ex bf!gojo catches you crying over your students. he comforts you in his own stupid satoru way
tags: ex bf!gojo, crybaby!reader, reader is a teacher at jujutsu tech and cares a little too much, reader gets asked if they're on their period, mentions of minor character death, hurt and comfort i guess, fluff (sort of), there's a lot of stupid pet names (had to have a giggle)
i wrote this bc i was hormonal and started crying over a tiktok where they compared megumi's reaction to meeting toji vs toji's reaction to meeting megumi
read on ao3
it’s really hard not to cry in the teacher’s break room.
eyes watering, lip trembling, you’re fighting like a dollar store umbrella in a hurricane. you try, chest heaving and face hot, to muffle any and every sound that leaves your lips. especially since your coworkers have started filing in for their lunches. you huddle on the far edge of the lumpy gray couch with a little hand towel clenched into your fist to swipe away the tears as they ooze out of the corners of your eyes. you hope to god that your nosiest coworkers are away on missions or out sick.
“you cryin’ on the job?” the voice manifests right into your left ear.
you’re so startled, you jolt straight up into the air. the movement has the dam breaking and the water starts spilling down your cheeks, despite all your efforts. you level a baleful glare at the perpetrator and come nose to nose with the man who could easily be your most annoying ex. you hope your red-rimmed eyes and snotty nose don’t dilute the ire in your stare.
“oh you really are! fuck, you on your period or something?”
you hear shoko sigh from across the room (“you can’t just say it like that, loser”).
“i’m fine, gojo. please leave me alone.” he straightens up from where he’s standing behind the couch, and you make the mistake of believing that he’s actually listened to you for once. instead, he swings his ridiculously long legs over the back of the sofa and plops down onto the lumpy cushions like a lazy dog. he’s so close, he nearly lands in your lap. he ignores your eye roll in favor of manhandling your head onto his shoulder, his arm around your torso to hold you still.
“shh, shh, shh,” he sounds like he’s comforting a horse, condescending as a cartoon king. “tell papa why the tears, booboo. i’ll make it allll better.” what an ass.
you squirm against his chest, trying desperately to re-establish professional boundaries. you thump an ineffectual fist against the impenetrable expanse of his chest, “get off me, you giant freak!”
“nope!” why does he always sound so smug? “not until you tell me what’s wrong, pookie.”
you squirm again, just to make your point (you know from experience that escape is impossible without his say-so). “you’re embarrassing me!”
“speak your truth and it shall set you free, love muffin” you hear someone else in the room snicker at the nickname. gojo grabs your chin before you can whirl to face your cruel audience. “be good for me, yeah?”
“oh my god fine! just get out of my face please” you had always assumed that if you died on the job, it would be an overwhelmingly powerful curse or enemy sorcerer. you think there’s a chance that gojo-induced humiliation puts you six feet under first.
he finally loosens his grasp enough for you to wriggle back out of arm’s reach. you can tell he’s staring at you expectantly, even through the blackout material of his blindfold. feeling especially spiteful, you take your sweet time fluffing the creases out of your clothes and finger combing your hair to an acceptable shape.
his patience doesn’t last long. “well?”
you huff, embarrassed again. he scoots towards you, leaned forward conspiratorially.
“today is father’s day, i got the alert on my calendar app five minutes before the end of the class period.”
“annnd-uh?” you can’t even admonish him for the mocking tone because the corners of your eyes are starting to heat up again.
“and i was teaching the first years today,” the white shock of his hair is starting to look blobby. you force yourself to march on through the fog. “and none of them-”
nope.
the tears start to well up and gojo coos sympathetically. you pretend your voice doesn’t wobble at the end of the sentence, “none of them have anything to celebrate.”
the waterworks are full force now, and you hardy notice gojo’s uncharacteristic silence. “oh god, i couldn’t even look at megumi because he-we took that from him and i… he acts like he doesn’t care but i know that he knows that we know something he doesn’t but he’s such a good kid!” you pause your rant to swipe at the hot tear tracks on your face. you struggle to keep your breathing regular: “i want to spill my guts, tell him everything about toji. tell him he wasn’t abandoned, that his dad died thinking about him. but he’ll never ask us, because he’s so sweet, and to tell him if he doesn’t ask would be selfish. it would just be my survivors guilt talking so i can’t! but i have to wonder if he knows how much he was loved. how loved he is.”
there’s a silence that stretches out like a mountain range between the two of you. gojo places one long-fingered hand on your knee, and turns off his infinity so you can feel the warmth of it.
you’re not finished. “yuuji and nobara too. i’ve seen their files, nothing there for them either. they’re gonna check their phones during lunch and see. i just- fuck! i don’t want them to feel like they’re missing out on normal holidays, you know? i’d like for them to have as normal of a teenage experience as possible.”
the fluorescent ceiling lights glint harshly off of gojo’s glossy (aggressively conditioned) hair and remind you that you are, in fact, crying on the clock. you come back to center with a watery smile, “sorry for making things like, super depressing. i probably am hormonal or something…”
gojo, to his credit, doesn’t make any more crass comments about menstruation. he squeezes your knee one more time, gently, then presses a chaste kiss to your hairline. you mean to scold him about professionalism (“we’re at work! and besides, we’re not together anymore”), but his pensive expression gives you pause. you can only guess what half-cocked plan he’s cooking up as he meanders out of the break room, hands shoved in his pockets.
...
you have the second half of the school day off, so you use the time to straighten up your desk and complete some mission reports. very professional, very productive. on your way back, you pass by the first years’ classroom. gojo’s left the door half open, and you can hear him using his “silly voice”. likely to announce an overly ambitious, wildly risky assignment to the poor young scholars, you muse. as you approach, you see the task in question scrawled across the chalkboard: I AM YOUR JUJU PAPA, I DESERVE A HANDMADE CARD
you have to wrestle your chuckle down so you can eavesdrop on your students. nobara is protesting, hard: “if you’re a jujutsu dad, you’re a pretty terrible one. we could sue you for neglect! gross neglect, actually, ‘cause yuuji almost died last week!”
megumi’s not happy about it either, “more like an evil step-cousin or something. an extremely irresponsible one.”
nobara chimes in again, “whatever you are, you definitely don’t deserve a card.” you have to bite your lip hard to keep from bursting out laughing.
yuuji’s on a different wavelength entirely. you can already see him rooting in his school bag for the highlighter set you had given him when he first arrived at jujutsu tech. his scissors and torn out notebook pages are already laid out on his desk.
gojo is unfazed by the two-man revolt taking place. “fine, but i’m making the card 80% of your grade this term.”
the pair erupt into cries of “you can’t do that!” and “this isn’t even a real school! i wanna see your teaching credential!”
he stands firm. “you’re right, this isn’t a legitimate school. which means i can make it 90%”
the two kids crumble. megumi muttering profanities under his breath, and nobara repeating the same sentiments with her entire chest.
gojo then turns to you. you jump at being seen; when had you drifted into the doorway?
he smiles softly, the way he only did for you (when you used to be together, you remind yourself). despite yourself, your chest warms at the sight of it.
thank you, you mouth silently.
he lifts one side of his blindfold up, just to flash you a conspiratorial blue-eyed wink.
no more tears, he mouths back at you.
i am wishing y'all a very late happy valentines day!! i probably could have posted this on time except i was on an impromptu vacation and had hiring stuff to do after. ANYWAY, i really like the concept of ex bf!gojo. in my mind, it's very much a right person wrong lifetime sort of thing. like, there's still so much love and warmth but they've let each other go bc life in the jujutsu kaisen world is soooo sad
tags: batfam, jason and reader, post resurrection jason, suicidal reader, exploration of grief
plenty of people's lives go to shit when a loved one passes. grief makes you do crazy things, like destroy all your relationships, go off the grid, and generally blow your future to smithereens. it kind of sucks when you did all that just for the asshole to not even be dead.
read on ao3
“don’t do it.” the voice is deep, a metallic reverberation from the helmet he won’t take off.
the water rushes beneath the bridge, black and roiling and waiting for you. it’ll probably be cold, maybe numb the pain of impact when you sink into its murky wash.
the wind whips against your face, yanking at your greasy hoodie like its trying to save you too.
“please,” the night air steals the heat from your words as soon as they leave your throat. you watch the puffs of condensation. proof of life. “don’t talk to me like that.”
there’s a mechanical whir from somewhere behind you as he removes his mask. without the distortion, his voice seems… more tender. “your life isn’t over. i… there are people who can help.”
“i don’t want it. i didn’t take bruce’s pity when i was fifteen and starving, do you really think i’ll take it now?”
his voice takes a sharp edge, “so what am i supposed to do? let you take a friggin’ swan dive in front of me? you want me to stand here and watch?”
you don’t think you’ve ever sounded so dispassionate in your entire life. “yeah, i guess.”
“stop it! what the hell is wrong with you?” his frustration is mounting, but it doesn’t sway you in the slightest.
you can’t wrap your head around it. can he or can’t he remember who you were to each other? “you of all people shouldn’t be the one to try and talk me off the ledge.”
he yanks you off the landing, like a sack of potatoes, right back over railing. you finally get a good look at his face. different as it is, you can tell he’s pissed. “you think i don’t know that! you know how royally fucked this is for me? look at my fucking face. i can't go back to how it was before, any of it. neither you or me or any magic motherfucker can undo this shit!”
you shove him off of you, screaming right back at him. “don’t you fucking talk to me with that tone jason todd! i taught you how to scare a motherfucker, that shit don’t work on me!”
he stares at you, half stunned and half intimidated. he’s been beaten black and blue, cussed out and shot at. this is the first time in a long time he’s been scolded.
you stare right back, just as confused. blood rushes in your ears. hot tears race down your cheeks, a wild torrent you can't even pretend to control. jason transforms into a vaguely concerned looking red blob.
“i- i’m sorry. i don't…” your face crumples, features mashing themselves together. you find yourself half laughing and half sobbing. “i never thought,” you say, grabbing your chest. “i never thought i'd get to yell at you like that again. i…”
he reaches for you. “come with me then. stick around and you can yell at me as much as you want.” he was always so bad at bargaining. or is, you suppose. it's so hard, to think of him in present tense again. so much of who you are now is past tense, a history that was rewritten without your permission.
“it's not that simple, kiddo. it never is.”
“right. nothing is ever simple with you.”
“how could it be? you died. fucked me up so bad i fucked just about everything else. and now you're back! you're right fucking here and i-” you lose control for a moment. “i'm still grieving you.”
it's still easier to talk to him than anyone else. even though you know, logically, he’s a stranger to you now. but there's something in the deepest part of your soul that's humming in his presence. you wish you could write it off as nostalgia.
“i couldn't stop if i tried.”
jason listens, because he always has. because you did the same for him, a long time ago.
tags: angst, batfam, robin is seriously injured, reader has issues (understandably), reader has an ambiguous relationship jason todd
The boots crumple against your fire escape just as your phone lights up, rattling “alfred” at you.
“Please pardon the intrusion,” a familiar British accent comes through the tinny phone speaker.
“You know I’m not a medic, Mr. P.” You unlock the window latch anyway.
“Our young friend is in rather dire straits and your lovely abode was the nearest safe haven.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” You tuck the phone into the crease of your neck. You need both hands to tote broken, barely conscious Robin onto your thrifted couch. You check to see how much of the blood is coming from the poor kid. “I’ll try my best to get him stabilized, but you better tell Bats to pick him up sooner rather than later.
“You are always more than welcome to inform Master Bruce yourself,” the butler replies.
“Not interested. Just send him.” You hang up. No need to share your address, they’ve probably tracked your last few address changes with your credit card or something.
Robin’s in piss poor shape. You don’t even remember this one’s name. “Jesus, kid. Who the hell did this to you?”
He grunts something that sounds suspiciously like, “Family secret” before passing out. You grab your overstocked first aid kit and get to work staunching the blood flow. You’ve starting using the last of your paper towel supply as a gauze substitution by the time he’s stable. The stitches holding him together are uglier than sin, but he’ll live. Probably. Probably.
As you sit by him, two fingers making sure he still has a pulse, you’re tempted to take a peek. To see who’s the new Robin. How old is he? How long has he been doing this? Is he well taken care of?
But you don’t look. Because you’ve had more than enough of mysteries and masked men. You know better now. You check your watch to see if the young man’s pulse has slowed and do your best to ignore the déjà vu.
The Batman arrives. The color of his suit hides blood well, but you can spot the characteristic shine on his gloves as he reaches for his sidekick. You shift out of the way, but as the teen(?) is pulled away, your hand tightens. Without your permission. You stare at your grip on Robin’s wrist and wonder what the hell is wrong with you. A lanky arm dangles between you and the Dark Knight. Seriously, what is your problem? Batman says your name, sternly.
The smart thing to do would be to let him go. Both of them.
The Batmobile, unsurprisingly, has a very cramped backseat. You shift yourself in the seat to steady Robin as the vehicle races around corners, clipping curbs and ducking through tunnels. `Like a bat out of hell,' the unfunny joke bubbles to the surface of your mind. You arrive in the Batcave before you realize, nearly smacking your head on the driver's seat headrest as the your transport squeals to a stop.
Batman and Alfred are pulling Robin out of your arms and you follow behind on sheer instinct. Three pairs of hands in a coordinated flurry, attaching him to machines that buzz and hiss and blink. You rattle off all the relevant medical information you can remember, listing possible injuries and the extent of your sloppy first aid. Soon enough, you run out of words and are left watching as the Bat and his butler don nitrile gloves and get to work with shiny instruments you don’t even know the names of.
Despite your inexperience, the distance between you and these… people, you can’t bring yourself to leave Robin’s side. So you sit. Pulling up an overturned wood crate while a rising tide of helplessness chokes the air from your lungs. When he’s stable and it’s just the two of you left in the cave, you watch his chest rise and fall. The now steady rhythm of the heart monitor soothes you, somewhat. The fluorescent light buzzes above your heads, and you wonder if you’ll ever achieve that level of competency. At anything. If you even survive long enough. The wet rock smell of the cave seems to swallow you in its unnatural silence.
Beep. Beep.
You don’t realize you’d fallen asleep with your head resting against the wall until you wake up with a cough. Rubbing a crust from your eyes, you turn to where you hear voices. Batman’s changed back into civilian clothes. He and Alfred are heatedly discussing something on the table. They’re opening, closing, shuffling through manila files and tabs on the monitor. They seem entirely absorbed in muttering to each other about the case. Never a moment’s rest.
You’re going to need to interrupt. It makes you feel like an awkward teen again, having to ask for a ride home. But as you approach the table, they pull up a flurry of photographs and body camera footage that stop you dead in your tracks. Photos of a man with green eyes and a ghostly white streak in his hair. 3D recreations approximating his height and build. An old portrait digitally re-aged. Side by side comparison images measuring the distance between pupils, the length of the philtrum. A staticky comms recording filtered against six other samples. The digital jigsaw reveals something impossible.
Jason Todd is alive.
You don’t even feel your knees cracking against the concrete floor. Kneeling in the Batcave, hands grasping at your chest, you realize.
This is what you prayed for. For years. You’ve dreamed of this moment. A hundred different scenarios, a thousand different universes where he hadn't died and taken everything good about yourself along with him. Imagined a life for him, for yourself.
Nothing feels real anymore. The dark corners stretch and swirl together, dreamlike. Actually, no. More like a fear toxin nightmare. You can’t stop crying. The sobs are tight in your throat, they hold your chest in a crushing grip. Everything burns. The tears keep coming, clouding your vision no matter how many times you scrape at them with the heel of your hand. Pathetically, you keep trying.
Alfred is looking at you sympathetically, which only fuels the rage. The dirty concrete below you saps the heat from your body. Batman comes closer, holding out a hand to you without a word. Fuck his help and fuck their pity. You get up on your own, still shaky. Still crying. You draw yourself up as tall and dignified as you can.
Your voice is watery and thick, but unwavering. “How long. How long have you known?”
Just like you, he’s withholding. Even without the mask. The set of his mouth is stern, just like it always was. You don’t let him stare you down anymore.
“Red Hood resurfaced 8 months ago. We were able to discover his identity 6 weeks following.”
Months.
Your body moves on its own. “MONTHS, BRUCE!”
He dodges your wild swing easily.
“You knew he was alive for- How could you not tell me this?” The two fistfuls of his shirt you're gripping bring him close. He looks uncomfortable. Good. “What the hell is wrong with you.”
“We needed to contain the information. It was necessary to prevent the investigation from being compromised.” His tone is so fucking patronizing.
You compose yourself, to make sure your words hit home. “God damn you,” he’s heard you say it before, but it feels right to say it again. “You never cared about him. Or me. Fuck you for pretending you ever did.”
“He’s not the man you knew.”
“I will never forgive you, Bruce. I wish we had never met you.”
You brush Alfred off.
Fuck it. You’ll walk.
man. i wrote the first draft of this in my head when i was like,,, fifteen. this is the current version but best believe i'll be turning this scenario over and over in my head for the rest of my life
tags: batfam, tim drake as robin, reader has issues (understandably), reader has an ambiguous relationship jason todd, his resurrection is recent
The streetlights are broken. The thin sliver of moon leaves its reflection in greasy strips on the road. Not that you needed to see.
You’ve walked this way a thousand and one times. Kicking the filthy refuse out of your way is second nature. Clinging to the dark corners to avoid unwanted attention is instinctual. You could find your way to Gotham Cemetery asleep or half mad with fear gas.
The grass is clammy with mist, the headstone frigid at your back as you sit. The few people you’ve seen in the cemetery always sit in front of the headstones. They like to talk to them. As if they’re sitting across from a person and not a hunk of rock. It’s been a long ass time since you felt the need to face his headstone. You know what it says, an epitaph written in polished granite and shining brass. The best the Wayne fortune could buy.
“Here lies Jason Peter Todd.”
The first time you’d seen it, it had pissed you off. He loved the Bats, all of them. Better than family. And all the world had to remember him by was his legal name in shiny letters. Then Dick told you about his epitaph in the Batcave and you had something worse to hate.
Over time, you were thankful. After all, there were no cliches. No more empty titles for him to live up to. Or die trying. In the dirt, he could finally just be himself. That's all he ever really needed to be anyway.
The wind whistles through the overgrown bracken at the edge of the property. You watch the chalky black clouds list through the sky like coal dust. It’s a relief, to be tucked away from the droning chaos of the city. You breathe in the smell of wet dirt and mossy stone. Your jeans stick to your thighs, clammy from where you sit.
“I knew I’d find you here.” It worries you, how young this new Robin sounds.
“You proud of yourself?”
“Yeah, well Batman and Nightwing are probably still spinning their wheels looking for you. They think you’re gonna get your head blown off looking for Red Hood.”
“And you don’t?” Smug silence. “What else do you know?”
He starts rattling off what you’re sure is Bruce’s file on you: “You were Jason Todd’s best friend. You were offered a home at Wayne Manor, which you declined. After Jason’s death, you were arrested for attempting to kill the Joker in a murder-suicide.”
Ah yes. Your biggest fuckup to date. The only thing you’ve ever done in your pathetic life that would warrant national media coverage.
Robin rambles on, “You lived in Smallville for a while. Superman stepped up to monitor you. It seemed like you were doing better. Then, you were fired from your job for a physical altercation with your boss. You moved back to Gotham and-”
“Okay, enough!” You lob a clod of dirt at his face and he nearly jumps out of his skin. You probably shouldn’t have done that. He’s not really the one you’re mad at. But you can’t stop the words as they tumble out of your mouth, “You know, I didn’t want to end up working under the table at a fucking breakfast diner! I didn’t plan on begging for tips while smelling like rancid fuckin’ fryer!”
“I… I wanted to teach. Science. Maybe geology or something. I was gonna start a foundation to help kids like me. Get them away from their abusive moms and alcoholic dads. Jason… He said he’d give me Bruce’s money to do it. I was supposed to help people and clearly I failed. Be honest, Robin. If you were me, could you face him? He believed in me. And I’ve sabotaged every goddamn second chance that’s come my way.”
Robin slumps to the grass beside you. You suddenly remember this is your second conversation with him. Ever. He takes a while to string the words together.
“He’s not the Jason you remember. Like at all. I wouldn’t be too concerned about disappointing him.”
“Well I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to fucking find out what he thinks… You should add ‘coward’ to the Bat file you have on me.”
He snorts, “I’m pretty sure ‘civilian attempting to empty a clip into the Joker’ gets you solidly out of that category.”
The elicits a grim chuckle from you, “I’d feel a hell of a lot better if I’d actually succeeded.”
there's nothing haitani ran loves to see more than you coming home to him, except...
tags: haitani ran x reader, fluff plain and simple, a very sweet relationship, written with bonten in mind but it's not relevant to the plot
read on ao3
“emergency at work, black cards on the coffee table go nuts”
The text glows up at you from your phone screen. Sent 2 hrs ago, the little bubble reads. You pick at the gross little crusties in your eyes as you scan through your notifications, checking for any important emails or missed calls. When nothing else jumps out at you, you toss your phone back onto Ran’s (comically huge) bed and amble your way to the bathroom.
You take your time getting ready, styling your hair with a little extra TLC. Even if Ran isn’t around, there isn’t any reason for your little weekend outing to be canceled. You’ve been looking forward to it for a while. Your whole day is cleared: no work, no chores, no responsibilities. It’s a beautiful day too, breezy and cloudless. Perfect for a lovely breakfast in the park, followed by a little shopping spree.
You’re bummed that you won’t have Ran to accompany you (or carry your bags), but that doesn’t stop you from slinging your biggest tote bag over your shoulder and lacing up your comfy walking shoes. He’d probably complain about the sun anyway. You giggle, imagining his whiny drawl. Half the reason you’d planned the day was to get him some much needed vitamin D. You snort to yourself thinking about the dirty innuendos he could wiggle his eyebrows at.
---
You’re tired (in the best way) and a little sunburnt when you get home. You spot two long legs in their silk lounge pants awkwardly sprawled over the edge of the couch when you set your bags in the entryway. As quietly as you can, you peel off your shoes and creep over in your socked feet. A peek over the back reveals an entirely passed out boyfriend, snoring softly. He must have gotten home recently, his hair is still wet and pleasant smelling from the shower. He’s so cute, you could melt into a little puddle. You stand over him for a little, admiring the late afternoon light as it sets him aglow.
Eventually though, desire for his company outweighs your quiet contemplation. You snake an arm over to poke at his cheek, giggling at the sight of smooth skin squishing underneath you fingertip. One catlike eye cracks open to glare at you for interrupting his sweet dreams.
“Hi baby!” You grin, the pad of your index shifting to give him a playful tap on the nose. The fine skin scrunches in response and your sleeping giant grumbles deep in his chest. “What was that?” you tease, leaning a little closer to grin at him. Ran doesn’t bother repeating himself. In a sudden burst of speed, he’s got you under the armpits and heaving you over the back of the couch. You land square on top of him, and he wastes no time securing your position by winding his arms tight around your torso.
Your voice doesn’t conceal your delight when you ask, “How was your nap? You comfy?” He grumbles at you again, burying his face in your hair. You squirm against him a little, just to test his grip, and he constricts around you. “Hey, where’s my ‘welcome home’ kiss?”
He sighs exaggeratedly, realizing you’re not planning on letting him drift back to sleep. He gives you a half-hearted peck on the cheek, grinning when you whine, “Boo! Not good enough!” Taking the challenge to heart, he starts dotting kisses all over your face. Featherlight at first, then with increasing force until you’re giggling with the force of every wet smack and desperately trying to wiggle out of his hold. “Ew Ran, gross! I’m all slobbery, no more! Nooo!”
You have to hold him away with both hands, one planted on his chest and the other square on his face. He’s still puckering his lips trying to get at you, but you fight him off with an exaggerated groan. You’re both cackling like maniacs at this point, and Ran sits up with you in his arms. It’s his version of a white flag when he kisses your palm before taking both hands in his.
“I can’t believe this. I spend one day away from you n’ suddenly you can’t bear to kiss me anymore? Sanzu was right, bitches ain’t shit.” His voice is still a little raspy from sleep, and you may or may not feel a little flutter in the tummy about it. His easy, broad smile isn’t helping this either.
You gasp performatively, “Wowww… One day away from me and you turn into an alpha-pilled incel freak? So sad… what a bad example for Rindou to grow up with, such a shame…” It’s damn near impossible to keep your cheesy smile off your face, even as he leans in to (finally!) give you a proper welcome kiss. It’s gentle and sweet, and his cheek feels so beautifully warm underneath your palm.
You can’t help feeling disappointed when he pulls away from you. “So, how was your morning? You have fun shopping?”
You give him a quick recap of everything he missed: the new coffeeshop that sold an incredible coffee-cream croissant and your lavender latte, feeding ducks at the park and discovering a local art market, a fruitful visit to your favorite used bookstore, and picking up some “fancy” meats and cheeses for your upcoming charcuterie night with friends. He listens intently as you yammer on, one giant hand rubbing fond circles into the base of your spine. When you’ve finished your grand tale, he’s still watching you raptly.
“So, Mister Haitani, what were you up to when you were abandoning our fabulous weekend outing?”
He hums for a second, tilting his head to ponder. “Hmm. Not much. Work stuff with Hanma.”
“Hanma stuff? Must be something wild.”
“Nah. I’d rather watch you spend all my money.”
You choose not to push the work discussion any further. “How dare you, I do not spend all your money.”
He squeezes your hips playfully. “I wish you would. Come on, let’s see your haul.”
He prompts you to clamber out of your place in his lap with a gentle pat on the butt and you oblige, happy to show off your catch for the day. It starts with an extra pastry from the coffeeshop, a pan au chocolat that (despite the fancy ribboned to-go box) looks a little worse for wear from traveling with you all day. You show off a pack of fish print postcards, which were apparently made using real fish to create a print. You spend a couple minutes talking about the process, even though your postcards were made with a scan of the original print.
“She was also selling pearl necklaces with little sardines hand painted onto them, they were so unbelievably cute. I really wanted one.”
“Why didn’t you just buy it?”
“Dude, they were real saltwater pearls on a 14 gold chain.” He narrows his eyes a little at your explanation, but allows you to continue without comment. You move onto your next item, which is wrapped in nondescript brown paper.
“This one is for you. It literally freaks me out so bad when you just dump your expensive ass jewelry on the nightstand or bathroom counter willy-nilly.” He tugs open the little package to find an odd shaped little dish, about the size of his hand. “It’s a ring dish. It’s supposed to be like a tiger. I remember you said once that you wanted an animal skin rug like a ‘70s American porno. Close enough, right?”
He kisses you with a chuckle, “Not close enough. Way better. What else you got?”
“Um, I bought a couple books from the little place on the way to the cheese shop. Nothing crazy, just a new cookbook and some classics I want to give out as gifts. Oh, and a fresh copy of my favorite play because my copy is just… raggedy and gross at this point.”
“Lots of books.”
“Yeah well, I got lost in the sauce today okay? It’s my special weekend outing. I’m allowed to treat myself.”
“Sorry, sorry. I, uh, wasn’t judging.” He puts his hands up in a playful surrender. “I’m guessing the last course is cheese?”
Your face splits wide open in a grin. “Hell yeah I bought cheese!” You kneel beside the coffee table to show him each cheese one by one. “I got a wheel of brie, so we can make baked brie, obviously. By the way, did you know the mold that specifically makes French brie is going extinct?” You receive a shrug in response. “Then, I bought a cheddar. Just because I wanted a sharper cheese but not a hard one, you know how it is. This one is probably the most expensive cheddar I’ve ever seen, it’s from like England or Ireland or something, but it’s really fucking good. I also grabbed this one for you, it’s like an herby goat cheese that's somehow soaked in red wine. I think it’d go really well with those seed crackers I made last week, but I get the feeling you’re just gonna eat it in chunks. Don’t do it in front of me though, I’ll throw up and then die. Okay and then I spent so much time in the shop that the girl working the counter gave me a free sampler stack.”
“What the hell is a sampler stack?”
“Good question. Apparently, it’s just a stack of several small pieces of cheese so you can try a bunch without buying a wedge of each. I think it’s a neat idea, kind of how the nicer grocery stores do those little fist size hunks of popular cheeses.”
He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah, I used to steal those to impress girls that came over. Caught Rin eating one of them like an apple in the middle of the night once.”
“Oh, so eating cheese by the mouthful runs in the family?”
Ran ugly-snorts. “He gets the munchies real bad. It was a bad idea though, he’s really fucking lactose intolerant.” Ran pulls you back into his lap, your back to his chest. “So, how much did your little shopping day cost me?” He plops his head onto your shoulder so you can see his teasing smirk.
You furrow your eyebrows, looking at him. “Nothing…?”
That has his metaphorical ears pricking. “Fuck you mean nothing?” He spins you around so your thighs are on either side of his slim waist, leaning in to examine you with narrowed eyes.
“I used my own money, obviously.” The two of you stare at each other with matching scowls. The silence hangs heavy between you two, though you’re not sure why he’s so indignant.
“Babe,” he’s uncharacteristically stern. “Did I or did I not leave you my card to go shopping?”
You answer honestly. “I thought you left it for me in case of emergency.”
“I told you to use the card.”
“No… you told me to ‘go crazy’ which I thought was your way of saying ‘have fun’. Are you… mad at me for something?”
There’s another charged silence. You search his face for the answers he seemingly won’t give you.
Then, he’s flopping against the back of the couch, covering his face with his hands. You watch him carefully, prepared for his dramatics. Then, he giggles. The giggle turns into a chuckle, which turns into a full blown laugh that jostles you in his lap.
“What? What?” You start laughing too, caught up in his apparent high spirits.
He throws his arms around you and pulls you in tight, “I just can’t believe you!”
“What did I do wrong?!” You have to raise your voice to be heard over his delight.
He kisses you with a wet smack, and you’re so enchanted that you don’t even complain about the spit he leaves behind. “You’re embarrassing me! Go get my phone! It’s over there, go!”
You allow yourself to be shooed away, still laughing and even more confused. You retrieve the phone from the dining table and clamber back into his lap. “You are so weird! What are you doing now?”
He ignores you, tapping first through your phone before dropping it carelessly into your lap. Then he snatches his device out of your hands to swipe through it quickly. You stare at him helplessly as he tosses it to the side. He sighs, apparently feeling much better. Your phone buzzes in your lap with a notification from your bank app: Received- from Haitani Ran.
You poke him in the chest. “What the hell?”
He looks at you, suddenly serious again. “When I give you my card, I don’t want you to spend a dime of your own money. Understand?”
You start to speak, but he turns your argument into babble by shoving his index finger against your lips. “Nod if you understand.”
You reluctantly nod, feeling very childish. When he removes the offending digit, you ask a different question: “Why?”
“Because,” he explains like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “If you don’t let me blow all my money on you, what am I here for? I’d be humiliated if people knew I was skimping out on you.” He jostles you to make sure you’re still paying attention. “And another thing: next time you go out to treat yourself, do me a favor and actually spend some real money. I mean, I know you love that used bookstore but please for the love of god, think of my dignity. Go buy yourself a Birkin to hold your art market treats. I mean imagine if people knew you couldn’t even buy yourself a 14 karat necklace, I’d be ruined.”
You roll your eyes at the sheer foolishness of this conversation, but he doesn’t let you off the hook. “I’m serious. Promise me, next time you go out shopping, go and do some real damage. No more fish postcards and cheese samples. I wanna see Versace, Cartier, Prada.” You start giggling at him, but he’s dead set on getting his way. He starts tickling you at the ribs, waist, anywhere that elicits a reaction until you finally stick out your pinky to make a breathless promise.
He seals the deal, then sets you back on your feet. “Great. Now go get changed for dinner, we’re going out.”
“Where are we going?”
“The most expensive place I can find on Google, sweetie. We have to redeem ourselves. Now shoo!”
tags: haitani ran x reader, domestic fluff with a side of waxing poetic, bonten au sort of
read on ao3
“oh! i see what you two are doing here, you’re trying to piss me off. in the penthouse i own, where you both live and eat for free. real nice.”
ran’s easy drawl is enough to have rindou sucking his teeth and settling into his signature scowl. you’re not so easily cowed into submission. instead, your grin grows even wider. it’s cheeky from ear to ear.
“i’m not being facetious”, you start to defend your stance yet again.
“i don’t know what that word means, but i didn't say you were.” the breezy reply comes from the kitchen where ran is flipping your chocolate chip pancakes. “i said, your argument is a ploy to piss me off. clearly, i need to indulge more of your hobbies if you’re starting dumbass movie debates over breakfast again.”
“does this count as breakfast if it’s already noon?”
“changing the subject i see.”
“fine! back to the matter at hand: i feel and truly believe that the madagascar films are equal in caliber to the shrek franchise in terms of quality and humor. i am not joking when i say so and i did not initiate this discussion because of a lack of quality hobbies. i knit.”
“wrong and wrong again,sweetheart. shrek is unmatched, whether or not you consider the accompanying puss in boots movies. and you crochet, not knit. don’t disrespect the fiber arts by getting them twisted.”
at this point, you’re hanging off his every word, absolutely delighted that he’s decided to indulge you in a meaningless battle of wits. rindou’s still pouting beside you on the couch, clearly still invested but unwilling to cross his big brother on a heated subject.
“honestly how dare you. i don’t know where you find the audacity to shit on madagascar. there’s only one way this argument can end.”
ran sets your breakfasts on the coffee table, chocolate chip for you and blueberry for his brother. “with you gracefully accepting defeat and eating a breakfast of champions?”
“hand to hand combat to the death, actually. orange juice?”
he ruffles your hair with one giant hand, “i’m grabbing it right now, you tyrant. besides, if it comes to blows, don’t you think i might have a bit of a size advantage?”
“maybe. but i don’t have popcorn lung from smoking all those damn cotton candy vapes, so… i have that going for me.”
ran is just about to fire off another witty remark when he catches rindou covertly whisper something into your ear. your eyes spark. you pile on, “and unlike some people, i’m not pretending when i say i have twenty-twenty vision.”
he matches you with his own easy smirk, “hey, i’m not fighting no more two-to-one battles anymore. rinnie, scram.”
“rinnie” grumbles, hems, and haws until ran flicks a crumpled napkin at his head.
“ok, fuck, i’m goin’. fuckin’ chill, simp.” he takes his plate to go eat at the kitchen counter, leaving ran to handily pull you into his lap for syrupy sticky kiss. he’s trying not to grin into your mouth (because “ew, teeth, ran!”), but he’s really enjoying the sweet taste of your lips and the weight of you resting on his thighs.
you pull away first, “sounds like you’re scared to square up, big guy.”
his voice is warm and soft when he nuzzles your ear. “oh yes, i’m absolutely petrified.”
“oh yeah?” you dig, looping both arms around his neck. the downy hair on the back of his neck is irresistible to your teasing, tugging fingers.
“i don’t stand a chance, not in philosophical debate and certainly not in a fight to the death.” the hand holding onto the back of your knees squeezes affectionately, warming you toes to crown.
you sigh happily, snuggling your face into the curve of his throat. his slow, steady pulse beats a comforting rhythm into your cheek. “i’m so glad you’re aware of your limitations. i would hate to have to go full WWE on you. such a shame to ruin that pretty face.”
you feel his deep chuckle more than you hear it, tickling your cheek with the vibrations. the rest of the afternoon drips by, golden and syrupy. ran finishes your breakfast as the two of you put anime reruns on the tv, inattention punctuated by lazy make-out sessions.
for all your talk of beatings and sweet victory, you’re keenly aware that it’s just talk. you have a vague understanding of what it is your lover does for “work”. however fuzzy he tries to keep the details, there’s no denying that the man who dusted your breakfast with powdered sugar and strawberries cut into hearts has blood on his hands. you know there’s a reason he has to burn his clothes after “working late”, why so many of his “associates” struggle to look him in the eye. ran scares the shit out of grown men, not just rindou. what he does– who he is– is deadly.
not to you, though. never you. you’re more likely to sprout a second head than you would see any of his “coworkers” on your doorstep. he’s told you as much, whispered promises at night when he’s too wired to do anything but rub his face into your stomach and insist you stroke his hair. you’ve seen it for yourself, when he snatched a handgun out of the potted plant by your front door when a man with tan skin and otherworldly eyes came calling. you’ll never forget the poison in his eyes, his voice. ran was murderous in that moment. and yet, as you stared at the locked front door and listened for the sound of his furious murmurs, you couldn’t dredge up an ounce of fear.
not for lack of trying. you sat still waiting for any flutter in your stomach or weight in your throat all night, even as he tucked you in and curled his long limbs around you. at the start, when you’d first put a hazy picture together of ran’s “work life”, the doubts had followed. logically, you knew, there was no way you could get as close as you were without some element of risk. ran’s caution, his guile and reach, were finite. there could (would) come a day where he could slip, miss a singular piece of minutiae that would send your sweet breakfasts and lazy afternoons shattering into a million pieces. logically.
still, you trust him. more than anything, you trust him. not his weapons or his wealth. him. the man who makes you breakfast on your day off, even though he would never wake up before 2 P.M. otherwise. endlessly indulgent, effortlessly charming. he’s home to you. despite the danger, you’re certain. he’s home. he’s safe.
to be honest, i was really struggling with the last few paragraphs of this (which is why it sat untouched for so long)
but the first half is really fun and light, so i just muscled through tonight so i could finally get it posted. it's not my best work, imo, but i'm just happy to have something to post
it doesn't take six eyes for gojo to see you for the lovergirl you are
tags: fem!reader, reader referred to as "pretty girl" and "lovergirl" several times, mild spoilers for gojo's past arc, pining (sort of), gojo angst that has nothing to do with chapter 236
read on ao3
“i think i’m in love with gojo is all”
shoko leans back, and her slow exhale whistles as it leaves her nose. “damn, that wasn’t the answer i had in mind. i thought you had the flu again.” she looks sideways at you, “what do you see in that giant freak anyway?”
“what don’t i see? he’s obviously like, really good looking, right?” she rolls her eyes at you. “but also, he’s funny! like actually so funny, and i don’t think he has to try at all. he just is! and he’s smart? like really freaking smart if you think about it, even if he tries to act like a goof. and even though he’s kind of a spoiled brat, he’s just genuine enough where i think it’s more charming than irritating. and he has a really cute smile, and a nice laugh too.”
she smirks, but her eyes are warm when she asks,. “anything else, lovergirl?”
“i don’t know, probably. i’m all warm inside just thinking about him, i really think i’m in love.”
“i didn’t know you had a thing for strong guys, miss hearteyes,” she teases. your face heats up, and you shake your head to try and clear the air.
“it’s not that he’s strong or anything! i swear! i just like him, the way he is and stuff. who cares about fighting power or being the strongest anyway! he’s cheerful. he makes me smile!”
she’s grinning at you again, and you realize she’s riling you up on purpose. “you’re so unromantic, shoko! i bet you’re gonna be single until you’re thirty with that attitude!”
…
geto finds out, because he knows how to read people and he isn’t an idiot. you all see each other in class every single day, he explains, it’s natural that he caught on to you mooning over his best friend. the way he says it, you’re not sure if he’s teasing you or trying to make you feel better. you decide it’s the second option because you want to see the best in him. also because it soothes the embarrassing ache whenever he decides to suddenly leave you and your white-haired love in rooms together.
he asks you, on a warm spring day, when you’re going to pluck up the courage to confess. you glance up from your notebook doodling to peer at him curiously, but you can’t read his expression with his bangs in the way. you answer honestly, because he’s your friend and he hasn’t given you away thus far.
“i don’t think i will, sugu.”
“hmm? seriously?” shoko drawls from her place beside you, sat on the lawn of the practice field.
“i thought you really liked him though,” suguru murmurs gently.
“i do! i really do. but i don’t know if i want him to know. you know?”
shoko flops onto the grass, sprawled like a sleepy star. “that’s fair, he’s pretty awful when he rejects those other girls.”
you roll your eye at her. “it’s not about rejection, shoko. it just like, i love him. and i love loving him. it’s warm and it’s nice and i’m happy with things the way they are. i feel good about the way things are, i don’t want them to change. i just want to keep loving him, and i want to enjoy the way it feels to be in love. i want to hold onto it, being in love, because… i don’t know? it’s all mine and it’s special the way it is.”
“i see why she calls you ‘lovergirl’,” suguru grins. you smile back at him. he shakes his head, “i changed my mind. don’t confess. you’re too good for him.”
that makes you both laugh. it attracts a white-haired boy’s gaze, and he pouts at not being at the center of attention while testing out his cursed technique. suguru jogs over to him to soothe his ire before he makes another mess.
shoko tugs your sleeve, and when you lie down next to her she whispers conspiratorially in your ear. “that mushy stuff is nice and all, but it’s not the only reason is it?”
you can’t lie to her. “no…”
she scooches closer, to keep the secret locked up tight. “it’s about suguru too, right?”
you can’t help but feel suddenly shy. “they’re just like, two sides of a coin you know? the pair of them, they’re the strongest. it’ll always be gojo and geto, satoru and suguru.”
she squeezes your arm and her hands are warm. she doesn’t need to say anything. you stare up at the clouds overhead, breathe in the grassy smell of spring.“i love him. that’s all i need. i don’t need him to love me back, i just like being in love.” you realize how pathetic you sound, and it makes your brows knit together. you force your tone to be lighter, perkier. “besides, it’s just a first year crush. it isn’t that deep!”
…
your dear friend geto suguru is a criminal and fugitive. he’s killed people, innocent people. he’s not the hero you thought he was.
you receive the news and you stay home to cry. you don’t chase after him. you curl yourself up in your softest, fluffiest blanket (it was a christmas gift from him) and you let the waterworks flow. you curse yourself, because maybe you had tried too hard to see the good in him and missed the warning signs. you cry because he was your friend and he went through something horrible and you should have been there for him.you weep and grieve hardest of all for your white-haired love, because he hadn’t heard until it was too late. and he’d dropped everything as soon as he found out to look for his best friend. to confront him, to bring him back. and what makes you actually heave– face burning, voice thick, uncontrollable sobbing that makes your brain throb in your skull– is that the higher ups wanted your lovely blue-eyed boy to hunt down the only person who could ever truly understand him and execute him. put him down like a disobedient dog.
you bawl, alone in your room, until your head spins. it feels like you cry for an entire week straight before you run out of tears. the days blend together when you skip meals and keep the blinds shut tight. shoko drags you out of your room, you’re not sure when. you need a hot meal and a shower, she tells you. when your hair is washed and you’ve had a miso soup, she sends you outside to take a walk. vitamin d is essential, she warns. you don’t understand a word of her lecture on vitamin deficiencies, but you obey. you’re too tired to fight back, to resist the way she loves.
you find yourself sat in front of the school library building, staring out into nothing. you used to love the library, hiding in the stacks until suguru inevitably found you in the romance novel section. he’d call you “lovergirl” and ask you why you were hiding from your crush and your face would get all hot and he’d laugh at you and–
he’s gone. satoru couldn’t do it. no, he wouldn’t. gojo could do anything he wanted, but satoru wouldn’t stop suguru.
how?
how are you supposed to carry on and say things like “life goes on” and keep living? you would give anything, everything, to curl up in your favorite spot by the window. but nobody would know to look for you there, so what’s the point?
he finds you there, on the steps of the building. satoru. your satoru, but only in your head. still, his presence comforts you in the way that only he can. it doesn’t matter that he seems to be equally lost in his thoughts. you feel the buzz of his infinity raising goosebumps on your arm, and it warms you.
he says your name, and a spark zips from between your shoulder blades into the deep part of your belly. “i need to tell you something.” you’ve never heard him address you so seriously.
“whatever you want, satoru.” your voice sounds unusually hoarse. it was suguru that had convinced you to call your crush by his given name, given you the confidence to become that close with the young scion.
“i love you.”
if you weren’t sitting down, that little confession would have knocked you on your ass. you’d loved this boy for years. never, in all that time, did you think you would hear his lovely voice say that.
but it was all wrong. all wrong all wrong all wrong.
“what?” the question leaves you in a pathetic little whisper, more of a breath than a word.
“i love you.” he said it again? he said it again. your head starts to pound. you hear the rush of blood in your ears. you stare into his perfect blue eyes and you think you might throw up.
“i love you, i love you,” he says, and it sounds like he’s underwater. you’re shaking your head, dumbly, thoughts fizzling away as quickly as they come. he holds you by the shoulders and some small, sweet part of you rejoices because this is the closest he’s ever been to you, nose to nose almost. you shy away from him involuntarily as he says, “it’s always been you.”
one long-fingered hand cups your cheek and you shrink back, tuck your chin away from him with a whimper.
“please, satoru.” your eyes are getting hot. “please stop.”
“i don’t understand, what’s wrong?” his voice takes on a frantic pitch and you feel a hot surge of emotion crash into you, somewhere between the back of your throat and the pit of your stomach. you try to squirm out of his grasp. away from him. he holds you tighter, and you sob. “you love me too, don’t you?”
“i- i don’t know-” you don’t know what you’re saying, you try to tell him but nothing comes out right. “i can’t- this isn’t- make it stop!” you wail, and fist your hands into his shirt.
his hands are on your face. his thumbs are swiping the tears off your cheeks, as quick as they come. “shh, please pretty girl. tell me what’s wrong, i’ll make it better, anything you want just tell me! stop, please, stop crying?”
you’re blubbering at this point. you feel yourself pushing on his chest, away from yourself as hard as you can, but your fists are clenched. they won’t let go of his shirt, pulling him towards you. he doesn’t budge an inch either direction, and you’re relieved because you wouldn’t know what to do either way.
“i know you love me, i know you do. you love me because i’m satoru, not because i’m the strongest right? just say it please? tell me you love me, sweetheart?” his voice is shaking. it registers somewhere in the back of your mind and it just upsets you further.
“no!” you cry, “i can’t! this isn’t- it wasn’t supposed to be like this! i don’t want it like this! it hurts, please satoru!” you’re not sure what you’re begging him for. you’ve never asked him for anything before.
“it’s okay! it’s all gonna be fine! you love me and i love you and we love each other and we’re gonna be in love! we love each other!” his eyes are wild, in a way that frightens you.
you love him, so much. it’s permeated your entire being, grown roots into every blood vessel in your body and crevice in your heart. to stop loving him would kill you. maybe not physically, but you, as you are, would cease to exist. it’s love that has your whole body glowing red hot, every inch of your skin burning in a fever.
you’re trying so hard, to be good. to be selfless. some part of you has always known, knows still, that he isn’t yours to love. but he’s standing right there! inches away, with his hair blinding white and the cut above his eyebrow and telling you that you’re the one for him! you’re it!
you crumple.
he catches you in his arms, cradles you against his chest. you let him press his mouth against yours; he doesn’t mind that you’re still whimpering softly against his lips. you feel like you’re dying when you wrap your arms around him, grasp as weak as a ragdoll’s.
he carries you back to his dorm, holds you like an injured lamb. you let him curl his limbs around you that night, gentle in the dark. he whispers in your ear, “i love you.” you swallow your guilt, bury it like a blade into your rib cage. you feel it shred your heart into ribbons with every awful thud. you wonder, distantly, if satoru can hear it as he lays his head against your chest.
when his breaths slow and his lashes fall like snow to the perfect plane of his high cheekbones, you let it consume you. resentment. it seizes your entire being, sinks past skin and muscle and pries open your bones. your fists shake with the effort it takes to stay silent, still, soft, warm for him. angry, bitter tears that race down the sides of your face and shimmer in midair, caught in the infinite distance between you.
loosely inspired by that one scene in little women (iykyk) and also me being insane and delusional.
i wanna apologize for starting out fluffy and instead making things horrible and painful, i used to play really rough with my dolls.
oh also big thank you to kendy (@strawberrystepmom) and ai (@gojoest) for giving me feedback while i worked on this!! i love yall!!
gojo shoves his bleeding broken heart into your grasp the day he loses suguru. he's convinced two broken halves make two whole.
tags: gojo x reader, fem!reader, gojo's past arc, heavy angst, unhealthy relationships, exploration of grief, satosugu is a pretty major plot point, gojo is maybe not a great person in this one
read on ao3, this is a part 2 to lovergirl
he can’t understand it, not for the life of him. not for lack of trying, of course. but despite the incredible power of the gojo clan’s six eye technique, satoru hasn’t got a clue why shoko and suguru have such an affinity for you.
the only thing that’s remarkable about you is how boring you are. it actually baffles him. his class consists of him (the heir of the gojo clan and possibly god’s favorite), suguru the special-grade who came out of nowhere. shoko, the only reversed-curse energy user in the country. and you. you’re an okay fighter, with an uninteresting cursed technique. you only seem to read bestsellers and buy clear chapstick. you don’t do anything. he wonders if you ever feel embarrassed of exactly how much you don’t measure up to your peers.
it has to be pity, right? of course. suguru pities the weak, he always has. even underneath his condescending veneer, he’s always wanted to defend those who couldn’t fight for themselves. it’s actually kind of sickening how prince-y he is about it. but suguru acts like you’re just as good as the rest of the class, which is obviously false. maybe it’s some sick power play?
and shoko. shoko’s never pitied anyone in her life. she’s just not the type. the only reason she must spend so much time cozied up to you is because you’re the only other girl in the class. there aren’t any girls in the class below either, so clearly it’s resource scarcity that’s driving her. nobody else to talk about girl… things.
it’s not really that important, in the grand scheme of things. you’ll probably graduate and go on to have a mediocre career as a grade two sorcerer, perpetually trapped in the politics of sorcery rankings. you’re not really even a blip on his radar. he doubts he’ll ever hear about you after the three years of school are over, so he doesn’t bother wasting his time playing nice with you.
he’s aware that he seems callous (after another talking-to from suguru), but he can’t find it in himself to care. you clearly don’t. he’s given you the cold shoulder for the entire time he’s known you and that hasn’t stopped you from nursing a big fat crush on him.
it doesn’t make things weird. seriously. it’s a non-issue because quite frankly, satoru doesn’t really give a fuck about your feelings. especially such predictable feelings. you aren’t the first high school girl with your wide eyes and soft heart trained on him. at the very least, you have the manners to keep your goopy nonsense to yourself.
…
suguru kills a lot of people.
the higher ups, in no uncertain terms, order satoru to terminate his best friend.
he finally understands the expression, “having the rug pulled out from under you”. there have always been strings to pull, money and politics to shape the world the way he thinks it should be. he is scambling, desperate, flailing for the slightest lifeline. there’s nothing.
everything is crumbling, satoru can’t see a way out. none of it makes sense. suguru is warm and soft as a sun shower. he holds the door for little old ladies and drapes blankets over the kids who fall asleep in the library. he loves his parents; he used to call them every weekend on saturday morning and send money home.
what changed? and how could he not have seen it? six eyes and unlimited resources, he should have noticed. his best friend, the only person alive who could understand him. satoru didn’t feel the paradigm shift. the entirety of the universe slumping on its side and he never felt a damned thing. one hundred and twelve people dead, and gojo had been none the wiser. he wants to kick himself. he saw the weight loss, the bags under suguru’s eyes. summer heat exhaustion? why didn’t he press just a little harder?
he finds suguru, in the middle of a busy sidewalk on a hot day.
he doesn’t get the answers he’s looking for. suguru walks away from him, and satoru lets him.
…
satoru returns to the tokyo campus, moving on autopilot.
there’s a new question pounding through his skull, thudding behind his eyes with every heartbeat. why didn’t suguru ask for his help? they were the strongest, and geto’s new goal would be possible with the power of hollow purple. it would be the most pragmatic answer. and even if it wouldn’t be easy with hollow purple, why wouldn’t suguru want the help?
and if he asked, would satoru have gone to him?
he doesn’t want to think about the answer to that question. there’s a looming space on his right side, a void that feels like it’s chewing through his infinity. its gaping presence corrodes every thought, every breath and glance. he can’t finish his sentences, can’t string together two coherent thoughts. every sense is overwhelmed by a symphony of a single question: why? why? why?
he tramples you, curled up on the steps of the library. watery-eyed and shuddering with the force of your sobs, you look just about as awful as he feels.
he kneels at the foot of the steps. with where you’re sitting, a couple steps up, the two of you are eye level. he can feel you pressing on the very edge of the infinite, imaginary distance he’s smeared his body with.
he stares at you for a moment that stretches out like years. you hold his gaze, already soft against the unworded command. he feels something roiling in his chest, a wildness that overtakes all of his calculated expectations. it’s frantic. like a herd of wild horses, vicious as a rabid wolf and fiercer than a lion. his hands shake. desperation tears through him, splintering his concentration and shredding his restraint like tissue paper.
he feels feral when he says “i love you.” it’s not enough to just say it. he needs to feel you between his jaws, feel skin and bone making way for his fangs. he needs you to love him, so he can rip and tear at anything (everything) that would take you (anyone) from him.
everything is so hot, so warm. he’s lost in fire, grasping blindly for you and begging for your love. you cry and cry, and the flames flare. he holds you closer, uncaring if you blister, and makes promises he doesn’t even hear. they spill out of him until the world feels like nothing but smoke and ash.
you crumple like a rag doll into his arms, don’t resist when he slots his mouth against yours. the blood rush in his ears slows to a dull hum. he falls asleep with you cradled against him that night. he has no trouble ignoring the dissenting buzz in his head– distant like an electrical wire overhead– drowning it all with the sound of your heart thudding away unsteadily in your chest.
…
she tries. by god she tries.
satoru repeats it to himself like a mantra, hoping, praying that it’ll work. that your effort will one day be enough to absolve you for not being him.
some days are harder than others. some days, he’s sent after suguru again. he always arrives when it’s too late (right on time), and suguru has slipped away again. he’s there as a witness to the violence, the gore and gristle that used to be… people. it feels like punishment, from the hands in the shadows. revenge from the dark haired boy who still lingers in his best dreams.
some days, he finds calm again in your soft gaze and quiet voice. he allows himself to be held and stroked and comforted, and the act of being loved is enough to slow his rage from a tide to a ripple.
but there are days when you do nothing for him. your placating expression makes his stomach turn. the warm bath you run for him leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. he snaps at you then, baring perfect white teeth and flashing wild eyes to frighten you. daring you to bite back, to strike him like the disobedient hound he is. he wants to break you open, crack your soft heart wide open to dig out another monster.
but the flesh always gives way under the strength of his hands. you fall like sand between his fingers, a pile on the floor at his feet. you are who you are, simple and whole in your devotion to him. he cannot hurt you anymore.
he always finds somewhere, someone else to rage at. he picks a fight with shoko over you, just because he knows she can return the blows.
satoru knows what she’ll say. they’ve had this argument before.
“she’s not supposed to do anything for you,” shoko says.
you love each other, he’ll fire back.
she’ll roll her eyes, light a cigarette. to use and be used has never been love. never will be. the cigarette smoke will cloud his vision, sting his eyes.
she loves me for who i am, he’ll shout at her.
shoko won’t be intimidated by his volume.
she’s everything, he’ll press on.
shoko’s teeth will flash at him sardonically. she blows cigarette smoke into his face, signaling that she’s tired of his puppet show. it’s a miracle she still bothers to go through the motions of having this argument, and he knows it.
he’ll go home to you, and you fold him into your arms without another word.
…
time does not heal all wounds.
ten years pass and you find yourself emptied. your love for satoru was (is) perfect, beautiful like a masterpiece carved in marble. somewhere, some time, it occurs to you that even the greatest works of master sculptors are just rock. hard and cold as a tomb. angel wings in alabaster feel just the same as a mausoleum erected in granite. the passion, the heat, of love and resentment have faded to a constant hum in the background of your life, not dissimilar to the ozonic glow that clings to satoru like a second skin. the dust has settled, and he knows it.
eternal as a grave, you remain. satoru, ever restless, oscillates between awe and disgust. there’s an unsettling feeling, clinging to the back of his throat every time he looks at you. despite the similarities, you are not the girl he knew or the boy he wants.
as the years stretch on and he watches your cheeks hollow and your eyes dull, he clings to you all the more fiercely. he fills his mind with artificially sweet thoughts of you, memories injected with levity and warmth that feels foreign. when you reach across the bed to hold his hand in your sleep, he goes limp in your hold and allows you to dream.
like two binary stars, the two of you have circled each other for lifetimes. while you sleep and dream of his love, he stares at the ceiling and wonders. will you finally connect (and destroy each other?) or will he siphon off your light until he becomes nothing more than a blaze of destruction and creation?
…
he gets his answer sooner rather than later.
suguru returns to his alma mater with an army of curses and an impossible plan. gojo fulfills his duty. he plays brave for the students and breaks every traffic law he can think of to get home.
when you open the door for him, he doesn’t bother to greet you. he steps past the threshold, steels himself, and repeats the report he had given the higher-ups word for clipped word. he watches the blood drain from your face, raises a gentle (violently scrubbed) hand to wipe away the incoming tears. they don’t ever arrive, and he doesn’t get the chance to play prince.
you turn sharply on your heel and break into a sprint towards the nearest bathroom in the house. by the time he hears the door slam into the wall, you’re already hunched over the toilet and heaving.
satoru is stunned. he hasn’t seen you move that fast in years. the sound of your sobs shakes him out of his reverie; sets him in motion to kneel beside you and rub your back as you retch. he moves as if on auto-pilot, heart and soul numb.
when you’re left dry-heaving, not even bile left to spit into the toilet, you turn to look at him. he wipes the tears and snot off of your cheeks without thinking. he nearly loses himself in your eyes before he realizes: you’ve stopped crying. that pained, broken sound (not unlike an abandoned hound, calling a master long gone) is him.
you reach for him, so accustomed to accommodating his grief. years of his love have your arms drawing to wrap around his chest subconsciously. it turns his stomach. is this what he’s made of the two of you? sobbing, pathetic animals curled together on the bathroom floor. he gestures vaguely in your direction and you draw back into yourself.
you watch him cry for what feels like hours. silent, never expectant, just sitting inches away with wide red-rimmed eyes. you watch him shudder and squall on the floor. when the storm subsides, you reach for him again. he turns his cheek out of your hand; it isn’t long-fingered, nimble and glowing with warmth the way he wants it to be.
you draw your hand back. there’s a vicious silence that hangs in the air for a moment. he doesn’t look at you, ashamed for once in his life. he closes his eyes to you, but hears you stand. wash your face in the sink. dry your face and take a rich breath in. you leave him there, turning the light off to ease his overstimulated senses.
he hears the rustle of your clothes, yanked from the hamper and wardrobe. the clack of the luggage clasps snapping shut. he hears you pour a glass of cold water for him in the kitchen. finally, his keys jingle and the sound of the door closes behind you.
he falls asleep on the bathroom floor, alone for the first time in a decade.
