ever again."

"You better not," you sniff. "I won't let you. Twenty years, Satoru. I spent twenty years without you."

"I know," his eyes crinkle with happiness, a weight surging from his chest now that he has made it back into your embrace. "I know. It was torture. I know I left you waiting so long. I'm so sorry," he apologizes again. "I carried you with me the whole time. I couldn't rest until I made it back to you. I'm yours. Here. Always."

You don't wait any longer. You've waited long enough.

Your heads both move in unison, your hands hold his face as your lips meet in a hungry, desperate lock. Your body slumps, and Satoru lifts himself higher to chase the taste of your salty lips, years of anguish slipping away at the very contact.

Satoru almost forgot your sweetness. The sugary taste that always lingers in your mouth as though you were made of pomegranate and sugar, as if his tongue was made to taste you. His fingers curl into your hair, eyes lashes fluttering blissfully against his cheek, brow arching as your lips glide together like the sway of a perfect wave.

You cry into the kiss, and Satoru presses in deeper.

Telemachus smiles warmly from afar, clutching his side, forgetting his wounds. The suitors turn their gazes away shamefully, and Satoru shamelessly marks his territory, kisses you as though it is the last time to make up for all the damage he's caused you. Your kiss so addicting, more addicting than the Lotus Calypso fed him and the insatiable song of the sirens, that he has no plans to part from you any time soon.

The two of you are nothing but heated breaths and smacks of lips, sniffles and gentle chuckles.

A string of saliva connects you when Satoru mistakenly parts, the curve of his shoulder shooting lightning up his back from the arrows still embedded there. He hisses with a wince, and you watch him with concerned eyes, looking over his state.

He catches the worry in your expression, and smiles warm again, only ecstatic to see your face before him and not in his tormented nightmares of failing to reach you. You frown as his thumb slides down your cheek and over your chin, light shimmering in his gaze.

"Do you like the rugged look or should I shave?"

You laugh loud, unrestrained, free, for you have longed to here such stupid jokes told at the most inappropriate times for as long as you can remember. You duck back down to kiss Satoru's lips as his head falls back against your knee.

"You're perfect," you whisper against him.

ׂ╰┈➤

You can't put words to the way Satoru looks at you as you finish cleaning the cut on his neck, the wounds on his back having been patched by the servant who washed his feet the previous night.

A thick film of heat occupies your once vacant bedroom, firelight crackling against the distant walls. Celebrations have long concluded, the night's recognition of the king's return and all his accomplishments cut short by your urgency to disinfect Satoru's wounds.

He lay with his back against the wall of your bed, eyes watching every movement you make as you dab cloth over his soothed gash, his face clean shaven and fresh thanks to your steady hand. You sit upon his lap, warm thighs straddling him, your night gown spilling over the exposed spaces of your skin, barefeet tickling the silk comforters.

Satoru feels as though stuck in a dream, watching your calmed face as you bring the cloth away from his skin, placing it back into the water on the side table beside you. You feel your husband's eyes following you, his warm palm soothing over the skin of your bare thigh, his gaze hazy, his body warm under yours.

He is still adjusting to his return, not fulling trusting that he is finally safe and sound within well earned royalty, and renewed by his lovely wife's touch. His son, once a baby, is now over twenty years old, and when he looked in his eyes earlier that day, he saw himself. Brave. Responsible. Noble.

His family has grown up without him.

The king can't quite name what he feels right now, but he knows that a good chunk of it is love as his eyes graze over the signals of beautiful age on your face. How you've managed to keep everything together in his absence continues to baffle him, but he shouldn't be surprised. After all, he's never met a woman quite like you.

Gods, he loves you. He loves the way your lashes curl and the way your teeth sink into your soft lips. He loves the way your hair falls and the way your skin melts in the orange hue of fire. He loves the way your thighs squeeze over him as if he never left, as he if he will never leave again, and he's sure that he won't. After twenty years away, Satoru plans to stay buried beneath your body for his long as he possibly can, unmoving. Sound.

"I'm sorry."

You look up at the sound of his gentle voice, his soft tone ringing out like a whisper in the dark. You tilt your head slightly, abandoning the cloth to turn your attention to your long awaited husband and king.

"Honey, you've apologized so many times," you sigh, smoothing a hand over his chest. You feel Satoru jolt beneath you, feel the way he still reacclimates to your touch, afraid that it isn't real. "It's not your fault that you were away so long. The gods were angry. So were you."

"It is my fault," he denies. "I made them angry. I let my pride get in the way. I let it ruin me. I let it kill my men, and steal away my life with you... with our son..."

"Satoru," you say his name tenderly, yet assertively. He looks you in the eye, brow curving pensively. "You can't take back all those years. What happened is in the past. I don't care about any of that anymore now that you're here."

"You should," he argues. "Look at what I left you to deal with."

"I never gave up hope," you counter. "I always knew you were coming back. Everyone told me you were dead. I didn't believe them."

You reach for his hand, pulling it from your thigh to press to your chest. His palm flattens over your heart, the precious thump pounding against his touch. You see the way he sinks into the feeling, jaw tight.

"I felt you in my heart. All these years."

His eyes flicker back up to you, darker now. "Baby, I'm so sorry I left you alone."

"Satoru, you have to stop apologizing. I'm not angry anymore. I'm happy. I'm relieved," you urge, holding his hand to you soundly. "My husband is back. That's all I care about now."

"You should care about more," he says solemnly.

You furrow your brows. "Did you find someone else out there while you were gone?"

Your husband's eyes go wide at the sentiment, disgust crossing his features momentarily. "What?"

"Well, did you?" you raise a brow.

"Baby," Satoru starts. "There's no one else across the oceans for me but you. I only ever thought of you when I allowed myself to remember. When I didn't block out the pain of being away. How could you even as me that?"

You know there's weight to the things Satoru says, but you don't press it any further. You'd rather not discuss all that happened to him when he wasn't with you. "Then why do you keep talking like I shouldn't forgive you?"

"...Because..."

"Because you haven't forgiven yourself for everything that happened."

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. You know him well.

"My love," you shift, bringing his hand from your chest to clutch between your palms as you look at him. "You've crossed the sea. You've watched your comrades fall. You've burdened the weight of thousands on your shoulders. You almost lost yourself and you found your way back. To your mind. To your home. To your son. To me," you speak passionately. Satoru watches you with great emotion, his nose flaring as you keep his gaze. "You must extend yourself grace. If you can't forgive yourself for everything, or believe that I could forgive you, then what of all that you've been through? What of me?"

Satoru's lips curve downward. "What of you?" he repeats.

You gulp. "I don't want to think about what we lost any more than we have, Toru. I don't want you to look at me and be sad... I want to start building our life again from where we've just picked up. What of me if you can't look past your own guilt to see that all I care about is having you with me again?"

Somehow, even as Satoru torments himself for his sins, you still look at him and see the man you love instead of all his mistakes. You don't blame him for what he took from you. You don't resent him for all his time spent so far away.

He does not understand how, except for the fact that he loves you so very dearly, and you love him in turn. He refuses to argue with you on his first night back, especially if you insist on leaving it all behind when the two of you are in each other's company the way you used to be.

Satoru's other hand slide up to your chin, caresses just beneath your bottom lip. Dark pupils observe you sweetly, his heart aching with want as he watches the way your plush lip drags beneath the pad of his thumb when he touches you. "What of you?" he says again. "You're everything, (Y/n). You're all that's been keeping me together. Just because I'm burrowed in self deprocation doesn't mean you're any less of the woman you have always been to me," he tells you earnestly.

You feel his hand shift in yours to clutch tightly in return, your other hand still holding over his.

"I love you," he says for the first time in twenty years. You fall apart. "You have been and always will be my perfect girl. My queen. Don't ever question where you stand in my mind. Our separation has tormented me for decades. I haven't been able to sleep. My soul ached to be away from you, baby. I love you. You're everything right about this world, about me. Don't forget that."

You breathe in sharp, thighs squeezing, heart lurching for more closeness, for your husband's praise, for his love. You are nothing but sap at his hands as his fingers graze your lips, trailing down to your neck slowly, past your clavicle, over your exposed collarbone. Satoru watches, mesmorized, as goosebumps sprout over your skin. And you feel that familiar tension, the way he hardens beneath you, the way his body presses firm and sound to yours, needing more. For just one touch isn't enough.

He's spent too long away from you. It's been too long since he has been able to savor you in the intimacy of your bed, in the privacy of your chambers, where no one exists but your intertwined souls as he makes love to you in a way that has you seeing stars and planets in orbit, that ruins you for any other man.

And how could you ever want any other man, when you have Satoru?

His hair is messy in that well loved way, from your hands gripping into them during messy kisses, and the freshness of a bath. He looks so much older, much more mature, but still as breathtakingly handsome as ever with lines of stubble tracing his face, white lashes blinking slowly, and dark pupils shrinking the outter ring of blue orbs. His chest is exposed to you, shirtless, and your hands trickle down his heated skin, exploring every scar that you do not recognize, every bump and ridge that you've missed in time.

His exterior has somehow physically hardened, his shape having been beaten into perfection by the gods' brutality. You wince as the pads of your fingers follow every unsaid story of his faded wounds, and you hear his heavy breath grow more weighted under your feather light touch.

Satoru brings you in closer by your chin, lids low, eyes hungry and desperate to make you happy again. To feel you again. "Do you still love me, pretty?"

He knows the answer, and you know he knows as well, but you do not hesitate to give him what he wants. "Of course I do," you murmur, "I've wanted you to come back and kill every last one of those suitors the second they arrived. I have and only will ever love you."

"Yeah?" he hums. You nod, entranced. He smiles. "That's my girl. I'd do it all over for you again in a heartbeat. No one touches my wife."

"I missed you so much, Satoru," you exhale as your noses brush, your eyes falling closed as his scent invades you.

"I missed you too. So much. You don't even know," he says, wrecked.

"I missed your hands. Missed the way they touch me."

"Mhm?" his hand slips from yours to slide back up your thigh. Your lips part as his touch creeps higher and higher, sending vibrations shooting through your body. His fingers reach past the silk that adorns you, creeping between your legs lovingly as he presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "What else did you miss, my love? Tell me. Tell your king."

"Missed the way you talk to me," you moan softly. "Missed your voice."

"And I missed those pretty sounds you make," he groans, slipping his hand lower. His thick fingers brush your thinly clothed core, dragging lightly against the ball of nerves that swells knowingly, needily at his slightest presence. You gasp softly against him, leaning further into him, and he hums lovingly. "Just like that," he murmurs, kissing your cheek. "You always sound so beautiful when I touch you. Gods, it's a crime to have been pulled away from this."

"Toru," you whine, your hips grinding desperately down against him. Satoru's breath hitches, something low and unsteady rumbling out against you as you grip his shoulders. "Please don't make me wait any longer."

He wastes no time, hastily tugging your undergarments aside, but doing so with care. "Oh, baby, I won't. I won't torture you anymore. You've been so strong. So good. I'll give you whatever you want. I'll make up for everything. I'm here."

You let his hands grab your waist and carefully flip you over. Your head sinks into the silk sheets and your undergarments are completely discarded, a string of your arousal stretching along with their removal. Satoru hovers over you, soft, primal, and curves down to unite your lips.

You whimper softly, winding your arms around his neck and pulling him flush against you. His warm chest presses to yours, your gown hiking up over your hips, your bottom half bare to the man you love as his fingers slip down your stomach and curve over your swollen clit.

Your soft moans spill into Satoru's lips as his tongue slants past, plunging eagerly into your mouth. The muscle swirls around your own, your tongues tangling in a desperate, greedy dance, the smack of lips rising into the air as Satoru begins to work little circles over your clit.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I'd never forget," he breaks away to grumble against your mouth as you whine, your thighs curving outward to grant him more access. He swoons, taking the opportunity to drag out his touch, slowing his circular motion with two, fat fingers, collecting your sweet juices over his fingertips. He ducks to kiss your jaw. "I'd never forget what makes you whine like that."

"Satoru."

You call his name out like a prayer, and the said man can not help but answer. He's longed for this. Starved for this.

"I'm here," he assures you again, his pace dizzying, his lips gliding down to the sensitive space of your neck. "I'm here. I promise. I'll take care of you."

The squelch of your fruit eases the tension of years when he inserts two of his fingers. Their sheer width stretch you out from years of lack of use, and you groan out something throaty, clinging tight to Satoru as he lavs warm kisses over your skin. His teeth graze your neck as he sucks hot kisses over it, feeling you squirm with delight and hold him tighter, mindful of his wounds.

"Fuck, still so wet for me," he marvels, burying his face in your neck as he sheathes his fingers slowly in and out of your slippery folds, his lashes fluttering with ecstacy. "Oh baby, you have no idea much I've thought of this."

Your thighs tremble around his hand, your body too weak for his dominance and touch. You know you won't last long, for the strength of his fingers ache so deliciously that you can't even think straight. All you can think of is your husband, and how such things were a far off fantasy merely two nights ago.

But now, he hugs you close, marking your skin, fingering your warm pussy like it was made for him, splitting you apart with just the power of his index and middle digits, undoing you in order to mend you both again. "Talk to me, (Y/n)," he huffs into you. "Tell me what else you missed. Please baby, I need to know."

"Mmmm, missed - missed your fingers so fucking much," you mewl, head tossing back as he peppers kissed across your chest.

"I know, honey, you have them now, don't you?" he teases slightly. "What else? What else can your husband do for you?"

You moan at his title, at what he is to you, at the way his fingers curl against that spongey spot inside and hit just a little bit deeper as they plunge into your walls, gliding in and out eagerly. You leak over his palm freely, soaked. The sound lands raw on your ears, and Satoru releases a muffled groand, addicted to the sensation he feared he would never experience again.

"Oh gods, Toru, missed your - hah - missed your mouth," you whine as his lips trail lower, his other hand curving around the hem of your gown to expose your breasts. They spill free, and Satoru lifts his head to gaze down at you. Your head slightly tossed back, your mouth agape, your eyes barely open, brows pinched with pleasure, and your chest bare before him.

"You're ethereal," he breathes, ducking back down to lick a long strip from your nipple to the bottom of your chin. You whine, hips bucking, walls squeezing. "Oh, honey, do that again. Please. Need to feel you. Squeeze me like you love it."

His pace goes faster, his fingers transitioning from a slow and steady rock to a fastened rocket into your core. You squelch loudly around him, moaning out, and Satoru moans in turn.

He ducks back down to you, taking your nipple between his lips and sucking softly. His tongue rolls around the bud as his cheeks hollow, slurping greedily at the plush fat, toying you gently between his teeth. Your back arches, and his free hand follows to hold the position, fingering you swiftly as he sucks at your pretty tits.

You're a piece of art. A masterpiece. Satoru thinks so when he looks up to watch the way your face pinches in that familiar pleasure, the way the breath floats from your chest, and your pussy clamps hard down on his fingers before you gush around them, spilling syrupy release over your bed and onto his palm. He moans freely, marking your breasts as you writhe and squirm beneath him, his hand keeping your back arched against him.

Is this the afterlife? Is the Elysium? Has he achieved immortal bliss?

He believes so as his wife's perfect pussy cums all over his hand for the first time in decades, and his length aches to cum after, unable to stand the pressure of your intimate reunion.

He breaks away from your tit to smash his lips against yours again, fumbling blindly with his pants, grinding his lower half against you as you prolong your high.

"What else did you miss?" he breathes raggedly against you as you see stars and cling to his neck.

There is not much for you to say when the night drags on, and his pants are discarded to free his massive length. You'd almost forgotten the sheer size of it, how it curves at just the right angle, how his tip shines an angry pink, glistening with pre cum as it twitches against your thigh, his lips leaving marks over every patch of skin they can find.

Satoru, ordinarily the talkative type in bed with you, can hardly find the words when his dick presses into you, past your slimy folds, and eases into your tight, hot cavern. You cry out with the sting of his long awaited intrusion, and he kisses away the pain, your lips slick with spit and your own cum from when your husband licked your cunt clean after fingering you over and over.

You're stuffed full when he finally, eventually bottoms out. Tears brim your eyes from both the penetration and the reality of your connection, for it's been so long since you've had sex with your husband. Since he's been home to ease your needs. Since he's filled you up, made you take him all with his starry eyes holding yours.

"I'm here," he says continuously, as though he needs the words to engrain themselves in your mind, so you don't have to worry about him disappearing anymore.

Tears trickle down your cheeks as he pushes in deeper, brushing your cervix, your walls snug around him. He kisses you again, repeatedly, gripping your hips tight, knocking his forehead against yours. You feel the expansion of his girth inside you. You feel every beloved ridge and curve. You feel him throbbing as you tighten, refusing to release him, holding on to the unimagineable pleasure of his intrusion.

You're already spilling around his length, wetting him down to his balls and upper thighs, and Satoru loves every second. Savors it. Treasures it.

"Satoru!" you bellow, throat raw as he pistons in and out of you, thrusting deep and heavy, keeping a slow, agonizing pace. He wants to feel every second, every drop of your release, every snug squeeze of your beautiful walls, every drag of his cock against your pillowy pussy, which went so long without his attention.

Well, no more. He's here to make it better. To love you. To hold you. To make you feel good. To rip that sadness away indefinitely.

"That's it, baby," he praises hot against your ear, voice thick with tension and pleasure. He groans, jaw slack, brows scrunched, eyes heavy as his nose tucks against your pulse. "That's it. Let me make you feel good. Missed this pussy so much, honey. Missed you so much. Let your husband take that pain away."

And he does.

The night drags on in a haze of sweat and fluid and pleasure. Your fingers graze his scars as he makes powerful love to you, acknowledging all that he's done to make it back, all that he's done to be the man that hovers over you, pieced together by your touch.

And as you lay wrapped up in his limbs as the sun peaks over the horizon, the thick scent of sex and Satoru lingering in the air, you thank Athena for bringing your husband back to you.

You thank the sea for granting you such mercy.

[alexiroflife]

"desperation" ᰔ

choso fics | a lil story inspired by anolog horror choso <3, doesn't follow the canon plot this is mainly just off the dome, giving a little bit of "monster in paris" vibes at first

choso kamo x reader

Synopsis: Choso has never known human kindness other than that of his brother. A spectacle, stuck between something not quite human and not quite a monster, he's long struggled to fit in anywhere outside of his own company. It isn't until the elusive being meets you, the only human being who's ever bothered to be decent to him.

to sum it up: choso falls for you the second he meets you, but the only way he knows how to pursue you is to watch you from afar...

WC: 10,166

Warning(s): our baby's a little creepy in this one, stalking mentioned, he has absolutely no social skills but c'mon he loves you so much

*right image by nikegoge

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Darkness.

Choso remembers... darkness.

Something vile and merciless as it yanked at his essence, dragged his core from a warmth he can't quite remember. Can't quite name.

In the inky, chilling exposure of darkness, hands reached out from a slimy mass, a burst of blood and life shaking abruptly through the being's veins, pumping like the very red clots would jump out from his skin to serve a life of its own.

And suddenly, light. Harsh, piercing through his retinas, flickering red amidst hues of violet that have only now begun to see the sun as its golden rays peel eyes open impatiently.

Choso shied away, backing into the shadows that were once meant for him, that remain the encapsulation of his only comforts.

The dark haired Death Painting never asked for life, not in such a way. A severed connection once held between two other life forms ached terribly, sending pangs of grief through his chest that were enough to make him realize that light, joy, those human concepts of happiness under the sun were not meant for him. He's not a human after all. He exists somewhere in between consciousness and a nightmare, a monster and the narrowly acceptable.

A heart as big as Choso's fails to match his appearance. Dark, sunken eyes, circles beneath that drag them further into his skull. A haunted quality about his piercing gaze as he stares, observes from afar, undetected, unheard, unseen. Scraggly, brown strands of hair that sprout over his forehead and poke high into the air from a pair of cropped pigtails. An exhaustion that never quite leaves his expression, dragging down curved, pale lips upon ghostly pale skin. Marks that morph and warp with his technique, stamped like a stain of blood across his nose and beneath his eyes.

And a height... a height that intimidates, mimicing that of mythical creatures from a far off land - a curve of lean shoulders and muscle that hunches over its very own shadowy imprint on the pavement, a mass of cloth that seems to pool from the very ground as it drapes around Choso's big, ghoulish frame.

With no connections and no warmth, Choso lives his life in the crevices overlooked by mankind, in the forgotten wastes of what society leaves behind. A wandering half curse with no family to name except for a salmon haired boy that he protects from a distance, surveys, and ensures the wellbeing of from where he thinks he goes undetected, but Yuji always knows when his strange big brother is around, the one he only recently discovered he even had when he was walking to his dorm late one night and felt like he was being followed.

When the fifteen year old whipped his head around, he saw them. Two pale, shining circles at the end of the block, peering out from around the corner of an alleyway, an aura of gloom twirling about his head, sending shivers down Yuji's spine.

Once he got through the eeriness of it all, Yuji felt a hint of pity toward the creature. Beneath that dizzy unsettling countenance about him, beneath his severely lacking social skills and perpetual grey overcast that follows him, Yuji discovers that his habit of staring and... following him around (stalking is the term he is looking for, but he doesn't want to paint Choso in any more of a bad light than others already do) derives strictly from a place of desire to be close, from an instinct to care that Choso himself has failed to identify.

The very small hint of humanity that Choso comes to display is fully at the orchestration of Yuji and his friends. The brown eyed boy attempts to teach Choso the ways of the world through some of the planet's best films, or at least what Yuji deems to be the best films.

Long after Yuji has fallen asleep on the couch with his head tossed back and drool dribbling down his chin, Choso leans closer into the television with his knees to his chest. Lavendar eyes stare wide as colors flash across his fair skin, and the scene cuts in the midst of the rampaging action to a man and a woman - the great hero and the girl he fights for, watching the monstrous opponent lay siege to the city from a nearby cliff. Wind whips through their perfectly styled hair, they turn to each other as fire roars, and their eyes meet amidst a catalysmic crescendo of flames a blaring string instruments.

Choso's breath catches in the back of his throat as something... intimate is exchanged. His head tilts at a perfect angle, mimicing the behaviors of an owl, and his pupils reflect the pinnacle of the movie. The moment of broken tension: a desperate kiss.

The great hero grasps his lover's arms tight and brings her in to share breaths, to mold skin, to join lips passionately. The corners of Choso’s lips tug down with inquisition, his alien mind whirring as he processes the unfamiliar display. The music swells, the camera pans to the woman's brows curling with ferver as she throws her arms around the man's neck as if it will be the last time she sees him.

A goodbye?

After a few moments, the music settles and the protagonist pulls away. He gives her one last emotional look before daringly taking off into the direction of chaos, leaving the weeping woman to wave after her stud.

It is a common theme Choso identifies in these strange films. The one persistent thing in all the confusion of Yuji's favorite series. The complication and intensity of human connection. Siblings, friends, parents, lovers - an inseperable bond is shared with various ways of communicating each different relationship. Nevertheless, the motivations behind each behavior remains the same - sacrificing lives, intercepting to take the bullet, promising the land, moon, and stars. Love.

No matter what kind. It drives everything.

Choso's head swivels to look at Yuji as the movie continues on in the background as he snoozes. Blinking, the messy haired half curse looks down at the blanket that pooled to the floor. He cranes over to grab it, and awkwardly fumbles, turning stiffly to stretch the fabric over the fifteen year old's frame, blanketing him in warmth the way he saw a woman do her child in one of the earlier movies of the night.

Choso leans back, cautious, uncertain, bunching himself back into the corner of the shared couch. His arms wind around himself again as he stares at his brother, waiting for some outburst, like the ones gifted pedestrians have when they accidentally catch a glimpse of him in the wee hours of the night, prowling about vacant corners. The screams. The panic. The blood curdling fear ringing out high into the stars. The running.

But instead, Yuji twitches, snorting loudly, then nestles back into the comfort of the blanket, cheek squishing over the pressure of his propped palm.

Love. Choso ponders it. It feels... familiar somehow. Like it was the only thing aside from darkness engrained into his way of being when he manifested into truth.

Is that what ached so much when his other brothers were killed? Is that what keeps him tied to Yuji despite his responsibility for the former deaths?

It must be.

It's the only kind of love Choso truly knows. When he thinks of origins... of a mother, there's nothing. Choso was born into this world with no predecessors, no friends. As though he was destined to be a void.

And that special love? That love between two people, christened by the touch of one another's lips, by glittering gazes, and an urge to fight through hell in order to protect the other?

It’s a completely foreign notion. He wonders what such things feel like. He wonders how people know when the time is right, when the sentiments are shared, when the unspoken words lingering in the air are filled with a kiss, with a mute declaration.

Choso turns back to the screen. He watches a bit longer before looking down at his own hands, bringing them to vision before his knees. His eyes note the blue veins that course over the back of them and down his forearms. He notes the alarming width of his palms, the greying of his slender finger tips as if he is decaying. The sheer lack of color in his complexion.

His eyes flicker back up to the shiny, tan bodies decorating the screen. The human quality of life sparkling in the characters eyes.

He wonders if love like that, that makes women cry and men run off to fight, is a luxury reserved for those born completely human. Those born to a name. To an identity rather than a curse.

Choso returns to the shadows when he is not needed by his brother. In spite of Yuji's best efforts to integrate him, the brunette feels uneasy in human company. Not because he doesn't like it, but because he feels the judgment in everyone's eyes when they regard him, when his little brother introduces him as his sibling, and lips curl, or eyes dart over his figure in discomfort.

Choso knows he's not the prettiest. He's not the most ordinary. He's large, and inky, and macabre, and silent. Those who look like him are often portrayed as the villains of the heroes' stories, and he has long accepted that. He's okay with that.

The only thing he asks of this existence is for it to grant Yuji's safety. And though the boy tells him he doesn't need to stalk about from a far distance any time Yuji leaves his house, Choso persists. It's the only way he knows how to look out for his baby brother. His only family. His only ties to the human world.

So when Yuji's friends murmur about how his new big brother is creepy, Choso doesn't let it eat him up inside. He stays out of their path, not keen on frightening his brother's schoolmates, allowing him the normal life that Choso has never known.

One night, after Choso has watched Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara walk back into their dorms safely after a late night out, the half curse turns to meander the dark streets pensively. With his gaze to the ground, his mind subconsciously numbing out his surroundings, he does not see the figure in his way when he turns a corner. Emerging like some apparition from the darkness, his eyes eventually lift and he freezes.

The brunette's sunken eyes go wide.

His stomach drops. His breath catches.

There you are, crouched by the side walk, planted on the side of the road in front of the sewer. You stare, anguised, into the sewer crate, knees bent as you lock in on something lost to you now. You're angry, it seems.

Choso backs away into the shadows again, peering out from the corner to observe you.

You release a frustrated groan, one unweighted due to the lack of company you believe yourself to have. You crane your head forward, squinting your (e/c) eyes to get a better look into the darkness and murmuring frustrations to yourself that Choso can't quite understand from the distance.

The brunette leans in to get a better look at you. His mind is clouded as he watches you like you're a spectacle, eyes glassy and blown.

(S/c) skin. Big (e/c) eyes, full of life, full of humanity, full of emotion. The curve of your jaw, so pleasant upon the eyes when you clench down angrily on your teeth. The warm quality of your cursed energy, of what Choso interpets as the very essence of your soul. Your aura, bright, full, clean. Perfect (h/c) hair. Perfect chipped teeth. Perfect faded scars across your arms, perfect chipped black paint on your fingernails.

You are entrancing.

Yet, you seem so upset.

Choso looks around. The street is vacant save for you crouching there, and you aren't doing well to pay attention to your surroundings. Whatever's got you distracted is surely jeopardizing your safety. Why is someone like you all alone in the middle of the night like this?

You're angling your body awkwardly to stretch an arm through the open space leading into the ground. You tilt your head upward, face on display for Choso to examine, and you grunt with a wince. The muscles in your face tighten as you stretch and strain, skin wrinkling aesthetically by your eyes and the corners of your lips.

You dropped something down there. Is that it? You're trying to get it out?

Choso's right foot moves to step forward, his slender fingers poking out to help, but he stops himself as echoes of terror flash across his memory. He retracts slowly, dejectly, careful to avoid scaring you off.

After a few minutes of watching you switch between your right and left arm to no avail, you rip your arm away with another groan and rise to your feet. Overcome with agitation, you kick at the concrete, only to regret so immediately and whimper as you hop on your unharmed foot with a hiss.

Your shoulders drop, your countenace shifting to crestfallen and tired. You press your lips hard together, glaring down at the sewer as you stand on your two feet again. A shuddering exhale leaves your parted lips, and you duck your head in shame, moving to plop down on the side of the curb and bury your face in your hands.

Choso feels himself frown. You appear so... sad.

Is it because of whatever you dropped?

He observes that way your shoulders tremble, and soon the muffled huffs of breath rise into the still air as you sniffle into your palms.

He wants to help you. Badly.

In the midst of Choso's thoughts, his foot shuffles across the ground once more, knocking a complacent rock out of place and stirring up a small commotion.

The rock rolls out from the alleyway, into the street. Choso panics, ducking further into darkness as you lift your head with sudden urgency.

Tears stain your cheeks, your eyes tinged a light pink, and you sniff hard, lowering your hands into your lap when you catch wind of the rock. You swipe the back of your hand over your nose and go to stand up, having the sense to now have your guard up since something is evidently nearby.

"H-Hello?" you croak out, rising to your feet cautiously as you stare into the direction of the rocks origins. You know someone is there. You sense the energy now, bubbling like some inky mass in the shadows. You frown, for of course you would run into some kind of threat tonight, of all nights.

You sniff again, harder this time, dropping your shoulders with a huff. "I know you're there," you call out, voice echoing throughout the street.

Choso swallows hard, his heart suddenly lurching forward in his chest. He has to leave, before you see him. Before you take one look at him and deem him some sort of monster.

"If you're trying to scare me, it's not gonna work. Nor is robbing me. Everything valuable I own is -" you point to the sewer grate beside you with pursed, irritated lips. "- right down there, so. And trying to kill me won't go so well for you either. Just so you know."

A sorcerer? Or some member of the jujutsu world? You must be. He can tell by the way your stature adapts a specific stance, one he sees many of the students take on the field when they are preparing to spare. You don't seem to be completely in it though. You're movements are lackadasical, tired, like you just want to get whatever you're about to encounter over with so you can go back to wallowing in pity.

Choso's confused. He doesn't want to hurt you. Or steal from you. He just... doesn't want you to see him.

But after a few more seconds of his silence, you march over to the alleyway boldly. Choso backs away on instinct as you come in close, your hand rising to grip the brick as you peer into shadows and nothing. You squint, angling your head differently. "Hello?"

Then you make them out. Two glowing, hollowed purple orbs floating about in the near distance, and the soft ruffle of clothing as the owner of said eyes retreats further.

You scrunch your brows together, something uneasy settling in your stomach. The silence, the eyes, the darkness, it makes you shudder.

"I can see you," you eventually whisper, your tone evening out. Choso freezes, stuck.

You can see him?

No, not fully. You couldn't possibly, or else your reaction would have been less calm.

Because you're so close. Wafts of your perfume float into his confined space, intoxicating his senses and tickling his nose. It twitches, his hand going to paw away at it, as if he has the power to rid himself of your enticing presence.

And you, well, you're at a loss. You can tell, now that you've shrunk the distance, that whatever is out there doesn't want to come near you, let alone hurt you or take anything from you. It's hiding away, you assume, but from what? Why? What's so bad about it that needs to be hidden?

"Are you following me?" you ask.

No. No, he's not. Not now. He didn't mean to find you here like this.

"...Can you... speak?" you try once more for a response, but to no avail. You palm at your damp eyes again, ridding the saltiness from your gaze so you can see and focus properly. There's another shuffle back, and something sympathetic blooms in you. You aren't exactly sure why. Perhaps it's because of the shitty day you've been having. "Are you some kinda harmless curse?" you ponder aloud. Still nothing.

You stretch out a hand, and it reaches into darkness blindly. Choso looks down at your soft, small palm turned upwards, and your pretty eyes searching through nothingness with something desperate in your gaze.

"Look, see?" you offer. "I won't hurt you. I'm off duty, anyway," you half chuckle something sweet and hypnotic and... defeated. "As long as you don't hurt me too. Promise."

Tear dropped lashes blink and a sad, comforting smile rises to your lips.

"I probably sound insane trying to talk to you, but... if you don't mean any harm, I really wouldn't mind the company right now," your voice drifts off at the end of your sentence as if you are humiliated, leading Choso to stop backing away from you instinctively.

A human being is asking for him to show himself, asking for his company, and all he can do is stand frozen in place, as this is incredibly unfamiliar territory.

He wants to go. He wants to listen to you, to believe that you truly mean what you say. But fear grounds him until your next soft phrase.

"Please?"

You hear slow footsteps approach, and you lower your hand the closer you feel him getting to you. A soft, pathetic smile graces your features, and gradually, a head peaks out from the blanket of darkness.

But when your eyes go up, they land first on chest.

Your expression slowly wilters as your eyes trail up and up and up slowly, and after what seems like an eternity, they finally find stunned violet hues that peer down at you from overhead. He emerges cautiously, a similarly pathetic expression on his face, circling those strange eyes of his. Your arms completely drop to your sides, your brows lifting, your lips parting to release a soft breath of stun.

A spooky sight greets you. Over six feet of astonishing mass blending into the shadows of the darkness, a frozen face of what you would name as fear written across his empty eyes. You aren't quite sure what he is. He looks like some kind of curse, but the way he stares, the way he watches with a breath held is far too human for you to tell.

Wild strands of dark brown, dark enough to be black, sprawl over his forehead and into his wide eyes. His chest rises and falls slowly like he's waiting for the shoe to drop, waiting for your outburst, for your cruelty.

But instead of your cruelty, instead of fleeing in a terror-stricken haze, you just return his gaze and stare in awe. Perplexed. Intrigued. Surprised.

Choso stares at you, awaiting your rejection with lips clamped tight together. You just watch, lips parting and jaw dropping slightly.

You don't know what you were expecting, but it certainly wasn't him.

Though, despite his frame and offputting nature, there's that humanness swirling in his gaze like he is ashamed of himself, like he wants to rerteat at any given moment.

Your heart lurches with empathy.

"Oh..." you start, unable to find the right words. Subconsciously, you take a step back and Choso notices immediately. His adam's apple bobs, and he keeps himself half submerged in shadows. "...You're..." you breathe out.

Disgusting? Horrifying? A wretched sight?

"Tall," is what you elect to say, nodding slowly to yourself in your stupor. Choso's shoulder slump slowly in surprise.

You don't run. You didn't throw things at him. You don't even yell.

You just look at him as though you're amazed.

Choso feels something strange bite at the apples of his cheeks, the manipulation of his blood no longer under his control but his own body's. He blinks once, long and hard, as pink swirls over pale skin - his cheeks and the tip of his nose. His nose and lips curl, now crooked as he adjusts to the heat of his face as he stands before you.

"Sorry, um- I'm kinda a mess right now," you blink your own eyes repeatedly, snapping yourself out of your daze. Your hands slap at your sides, and you stretch your hand back out again. "I'm... (Y/n). Do you... do you have a name?"

You didn't run.

Choso is utterly frozen, a fish out of water.

The shock of your amiability despite having just seen his face is sending him reeling. And now, having stepped into the flickering luminescents of the street lights with you, his breath has been knocked away with the shock of your... your...

"Hello?" you wave, hesitantly taking a step closer to examine him with skeptical eyes. Your eyes narrow, your brows draw together, and your lips curve - not with distaste, but with curiosity. "Can you hear me? Or... even understand what I'm saying?"

Beauty.

That's what it is. That's what Yuji called it. Something so nice to look at, it can't be named as anything but such.

As you lean in to examine him closely, carefully, Choso names it. Feels it. Sees it. You're beautiful. The most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

You tilt your head, releasing your arm to prop a hand on your hip. "...Are you okay?"

Is he?

No human has ever asked.

He feels his heart jerk in his chest, and he jolts slightly. His hand abruptly flies to the very spot, and he looks down in alarm as though his own body has betrayed him.

You frown, suddenly believing that this being, this man - whatever he is, is hurt somehow. Or at the very least, having a psychotic break.

Your hand instinctively reaches out, and the moment Choso detects it, he pulls away swiftly, owlish eyes finding yours again. You deflate. "Do you need any help? Can I take you somewhere?" you ask, voice softening.

What a pretty sound.

No one has every spoken to him so casually. No one other than Yuji.

Why aren't you afraid? Don't you see his face? The way it absorbs all light to reflect only bleak darkness? Don't you see the marks of a killer, of a blood curse user? Of something strange and offputting and unfamiliar?

His eyes detail your red ones, then fly to the sewer opening.

Lifting a slender finger, he points.

"...Did you lose something?"

His voice slithers out low, yet smooth, a bass you are surprised to hear. There's something monotonous and robotic to the sound, like he has no idea how to speak to someone like you, or to anyone for that matter. His tone is also thick with lack of use, as if these are the first words he has spoken in days.

Your eyes follow his finger, still confused, and slightly taken aback by his speech. You gulp and locate what he is talking about you look back up at him in question. "Oh, yeah," you sigh, suddenly remembering why you're out here in the first place. "I... um... dropped my phone down there. And it has my ID and credit card in the case..." you trail off to turn back to him with questions in your eyes.

"Can I... help?"

You blink. "Um, I mean... if you can? If you really want to?"

Choso doesn't waste any time. You watch as his bulking, inhumane frame steps fully out of darkness and moves toward the sewer with a determined expression.

When he stands in the street, you see his full frame much more clearly from afar, and you ogle him. He's certainly a curse, or someone hybrid between that and a human being. His face, his hair, his ten fingers and two hands are enough to signify the workings of another human, but the lack of color on his skin, his size, his bulkiness, the sharpness of his jaw, the way he speaks, the way his eyes stare. Those traits of his are all quite unique, and while you think he should scare you, he doesn't.

Choso locates your phone. He sees the screen facing upward just a few feet below the crate. His head tilts as he studies the predicament, and before you can tell him not to worry about it, you watch him lurch forward, hook his fingers into the grate, and yank it out with one forceful tug. Your eyes widen as he tosses the metal crate over his shoulder like it weighs nothing, and it lands with a loud clanging. He then hops down into the hole without a second thought. You hurry over to check on him.

But what greets you upon arrival is a large hand stretching out from the sewer, your phone clasped in his dark fingers. You gasp, light catching your eyes as you bend over. Choso looks up at you sheepishly, waiting patiently for you to take your belonging as he stands still.

"Holy shit, you actually got it?" you exclaim, reaching to retrieve your phone, brushing his cold hand. Choso retracts it, swallowing hard as his face warms even more. You check to make sure nothing is cracked or wet as Choso climbs his way out, pressing his palms to the pavement and pushing forward with his seemingly impressive strength. He clambers back to his feet before you, uncaring of the grime smudging his robes, and awaits your next reaction, your next words like an eager puppy.

You heave a sigh of relief when you find no damage to your device and hug it to your chest. No longer full of sadness, your (e/c) eyes find his and you grin wide, all teeth on display and your eyes squinting with gratitude.

"Thank you so much! You're a life saver."

Thank you. You're thanking him - him. A human being is thanking Choso, and he can't even operate his brain quickly enough to say you're welcome. He just nods stiffly, staring.

"You must be really strong, huh?" you pipe up, your voice now chipper and free. Choso doesn't say anything, and you chuckle slightly with a nod toward the discarded sewer grate. "You yanked that thing like it was nothing."

"Oh. I am strong. Yes," Choso says awkwardly, for it is a fact. It's true. He possesses remarkable physical prowess, much like his little brother, but you still giggle upon hearing his answer. His ears burn. He's never made it this far in conversation with someone before. Is he supposed to laugh? Is he saying the right things?

"Yeah, I can see that," you say warmly, tucking your phone back into your pocket. With another spirited exhale, you smile. "So you were watching me back there, weren't you?"

Choso's face flushes a deeper pink. "U-Um-"

"I only ask because... well, you were here long enough to see that I lost something. You saw me have a meltdown, right?" Choso stares. "You saw me crying and stuff," you clarify.

The half curse clears his throat. "Yes," he croaks. "I did. I was watching you. I saw you hurt your foot, too. Sorry," Choso hastily rushes out, stiff and peculiar, like the word was tangled on his tongue and he didn't know how to get it out. All he knew was that you needed to hear it. "Sorry," he says again, this time quieter.

You quirk a brow. "Why? Were you watching me, I mean?"

He doesn't know how to respond.

"It's okay," you say after a moment of silence, having taken in his countenance and his tone and deduced that he isn't a threat. "I'm not upset. Just wanna... make sure you aren't a secret threat to me or something."

"I'm not," he swears. "I don't want to hurt you. I would never hurt someone without reason."

"Okay..." you drawl. "I believe you. So then, why?"

"I was... walking," he starts.

You nod. "Right."

"Then I saw you, so I stopped walking."

"...To watch me?"

"Not at first," Choso admits, incapable of lying. "I didn't want to... scare you. So I stayed in there."

You turn and look back at the dark alley, and something suddenly tugs at your chest. "I see."

"Do I scare you?"

You whip your head back around to look up at the being before you. You tilt your head, soaking in the image of him, detailing the submission behind his dominating, foreign physique. You smile again.

"No. I've seen much scarier. Trust me," you wink. Choso's heart spasms again, and his body jerks. You stifle a laugh at his odd nature. "I appreciate your concern, really. But it might've been less creepy if you'd just come up to me in the first place. I don’t bite."

There's that word again. Creepy. Choso scratches the side of his jaw, pensive. "Normally, people run away."

"What? They run away? From you?" you ask, and Choso nods solemnly. Your heart aches. "Sure, you're a little unique, but that's no reason to run from you. That's kinda harsh, no?"

Choso frowns. "Unique?"

You hum. "I've never seen anyone or anything like you before. But that's not a bad thing."

"It's not?"

"Of course not," you giggle. "You should own it. You're the only one of your kind out there, just like I'm the only one of myself out there," you sing happily, your mood having been healed.

You don't know how deeply your words impact Choso as he listens to you, watches you. "So... you don't think I'm gross? Or - or ugly?"

"God no. I actually think you're really sweet. You wanted to help me without even knowing me," you beam. "It's a shame people haven't stuck around long enough to see that."

Suddenly, flowers bloom in Choso's mind. Warm colors and fragrances drift into his imagination and surround you as he stares, and as you grin up at him like he's any other man.

You think he's unique. And sweet. No one has ever used such words to describe him.

You're pretty, and unjudging, and kind.

Little hearts bloom in Choso's dead eyes as he starts to imagine what life could be like with you in it, suddenly struck by Cupid’s arrow.

"I think you're sweet too," he suddenly blurts, having grown confident under your compliments. "And... um... beauty - beautiful. Beautiful."

Caught off guard by his compliment, your smile fades slightly. You notice the reddened state of his face and the cute way his dark brows curl. Flattered, heat burns at the back of your neck as you chuckle nervously, out of your depth. This was the very last thing you would have expected him to say.

“You think I’m beautiful?” you ask.

Choso gulps, rethinking his words. The last thing he wants to do is offend you. So he doesn’t say anything again, tongue tied and beet red.

“T-Thank you. I guess,” you murmur. “I don’t look… the best right now. But you’re sweet for thinking so,” you laugh again.

Befuddled by your statement, Choso speaks again. “I do think so,” he asserts.

“Okay. Thank you,” you nod shyly.

You are just so pretty, Choso doesn’t know what to do with himself.

An awkward silence breezes by as Choso stares at you, and you quickly determine that he’s got absolutely no social skills. You breathe in sharply. “So what’s your name?”

“…Choso.”

“Choso?” you echo, and the said man feels chills curl up his spine at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue. “That’s a nice name. It’s nice to meet you.”

You thrust your hand out to him again, and Choso studies it. He’s seen this before. Handshakes. People do them with one another as a formality when introducing themselves.

He can’t believe you want to shake hands with him.

Cautiously, Choso lifts his large hand out and slowly his fingers clasp around yours. His hand is cold, the sheer size of it dwarfing your own.

And your hand is so warm and soft, like a cushion of cotton or the surface of a cloud.

You giggle slightly, looking up at him. “Now we shake.”

Choso clenches his jaw in embarrassment and carefully shakes your hand, allowing you to guide the up-and-down motion.

You smile triumphantly. “Good… you can let go of my hand now.”

Choso does, ripping it away when he notices he’s been holding onto you for too long.

"So, Choso," you start kindly. "Where were you heading tonight?"

"Um. Nowhere," he says. "I was leaving my brother-"

"Brother? You have siblings?" you inquire, intrigued.

"Y-Yeah. A little brother."

"Wow, how old?"

"Fifteen."

"Awww, how sweet," you grin. "I have a little sister. She's not so little though. She's nineteen. Real pain in my ass."

Choso perks up. "Are you the eldest?"

"Unfortunately," you joke.

Choso's heart flips yet again. How could you get any better?

"So after you left your brother, where were you going?" The brunette shrugs. You hum, looking over his now tattered, dirtied robes.

The poor guy is all alone out here, hiding away from the public because people have grown frightened of his appearance without bothering to learn what lies beneath. And though he is a bit grim looking, he isn't all that bad. At all, actually.

He's got a kind face. And dare you say, eerily handsome features. He didn't ask to be born this way, and even after having burdened humanity's cruelty, it seems that he still seeks humanity's approval.

There's nothing ugly or monstrous about the pink face looking back at you now. You've had a particularly trying day yourself too, and the only inkling of kindness that the universe had to offer is the being towering over you in the empty street.

He's lonely. And you just so happen to be too.

You look all around you, then mentally question if you are truly about to do what pops into your head. "Your clothes are dirty," you observe.

Choso looks down at his robes. "Oh. Yeah."

"...I think I have some spare clothes from my dad somewhere in my closet. You look about..." you note his height and the width of his body with a curved smile. "...his size?" you guess. "He’s a big guy. Do you maybe... wanna come to my house and get cleaned up? I'll wash your robes for you. You can consider it a thank you for helping me get my phone."

The violet eyed half curse is silent as he processes your offer in a daze. You tilt your head and raise your brows with a smile, and that is enough for Choso to follow you blindly, happily to your home.

Your scent clings to the air of your small apartment, and Choso has to duck his head to enter through your front door. His once dull eyes shine as he takes in the coziness of your space, your snug furniture and the earthy tones that accentuate the environment. You're talking as you lead him through the living room and head into your room to sort through your closet, but Choso lingers behind as he takes in his surroundings.

Pictures of waterfalls and winding green trails litter your fridge, stuck to the surface with little magnets naming far off places and national parks. There's dishes piled in your sink, unwashed, and an apron hangs on the pantry door that reads: kiss the cook.

There are fairy lights strung up on all of your walls, encasing the space in a soft, dim glow. Plants decorate your kitchen table, your coffee table, the corners of the floor.

And when he follows your voice into your room, he is mute with admiration as he looks around. You stand on the other side of your bed at your closet door, rifling through articles of clothing. The lights in your room are even softer, with hues of orange and pink warping the ceiling from a little projector. There are little knicknacks sprawled over your nightstand and desk, and a big shelf piled full of books right next to it.

Choso steps into the space slowly, entranced, his eyes floating to a frame propped up by your bed. He bends over, reaching for it to examine. There you are, pictured in the middle of some rainforest, your arms spread wide above you and a heart stopping grin on your face.

So pretty.

"A-ha! These should work!" you exclaim, whipping around with a big grey shirt and black sweatpants stretched in your hands. Choso panics, hastily putting your picture frame back into place. In his rush, it fumbles from his grasp and drops onto the carpeted floor. He winces, fumbling once more to pick it up and put it back. You laugh. "Relax, Choso. It's okay. That picture's actually from when I went to Costa Rica last year. It was a really awesome trip."

"You like to travel," he observes, stepping away from your nightstand to stand stiffly with his arms at his sides, afraid of causing any more commotion.

"I love it. And nature. It helps - I don't know - ground me I think. I’m not the most social person out there, so I go away to center myself," You move forward to lay out the clothes on the bed next to him. "Here, why don't you go shower and freshen up. You can use whatever's in the bathroom."

Choso blinks, eyes following you. "Shower? Here?"

"I promise I don't mind."

Somehow, Choso ends up cramped in your shower, his robes discarded on the floor as his nose brushes the showerhead. He sorts through every single one of your soaps and shampoos curiously, gingerly, flipping the lid to smell each one. Some are more sugary, others fruity, and all of them carry some piece of you that Choso engrains into his mind. He uses every one.

He's in there so long that you have to knock and check to make sure he's okay. Only then does he put everything carefully back in place and finish up.

Choso emerges with steam clinging to his body and hair damp, loose over the frame of his face as unfamiliar, clean clothes cling to his skin. You do a double take when you look up at him from where you sit at your desk in front of your laptop, and he awaits your reaction, his robes piled in his arms with that sheepish look on his now brighter features.

"Oh wow, look at you," you turn in your chair to admire him with a grin. "How do you feel?"

"Wet."

You snort, looking up at his dripping hair free from its ponytails. "Here, gimme your robes. I'll throw them in the wash then help you with your hair."

Once again, Choso finds himself in foreign territory as you stand on a step stool in the bathroom mirror with a blow dryer clutched in your hand. Choso stares at you through the reflection of the glass as you gingerly dry his hair, hot gusts blowing his dark strands to and fro. Your gentle fingers separate strands after asking permission, and you're careful to avoid tangles as you work with crisp focus.

Choso's skin buzzes. His entire body is vibrating as he hunches in your little bathroom, letting you care for him as if you aren't a stranger he only met a couple of hours ago. He thinks he might be sick when his rapid heart rate and warm cheeks persist over a long period of time in your company.

When you finish blowdrying, you laugh slightly and lower the device to unplug it. Choso's hair is now fluffy and full of volume, sitting atop his head like a thick helmet of shoulder length locks. A mop of bangs hides his eyes, and you lean over to curve the strands out of the way gently so he can see. He flushes, eyes finding yours. “Hi,” you chuckle.

“H-Hi,” he murmurs back.

After a bit of combing and maintenance, you finally hop off of the step stool and stand beside his large frame. "There. All done."

The pale skinned man observes himself in the mirror and almost doesn't recognize what stares back. His hair feels soft, looks neat, as his bangs curve around his ears and his hair filters gracefully down his neck. The outline of his broad shoulders is visible against the fabric of your dad's old tee, his biceps bulging against the sleeves. He feels refreshed. Renewed. Warm and fuzzy.

"Better?" you ask.

Choso turns to look at you and is overcome with a rush of emotions he can't name. "Yes," he exhales, whipped.

As Choso's robes hang to dry, and you retreat to your bed having offered up your couch for Choso to sleep on, the half curse elects, instead, to stand over you in the darkness of your room as you sleep.

The clock reads three in the morning, and piercing through the night, Choso studies your unconscious form. You lay on your side with fists bawled up under your chin. Your eyes roll beneath your lids, lashes fluttering as your lips part with gentle breaths.

Choso feels his heart hammering heart again. He presses his palm to his chest.

Is this the feeling the movies speak off? The intensity? The heat?

When Choso returns to Yuji the next day, still wearing the clothes you gave him and carrying his robes in a spare tote bag that you let him borrow, the salmon haired teen's eyes bulge out of his skull and his jaw drops to the floor.

"Bro, what the heck happened to you?!" Yuji exclaims. "You look so - like - well, you look great!"

Now, with the approval of Yuji, Choso puffs his chest and closes his eyes with great emotion. "I met a woman."

Thus begins the unhealthy habits, the toxic patterns that Choso knows no better but to follow. He can not get you out of his head, the way your fingers threaded through his damp hair. The way your hand felt in his when he shook it. The way your house smells, the way your soap and scent clung to his body. The way your eyes lit up when he helped you retrieve your phone, and the way you never feared him.

His heart skips beats when he thinks of you, when your name rings through his head like a melody. He learns from Yuji that he is in fact not sick, but that he has exhibited signs of yearning, signs that he is romantically interested in you.

Choso begins to chase the feeling day in and day out. Whenever he has the opportunity, he's seeking you out in secret. Tracking you down, trailing behind you throughout your days, watching you through a window from across the street, lingering to ensure that you make it home safely at night.

You're a Jujutsu librarian. You keep a collection of important documents at Kyoto Jujutsu High, the rival of Yuji’s school. You lay low, linger in absences, keep to yourself. You're far more isolated than Choso would have believed you to be, given your bright personality, but you seem content to be so. You like to read, he finds. You like the simple things about life. You stop to take pictures of trees and pay extra for limited edition copies of books. You feed birds and sit in park benches, just existing. Being. Alone.

Weeks go by of Choso following you around, all the while meeting you in person once every week to stroll through town at night and talk. He can't help but to look after you, the same way he does Yuji. You've bled into his life, you've left a lasting impression, and Choso can not quit the way his body reacts to your voice alone. He can't quit the precious way your eyes catch the glimmer of the moon, or the way the corners of your lips curl with an impending smile.

He's grown obsessed with you. With your very life.

And one day, he decides he'll do something about it. With a rather questionable pep talk from Yuji buzzing in Choso's ears and a bouquet of hand picked flowers in his trembling hand, he goes to head to your apartment when he catches you inside a restaurant on the way there.

He stops, heart jerking when he sees you, confusion rising, as he expected you to be in your house by now. Normally you are. It’s pretty late.

Choso takes a step closer in the dusk, only to find that you aren't alone. His heart drops to his stomach as you sit there across from some guy, cozied up in a booth, surrounded by warm lighting. Your shoulders hunch and your eyes crinkle as you laugh, and Choso frowns. He thought he was the only one who made you laugh like that.

Nausea rises as the man across from you smiles, and you smile back. He's pretty and perfect, like the heroes in Yuji's movies. Perfect straight teeth and smooth skin, bagless eyes and hands that don't scare. Light cropped hair and bright eyes. Everything, everything, that Choso is not.

A lump builds in the back of Choso's throat as he glares at the two of you. He doesn't know how long he stands there, heartbroken, flowers falling to his side and eyes darkening.

Did you want someone 100% human after all?

You return home that night rather drained. You'd forced yourself to go on yet another date set up by Utahime, who swears up and down that you would be less lonely if you put yourself out there more. You sigh, tossing your keys to the ground and shuffling off your shoes at the door, shutting it tight behind you.

It's not as though the guy was bad. He was nice, you suppose. A little drab, but otherwise, not a monster. Even so, you couldn't bring yourself to be interested in him beyond that. The conversation was stifling, and the entire time, your mind kept trailing off to other places, other worlds, to... to Choso.

You groan, rubbing your temples as you go plop down on your couch in the dark with a weighted sigh. You know you're a little strange, as most people in the Jujutsu world are, but you can't help the things that stimulate you. You can't help but to be interested in the things overlooked, the things no one cares to see, the things others write off as unnoteable.

But Choso is anything but to you.

With his strange way of speaking and moving, his strange eyes, and strange, strange behavior, he's unveiled passion. The kind that comes easily to him, the kind that certain people are merely born with. He will talk for hours about his brother, then listen to you talk for hours about your interests and occupation. And he'll watch you when you speak... like a hawk, like he's afraid of missing any second.

And you like it. You like the way he makes you view the world unintentionally. You like his mystique. You like his unique quality. You like him.

But it's irrational. Choso hardly exists during the daytime. You only see him once a week, and he's... well, he's different. Though you enjoy his differences, you realize that liking him could pose some complications with your job. Unless you kept him a secret. But Choso doesn't deserve such treatment. He deserves someone who fully embraces him. 

And you do. You want to. You're just... scared.

Your head leans to the side, your eyes darting across the space when you catch a shadow just behind you in the connected kitchen. You scream out, jumping up from your couch to throw yourself against the wall.

With a trembling hand, you reach out for the lights, and flick them on to reveal Choso standing there before you behind your kitchen counter.

You pant erratically, your heart hammering into your chest. "Choso?!" you shout. "What the fuck?! What are you doing here?"

In typical fashion, he doesn't answer. But he is void of the warmth and kindness you ordinarily associate with him. You furrow your brows in concern as you press yourself further against the wall, taking in his intrusive stature.

That sheepish gaze is nowhere to be found. The light that once trickled into his violet hues is gone. Instead, the Choso that stands before you is silent with resentment, betrayal. His lips are curved down, his eyes sharp on you as he stares. His gaze feels stern, hard, unforgiving, and his brows are angled down. The shadows encompass him, helping him to blend into darkness much like how he did when you first met him. But this is different.

He looks angry. With you.

You swallow thickly, unfamiliar with this side of the sweet man you've come to know.

"Cho..." you start slowly in a shuddering whisper. "Why are you in my house?" He doesn't reply. Your nose flares. "W-What's wrong?"

Nothing.

"How long have you been here?"

Still nothing.

You heave out, attempting to calm yourself with a hand to your abdomen. "Jesus Christ. You scared me."

This, this, elicits a response.

"I scared you. Huh."

His deep voice rumbles out into the dimness. You gnaw on the inside of your lip, startled by the bass in his tone, by the severity with which he speaks to you now.

"Y-Yes, Choso. You're standing in my kitchen in the dark. How did you even get in here?"

"The same way I always do."

"The same way y- what?"

He doesn't even bother to correct himself. He makes it known that he'd been here, that this is his territory, not anybody else's. It's supposed to be just you and him.

Your blood runs cold. He's snuck into your house before? More than once?

"Why are you so far away?" he asks suddenly.

You stare like a deer in headlights, unaware of how tightly you press yourself away out of instinct. Your nervous system is still reeling from the scare, and you're desperately trying to process everything that Choso just said - trying to process why he's in your house like this, why he's looking at you that way.

You watch as he starts to move, slow steps padding against your floor toward you. You stare with wide eyes as he approaches, stepping into the dim light, moving across your carpet to stand before you.

You inhale and exhale slowly, eyes glued to his as he stops just a couple of feet away from you. He studies you so closely, you feel he can read every thought in your mind with those eyes of his. You see something wrecked in his gaze, something broken that urges his eerie, solemn state. Your frown deepens, your confusion intensifying.

He takes one more step forward. "Are you scared of me now?"

A crease dents the space between your brows. "I'm more confused than anything right now, Cho," you tell him in a hushed voice. "How often do you sneak into my house?"

"A couple times a week," he says casually.

You twitch. "Why? Why wouldn't you just - just ask to come over?"

"Do you not like me anymore?"

"Wha...?" your face scrunches. "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm really confused. I don't-"

"Do you prefer someone more normal than me?"

You squint. "What do you mean?" you ponder his words, thinking back to your date. Then it dawns on you, rather fast. "Were you... have you been watching me?"

"I always do," he confesses earnestly, eyes pointed. You clamp your mouth shut, eyes widening as Choso takes another step closer. "I always want to know what you're doing and make sure you're okay. And tonight, I saw you with him. With a normal guy. I didn’t like it."

He doesn't have a filter. Not a single one. Choso acts and speaks on impulse, and his impulses after having met you have drawn him closer and closer, have placed him into the center of your life, and he wants you to have him. He wants you to want him there, but he needs to know if this is all for nothing. If he even has a chance with someone like you.

"Choso..." you start, slightly alarmed and overwhelmed.

"Who is he?" he asks coldly, something torn in the back of his voice. His brows twitch, his chest tightening. "Were you on a date?"

"You can't just-"

"Is he what you prefer? Over me?"

Your face falls.

You don't know what to say. 

If you were to answer him truthfully, you would have said no. Of course he's not. You don't even know the guy, and he's hardly even half of what Choso is, half of what he makes you feel.

But you are reeling with shock at these sudden revelations, at the intensity of Choso's feelings that you can not deny you knew he had. It was always so telling in the way he clung to you when the two of you went out. The color that always swirls in his cheeks when he's with you. The way he just can't stop staring. 

But you didn’t know it would get this bad.

You should have known. Choso isn't like ordinary people. He's a half curse with hardly any experience with other human beings aside from his brother, and he's even mentioned how he would follow Yuji around during the day to ensure his safety. 

Choso is a passionate person. He feels more than the ordinary being. He acts on his emotions, which likely feel foreign to him, far differently than anyone else would, and you should have known. You should have known that bringing him into your house upon first meeting would have bridged a connection that deluded him into thinking he's entitled to your space at all times.

You should have known that a little crush wouldn't be just a little crush to him.

And Choso is desperate. Desperate for you. For your answers. For a sliver of the attention you gave that guy at your date. Desperate for your love, love which he's never gotten to experience before you.

Looking into his eyes now, your instinct is to comfort him through your discomfort. Choso's always been so honest, so unapologetically himself, and he's looking to you for something, anything. And you want to give it to him, but you can't overlook what he's telling you now. What you're seeing.

The eeriness of it all.

"Choso," you say his name firmly, and something in him shifts slightly. "You can't stalk me like that. That's not okay. You can't follow me around when I'm unaware. That's an invasion of my privacy. I'd never do that to you. You understand?"

The brunette falters, his brows twitching again and his lips curling down. "You don't like me anymore?" he asks again, this time lower, more fragile.

Your heart aches against your best judgment. "I do like you, Choso," you say, hesitantly bringing your hands up to cup his face to calm him. You feel the half curse jerk under your touch, and like the fool he is for you, he melts into your palms, shoulders slumping as he hunches over, lavender eyes softening into something oh so pathetic. "I do. Okay? I like you a lot."

He's sap, his sternness crumbling. "You do?"

"I do," you assure him. 

“I like you a lot too. I like you very much. As more than a friend.”

“I know, Cho. I know,” you say tenderly. “And I’m happy to hear that, but I don't like you sneaking around me. That's weird, okay? You can't just come into my house whenever you want or follow me like that. I don't like that. At all."

Choso grimaces. "But I just want to protect you."

"I can protect myself."

"I want to help."

"You can help by respecting my space."

"But you won't want to see me otherwise."

"That's not true," you sigh. "You just have to ask."

"What about your date?"

"I don't prefer him over you, Choso. It was one date. And it wasn't that good," you tell him.

“Why did you go out with him in the first place?”

“I don’t know - it doesn’t matter. I was thinking of you the whole time.”

Choso's lips twitch into a crooked half smile, cheeks dusting with color. "Oh."

"Yeah. Oh," you roll your eyes, dropping your hands from his face much to Choso's chagrin. "You're fucking weird, Cho," you exhale with a slight laugh, shaking your head.

"I know," he mumbles. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not your fifteen year old brother, okay? There's this thing called phone calls. You can talk to me and ask to see me whenever you want. Just ask. No more sneaking around or breaking in. Or I'll be really upset."

Choso slumps. "Okay," he mumbles. He peers at you through thick lashes. "Are you going to see him again?"

"That's kinda the least of my concerns right now."

He takes in your edged tone and deflates. "You're mad at me."

You pout, quirking a brow and crossing your arms. "A little bit. You freaked the hell out of me just now,” you say. “But that doesn't mean I don't... still like you. Or think you’re scary. I'm just adjusting. Processing."

Choso suddenly takes the energy of a kicked puppy. "I'm sorry."

"So you said."

You gasp as Choso drops down to his knees before you, reaching forward to cling to your thighs. He wraps his burly arms snug around your legs, pressing his face to your stomach. You raise your arms in shock, face flooding with heat. "Choso, what are you doing?"

"Don't see him again," he muffles into your clothes. You feel his voice vibrate against your skin, and you shiver. "Don’t see any other man. Please. Pick me. I want it to be me instead."

You go to say something, but he holds you tighter, pressing himself to you pathetically, burying himself in your scent and warmth. You can be mad at him, if that's what you need. You can put boundaries in place, much to his chagrin, and he'd eventually deal. But he sincerely hopes, prays, that you won't abandon him for this. That you won't take back all the wonderful things you said about him, that you won't leave him for clinging too intensely, for offending you, for invading your space.

He just wants to be near you. That's all. He can't function when he's not near you.

And as strange as Choso is, you know that you are no better the moment you feel your heart flutter and skin tingle under his touch, when his desperate plea flushes against you. He's pitiful. Addictively, attractively, pitiful.

You exhale, lowering your hands to rest atop his thick hair. He whimpers, pushing in close, a great contrast to how he appeared to you only moments ago. You doubt he was even trying to scare you then. You assume that intensity is merely a part of him, a subconscious reaction when you are involved.

Choso's lashes flutter as you stroke over his hair, his face nuzzling closer. You look down at him with tired eyes.

"I do pick you, Cho," you say, despite his stalking. Despite his unwarranted presence in your home. "I pick you every time."

[alexiroflife]

jjk men falling for & pursuing you... ⸝⸝⸝

part 2 of 2 (part one here) -> -> -> headcanons

various instances of jjk men realizing that they're in love with you, pursuing you, confessing to you, and everything in between ... ₊˚⊹♡ | fluffy, mutual pining except for sukuna's - you hate him, yearning, sapppppyyyyy

nanami, toji, sukuna (appr. 3.4 - 3.8k each)

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

kento nanami: it's quiet!

at the end of long, trying days, kento finds that the safest place to retreat to is the warmth of your plush thighs, the space in your lap that is reserved solely for him.

the world is noisy, wild, chaotic, and unforgiving. in the field that kento's responsibility dragged him to, relief is not something that he can easily come by. he finds himself working overtime most days, narrowly escaping the clutches of grief or death at the hands of some insidious curse that he is burdened with erradicating.

his job is to save lives, and he does. he is good at what he does, too. precise, timely, always keeping an eye out for the next threat, whether it is gojo imposing on his reading time during lunch or the threat of the memory of haibara ressurecting in another poor, innocent student's soul, unfit for the brutish nature of their education.

nanami is practical and prepared, therefore when the noise comes during the day, he is ready for it. he has practiced his life around it long enough to let it become a dull murmur in the back of his head, one that does not overpower him the way it used to in his youth, when jujutsu took his best friend away.

and while he is accostumed to it, noise is still noise. the tension it always used to bring in the back of his neck still remains each time he steps across that threshhold and into his place of work. the memory of a curse's hiss still haunts the confines of his mind, and the nagging knowledge that one day his very breath could be stripped away by the insanity of what he devoted his life to claws at the back of his head like a sickness he can't quite shake.

noise is still noise, and it leaves kento eerily silent most days as his coworkers (gojo) invade the space with their voices, their numbness to the cruelty, their pinches of insanity that they shield behind hazes of smoke, stupid incessant jokes, and the bright youth of their students. students who could be lost to them at any second, at any moment's time.

kento often feels as though his perfectly organized world is slightly tilted on an axis, his practiced stability the only thing keeping it from completely flipping upside down. the task of a sorcerer is to live with the burden of fear, the crushing reminders of temporary life, and that noise that just never seems to go away, and nanami keeps a straight face. remains poised. focuses on time and neatness and maturity to keep him upright rather than the blaring red that bangs against his brain.

the blonde is tired most days. every day. every day of his life, actually, since as long as he could remember. tireless missions across sea, the shadows of miserable curses rising high above the vision of his fifteen year old self, the call he received when the school thought that satoru was dead, the call he received when haibara died a year later instead. when his mortality, as well as everyone else's, was thrown in his face brutally by the realization that the only being who could ever overcome such confines of life was satoru gojo. the world's savior, the honored one. spoiled. bratty. practically immortal.

the exhaustion of such knowledge, of such tireless pain weighs heavy, and kento finds himself pretending most days that he doesn't wish he had stayed away, that he could have lived a normal, boring life had it not been for the tug of his conscience, the sorcerer's responsibility that never quite leaves you after you get a taste of what the world is truly like behind an ordinary human's eyes.

and his brain is always running, chugging behind the shield of his opaqe goggles, the noise of yuji urging to assist him and make a big name of himself by saving people, swearing his future to the curse of this livelihood. and nanami tries his damndest not to see that boy with brown hair and brown eyes reflective in yuji's youthful air, the optimism that will slowly be poisoned either by death or the inability to escape it. time and time again, kento will attempt to scream out over the noise and challenge it by reiterating how young his students are, how young yuji is, how young he was, how young haibara was when he was killed, and how young satoru was when the world decided to completely lean on him.

but the world doesn't care. jujutsu turns a blind eye to mercy, to suffering, to the hope of youth. it takes and takes and takes, and nanami finds himself going quiet to the noise once more when he listens to people like mei mei ramble on about stipend increases during meetings where all his mind can go back to is the fact that everyone in this room will likely die one day. and there is nothing that any of them can do about it but fight until their time is up.

save for satoru gojo of course, who will stand by as everyone continues to fall away. and what can the white haired sorcerer do but poke at nanami's shoulder while he hides his grimace behind the wall of a newspaper, death's reminder of his weakness teasing him at his very side.

heavy sighs filter from nanami's chest when the days finally come to their end. he piles onto public transport, gripping the rails tight overhead inside the stuffy train, watching wearily as little curses trample about the cabin, squirming around shoulders, creeping into briefcases. nanami looks at his watch. he's off.

the public's murmur overlaps the noise already roaring inside nanami's mind, children crying, men and women arguing over the phone with their places of work, the restless squeak of the train's wheels when it screeches to a stop, and the bodies that bump into his broad one as herds rush to spill from the train doors.

voices blabber inside his head as he walks calmly along the route home. he keeps his eyes straight, heavy and puffy behind his glasses, the sun's late glare practically blinding his sight. but he keeps going, knowing the path by heart, letting the automatic pull of his familiarity drag his aching feet.

with each step his loafers click across the concrete, he hears the echoes of his life, the past that his restlessness has brought him in the blare of the sun. another weighted sigh spills past his lips as he tells himself he only has one more block to go.

and then he arrives at the door, his key turning into the lock, the heavy door giving way as he pushes himself inside.

and suddenly, like an off switch, the scent of you intermingled with whatever has been cooking on the stove overcomes nanami's senses, numbing him. the second he closes the door behind him, he hears your voice from the kitchen and the cut of the running faucet turning off.

"ken?"

the blonde lets his briefcase slip from his fingers and land onto the floor as he goes to remove his shoes silently, your voice, the house's warmth, his sanctuary finally rendering him unable to speak quite yet as he adjusts to the stark contrast between in here and out there.

and there you are, emerging from around the corner, having just dried your hands with a towel. you take in your husband's figure at the door as he removes his goggles and finds your eyes, and you light up, moving to greet him.

"hi baby," you coo. the second your body meets his, your arms wrapping smoothly around his neck, the noise that kento could never quite escape completely goes mute, and all that he can think of is the way you smell of miso and a hint of something sweet as your warmth melts against him.

the mask of composure kento wears every day to keep himself from breaking, to keep his occupation from breaking him, withers away, his body sinks into you like molasses slipping slowly from a bottle, and a final heavy sigh leaves his body, pulling all the burrowed fear, stress, and exhaustion from his being.

helpless to you, his heavy arms curl around your midsection slowly, as if every movement he makes is an act of testing whether his mind will truly allow him this peace. and when no further noise comes, he slumps into you, melting, falling apart.

you feel the stiffness sink away as you hold him, and you smile, closing your eyes as his presses himself into you, his forehead falling to the crook of your neck, rubbing softly against your skin. brows knit with relief, and quiet comes sweet and soft like a wordless lullaby.

your boyfriend speaks a thousand words without opening his mouth, his body answering the silent questions that do not leave yours. your fingers slip into his hair, gliding over his cropped undercut, soothing the space where you know the most tension balls up in a little knot. kento hums something weak and broken and free, holding you closer, savoring this moment for all its worth, and the infinite silence that you magically bring.

you don't ask him about his day. you already know.

instead, as dinner finishes cooking in the oven, you retreat to your sofa, where kento always slips quietly onto his side, long legs oustretched horizontally over the furniture, his head sinking down to your lap just before your hands settle over his head.

he closes his eyes, veiny hand reaching to loosen his tie, tugging it resentfully from around his neck. a temporary pinch in his brow results, but you smooth it away with the soothing glide of your fingers through once neatly slicked blonde strands. you study his face as the anguish melts away from his handsome expression, a rhythmic stroke settling as you caress through his hair, your other hand cradling around his jaw.

blonde lashes flutter, and what noises and thoughts seemed to come so easily during the day are nowhere to be found. his mind finds blankness, calm in the way your fingertips stop every now and then to scratch at his scalp, the way the side of your palm presses to his skin as he recovers from the day's burdens. silence filters through the house comfortably, the occasional tick from the oven echoing out.

a safety nanami has only felt in your arms tackles him soundly. his head angles slightly toward your stomach, nose brushing against the sweater you stole from him. your body always responds to his movements, hugging closer, stroking softer.

kento remembers the first time it happened, the first time you touched him and the noise suddenly wiped clean from his mind like he was born that day all over again with a blank slate. he stiffened slightly at first, your hand in his, and he looked at you like you'd solved the riddle for all life's misery. like you'd singlehandedly resurrected him from the dead with nothing but your hand squeezing in his.

you've always had this serene quality about you, one that makes kento want to rot in your company for as long as he possibly can. it takes one look at your face, one sniff of your perfume, one chirp of your voice for every horror that plagues nanami's head to dissipate like it never existed, and nanami was not foolish enough to question it any further. his body told him that you were his sanctuary, therefore, he siezed you, courted you, held onto you, cherished you so that you'd never go away.

and every day, when he wonders why he forced this livelihood on himself, he remembers your soft touch and easy smiles, and the urgency to protect, to protect this life, reinstills itself in him. and he remembers that if the responsibility should fall onto anyone to preserve the sanctity of your kiss, it should fall to him.

something peachy and bright swipes through the darkness of nanami's closed lids as he lay in your lap like a child, raw, vulnerable, tired. warm colors filter into his subconscious, the sweetness he imagines the sun would taste like on your lips swirling around his head. he often swears it's some kind of trick, for it awes him how you take what is dark and gloomy and drab and strict and bend it into something easy and light and whimsical and tender.

his heart trembles like a bird who has not yet learned to fly, and everything he once thought he knew is laid bare at his feet for him to attempt to piece back together, to reconfigure as though it is his first day on this planet. something heavy aches inside his being, and he knows what it is. he thinks deep down he's always known, but in the warmth of your embrace this day, with your fingers in his hair and your silent attentiveness and care keeping him breathing, he thinks he knows for sure.

kento's eyes peel back open to reveal honeyed pools of (e/c) gazing down at him softly. your gentle lips are smiling, the gold of your first initial dangling from the expensive chain around your neck as you watch him with eyes so sweet that kento's surprised he hasn't rotted away right there.

and instead of thoughts of his and his students' mortality, his mind gets fuzzy and blurry. he can't conjure up a thought on anything but you. his eyes are lidded, blinking slow as he stares up at you, letting your beauty overpower him, letting it render him a speechless, weakened vessel at your will.

something emotional overcomes him, something that claws at his chest warmly, sacredly. he knows what it is when your gazes speak for the words you do not say, when your touch grows somehow softer, and the corners of kento's lips finally pull upward now that he knows this isn't a dream and some curse isn't pulling him in for a brutal, gruesome, vile death, using you as a pawn.

chocolate eyes catch the light pouring in from the window behind you past hooked, wrinkled curtains. you see all the world's passion soaking up into those circles of brown, like a sponge absorbing water, or the muffled hum of a pressed piano key floating off into dragged, eventual silence. your finger shifts to trace along his jaw, along the sculpt of his cheekbone, then to the corners of his mouth that you pull slightly to lift higher. kento's eyes shimmer, the day’s first hints of humor catching him as his eyes wrinkle and a laugh, soft and breathless, flutters from his chest as he obeys your silent plea for further relief, for a little more of a smile.

he can't help it. he can't help but smile when he looks at you. when he thinks about everything you are and continue to be, when he thinks of the great impact you have on what he always thought would be a dull, inevitable future of broken hope.

kento's hand reaches up slowly, catching your cheek. you smile warm, letting him guide you down to his lips. they meet in a gentle peck, sweet and lingering like the aftertaste of a sugary treat. the warmth spreads at the moment of contact, and when your eyes close, kento sees an entire life spent in your arms, in your steady silence.

his heart aches again, and he pulls away to hover just centimeters from your breath. slivers of eyes hold one another's, and kento smoothes a hand over your hair, smile dwindling with something serious.

it isn't just this moment, this day. it's all the others that have lead up to this one. how easily you slip into his life, how you always seem to read his mind and know exactly what he needs, how silence seems to speak louder than your words, and in between those spaces of muteness, you see him and he sees you. every day he leaves the house, he counts down the seconds to get back to you as war wages in his thoughts, like there's some blanket over his senses when he's with you that is ripped away the second he steps outside.

it's the times you have spent patching up the deep wounds that no one but you can see, the wounds he hardly knew he had before meeting you, as he'd been so accostamed to their rooted, soulful ache.

he wonders sometimes where you came from. he wonders how he managed to stumble across this glittering pool after years of wandering through drought. how you make everything feel ten tons lighter just by existing, just by standing by his side, just by waiting for him to get home and wrapping him up in an embrace that solves all the world's problems in a second.

kento thinks back to when he didn't have you. to when he was young, and tormented, and distraught, and angry at a world he could never change but could help. he thinks back to what it felt like for the noise to circle through his mind twenty four hours, seven days a week, and he wonders how he survived. he wonders how he pushed through without you, for now that you are here, now that he's found safety in your arms, he at least has something to protect, to look forward to, to keep him alive.

he doesn't know what he'd do without you. without moments like these, where nothing exists but the melt of your lips against his and the weight your glittering eyes carry.

his lips press together with a bit more pressure, eyes taking in every detail of your face. the little strands of your brow curving out into an angle of your eyes. the little scar on your chin left behind from an accident when you were a child. the round of your nose, the gloss of your waterline that always intensifies when he's looking at you like this. he feels the trace of your fingers and swears to preserve their softness. he feels the warmth of your thighs against his head and promises to kiss over them beneath the privacy of your comforter. he feels you, your soul, your essence, molding into his, holding him close, and thinks that no feeling he has ever experienced in his life has ever come quite close to this one.

he knows it now, when you come down to kiss him again, and his hand finds the back of your head, his watch glittering under the lowering sun. that there is no better feeling than this, than your lips to his as your hum vibrates against his mouth, and travels all the way down to the tips of his toes. no better feeling than you.

"i love you."

it comes in a solid murmer in the space of your breaths when you part, and you freeze where you hover. kento watches almost sadly, as though he knows this can't last forever, but he will claw his way out of hell in order to make it last as long as it possibly can. he gives you another sweet smile as his thumb caresses over the back of his head, watching as your brows curl slowly with the processing of his soft declaration.

your breath hitches, then releases with a shudder. you search his eyes, and he lets you, enjoying your closeness, preserving it, vowing to shield it with his life.

when it finally settles in your brain, a thin film slides over your eyes, your lips parting, brows curving with a happiness you can't express in words. you've known. the both of you have had an inkling for some time, but to hear it voiced for the first time, to see it clear in his soft expression before you makes you want to weep.

slowly, kento rises, turning to sit upright beside you, holding your hands over his lap. his knees touch yours, his eyes staring into you, and he says it again, confident. "i love you."

you could die happily, full of joy and content you've never known, that nanami has singlehandedly shown you. his confession is simple, but the weight of it simmers beneath, and all that comes with it. you smile, bright and big and toothy.

"i love you too, kento. i always have."

and it's silent as he tugs you back in by your chin and melts into your kiss, intoxicated off of you and your mute peace.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

toji fushiguro: megs' teacher!

megumi knows his father. indusputably.

he knows that he hates the sound of morning alarms, and would sleep through all ten he sets for himself if he wanted to, for the man sleeps like a log and could likely sleep through a hurricane if it swept through his neighborhood.

he knows that when his dad disappears late enough, long after he and his sister have been fed and done their homework, that he's off to feed his stupid gambling addiction again, and will likely come home early in the morning to call up shiu and ask for an extra job because he lost all the money from the last one to his lack of self control.

megumi knows that his father can't cook for shit, and always elects to either recruit satoru to make something for them or order takeout for the tenth night in a row, ordering him and his sister not to complain about having chinese again.

and he knows that if you, his ninth grade geometry teacher, were not attending this field trip to the museum, then his father certainly would have been no where to be found. but instead, the spiky haired teen watches with disdain as his father signs the pink chaperone slip on the kitchen counter with an urgency, eager for the opportunity to harrass you about giving him the time of day.

toji fushiguro is not an easy man, against popular belief. he'll flirt, rather incessantly, with a woman at a bar, or with the lady who bags his groceries, or even with the waitress at a family restaurant, but he hardly has any desire to pursue anything outside of keeping his life a little entertaining. sometimes, he really just likes to talk and get on his kids' nerves, or pester someone for a discount that he insists he'll get any time he goes anywhere, but outside of convenience, flirting has no real appeal to him.

that is, until megumi starts high school, and toji is forced to attend parent teacher night in order to meet all of his son's teachers and acclimate himself with the kid's schedule. megumi had to practically drag his father to the door to attend it, for tsumiki had an equally hard time trying to make her father leave the house to go to hers when she started high school. toji hates large gatherings of snobby parents and annoying teachers, for he always insists that his kids are practically adults, and they don't need him breathing down the school's neck just to see what block he has lunch in and who's teaching him the language he already knows.

besides, he's seen all the teachers' faces before. he knows who will teach megumi what subject because his daughter went through the same thing the year prior, so why the hell is it so important for him to go again? he thought at least going for one kid would have been enough.

but megumi insisted as he pushed at the immovable brick wall that toji calls his back. "we have a new teacher there, remember? she doesn't know how fucking shitty you are yet. you need to introduce yourself to her so she knows what she's getting into."

toji yawns at the front door, quirking a brow down at his teenager. "shitty?"

"yes. you never answer emails or sign anything when teachers send stuff home. i got in trouble once for forging your signature, and you still didn't bother to show up to the meeting."

"because, it ain't forgin' a signature if i told ya to do it."

"it doesn't matter if you told me to - forgery is still forgery."

"i squeezed you outta my balls, you know. i don't gotta stand for this shit."

"just go, dad!" megumi barks.

grumbling curses under his breath, toji obliges, because internally he admits that he does need to show up as the brat's only parent. and he expects two hours of a snooze fest until he steps into your classroom.

his bored expression falls slightly when his ivy eyes land on you as you turn and greet the parents with a warm smile and reading glasses propped over your head. you wear a simple white blouse and dark jeans that hug your curves, stacked necklaces hanging around your neck, and nails painted ruby red. your eyes are like stars, and you speak with a gentle, smooth confidence, a well-rounded maturity toji can't help but to notice.

he stands against the whiteboard with his hands tucked in his pockets, looking all around at the arrangement of your classroom. surrounding your projector are warm paper lanterns that hang from ceiling, giving the room a soft, non-nauseating glow. formulas, numbers, and symbols line the walls above the boards in laminated strips, and a blue hue takes your room from the soft navy rug on the floor to the gentle light of the projected screen at the very front. a few plants line the window sills on the far left, nurtured by the space where sunlight would pour in during the day. encouraging posters, as well as band tees and show references are plastered over the walls. little trinkets and stuffed animals line your organized desk clutter, and the hominess and your structured room screams that you are the new teacher that megumi was talking about.

after all, your classroom feels less like a stuffy place kids go to learn and more like a soothing nook, with beanbags in the corner by your desk and calculaters lined up in a cute little tray labeled take one :)!

he's never seen you before, after all. he'd remember a face and a voice like yours.

so when you turn to toji with a knowing smile, and something calm and lazy in your eyes, he does not quite know what he will say or how he will speak to you. his instinct to flirt is a bit blurred, for there's nothing he necessarily wants from you... maybe for you to give megumi straight a's, or, more accurately, straight b's all year, but even so, trying to sweeten you up does not seem right upon first glance.

upon first glance, as he said. he at least wants to feel out what he'll be dealing with for the rest of tsumiki and megumi's high school years first.

"you must be mr. fushiguro," you greet with an air of amusement about you, cool, airy. you stretch your hand out, and toji listens to the clink of your bracelets as you do so. a waft of cinnamon sugar stretches from your arm and into toji's face, and the navy haired man has to find some strength deep within him in order to keep an unfazed composure. how are these kids gonna be able to learn a damn thing if you look, sound, and smell like that? toji certainly wouldn't be able to if he were in your class.

the corner of toji's scarred lips twitch upward mischievously as he claps his hand into yours firmly, shaking boldly. you chuckle lightly, brows lifting as toji squints subtly at you. "how'd ya know that?"

you release his hand to prop your own on your hip. "you and megumi share a face," you joke. "it'd be impossible to mistake you for anyone else."

toji snorts, crossing his arms. his muscles bulge with the action, tensing against the tight shirt he always frequents. "megumi's that memorable, huh? don't you got a shit ton of students comin' in and out of your classes?"

"i remember all of my students, mr. fushiguro. it's my job," you say. "i also brushed over the roster before you all got here."

toji's shoulders jerk with a little chuckle, and he eyes you closely as you smile. "so my kid ain't been givin' ya trouble, then?"

"trouble?" you tilt your head. "no, why do you say so?"

"just thought you'd remember his face for some other reason."

"megumi's been doing great in my class so far. it's only the beginning of the school year, but i can tell he'll be just fine. he seems like a really sweet kid."

"so he ain't get in a fight yet?"

"a fight?” you repeat wildly. "no, i'd hope not. not that i've heard of, anyway."

"good. 'cause it's comin'. don't say i ain't warn you."

your brow wrinkles slightly. "he got in fights a lot in middle school?"

"damn near every day."

"i see... and what influences are making megumi so prone to fighting, if this is a real issue?"

toji falls silent for a minute, caught by your inquisition. "you callin' me a bad influence?"

"no, mr. fushiguro. i'm just asking a question. after all, i'm only just meeting you."

toji hums, a smirk curling his lips as your raise a brow.

"he can't fight at school, much less in my classroom. i don't tolerate that kind of thing," you add.

"aren't you a great teacher, then," toji grins playfully. “i’ll be sure to pass on the message.”

you sense his playful tone and sigh, shaking your head. "i'm gonna have my hands full this year, won't i?"

"like i said. don't say i ain't warn ya."

"not with megumi," you lift your chin, smiling gently. "with you."

toji pauses, taken aback for a split second, then he laughs. "if you'll have me."

the said man leaves that night a bit thrown off, for he hadn't expected megumi's new math teacher to be so... down to earth? funny? sexy?

but it's something more than your looks. it's your ability to joke around, the gentle way you carry yourself, like you're gliding through the air, like math could never be a difficult subject as long as you're the one teaching it.

you’re pretty for a math teacher, and after a while, toji just can’t seem to leave you alone whenever you’re around.

so he shows up at things his kids know he would never bother to otherwise. he slips in to speak with you whenever he catches you heading to your car long after pick up has ended and the buses have left. he answers your emails unprofessionally and plainly, trying to weasel his way closer. trying to understand what this allure you possess is all about. trying to feel more of it, letting you pull him closer, letting your sweetness dizzy him just a little bit.

Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Good afternoon, Mr. Fushiguro,

I hope this email finds you well. I am reaching out pertaining to the midterm reports that were issued out last Friday. The students were informed that they should return them to school with a signatue from a parent or guardian by this morning, after the weekend, and I have yet to receive Megumi's form. When I asked him about it in class, he said that he did try to get you to sign it, but you refused, hoping to "wait for an email from me instead." Let it be known that I am emailing you now, as you prefer, and would greatly appreciate it if you could return Megumi's signed report no later than tomorrow. I will accept an electronic copy if that is easier for you.

Thank you very much in advance.

Sincerely,

Ms. (L/n)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

do you always talk so fancy when you reach out to parents doll, or is it just me?

-toji (not mr. fushiguro)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Mr. Fushiguro,

Please keep this line of communication appropriate and strictly about Megumi's report, which you still have not told me how you will send. I need to transfer signed forms to the principal no later than tomorrow morning.

Regards,

Ms. (L/n) (not doll)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

relax, i'll make him bring it in tomorrow don't worry. for the record, i told him not to tell you that last part about the email thing. little prick. you sure he aint givin you a hard time over there? cause he's always givn me one.

is that a teacher thing by the way? someone gonna monitor the way you talk in emails? should i say something more interesting then? 😏

-TOJI***

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Good evening,

Thank you. Please do not forget! I will send you a reminder tomorrow morning before Megumi comes to school, as well.

And yes, remaining appropriate on a school mandated email is a "teacher thing." It would be nice if you would respect that by also refraining from using such language to refer to your son. He is a good student. No trouble at all.

Please enjoy the remainder of your evening!

Regards,

Ms. (L/n)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

guess that just means i should get your number then? so no other eyes are watchin

(my son the "good student" has called me worse things for your info)

-Toji

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]> To | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]>

Seeing as I just reminded you about the expectations of a school monitored email and you chose to ignore them within no less than five minutes, I will wish you a good night once again. Look out for my reminder tomorrow morning. I will be sending an extra one to Megumi as well so that he can force your hand if you pretend not to see my email.

Ms. (L/n)

<- Subject: Midterm Reports From | Toji Fushiguro <[email protected]> To | (Y/n) (L/n) <[email protected]>

i'd be stupid to pretend not to see an email from you

i'll get that number sometime

-toji

for toji, it isn't a matter of discovering whether he has a thing for you or not. he knows he does. every time he speaks to you, watches your eyes twinkle with an ominous lumiscence that reflects an orange moon's gloomy kiss, his heart patters to a weird rhythm. he knows he's got a thing for you and that it's not just because of your looks when he begins to associate the thought of you with the sweetness of a starry night, an inky, soothing, midnight's blue encapturing your energy every time you approach, every time you sweep an area.

megumi's grades in your class are stellar, for toji knows that he's always been a smart kid overshadowed by his short temper and quickness to violence - which the boy could have only inherited from toji himself. nevertheless, you speak highly of the fifteen year old nearing sixteen, claiming that he always pays attention, and always maintains a collected air about him when performing in your classroom.

and ever the easily agitated boy, toji finds that it makes sense that megumi finds solace within your space. math is something that always made sense to the blue eyed boy, something that always slips into certain conversations when megumi is detailing something he is working on, or trying to verbally piece together how certain things work. how much tsumiki should budget after she makes another online order, and how meals should be split and prepared throughout the week to leave some money leftover for anything else. with a gambling addict for a father, he thinks such precautions are necessary.

having seen your room, toji gets it. it's a safe space with low lighting and all that megumi's ever really known. and geometry, of course, proves way to easy for him, easy enough for you to bump him up to a higher math level.

toji thinks that what tugs at him the most about you is the way you always praise his son amidst your playful tones and your forced rejection of toji's advanaces for the sake of your job. you have a true passion for what you do, for how you teach, and who you are teaching. you talk of megumi's intelligence like it is something toji should be proud of, something right he has done throughout his life that he overshadows with jokes about his kid being mean to him and talk of his past.

toji's only ever heard teachers complain about his son. how violent he is. how standoffish he is. how quick he is to snap at a moment's inconvenience, or at someone pestering him or bothering someone who doesn't deserve it. middle school was hell, which is why toji backs away from interacting with most teachers now. sure, his kid gets into fights, but he wins every one of them. teaches those little shits a lesson. while fighting isn't "good", if the only thing anyone will ever see is megumi's anger, then toji won't bother trying to prove otherwise. trying to serve as the perfect parent to fit into their close minded ideas of his family. they don't deserve that effort if it's not already seen.

toji isn't going to change his son. he and his daughter are fine just the way they are. if the former gets in trouble, toji will deal with it, but who is he to care if megumi roughs up some necks and proves his place in the world as he grows older? he knows how to stand up for what's right. and he's smart all on his own without school, anyway.

but even after toji almost testingly told you about megumi's past in middle school to see how you'd react, brushing over the gory details, you don't hyperfixate on it. toji knows that notes on megs' previous behavior are tucked somewhere on a record in the principal's office, but you doesn't bother to further investigate, not unless it actively becomes a problem on your hands, and it doesn't. it never does.

instead, you see megumi for who he is. a good kid with a bright future. peaceful when treated as a human being, and silent in his genius. and if your beauty or your impressive teaching skills or your passion hadn't been enough for your toji to get hooked, your inherent recognition of his son's talent certainly does the trick.

but you won't cross that line. you won't let him come any further than jokes here and there and those dangerous looks he flashes you when you should be talking about megumi's behavior throughout the first quarter of the year instead. you always shake your head with a soft laugh, always roll your eyes with a pretty smile before redirecting the conversation, turning to your computer, clicking and sneaking a glance up from your monitor to see that he's still looking at you from where he lounges shamelessly in his seat.

toji continues to try his luck, however, hoping one day to get your personal number. hoping one day to know you beyond his kid's academics. hoping one day that you'll allow yourself to look at him as a man and not as one of your student's parents. hoping one day that you'll damn the rules and give in to the attraction that he knows you have for him. that he knows you hide away for the sake of your job. for the sake of your student.

you're not surprised when toji chaperones for the field trip. a father who once didn't give a damn whether he sent megumi's midterm report in signed or not suddenly hopping up at the chance to help monitor three buses full of high school kids could only have one goal in mind, and you know it when he sits next to you at the front of the bus.

you're in the window seat, almost pressed to the glass by the sheer mass of his frame, his legs spread out as wide as possible, leaving just enough room for his knee to knock against yours with every bump in the road and rock in the bus.

he smells of some woodsy cologne, rugged and warm, and you try to busy yourself with writing something down on a clipboard, but toji cuts through your concentration.

he leans over slightly, voice low. the chaos of the bus is loud enough for your conversation to be unheard. "y'look real pretty today."

you shoot your head up to look at him with a glare, countenance strict though toji sees the way you tense. "toji," you warn softly, eying him.

the ebony haired man's eyes light, smirk dragging over his sharp features. "good to hear ya got used to usin' my name."

"how could i not, when you're always pulling stuff like this?" you hiss. he smiles. "please, please don't flirt with me during this entire trip," you beg, exasperated.

"who says i'm flirtin'?" he teases, well aware that he is. "i'm just sayin. you look nice. i can't compliment a woman who looks good anymore?"

"don't try me. you know what you're doing," you murmur. toji chuckles.

"is it working?"

"no," you lie with a hint of a smile.

toji grins. "gotta try harder then."

"look, you signed up to be responsible for group a, okay? remember why you're here. for the kids."

"you and i both know i ain't here for these damn kids."

"well, you're gonna have to act like it. i don't need one of our parent chaperones being less responsible than a hundred high school freshmen. and i sure as hell don't need him breathing down my back all day."

"i'm always responsible."

"okay," you say, unconvinced.

"i won't breathe down your back," he adds. "i just wanna see you work."

"all you do is see me work. i'm your son's teacher."

"i wanna see you in action."

you roll your eyes, though your little grin counters your words. "do the job you signed up for."

"yes ma'am, i will," he swears. you look up to meet his eyes for a moment. he winks. and you groan.

throughout the day, toji keeps his promise, letting the kids do what they want as he keeps an eye out, monitoring. the whole thing is a chore, so much so that he starts making bets with some of the kids on the basketball team that they can't hump high enough to touch the ceiling of one of the exhibits, promising two bucks for the photo machine to whoever can do it first.

in the middle of the day's haze, toji catches sight of you from afar with one of your students at your side. his gaze softens as you walk through the exhibit with her, pointing out interesting facts, engaging in her nerdy talk of physics in relation to the screen before you.

and you're smiling wide, like this science museum could be the most exciting place you've ever stepped your foot into. like every word your student speaks to you holds weight that you will cling to forever. like your world surrounds you in your students' enjoyment and the intriguing little nerdy sanctuary that this place has to offer you.

toji loses a kid or two for a second while staring at you from afar, and he doesn't notice when megumi walks by him, his nose wrinkled in disgust when he follows his father's gaze. poor you. you should run while you still can.

toji sighs, figuring he is in to deep with no way to make you his, stuck with this weird, nostalgic feeling that tears away at his chest and makes him weak.

and when he isn't looking, when he realizes he's gotta track down the couple that disappeared, your attention goes to him, and your mind races with the images of his attentiveness, the way he casually handles the kids like it's nothing but a tiring exercise. you shouldn't be surprised, after all. he's a single father to two teenagers. he's good at this.

you chew on the inside of your lip, heart fluttering, and you exhale with a frown, knowing your dilemma. knowing that you like him just as much as he seems to like you. that despite his nuisance, you enjoy his company. you enjoy him being around.

at lunch, he sits with you. megumi pretends not to know him, and sits with his friend yuji. in the tense silence of your proximity, you look at him gently.

"you're actually really good at this," you say.

toji perks up, mouth full, burger clenched tight in large hands. he blinks at you, confused, for this is the first time he's ever heard you compliment him so freely. he could have choked on his food.

shoving down the lightness that takes him, toji swallows, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand lazily, eyes still glued to you. "y'think?"

you smile, un-teasing for a moment. "yeah. thank you for your help."

toji's jaw clenches, and he nods eventually after staring at you in stillness for a moment longer. "sure," he grumbles. "y're good at this too."

you giggle. "well, i'd hope so."

"nah, but... you really are. you're a good teacher," he reiterates. you soften, cheeks warming slightly against your best wishes.

"thank you," you say sincerely.

the two of you turn away, looking elsewhere, and toji keeps eating, unable to stand the heat.

the ride back is silent, something having shifted between the two of you. toji watches the road ahead as the bus jerks and the kids yammer on behind him, when he suddenly feels a light weight plop to his shoulder.

he freezes, and turns to find that you've dozed off, your head knocked against his arm as gentle breaths leave your parted lips.

toji's eyes go momentarily wide as he registers the feeling of you against him, of your warm head resting on him like your subconscious told you that you could trust the figure next to you, that you could take a second to breathe and rest after a hectic day.

toji watches you tenderly without a word, heart clenching. he doesn't move a muscle for the rest of the ride.

and at the end of the day, when you all part, a crumpled receipt is slipped into toji's hand with a quickness as you murmur something about nonexistent compensation. you disappear into the school before he can ask any questions, and when toji unfolds the silky piece of paper in his hand, he sees your number scribbled on the back of it.

he grins.

a step closer to making you his.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

ryomen sukuna: your hatred!

sukuna is... confused.

perhaps confusion is not the proper word to decribe the complexity that is racing through his ancient mind, but it is certainly a part of it, though he attempts to shield so with his ordinary, demanding air.

he snatched you up, stole you away as prisoner. his initial plans for you were to force you to work, however, when he saw how much of a fuss the neighboring palace was making about having stolen you away, he decided to use you as a pawn to his advantage.

uraume later informed him that you are, in fact, closely related to the emporer across the mountains, who has had complications with sukuna's temple for quite sometime, but has kept to himself in order to preserve his respect and his... well, his life. the foolish emporer had believed that he and the beast far north had come to some kind of agreement, and sukuna laughs at the sentiment, for why would he dare to make peace with such false royalty, with such puny, idiotic reign? he's lucky sukuna got bored of rampaging and devouring his people about a decade ago. he had turned his sights elsewhere... until you, of course.

you shouldn't have been wandering off on your own, shouldn't have gone on such a fool's errand for the sake of an environment which hardly cared whether you lived or died.

you'd traveled far, across the mountains, wrapped in furs up to your neck, your eyes dull with lethargy, your teeth chattering from the cold. how you survived such a trip alone, sukuna hardly knows, but he decides that you were did not leave alone by the haunted look in your eyes when he stands over you while you kneel before him in chains.

you were hauled in from outside, having been seen standing idly by the gates to his grand temple, torch fire blistering in your gaze as arms seized you and dragged you through the double doors. sukuna was prepared to kill you when you were dropped to his feet at the foot of his throne, the expanse of his polished throne room floors singling you out in the center of the room as you crumpled against them in cold and fear.

but when you lifted your head to him on command, his earth shattering boom of a voice ordering you to do so, the four armed curse did not see fear in your eyes. he saw anger.

you shiver out something about your home having been deprived of essential resources for weeks, waste having befallen your livelihoods as a result of sukuna's neighboring brutality on the wildlife, the roaring fires he sets across valleys for fun, the livestock he's either killed or sent running south, the merchants and travelers and traders who no longer pass through, keen to avoid sukuna's cruel forms of hellish entertainment. you mention that you live past the mountains, under that damned emporer's rule, and the conviction holds you together as you tremble and cough, very clearly ill and battered from your journey.

you're desperate. you risked your life to visit his temple with no plan but to beg, to merely ask for mercy, for food, for anything. no aces up your sleeve. no weapons meant to idiotically charge into his direction out of spite. nothing but the pitiful arch in your brow and the grind of your chattering teeth as you glare up at him with a distant resentment only someone who has heard of sukuna and experienced his impact from afar would know.

there's hatred in your steely eyes.

when uraume asks what they should do with you, he takes a moment to ponder. his instinct at first is to merely kill you, his sharp fingers lifting calmly as crimson eyes peer down at you over the bridge of his nose. it would be easy. like squashing a bug. he's done so enough times for it to be over and done with in miliseconds, but strangely, he pauses. for someone like you, who crossed the mountains those who live beyond them swear never to trek past - for if the cold doesn't get to them first, the monster that lies beyond them is sure to serve as a stubborn traveler's end - who lost your supplies, your men, and your means of travel somewhere along the way, can't be unimportant. can't simply be... useless.

so he sends you to the dungeon below, wrists chained to the wall behind spidery metal bars. and he learns from his right hand as you rot under his feet that you aren't just closely related to the emporer... you're a well favored concubine. in fact, the most desired.

the beast shakes the walls with the burly laugh that rips through his chest when he hears the news that you are, in fact, not important at all. not truly. beyond the pampered palace life of a tool used for the emporer's pleasure, you do not exist beyond such usefulness. and looking at you now, a starved, thirsty shell on the brink of death, hardly able to keep her eyes open behind those bars, sukuna can't say that he sees such a reality in your eyes.

you're far too gritty, and perhaps it is at the fault of the journey you've taken, but you're covered in filth and furs as though they are a part of you. as though you've only clung to them to survive.

a concubine, huh? how is that possible, when you've come so far and survived, with nothing to carry you on but that fierce hatred bubbling in your eyes, a hatred that a woman who has lived a cushy life of sex and comfort could never quite muster?

is the state of your palace so bad? was life as a concubine horrible enough for you to tear away and run off to death itself, stare it in the eye, and overcome it?

the beast is... intrigued.

the letter that arrives to him days later is enough for him to know that you at least served your duties as a concubine well, that you indeed are a favorite, a prized possession for a reason, as the emporer makes quite the fuss about your whereabouts, clearly knowing that you had run off to his temple for help.

sukuna decides that he will test how far the emporer's loyalty to you runs, and demands control over the other side of the mountains in exchange for your return. both the emporer, himself, and you know that he is bluffing. that if he returns you safely, sukuna will still rampage your home. that you will likely die either way, as well as everyone you've ever known or dared to love, and soon they will become prisoner or fodder to him and his hungry appetite, just as you have.

after all, what fool in his right mind would risk his future for someone so meaningless?

word of war spreads, and within the coming month, having survived off of the meals that uraume brings down to you to keep you alive, you hear word of your home's final collapse under sukuna's hellish, pointless seige. he brings back to you the head of the empire who tossed his life away for you.

foolish.

you refuse to eat anything after that as you wither away in his dungeon, wondering why sukuna hasn't just killed you. why he elects to make you suffer so heavily. you stew for days on end in your regret over your stubbornness, your desperate urge to find help, to do something about the sorry state that the pile of ashes that was once your home was in.

they told you not to slip away. told you not to do anything rash. to play your part and be happy, but you looked around at the scraps for dinner each night and you couldn't sit still. you couldn't be the perfect doll that the empire made you. you couldn't toss aside the weight of responsibility that sank over you, for if no one else was going to face the reality, someone had to.

and at the rate your home was moving, everyone was bound to die sooner or later anyway.

ryomen asks himself the same question of why he just hasn't brought himself to kill you. he's had his fun torturing you, bringing your world to dust, stealing that fire from your soul, but each time he treks down to see you, to mock you, and your steely eyes glare at him past those bars, he can't find the incessant desire in him to wipe you clean from this earth and move on, despite how easily he does so with everything and everyone else that crosses his path.

and then you say it, sharp words, hoarse and dry from misuse that you spit into his direction each time he stands tall before you, watching as you crouch limp in the corner.

"i abhor you," you growl.

sukuna can only grin proudly each time you express your intense, raw hatred for him.

he continues to make uraume bring you meals, only as time goes by and you continue to refuse the food, they become more elaborate. scraps of bread turn into generous loaves. limbs of elk, pheasant, and boar swarm the plate, and chipped glass full of water become challises of wine over gold and glittering plates, with prestine silverware.

yet each night, your food goes untouched, no matter how lavish, no matter how grand, no matter the temptation of the savory aroma that wafts from the plate and into your skeleton decorated cellar. you refuse to become his pet. you refuse to feed into the scraps of humanity he leaves like a dog's bowl at your door. you refuse to give him what he wants, and it makes sukuna angry with time.

for it's not that you want to die. sukuna sees it in your face. you haven't given up hope for life yet, but still you do not eat. you do not give in, and sukuna's gears grind, his frustration growing with every second you do not bend to his will.

"perhaps it's time to get rid of her," uraume suggests as he paces down the hall with thudding steps. "she is only taking up space. and if she refuses to eat much longer, she will not last the rest of the month anyway."

he should just kill you. he should, but he can't - he doesn't want to. your eyes, glossy and heavy with hatred, haunt him when you are not around, and he would prefer to look into them to see if such animosity has shifted rather than toss you away completely.

"i will not kill her," he grumbles heavily. "she could still be of use to me."

"...my lord, may i ask how? her home has been destroyed. there is nothing left for her. she is alone. and weak. do you wish her to become a servant?"

he doesn't answer. they are right. you are weak and isolated. keeping you here is pointless.

the ancient sorcerer's mind troubles himself as he attempts to conjure up what he could use you for, how he could keep you around, before he suddenly ponders why he wants to keep you around. why your hatred is so enticing.

the salmon haired king of curses approaches your cellar with a frown, a desolate glint in his crimson eyes. they scatter about the dark space, locking onto you in your miserable corner. your knees are to your chest, your mouth shielded by them, but your eyes pierce the veil to sukuna's innermost workings, like an arrow splintering through skin.

the silence stretches between you, long and heavy, as water drips from the ceiling, splattering in rhythmic taps against the stone of your holding cell. you fight the trembles, the pangs of hunger, and stare hard into the beast's eyes. just as you always do. unafraid. angry with nothing to show for it.

and while sukuna should truly be considering what on earth to do with you next, his mind can't help but wander to how you are the first prisoner he has captured in all of his existence, trampling this earth, who has dared to glare back into his four eyes. who has dared to keep his hard gaze. who has dared not to look away.

first prisoner. first human being.

and your eyes always tell a strange, twisted story. one that fails to align with that of a well loved concubine time and time again, each second he stares back at you. perhaps you were a prisoner in another life. perhaps the life you lived before finding temporary sanctuary as the former emporer's most favored concubine tells a better story than the life sukuna stole you from ever could.

even so, beneath all the grime and dirt that's caked over your skin, he can see the physical appeal. he sees the distant whispers of a beautiful woman, one cherished and yearned for and wanted so desperately that an entire kingdom collapsed for it. though, it is truly your fault that things had to end this way. that your home had to be destroyed. you left your home. you went searching for trouble at the hands of the most horrific being to ever roam the earth, and you got it.

perhaps that is why such anger rages in your eyes, for a bulk of it is misdirected, once harbored toward yourself and now pointed back into sukuna's direction.

he merely watches you like you are some odd piece of art he can't quite understand, hoping to find the answer in your eyes that you never give. you are far too interesting for him to discard of, your eyes and all their caked hatred too enticing for him to tear away from.

and your words, always venemous, soaked in poison when he asks you a question.

"why do you refuse food?"

"because i will not be your slave," you'd hiss.

"you will die."

"then i will finally be free from you."

"you do not wish to die. i see it in your eyes."

"death is a better fate than wasting away under your oppression. i hate you."

your conversations always end the same, with little answers, and the emphasis of your detestation. it's alluring, how fiercely you continue to hate with such little energy, with nothing to return to.

still, despite the circles he continues to run in with you, he proceeds with a new question after your prolonged silence. "how long were you a concubine?" he questions. "you will answer, or i will force your consumption."

your nose curls in disgust, but knowing that you have no choice, no true reason to hold back your truth without some form of gruelish punishment, you answer stiffly. "two years."

"only two?"

"are you hard of hearing?"

sukuna smirks. "then what of you before then?"

"nothing."

"there must have been something."

"i was no one."

"an orphan? a slave?"

you fall quiet, your face hardening, and sukuna decides he has got some kind of idea of you now. you happened upon that status of a concubine completely by luck, after years of wasting away, and now you return to your once sorry fate.

sukuna's eyes slim, and something preposterous leaves his lips. "i will release you."

you pause. "what?"

"on the condition that you become my favored concubine. so long as you prove yourself worthy."

your face morphs with something wicked, and your hatred glowers like a roaring flame in your hues. you lift your head from your knees with trembling lips, nose flaring.

you stumble, chains swinging and clanking as you rise to your feet slowly. you trip slightly over your bare feet, metal dragging as you step toward the bars. you press your forehead to them, your pupils small and tormented, a crazed pinch in your brow as sukuna hovers just before you, the closest you've ever allowed him to be with this barrier standing between you.

"i would rather die," you whisper, seething with rage.

and for some strange reason, sukuna's chest tightens. he brings his head down to you as you breathe heavily, wrath overtaking you as your eyes meet his at your height. his inhumanely large hands grip the bars and he leans in, grinning. "you may very well soon reach that fate" he sneers.

and up close, despite your filth, wrapped up in such inescapable anguish, you are quite... beautiful.

in a swift motion, he snatches your cheeks up in one hand, gripping tight, pulling you taut against the bars. you hiss, eyes wide as you struggle, attempting to pull away, but you can do nothing with your hands bound.

sukuna's grin goes dark. "you will change your mind," he threatens.

and for that brief moment he holds you close, and his sharp canines bear with the wave of his breath over your cheek, something snaps in the back of sukuna's mind as he looks into your eyes.

his smile drops, he grunts, and he snatches his hand away from you, forcing you to fall back with the force onto the floor. you gulp in a breath of air, chest heaving wildly as you glare up at him, stunned, elbows scraped against the stone.

ruby pools promise hell as they stare down at you, before he turns away and leaves without another word.

sukuna is confused, for the light feeling ripping in his ordinarily hardened chest ails him for the rest of the day. your eyes plague him like some damned curse that has befallen him, your hatred sweeping him up in the strange desire to keep pushing, to make you bend at his will whether you like it or not.

though, he wants you to like it. he wants you to turn against yourself, against every instinct in your body, against everything you've ever known to succumb to him willingly. to win your stubbornness. to reign over you, body, mind, and soul indefinitely.

sukuna groans that night as he tends to his garden in the back, finding your eyes in the piercing red of the spider lilies that litter the grass. why is it that you roam about his every waking thought? why is it that his foul, stubborn, disrespectful human prisoner is twisting his ambitions, stealing away his desire to kill, and greedily gathering all of his attention?

you hate him. you despise him. he's come across many humans under his capture, those who beg for their life like sniveling swine, those who offer to service him in exchange for his mercy, those who merely tremble in fear, unable to speak, unable to move.

and each and every one of those pitiful, disgusting creatures has met death at his hand one way or another, joy deriving from the sound their screams make when he hears their bones crack, watching the blood splatter, the red all consuming.

but it is not blood that comes to sukuna's mind when he thinks if you. it is your eyes, and the way they regard him unapologetically. it is the manner in which you hold your ground and remain firm in your beliefs, unlike many others who become a stranger to themselves when such ferocity stands before them. you merely wait, watch, brew, hate, and he does not quite understand yet where your grit comes from.

for this is how you survived that trip through the mountains, and how you continue to survive sukuna's captivity. you are strong. you are... odd. and you make sukuna's head ache and split like no other, for you should have no place within his mind in the first place.

sukuna tramples around his temple angrier and angrier each day, that you haven't given in, that you have not left his mind. is it witchcraft? sorcerery? some trick you have mastered under his nose?

he does not like it, how off kilter he feels, though he’d never let it show. how strangely you have made him feel ever since you first looked at him as he peered down at you in his throne room.

he finds himself venting to uraume one night about the nuisance you pose, how you have yet to change your mind about his offer, when the right hand's eyes slowly go wide, and they stop mid action entirely.

sukuna catches the look and glares. "what is that deplorable look for?"

"my lord, you offered to make her a concubine?" they repeat slowly.

"yes, what of it? she was a concubine before. this way, she would be useful should she not choose to starve first."

uraume's eyes slim, and their lips tug downward. "you prefer this over killing her?"

"i already told you, killing her is not an option. do not make me repeat myself."

uraume regards him silently, praying that what they think is ailing their lord is not reality. sukuna glares back, pretrubed. "what have you to say? spit it out."

uraume sighs. "you would like my honesty, yes?"

"always."

"...i fear you have taken a liking to our prisoner, my lord."

"a liking?! how preposterous! what on earth would make you fix your mouth to say such a thing."

uraume looks up at him boredly. "is it not you who often says no mortal who has crossed you can escape a death at your hands by any means?"

"…yes," he growls.

"well, hasn't she? escaped death?" sukuna pauses. "what means are there that serve as an exception outside of... any?"

the room falls silent as the two stare at one another. sukuna's brow twitches as he thinks back to the disrespect he's allowed you to throw at him. the disrespect he's come to enjoy. the picture of your eyes so sharply engrained in his mind that he can no longer close any four of his own without seeing yours.

you should be dead. but you are not. and that lightness, that strange pull toward you, suddenly becomes grotesque, as it starts to make an inkling of tormented sense.

the king of curses lurches up and flips his futon over, roaring loudly with anger as he trashes the room. uraume watches him with a sigh, proceeding to polish the vase that is left standing before their lord picks it up and smashes it against the wall beside their face.

uraume's lips fall into a flat line as they stand calmly. "i will retrieve the staff to rearrange your chambers when you are done."

they leave sukuna to his tantrum as he fights the reality that uraume may be right, as they often are.

he has forsaken his unintentionally ideals for the sake of you.