──★ MASTERLIST | PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5
pairing — gojo x sorcerer!reader
summary — this is what happens when you dump gojo satoru — he appears at your cafe after three years, acting like no time has passed, with an assignment to track down a certain curse's body parts, and training methods that tests your heart as much as your technique. you thought running away was enough to bury your life as a jujutsu sorcerer, and the sorcerer you wasted years chasing. you should have known better.
word count — 13.2k
content warning + tags — NSFW 18+ ONLY, fem reader, plot with smut, canon divergence au, angst, hurt & comfort, a smidge of fluff... eventually, eventual smut, slooow burn, lovers to exes to lovers, implied prostitution, obsession, emotional manipulation, possessive satoru, he can't forget you energy, it gets worse before it gets better, satoru teaches pleasure, he holds out on p in v because he wants to bae you? idk, you're both unhinged but won't admit it, past trauma, canon character deaths(not satoru dw), ending tbd... most likely happy.
a/n — my passion project that i've migrated from ao3 and edited into (x reader) <3 if you came here from my idol gojo fic, this one is very different, but i still hope you'll give it a go, and that you'll enjoy this particular flavour of satoru <333
art by xxartl, ifasongcouldgetmetoyou, dividers by @saradika-graphics, @strangergraphics-archive
There he was. All six foot three inches of him, leaning against the counter.
“Strawberry Frappuccino. Large. Extra sugar,” he said, a crooked smile playing across his lips, as if he were a regular. As if he’d seen you yesterday and not three years ago.
You would have liked to say you played it cool. Made him his stupid drink and pretended you didn’t know him. Perhaps you should have given it more thought before blurting out, “What the fuck?”
Gojo Satoru wagged his finger. “Manners, please. It’s ‘what the fuck, senpai.’”
The heart you were drawing on the latte morphed into a blobby onion, milk spilling down the rim.
“You changed your number.” His voice, low and smooth, settled like a haze in your mind.
You plonked down the milk pitcher and took a step backwards. “How did you—”
“It’s a good story. I’ll tell you,” he said, casually. He adjusted his sunglasses, tinted a shade so dark they hid his eyes entirely. Shocking white hair framed his face, stark against the plain black shirt he wore. “Let’s start with the day I returned to Tokyo and found you and all your things missing from our room—“
“My room,” you corrected.
“Huh, I should think it’s mine too since I was sleeping there. With you. In your bed. Naked.”
A clatter. One of the customers had dropped their spoon. Heat shot up your neck, straight to the image he’d shoved into your head.
Satoru’s grin widened.
“What do you want?” you snapped.
His ridiculously perfect smile turned feline. “Well, since you’re asking, there are some… errands I need to run. I was in the neighbourhood. Thought you might like to come along.”
“Oh, errands, is it? Why don’t you go shove them up your—“
He snorted. “Still dreaming of my ass, I see. Then, I guess you also remember all the things I’ve done to yours—”
“God, just shut up.” Your eyes darted to the tables closest to the counter. A couple of housewives in pastel tracksuits were staring.
Of all the times you anticipated this asshole could have sprung out like an awful pop-up card, he had to choose the cafe’s busiest period. But you weren’t in the mood to be turned into conversation fodder. Someone had to deal with him, and it wasn’t going to be you.
“Tanaka-san,” you called out.
Satoru lifted a brow, clearly amused. He straightened, and folded his arms.
“What? What? Is my parcel here?” The staff room door behind you squeaked open. Tanaka’s head popped out. “They told me they were delivering it in the afternoon.”
But before you could speak, Satoru’s hand shot up.
“You’re the manager, right?” he said, loud enough so no one could mistake what they were hearing. “I’d like to make a complaint. About her.” He jabbed a finger at you.
A hush fell over the cafe, eyes and ears suddenly closing in on you. Your mouth fell open, gaping, as if he’d stabbed you with that goddamn finger.
“A complaint?” Tanaka repeated, slowly, like he’d left half his brain behind, glued to the variety show he was streaming on his phone. His droopy eyes slid from Satoru to you, and back again to Satoru. The rest of his body emerged from the staff room.“My sincerest apologies, sir. Did she forget your order? We’ll make you whatever you like. How about a free sandwich? Or two? On the house. A cookie?”
“Cookie, thanks. And she forgot more than that. Where should I start? How about when she forgot to inform me she was quitting and—“
You cut him off. “Sir, you are disrupting our business,” you said, in your best professional voice, wishing you could chuck the milk pitcher in his face. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Now.”
Another snort. Satoru’s hand came down on the counter, then he was bending forward so far over that you had to take two steps back.
“And if I refuse?”
“I’ll call the police. On grounds of harassment. And stalking.”
He laughed. “That’s rich coming from someone who spent six years chasing after me.” He lowered his sunglasses, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of bright blue eyes. A blue so complete, so intense, it drowned you. “Tell me,” he said, “does it feel good now that you’re the one doing the rejecting? Does my disappointment turn you on?”
You shoved him. Hard.
“Get out,” you spat. “Now.”
“See. Got it right, didn’t I?” He hadn’t budged an inch.
“You’re delusional.”
“Oh, we both know I have excellent sight,” he said.
“Then it should be clear I want nothing to do with you.”
Satoru’s fingers rapped against the countertop. For a moment, you were almost convinced he was going to leap over it and snatch you away. You reached for the milk pitcher.
“So this is how you want to play it?” He lifted his sunglasses off then. Warm light caught his face—the face that once had you falling smack on the ground. Instant. Undeniable—and your thoughts glitched. “Alright then, let’s play, sugar.”
He winked, and strolled out the cafe. You watched your next few breaths trail after him, and when he was gone, you reached for the multipurpose spray, pumped half a bottle’s worth onto the countertop’s clean, white surface, and began disinfecting it.
Along with any trace of Gojo Satoru.
The luggage bumped into your shin again as the train veered sideways.
You gripped the handle, mentally cursing the two sweaty tourists you were sandwiched in between. Why did they have to lug their shit onto the train? On a Friday evening. When the Tokyo subway morphed into a behemoth sardine can.
You were late again, and you had exhausted all possible excuses for Jinta. And if that blasted luggage assaulted you one more time, you were going to scream.
The train lurched. It rolled over your shoe.
Fifteen minutes later, you were out of Shinjuku Station and speed walking to Kabukicho. Neon lights. Giant billboards plastered with portrait shots of dazzling men and women, polished white teeth smiling down on you.
You reached a narrow building wedged next to a convenience store. Glaring above a set of black double doors were the words ‘Wonderland’, flashing purple, accompanied by a gargantuan poster advertising the club’s hostesses. Your name was typed out in bold lettering below one of them.
Not your real name, of course. You were done with that girl.
Of all the pictures you had taken in your lifetime, you regretted this one the most. Your portrait wore an ugly, hot pink dress, your badly dyed hair curled into a dramatic updo. But at least you were unrecognisable underneath the layers of foundation and pink cheeks. At least you weren’t a jujutsu sorcerer anymore, which you hadn’t been for years, and should stay that way.
You went in through the back entrance, leaping up the stairwell two steps at a time. You had just reached the dressing room when Jinta walked in through an opposite door.
“Late again, doll?” He tapped the gold Rolex on his wrist. If there was one word to describe your club manager, it was pristine. Not a crease on his pinstripe suit, cut to precise measurements for his slender build. Not a single bleached blonde hair out of place, each strand flaring out exactly where he intended them to be, and would stay that way even in a typhoon. “You’re setting a bad example for your juniors.”
You winced. “It won’t happen again, Jinta-san. I promise,” you said, for the hundredth time.
Jinta shook his head. “Afraid this is the last time, doll,” he said in his cultivated Tokyo dialect. “Quit your day job. I can’t have one of my girls disrupting the peace, you understand? If I let you continue on like this, pretty soon I’ll have an empty floor because the other hostesses will think it’s fine to totter in an hour late.”
“I can handle it.”
“Sorry, no can do. We both know you’ve been slacking. As it is, you’ve hardly made a dent on your loan. You’ll have to make up for it.”
In short, you would have to increase your clientele, or you were out. Getting the boot might not seem like a huge consequence, not when there was another club two doors down.
But you had one, glaring problem. You owed Jinta money. Fifteen million yen to be exact. Plus interest.
Jinta checked his watch again. “Look, I’ll make this quick. Help you out. I recently got an in with an association. Not your usual corporate whales. These people are… they follow an alternative religion. Old ideas. But they’ve got money, and more influence than anyone I know.”
“You mean a cult,” you pointed out.
“Isn’t that what all religions are at the end of the day? Anyway, they’re looking to hire a companion for their leader. Someone who can ease his worries. You’ll be providing the full service—dinners, parties, weekends, whatever he wants.”
You froze. He might as well have slapped you in the face. “You want me to—I’m a hostess, not an escort.”
“It’s good money, doll. A lot of money. And if he likes you, he might even move you out into a nicer place. Buy you anything you want. You’ll get a cushy life, and actually pay off your mother’s loan.”
“So I’ll push more bottles. Just tell me how many more. I’ll do it.”
“Look, just give it a try. Who knows, you might even end up preferring it.”
But the thought of you sleeping with another man other than—
No. Screw that. You weren’t going to think about him.
Perhaps it was lack of sleep. You were tired. You had been working seven days a week for the last six months. Perhaps it was because your ex harassed you at work this morning. But you felt it then, your nerves twitching. The syrup building in your throat.
You held it back.
Jinta was already whipping out his phone. “Thank me later. Now get yourself out there.”
You watched his fingers tap away at the screen with superhuman speed. He was really going to sell you off. To a bloody cult. You couldn’t say no because you owed him fifteen million yen. And it wasn’t even your debt.
You just... couldn’t get a fucking break.
Maybe just a little, you thought. Just once. Just enough to persuade Jinta into chucking his phone down the toilet. To ease the rest of your night.
Careful—you’d be careful.
It had been three years since you last used your cursed technique. Or even expended an ounce of cursed energy. You were finished with that life, and everyone in it. Finished with being a jujutsu sorcerer. It didn’t matter that you were broke, exhausted, and drowning in debt. That you had no friends, no existence outside of working two jobs and microwave meals from the convenience store.
But selling your body—that was where you drew the line.
Slow and steady. You could do this. Just for tonight. One time couldn’t hurt, right?
A sickly sweet, floral fragrance filled the air in the dressing room. Honey and flowers. A sliver of your cursed scent drifted toward Jinta, coiling around him.
Jinta’s phone slipped from his fingers. His face relaxed, eyes glazing. His mouth slipped into a lop-sided grin, and the look on his face then was pure, unfettered admiration.
For you.
You smiled at him. “Listen, can you do me a favour?”
He nodded, eagerly. You knew he would.
“Tell me you’re not going to finish that text,” you said. “Tell me you know I’m sick. Tell me to go home and rest.”
Jinta blinked. “I’m… not going to finish that text,” he slurred, like a well-trained dog. “You’re looking kind of sick, doll. You should go home and rest.”
“Thanks, I will. You can go now.”
You watched him leave, finally releasing the breath you’d held in when he disappeared back into the main room.
It was done. You did it. Jinta would revert to normal tomorrow, and probably try selling you again, but at least it gave you time to withdraw everything you had in your bank to try and persuade him against it. You began reeling back your technique.
You tugged. Frowned. Tugged again.
Shit. You could still smell it. You forced it down.
Your cursed scent refused to budge.
Sugar sweet. And like ants, they come marching. A soft familiar voice crept into your mind. The voice of someone you once dared call your friend. Ice bled into your veins.
A sharp ringing pierced your ears. You stumbled backwards, the walls tilting. More of your scent leaked out.
No. No, no, no. You were running for the stairwell. You had to leave. Had to get home and lock yourself up before you infected the entire club. Before something else picked up your scent and followed.
Before the jujutsu sorcerers came knocking and dragged you back to that place.
You flung the door open. Neon lights flashed. Your scent bloomed. Your hands clamped down on your arms, as if they would chain down your scent from clotting the night air.
A tug. A rustle. A hiss. Your body seized up.
You saw it then, lurking in the shadows of the alley. An enormous, spotted caterpillar crawling out of the dumpster, saliva dripping from its mouth in great globs.
Plop. It dropped onto the pavement.
The air turned heavy. Your lungs were sticky.
Its long, mottled tongue unfurled. It licked the air. Licked at your scent.
But you couldn’t move, not a single muscle, as you watched the cursed spirit drag its slimy, rotund folds across the pavement.
To you.
Trapped. You were trapped. Your body like a broken tap, cursed scent pouring out thicker than perfume, sweet like rotten fruit, spreading.
You’d drawn it out. Called it. More would come. People would get hurt. People would die. It was all your fault. It was—
Go, your mind screamed. Run. Hide. Blood. Women and children and guts and limbs and—
A shadow. A figure.
You were being pulled, your body pressing against a plane both warm and strong. And then a voice, cool as the ocean breeze—
“Breathe. I’m here now.”
The words spread underneath your skin like a balm. An arm wrapped around your waist, steadying you.
You looked up, and found beautiful blue eyes looking back.
“H-how—“
Satoru grinned. “Hold that thought.”
He lifted a finger, pointing. You heard a wet squelch. Your head snapped to where the curse was, or had been. It had imploded, as if a giant, invisible boulder had fallen from the sky and flattened it to nothing but a splatter of blood and gore on the street.
That was it. He’d exorcised it. He did it in half a second. With zero effort.
He was stroking your waist.
“Again. In and out, in and out.” Satoru whipped out his phone and began typing. He sniffed the air. “That’s more like it. Now, let’s go.”
The weight of what you had done slammed back into you in full force. “What? But there might be more curses coming—“
“My students are on the way. They’ll clean up.” Satoru slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Happy? Can we go?”
You stared at him. At the remnants of the curse that now looked like roadkill. Your scent was receding, pulling back instead to circle around you. Around him.
“I’m not going back there with you,” you said, so quiet you thought he hadn’t heard.
You hadn’t realised he was still stroking you until he stopped.
Blue pierced into you.
“I meant home. Your home,” he said.
“I have legs. I can walk.” Or not. But he didn’t need to know that.
Satoru leaned in. Close. Too close. His grip tightened around your waist, and your thoughts eddied away.
“Of course you can,” he said, lips curving upwards. “But I insist.”
Then he snapped his fingers, and Kabukicho vanished.
「 ✦ Nine Years Ago ✦ 」
You were going to curse Gojo Satoru. That was your grand plan.
Specifically, you were going to use your cursed technique and make him fall in love with you. It was simple. Brilliant. Slightly evil. Kind of manipulative. But brilliant, nonetheless. You didn’t know why you never considered it sooner.
And it wasn’t as if Gojo was going to kneel and profess his undying affection for you. Amaka Jutsushiki, your cursed scent technique, didn’t work on sorcerers like that, and Gojo was Special Grade. Slated to become the strongest jujutsu sorcerer in the modern age. You were not so stupid, you believed.
What you needed was to soften him up. A nudge, so he would agree to spend some time with you. One on one. Then you’d woo him and all Six Eyes of his with your awesome personality. Easy. After all, proximity was crucial in baking a relationship.
“Eh, I’m not going to pretend it won’t be fun for me to watch—but it won’t work,” said Shoko. She took a drag from her cigarette, her third in fifteen minutes. The smell was making you lose your appetite. “Satoru’s only interested in one thing, and it isn’t a girlfriend.”
“But he’s coming, right? What did you tell him?”
“That I have kikufuku mochi, and he’d better hurry before I eat all of it. But he won’t be alone. He’ll drag Suguru along. You’ll just have to accept they’re a package deal. Buy one, get one free, you know?”
“Don’t worry, he’s part of the plan.”
Geto Suguru. You hadn’t forgotten about him. He was the shield Gojo used to fend off anyone hoping to barge their way into his inner circle. Getting rejected five times by Gojo was one thing, but having his best friend do it for him instead was taking a toll on your pride.
“Why do I have a feeling I know what you’re going to do,” said Shoko.
“Does it bother you?”
“They’re big boys. They’ve faced worse than a first year with a crush.” Shoko flicked her still-lit cigarette into a nearby bush. You gathered she must have missed the class on fire safety. “Consider this as me paying you back for all the times you’ve stolen your mother’s saké for me. But you should know, even if you do end up dating Satoru, it’s not going to replace you-know-who.”
“That’s for me to find out.” You glanced down at your half-eaten onigiri. A sprinkle of ash from Shoko’s cigarette dusted the top. “And why are you bringing my father into this? Not everything I do is about that man.”
“Yeah, and it should stay that way, don’t you think?”
Shoko was about to light another cigarette when you heard the chanting.
“Mo-chi—mo-chi—mo-chi!”
Gojo had his arms up, hands behind his head as he bounded up the steps to where they sat. Any thoughts to the plan you had rehearsed in your head over the last week threatened to dissolve as you took in the sight of him.
Soft, snowy hair. Pale skin. Striking blue eyes. If all your wildest dreams had coalesced and shaped themselves into one perfectly gorgeous boy, Gojo Satoru was it. You couldn’t tell if you were in love with him, or if you simply didn’t want anyone else to have him.
Strolling behind, as Shoko had predicted, was Geto. He had his hair up in a topknot, and was shaking his head with a slight smile. But that smile faltered when his keen gaze darted to you.
Geto sighed. “You’ve been set up, Satoru.”
“Huh?” Gojo whipped his head about, searching for the non-existent snack. “Haaa—but you promised, Shoko!”
Shoko leaned back, elbows resting against the concrete, and blew out a trail of smoke. “I’m repaying a favour.”
“So there’s no mochi?”
“No.”
“Tch—fine. You’re lucky I have time to waste today.”
No greeting. Not even a glance at you. He acted like there were only three people loitering in the courtyard, himself included. As if you were another temple statue that just happened to be planted next to Shoko.
But you weren’t going to let it slide. Not again. If you were going to be rejected, it would have to come from his mouth and no one else’s.
And if you had to make the first move, so be it.
You pushed off the steps. “Wait. I want to talk to you.”
“Next time. Busy.” A flippant wave. His back was already to you.
“Not you.” Your hand shot out, pointing at Geto. “You.”
Gojo paused mid-leap, white hair fluttering as he turned to his friend.
Geto tilted his head. “Well, that’s a surprise. I didn’t think you’d jump this quick.”
“Don’t worry, you’re not my type.” You placed yourself in front of Geto, took a sharp inhale, and smiled. “You know what? Forget it. I only wanted to do this.”
You released your technique.
The scent of flowers and burnt honey filled the air surrounding Geto. He wrinkled his nose, and immediately clapped a hand over it and his mouth.
But it was too late. While Amaka Jutsushiki was more potent when inhaled, contact on bare skin was enough to trigger it. And the true beauty? You could target it. Your technique allowed you to choose who you wanted to affect, and who you didn’t, in the same space. You watched Geto’s body relax, his keen gaze start to soften. You poured more cursed scent into him.
“Hey,” you said. “Can I call you Suguru?”
Geto’s brows furrowed. He nodded, slowly.
“We’re friends right, Suguru?”
He blinked. Nodded again.
“That’s what I thought. And since we’re friends, I need you to do something for me. Please tell Gojo senpai he’s a glorified prick, and that you won’t be leaving until he agrees to give me five minutes. Alone.”
Geto’s eyes narrowed. Another sigh, then he turned to his friend. “You heard her, prick.”
Finally—finally, those blue eyes landed on you.
“Wow.” Gojo clapped. “Not bad for a first year. You managed to make Suguru a wimp.”
Geto scowled. “Get it over with, Satoru. It’s your fault she’s doing this to me.”
“Heesh wight,” said Shoko, her mouth stuffed with the half-eaten onigiri you had abandoned. She swallowed, unbothered that she had consumed her own cigarette ash. “I mean, it’s not every day someone puts in this much effort for a date.”
God, why must she say it like that? But you kept your scent firmly locked on Geto, and dared a step closer to your real target. Steeling your nerves, you peered up at the boy of your dreams.
“What’s the matter?” you said. “You aren’t scared of me, are you?”
A flicker of—something—passed through those devastating eyes. There and gone in a heartbeat. Gojo chuckled, and then he was laughing.
“Fine. I’ll give you what you want,” he said. “But, we’ll do it my way.”
In one swift move, he grabbed your arm, and yanked. You barely managed a gasp before you were screaming. Solid ground disappeared underneath your feet, and then you were surging up into the sky.
Wind gushed down your throat, pushing your heart down to your stomach. Your screams turned breathless, floating into your head. You forgot to close your mouth.
What the fuck—he can fly?
Up and up and up you went, into a vast blue expanse, until your eyes watered and your throat dried out, and just as sudden as it began, you were jolted to a stop.
Stupidly, you looked down. At the school campus spread out like a miniature model below. At Shoko and Geto still on the steps, reduced to the size of ants.
“Hey.” Gojo’s voice pulled you back to him. He had you in cradle position, feet dangling twenty stories high in the air. “What’s your name? Desperate?”
Trapped in his arms and clinging on for dear life, you were forced to tilt your chin up to see his face. This close, alone at last with him, the afternoon sun lining his silhouette with a golden halo, your breath was stolen from you again.
“Go out with me,” you said.
He laughed. “You gonna waste your three minutes like that?”
“You said I have five.”
“Took a minute to get up here, and you spent the other staring at me.”
“It’s not like I can help it. And I won’t need three if you just say yes.”
“Two minutes now.” Gojo sniffed the air. “Huh—you’ve made it stronger. Still not going to work, though.”
Shit.
You stiffened. He knew. Had known all along that you were slowly releasing more cursed scent, trickle by trickle, hoping he wouldn’t notice until it had overwhelmed him.
Gojo yawned. “Tick-tock, tick-tock… One—“
“Wait—I can’t think! Not with you holding me like—like this.”
“Want me to let go?”
Sunlight glinted in his blue eyes. Blue as the sky around them. And then you were plummeting, your shrieks echoing behind, your heart caught in your throat.
“Mmm, here’s good.”
You glared at him, but he was no longer paying attention. Instead, he was surveying the ground below.
Not ground, you saw then. Water. Specifically, the school pond.
“Time’s up,” he said, and you realised what he was going to do.
“Fuck you,” you said, hugging him tighter.
His perfect lips cut a cruel smile. “In your dreams.”
You felt his grip loosen. Felt yourself slipping down.
“Don’t—wait!”
One of your legs fell, hanging inches from the pond’s surface. The other was following. You clung to him, fingers bunching around his uniform. Should you tell him you couldn’t swim? From the way his teeth flashed, as if he was playing a game he knew he’d win, you didn’t think he would care.
This asshole was really going to drown you. As a joke.
Satoru’s only interested in one thing, and it isn’t a girlfriend. Shoko’s words hit you then, and before you could second guess yourself, you blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“I—I can make you stronger! My technique—I’ll use it to make you stronger.”
Your hand slipped. You shut your eyes, preparing to curse him again. But the fall never came. Instead, you felt Gojo’s grip tighten, your body being lifted. You blinked up at him.
“Go on,” he said, seemingly curious, though you couldn’t be sure.
“Take me with you on your assignments,” you said, quickly so he wouldn’t change his mind. “I can attract anything with cursed energy. Track them. Hunt them down. Wherever a curse is hiding, they’ll come out. They’ll listen to me. All you have to do is exorcise them, and the more you find, the stronger you’ll become.” You hesitated, then added, “And so will Geto.”
Gojo didn’t answer right away. But you were still in his arms, so you must have said something right. You watched him watch you, the silence louder than the pounding inside your chest.
“Deal,” he said at last.
You weren’t sure if you heard him right. “Really?”
“Why not? Worse that could happen is you end up dying.”
“I won’t.”
He lifted a brow. “Oh? And what makes you so sure?”
“Because I have you.” You grinned.
Gojo’s mouth twitched, and to your surprise, he smiled back. And that smile—you found yourself falling all over again.
“We’ll see,” he said.
He let go.
「 ✦ Present Day ✦ 」
“Let me go.”
“You sure? There’s no pond this time.”
It had taken less than a second. Kabukicho had faded away, and when you opened your eyes, there was only the soft, quiet darkness of the night sky surrounding you.
And him.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean,” you said. “If you were going to teleport, you could’ve just dropped me off at my front door.”
Even shrouded in night, the blue in Satoru’s eyes were striking. Shadows and cerulean. Deep. Ethereal. “I’m waiting for an invitation,” he said. “I’ll be coming in anyway, but I know how you like making the first move.”
“Stop it. Whatever you’re trying to do—this—stop. You’ve proven your point, okay? I can’t control my technique. There, I said it. Put me down and piss off.”
“So soon after I found you? Nah. I think I’ll stick around for a bit.”
Liar. He had appeared at the cafe. He’d reached the club just in time to exorcise that curse. Had whisked you twenty minutes out of Tokyo’s city centre, straight to the double-storey flat you were now levitating above.
Satoru had known exactly where you were. He’d known this whole time.
“Besides, you’ll need someone around to keep those curses at bay. For tonight, at least.” His head dipped, causing you to pull back. But it only sank you deeper into his arms. “Your scent is still leaking.”
You flinched. “I can handle it.”
“Sure, like how you handled that low grade worm earlier on. Clear off the rust first, and maybe I’ll believe it.”
How had this man become more insufferable than he was three years ago? And the worst part? He was right. You should have been able to shut off your scent by now. It had softened to a lulling sweetness, more docile, but it was still seeping out. Around you. Around Satoru.
Like it couldn’t get enough of him.
“So what will it be? Your bed tonight, or a hundred feet in the air? Either way, it’ll be with me.” But he was already descending onto the corridor outside your front door. “If it makes you feel better, think of it as a small sacrifice. I doubt your neighbours want to get gobbled up while they’re sleeping.”
The moment you landed, you pushed away from him. The threads of your scent pulled taut and clung on tighter, refusing to set him free. Satoru’s smile widened.
You debated the odds of slamming the door in his face. If he wanted to stay the night, he could do it outside with the mosquitoes. But your landlord knew what you did for work. It wasn’t a hard guess, what with you returning home at odd hours in tight dresses, mostly drunk, foundation melting off your face. If he were to find a man planted outside your door—because that was what the stubborn prick would do—he’d assume Satoru was a customer. You’d be kicked out. Deposit forfeited.
“Clever,” he said, as you slid out the spare key from underneath a potted plant.
“Tolerating your body in my home doesn’t mean it includes your mouth.”
“Funny, I don’t recall you having any problem with my mouth, especially when I put it—“ His hand shot out, blocking the door you sent flying shut.
You grabbed a towel and locked yourself in the bathroom. You peeled off your clothes, stepped into the shower, and let the blast of ice cold water drown out his voice in your head.
You had left no hint of where you were going the day you disappeared. Told no one. Changed your number. Your damn name. Even a moron would know he’d been dumped after what you did. Was this some sort of sick, twisted revenge he’d concocted to punish you?
For fuck’s sake, why was he here?
You scrubbed yourself raw and shivering. Anything to calm the rising heat that was burning you up from the inside out. Your scent danced around the tiny bathroom. It continued trailing after you as you finally gave up any hope of washing it down the drain, pulled on some pyjamas, and dragged your feet into the single living space, where it bloomed out with every step you took, like you were a walking air freshener.
Satoru was lounging on your futon, legs stretched out, his back leaning against the wall as he flipped through one of your mangas.
“Huh... this one kind of looks like me.” He tapped on a panel—a drawing of a handsome man with white hair, smiling. Fully nude and uncensored. Below him, another equally undressed young man surrounded by large, bolded sound effects as they—
You snatched the manga away.
“Out,” you said, jabbing a finger at the couch.
Satoru flopped down on your pillow, hands behind his neck. “No good night? Thank you for exorcising the big bad curse for me, senpai. You look delicious in my bed, senpai.”
You ignored him and went to shelve the manga, then made sure he was out of your futon and firmly on the couch before flicking off the lights.
The sheets were warm and smelled like him.
You turned away and shut your eyes, only to be met with a barrage of questions swimming in your head. You were not so stupid anymore to believe he was sticking around just to play security guard. Not now that you knew he could have simply found you whenever he wished, yet chose three years of silence instead.
Satoru was here for a reason.
But you weren’t about to make it easy for him by asking. You refused to be that girl again—the girl who waited around like a fool, lapping up any morsel of attention he deigned to throw your way.
Gojo Satoru might still be infuriatingly beautiful in every possible way, but while the former you had ruined your life trying to own his heart, now you wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. Nothing. Nada. Zip. He could disintegrate it in that stupidly overpowered Limitless void of his for all you cared.
You pulled the blanket over your head, and waited for sleep to claim you.
A figure stood among the carnage. Slurping. Eating.
A boy here, a mother there. Eyes staring out, at you and at nothing. Burning wood and fields too weak to mask the stench of rot and honey thick in the air.
Cold in your bones. You thought you heard screaming.
It was your own.
You were falling. There was no end.
Until you saw the sun. Infinite and blinding and beckoning. You reached out.
You woke to an empty apartment and the smell of nothing. Your cursed scent was gone.
So was he.
Eyes squinting, you poked a hand out of the blanket and fumbled for your phone. It wasn’t there. You spotted it on the kitchen counter, and with it the opportunity to bury your face in the pillow for five more minutes. Grumbling, you hauled the rest of your body out of the futon and slugged over to check the time.
Six-fifteen. You had a little under an hour to get to the cafe.
You turned to the bathroom, stopped, your gaze narrowing on the kitchen sink. There was a mug in it. The one with the words ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ printed on the side that you’d bought for fifty yen at a thrift shop, proving you hadn’t imagined last night’s events like it was some weird, messed up dream.
You supposed you should be relieved. Better that he’d left while you were asleep so you wouldn’t have to deal with awkward goodbyes. You were never very good at them in the first place. Yes, this was better. Whatever matter he’d left to attend to was probably more important than his reason for barging back into your life, and you no longer had to concern yourself with it.
The bathroom light flickered to life, revealing the dark streaks of leftover mascara running down your face in the mirror, the drool marks on your cheek, your hair sticking out in every unflattering direction. You glanced at your straightener, and gave up immediately and bunched your hair into a ponytail.
After making yourself somewhat presentable with as minimal effort as possible, you tossed your pyjamas into the overflowing laundry basket and went back out, pausing at the kitchen sink. You reached for the mug, filled it with tap water, and padded over to the dresser to change. You'd just pulled on a new set of underwear before taking a sip of water when you heard a soft click.
The front door swung open.
“Mm, wasn’t expecting a present. But I like it.”
Satoru stood at the entrance, a plastic bag in one hand and two takeaway cups of convenience store coffee balanced in the other.
You stared at him like an idiot.
“You’re back,” you said, then immediately regretted it.
“I was hungry. Oh, and your milk is expired by the way.” His sunglasses were back on, but he took them off as soon as he stepped in and closed the door. Blue eyes slid lazily down your face, halting briefly before continuing to the mug you clutched below your chest. A slow smile spread across his lips. “I haven’t washed that.”
Heat prickled up your neck, and you were suddenly very, very aware that you weren’t wearing any clothes. You forced yourself to remain clam. To not give him the pleasure of seeing you flustered, and placed the incriminating mug on the dresser. You yanked a drawer open, putting on the first thing you saw.
Satoru dumped the takeaway on the coffee table and flopped onto the couch, an arm slinging over the backrest. He held out a styrofoam cup. “Breakfast?”
“I’m late for work.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll fetch you there.”
“No. You said one night. It’s been a night.”
“One coffee,” he said, patting the spot beside him. “Sip it. Pour it down your throat. Whatever you want. Then I’m gone.”
Or you could throw it in his face. He’d enjoy that.
“Come on, sugar. It’s just a drink."
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Sugar? Or would you prefer I call you by your real—“
“Fine. Whatever.”
You chose the floor instead, sitting cross-legged as he slid the takeaway cup across the table, along with a custard bun he’d plucked out of the plastic bag.
Five minutes, you told yourself. That was all you were giving him. Better here than him showing up at the cafe again. No one would know should you decide to punch him.
Satoru waited until you had three mouthfuls of bread in your stomach before leaning in, arms propped on his thighs.
“Come back to Jujutsu High,” he said.
You took a sip of coffee. “No.”
“There’s this assignment. Your technique will speed things up for us.”
“No.”
“Suguru’s back.”
You choked on your latte.
“That curse last night, it wasn’t you who attracted it,” Satoru continued. All of his former ease had vanished. “When I arrived, yours wasn’t the only residual I picked up. That was Suguru’s curse.”
The heat of the coffee pressed up against your tongue, refusing to go down. “It’s—it’s a coincidence.”
“You really believe that?”
“He couldn’t know I was… He wouldn’t have any reason to concern himself with me.”
“If I can find you, so can he. He planted it there. He’s planning something. And if I’m right, which I am, it has to do with this assignment.”
“An assignment that has nothing to do with me.”
“Yet,” said Gojo. “It’s procurement. We’re going to hunt down Sukuna’s fingers.”
He might as well have sprouted a second head. “The Sukuna? You want me to retrieve the body parts of the strongest, most dangerous curse in history—when I can barely control my technique? Are you nuts?”
Gojo’s answering look was sober. “Amaka Jutsushiki can draw out anything with cursed energy. Bait it. Tame it. Talk to it. At full strength? Maybe personify it. You think Suguru forgot how useful it is? How useful you were before.”
“Well, I’m not anymore. Last night... what I did. That curse was grade four. Max. And I just—I couldn’t even—“
”Like I said, you’re rusty.”
“No—he wouldn’t.” A numbness crept down your legs. The coffee sat heavy in your throat. “He won’t come back. Not after what happened…”
The blue in Gojo’s eyes darkened. He reached for you, but you flinched back, causing him to halt midway. You watched his hand retreat.
“Train with me,” he said. “Learn how to control your technique again. You’ll have a chance of holding your own against him. Move back to the school. At least make it harder for him to reach you.”
“Did your brain get stolen at the convenience store? I said I’m not going back.”
“Suguru wants those fingers for a reason. If we can find them before he—“
“Coffee’s done.” You stood, cutting him off. This was why Satoru came back. Not to guilt trip you. Not to demand answers. All his teasing, his touches—it was so he could lead you back to that place. To use you. “I’m late for work.”
You went to grab your bag, and realised it was still in the club, along with your wallet and train card.
“To do what?” You heard him follow. “Make other people’s lattes? To sell your company at night and spend the rest of it with your head in the toilet? You’re really living it up, huh?”
Screw this. You had to get out. Get away from him. You began scouring the shelves, the drawers, the laundry, for any spare change. None. You would have to walk. You’d be late. Again.
“Is it money?” Satoru said behind you. “The debt that isn’t even yours? If that’s all it is, I’ll make it go away.”
Your laugh was mirthless. “So you want to buy me now? Should I be flattered? Should I swoon and fall into your arms because the great Gojo Satoru has decided to swoop in and save me from my terribly dull life? Go fuck a mirror, asshole.”
You were turning the door handle when he replied, his voice low. Quiet. “We both know it takes much less than that to get what I want, sugar.”
You spun around. Your hand swung before you knew it, arcing towards him. But it only struck an invisible force field, halting the slap inches from his face.
The monotone droning of the refrigerator invaded the narrow space between you and him. Cornered, you were forced to look at him. At the feather of strain pulling at his lips as blue eyes pierced into you with unsettling calmness, as if they were peeling back your skin to expose the bits hiding beneath you didn’t want him seeing. Whatever he found, you prepared yourself for the blow.
But Satoru merely shrugged and said, “Think about it.”
Not just your debt. Suguru. Your technique. The life you escaped from. The school. Him.
Your hand fell limp at your side. Words formed at the tip of your tongue, to reject him again. To tell him to get lost. To leave you the hell alone. That you couldn’t stand the sight of him in your home. You took in a long, deep breath. Exhaled.
“Don’t forget to lock the door,” you said, and left.
You were going to kill Jinta. You were going to chop him into tiny, itty bitty pieces, and boil him in a pot for the sewer rats.
“What do you mean ‘requested’? They don’t even know I exist.”
Jinta shrugged. “I might have sent the association your photo. Okay, I sent them your photo. But that was before you told me you didn’t want to do it.”
“So tell them I’m not available.”
“You know that’s not how it works with these people. And their leader specifically asked for you. Look, I tried to give him other options. He refused. And ah... they’ve already paid.”
“What?”
“Don’t look at me like that. The guy showed up an hour before we opened. Suitcase filled with cash. I couldn’t just turn him away, could I?” Jinta’s attention was already shifting back to his phone. “Come now, doll, what’s the harm? It’s just a meet-cute. There are worse things than a powerful man thinking you’re gorgeous. Go. Talk to him. Drink with him. And if he really likes you, then we can discuss terms.”
The club’s music blared. You stared at the door to the private room, padded with black velvet diamonds, taunting you like it knew you couldn’t escape it. It was the one place in the club Jinta willingly voided club policies, because an hour in there equated to pushing bottles for a whole night. Plain and simple, that room made Jinta rich.
That cultist trash was in there. The room was blocked out. Soundproofed. No cameras. He could be waiting with his pants down and a line of cocaine on the table, and no one would blink an eye.
A whiff of flowers. You felt your cursed scent creeping up from the depths, squirming, wriggling, in search of a crack. You forced it back down.
No more.
You would have to do it another way. Make yourself so repulsive and pray he would take what he wanted and piss off after tonight. Jinta would hear how bad you were and be resigned to having you push bottles for eternity. Either that or he’d throw you out for losing a shark. But it was a risk you were willing to take.
You steeled yourself and pushed through the door.
The first thing you registered were his clothes—traditional, dark blue robes. What the monks wore at a Buddhist temple. Long hair, grown past his shoulders.
And finally, a face you thought you’d never see again.
It was like a stab, slow at first, blood pooling around the wound before the gush as the blade pulled out.
Suguru smiled. “Hello, you. Did you miss me?”
The door clicked shut behind you.
“What are you—“ Ice clogged your veins. “The cult… you’re the leader.”
“Time Vessel Association,” Suguru said, waving a hand. His voice was lighter, more relaxed than you remembered. He gestured at a silver, bathtub-sized bucket, packed with the club’s most expensive champagne. “Drink?”
You couldn’t stop staring. Your throat was sticky. The muffled doosh-doosh-doosh outside did nothing to mask the sharp pounding in your chest.
But you pushed through it. “What do you want?”
“Me?” Geto placed a hand over his heart. “Why, to talk, of course. With you. Did you think I was here for your body?” He gestured to an armchair. “Come, sit. I paid for your time, after all. Might as well make the most of it. Catch up for old time’s sake.”
You didn’t move.
Geto’s smile widened. “I see Satoru has already gotten to you. He’s early, for once. You must be jumping for joy.”
“If this is some plan to provoke him—“
“Oh, I’m certain he’s provoked. But give me more credit than that. Not everything revolves around him, as both of you like to believe.”
You were not used to it—this new version of him. The way he talked. The way his eyes slid about the velvet-clad room, the karaoke machine, the muted television flashing words to a pop song, before settling on you again. Satoru was right. He was planning something.
And if you refused to hear him out, there was a high chance no one in the club would be returning home tonight. What he did to that village—you couldn’t be responsible if it happened again.
Forcing your legs to move to the nearest armchair, you sat, hands underneath the table where he couldn’t see them shaking, and slipped one into your dress pocket. Found your phone, and pressed the first contact without looking.
You willed your voice to steady. “You paid to talk. So talk.”
Suguru lowered himself onto the seat across you. His arms came up on the table, head balanced against one hand. “So, tell me,” he said in a silky voice. “How are you? It’s been some time. Is your mother still throwing knives at you?”
“Why? Are you going to kill her for me?”
“Only if you ask nicely. She’s the reason you’re in this place at all, is she not? Saddled you with debt up to your eyeballs that you had to leave the school.” The corners of his eyes crinkled upwards. “Or is it something else? Me, perhaps.”
“I told you before and I’ll tell you again—you’re not my type.”
Suguru chuckled. “Yet you still followed me around like a lost, little puppy. Still helped me collect all those curses, even when Satoru wasn’t around. Even when he didn’t need you anymore. I may not have appreciated it fully then, but I do now.”
You felt a nerve snap, but you kept your voice level. “If this is your way of asking me to join your dumb cult, the answer is no.”
“But you haven’t heard my offer yet. It’s quite enticing, I assure you.” Suguru’s elbow slid forward, head leaning closer. “It’s simple, really. I buy out your debt. You join my association. Become the sorcerer you’ve always wanted to be while never having to step foot in that school again. You can be you again, or not. Whatever you want.”
Your grip tightened around your phone. “You sent that curse last night,” you said, switching the conversation. “Was it some sort of test?”
Suguru’s smile turned disturbingly saccharine. “More a reminder. Believe me, if I knew you were using your technique again, I wouldn’t have bothered sending it at all.”
“So what? You were going to make me realise how useless I am, then turn up here with your crazy offer.”
“What’s so crazy about it? You’ll have a purpose. A real one that won’t have anything to do with your mother. Or Satoru. Or even me.”
You resisted looking down at your lap, forcing your eyes to remain on the person you once wished you could call a friend. A techno birthday mix was roaring outside. It was midnight.
Suguru lifted his head and eased back into the armchair. “Satoru wants you to find Sukuna’s fingers, doesn’t he? It’s why he came back for you. Was his offer enticing? Is he finally going to give you what you’ve always wanted?”
“Since when have you given a damn about what I want. Go ask him yourself if you really want to know.”
“I would, except I doubt he’ll be more forthcoming than you. But you know what—you’re right. Let’s ask him, shall we?” Suguru’s teeth flashed. His sharp gaze fell on table. On the exact spot where your hands were hiding, as if there was no wood blocking them. “Hello, Satoru,” he said, louder. “Did you catch everything I said? Should I repeat myself again?”
Your blood turned cold. Your eyes dropped to the phone you thought he hadn’t noticed on your lap—the call you’d made the moment you sat down. To Satoru, who had been listening the whole time.
Fuck.
You bolted from your seat, the armchair toppling backwards onto the plush carpet. You didn’t let yourself think and dug past the pit in your stomach. Blocked out the static growing louder and louder in your head to a screeching crescendo, and released your technique.
It rushed out of you like a long, heavy sigh. Honey and magnolias and sugar and decay, unspooling rivulets into the dark, strobe-lit room. You thrust out your hands, fingers pointed.
Time. You had to buy more time. If you could compel him to stay—
But it was too late. The air in the room ripped apart, a gaping hole forming out of nothing like a tear through the fabric of space. A shape grew out, and it was no longer the two of you.
The curse beside Suguru let out a low, garbled screech. Each of the six faces it wore on its rotted torso turned. Twelve hollow eyes widened, pupils carved out so there were only endless voids staring back at you.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with this one,” said Suguru, slowly stretching to his feet. “Do you remember? It’s the last one you helped me procure.”
Your scent redirected, and before you could steer it back to Suguru, it lashed out at the curse like a whip, tightening around it. But the curse didn’t lunge. It simply tilted, all six of its hideous faces turning together, black gooey resin oozing out deformed mouths onto the carpet, as if waiting.
Waiting for an order.
“Right on time,” said Suguru, turning from you, eyes widening with something like glee. “And three, two, one—“
The door to the room burst open, flying off its hinges. It slammed into the curse, shattering against its distorted figure.
Satoru’s hands slipped out his pockets. White cloth bandaged his eyes, his body rigid. A vine of your scent broke away, twirling around him as he stepped in front of you.
“Satoru, you’re here.” Suguru extended his arms, as if in welcome. “How’s the finger hunting going?”
Satoru’s mouth was set in a hard line, every muscle too composed, too deliberate. “Better than yours,” he said, in a tone you rarely heard. A tone that promised whoever was on the receiving end of it wasn’t going to enjoy what came next. “I’d stop if I were you.”
And if it were anyone else but his former best friend, they would have crippled from the sheer intimidation. But Suguru only seemed more pleased by it. “At least come up with something more creative to say. Besides, where’s the fun in that? It’s early days, and your girlfriend here still hasn’t decided yet, have you, sugar? Well, I guess she isn’t really your girlfriend anymore, is she?”
“You won’t win here, Suguru.”
“Well, not for now. Not when you’ve crashed my date.” Suguru waved his hand. The curse disappeared, swallowed back into shadows. “But I’ve already said what I came to say.”
You had half a second to process the look Suguru gave you before Satoru moved, tackling you to the floor with inhuman speed.
Before the explosion.
Your body slammed down on the carpet, ribs crushing. The blast split your head in two, a sharp ringing puncturing your eardrums. Darkness clouded your vision. You heaved, broken coughs and saliva spluttering out your mouth.
When you finally gathered enough of yourself together, snapping up, the private room was no longer private.
Neon lights flashed in technicolour before your eyes. Dust and debris and wrecked furniture everywhere. A section of the room’s wall was gone.
And through the gaping hole, you saw Suguru, soaring out into the night on the back of a monstrous, four-winged bird.
There was screaming. More than one. A whole, disjointed orchestra. The floor was rumbling. People were running, a stampede fighting to escape the club. You scrambled to your feet, your instincts immediately finding Satoru, and saw the flurry of wood and metal and cement suspended in mid-air, frozen in liminal space by his technique. You looked down at your body.
There wasn’t a single scratch on you.
For a while, Satoru didn’t speak. He stood, still as the wreckage he’d rendered weightless, staring out the hole in the wall while chaos rampaged through the club around you.
“Can you turn it off?” he asked.
For a moment, you were lost. Then you realised he was talking about your scent. Clouds of it, puffing out of you, thick and sweet, drifting out the ruins and into open air.
You were shaking. A deep weariness corded your muscles. You pushed through it, to the burning pit in your stomach, and tried forcing down your technique.
Nothing.
You tried again, and again. And again. Your will frayed, bleeding out the wound you couldn’t seal along with your cursed scent. Your head was throbbing. Black spots swam in your vision, a blurry vignette fading in from the corners.
Sirens whirred in the distance. You felt dizzy.
Satoru shifted, and rough, cool fingers threaded around yours. Your scent reached out, looping around his wrist. The pounding in your head dulled.
“Home?” he asked when you looked up.
Your hand tightened around his. It was the last place you wanted to go. The thought of going to sleep after everything… the club, the people—all this—destruction. For you to go home now, to pretend things were fine, you couldn’t do it.
Suguru had done this because of you. To see how much control you had over your technique, and you had failed miserably. He might have lit the fuse, but your failure had caused this. Caused harm, as it always did.
“Not yet.” Your voice was a whisper amidst the panic around them, but you knew he heard it.
A brush. A single stroke on the back of your hand.
“As you wish.”
「 ✦ Eight Years Ago ✦ 」
Haibara Yu was dead. You wished you could say you mourned for him the same way the others did, but you’d only be lying to yourself. You lived. You died. That was how it had always been, and how it would stay.
“Ah, I’m out,” said Shoko, checking her cigarette pack. She plucked out the last stick and slipped it between her lips. The smell of burning tobacco wafted around the corridor. “I’m going back to the dorms. You?”
“I’ll wait.”
“He’s going to take a while.”
“I don’t mind.”
Shoko glanced at the door to the morgue. She took a drag. “Hey,” she said. “If you don’t want to do it anymore, you can say no.”
“I already said I would. So I will.”
“Does Satoru know?”
You glanced down at the phone on your lap. “He’s busy,” you said.
“Can’t remember how that’s ever stopped you.”
You didn’t know what to say to that, so you said nothing. Shoko crushed the empty cigarette pack in her hand, letting it fall to the floor. Her next drag was long, like she was attempting to burn through the whole stick in a single inhale. She coughed.
“Maybe it’s a good thing,” said Shoko. “You can finally do what you want. Satoru’s strong enough. You saw his new reverse technique—he can now keep Infinity on at all times. I doubt what happened with Fushiguro Toji is going to happen again.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
A length of ash broke away from the cigarette tip, disintegrating mid-fall. Grey and white flakes scattered across the tiles.
“You should take a break,” said Shoko. “Go visit your dad, or something.”
“I’ll go when you quit smoking. Not like he’ll know the difference.”
“Suit yourself.” Shoko flicked the bud away. It landed, still burning, next to your shoe. “When you do, let me know. I’ll come with.”
You stayed on the plastic bench, and when Shoko’s footsteps faded around the corner, you flipped your phone open. The screen flashed to life.
Inbox. No new messages. Again.
You had two options. You could keep staring until your eyes bled out, or you could text him. Again.
You clicked into Satoru’s last message from three weeks ago.
Options. Reply.
Your fingers hovered over the keypad, stuck there in limbo as words formed and fell away in your head.
How are you?
No. You had used that line five times already.
I miss you.
No. Definitely not.
Do you still need me?
Pathetic.
“Ready?” A voice jolted you from your thoughts.
You snapped the phone shut, looked up, and saw Suguru in the corridor. You hadn’t heard him come out.
Plastic squealed as you stood from the bench. “Where to?”
“Not far, couple of hours out,” said Suguru. He had lost weight, his cheeks were starting to hollow out, the skin under his eyes sunken in. “It’s that forest near Fuji-san. Most likely a Vengeful Cursed Spirit. You’ll need to use your Flytrap Barrier. It’s a wide area.”
You followed him out of the building, the smell of disinfectant and formaldehyde giving way to humid, summer air. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you made your way to the campus entrance.
You tugged at your collar. “Did he say he’s coming?”
“You ask this every time.” Suguru’s eyes dropped to the phone still in your hand. “Isn’t the answer obvious by now?”
It was. Didn’t mean you had to accept it. Ever since Satoru’s expanded technique had awakened after nearly dying, he’d started taking on missions alone, leaving you to tag along with Suguru whenever he deigned to ask for assistance. Not that Suguru hadn’t tried. In fact, with how frequent you were seeing him this summer— compared to the measly five times Satoru actually appeared—you found yourself questioning more and more if you had, possibly, overstayed your welcome.
That, perhaps, you weren’t all that important. Your deal with Satoru was to help make him stronger. But really, he never needed you to achieve what was inevitable. He would have become the strongest sorcerer on his own, and he had. Gojo Satoru was his own competition, and his absence proved it.
It was affecting you more than it should.
Apparently, Suguru felt it too. For some reason, he’d slowly withdrawn into himself. He was quieter. More distant. There were no more jokes made at your expense. Come to think of it, you had never once seen him eat since you started going out on assignments together without Satoru.
Well, Suguru did eat, but it wasn’t food.
“Then why do you keep offering to bring me along?” you asked. “You’re more than capable of handling assignments alone like him.”
“Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“I never said that.”
Suguru stared at the trees. “You have your reasons. I have mine.”
“If this is some pity favour, you can shove it down your throat. You do it quite well already.”
“Pity is meant for the weak,” said Suguru, his tone unusually solemn. “And you’re not so much that as you’ve led yourself to believe. I know this. So does Satoru, in his own way. You just have to decide what you want to become.”
“Easy words for a Special Grade sorcerer to say.” You used a hand to fan yourself. Sweat was starting to build underneath the layers of your uniform. “And since when have I ever said I’m weak?”
“The obvious is often the easiest, and the most costly. Satoru has chosen his path. I’m choosing mine. Yours will come soon.”
He wasn’t making any sense, and you weren’t sure you wanted to press further. You much preferred him when he used to ignore you and only talk to Satoru over this new, cryptic persona.
“There’s no other choice for me,” you said.
A tiny crease formed at the side of Suguru’s mouth. “Then Satoru will be happy,” he said. “Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
The torii gates loomed high as you approached Jujutsu High’s main entrance. Thousands of them, like a great vermilion and black snake coiling down the stone steps leading out of the campus. Suguru paused at the first arch, head tilting slightly towards you.
“This is the last time,” he said. “I won’t be needing your help after this.”
Gravel grated against the soles of your shoes as you halted.
What the hell, was he dumping you? After that stupid speech?
You opened your mouth to argue.
Your phone buzzed then.
You were flipping up the top before you could stop yourself.
A line. Three words.
See you soon.
You read it like a paragraph. Should you reply? Or just wait to see if he’d seek you out? You should leave it. You were overthinking again.
“You coming, or not?” Suguru called out. He was already making his way down.
Perhaps Shoko was right. Perhaps you should do something else other than sticking to Satoru’s best friend, blindly doing whatever he wanted you to do, all so you could scrape out any ounce of staying relevant in their lives.
Maybe, just maybe, it was time for you to give up.
Briefly, you looked back at the school. You slipped the phone back into your pocket, and followed in Suguru’s wake.
「 ✦ Present Day ✦ 」
If it were anyone else who brought you here, it would only be to skin you alive and dismember your body parts, bit by bit.
“There’s horror, or horror.” Satoru held up the DVDs. “Take your pick.”
You stood at the foot of the stairs, questioning both the idea of taking that last step into the square, windowless room, as well as its taste in decor. Or rather, lack of it. Besides an empty desk shoved in a corner, there was a small television propped against the brick wall. Facing it was a couch that had seen better days, the harsh fluorescent light above doing no favours in hiding the stains embedded into the fabric.
When you had told Satoru to get you out of the club, you hadn’t meant for him to take you to a dungeon.
“I’m not in the mood,” you said.
“Nothing I can do about it. All the others are in your dorm, so unless you want to take a walk through the grounds—“
“We’re in the school?”
“Actually, we’re in the cellar of a cabin in the middle of a forest.” Satoru slotted a disc into the machine. “But sure, it’s part of the school.”
“I told you I wasn’t coming back.”
“Where else was I going to take you? A hotel? You said you didn’t want to go home.” He tossed a bag of chips at you. It landed with a sharp crunch, bouncing off your high heel onto the floorboards.
Irritation pinched you. Was he really going to pretend he hadn’t planned this? Maybe not for when, but he’d known about Suguru. Most likely predicted you would use your technique. That it would backfire sooner or later, and had prepared for it.
But you were not about to stroke his ego by asking.
You checked your phone instead. No reception. But a message from Jinta had snuck through.
Call me.
You didn’t know if you should be relieved he was still alive. You hoped whoever Satoru sent for clean up had wiped his memory to a blank slate. Jinta probably wouldn’t have seen the curses Suguru released, but you would rather not explain why there was a giant hole in his club, a monk flying out of it, and another in a blindfold rendering slabs of concrete weightless.
“You can stand there for the next two hours if you want, sugar, although it will be more comfortable here.” Satoru was already lazing on the couch when you looked up, television blaring.
He was playing ‘Silence of the Lambs’.
You ignored him and sank down onto the steps, knees together. It was the movie, the clock, or the back of Satoru’s head. And the moron wasn’t even watching it properly. His blindfold was still on.
After Satoru had teleported you out of the club, you’d prayed your scent would fade. Subside, at least. But the dam containing your cursed energy refused to seal shut. What had you expected after locking it up of so long and then using so much in one go? Your nerves were still thrumming. Your headache gnawed at your brain.
Worst of all—you had liked it. The rush that took over your senses. The release you’d held back for years, finally blasting out unbidden, like a tidal wave long overdue.
And Suguru had known. Had wanted you to feel it. He was never going to let that curse attack you, only to prove a point. But between his sudden appearance and prying out information for Satoru to hear over the phone, you hadn’t fully registered what Suguru said earlier—that he was only there to remind you.
Remind you of what you were. What you did. What you could be. With him.
You sat in a cloud of your own scent, a good chunk wafting over to linger around Satoru. There was no doubt he’d sensed it, though he gave no reaction.
The screen zoomed in on Hannibal Lecter. The couch was blocking half his face, and you wished it could block out your own reeling mind as well. You leaned against the wall.
You didn’t know how long you stayed that way, torn between staring at Satoru’s back and pretending to watch the movie—the detective lady was droning on about a questionnaire and the serial killer…
You closed your eyes.
It was silent, and then it was warm.
You snorted awake, eyes on the clock. Not five minutes, but over an hour. People were still talking on the screen.
Satoru wasn’t on the couch anymore.
“It’s not ending yet,” he said, beside you on the stairs.
Your head was on his shoulder. You were hugging his arm. Like a damn koala.
Shit.
You quickly unwound yourself from him, then felt something tightening with every inch you pulled away, and recognised your scent latched onto him. Smelled it. Still leaking.
He had taken off his blindfold and was stretched out on the steps, resting on his elbows. Wisps of snowy hair fell over those impossible blue eyes, stealing your next breath.
“At the club,” Satoru said, a little too gently. “When you saw Suguru... why didn’t you run?”
You blinked at him. Must he do this now? When you’d barely woken up. While your head was throbbing, your muscles like bags of sand. “I called you. I wanted you to hear what he—“
“Haven’t I said it before? You’re his plan.”
“Well, his plan is shit then, because I’m shit with my technique. So I don’t see how he’s going to get any use out of me.”
“Are you playing dumb, or do you really not understand?”
“Look, I was at the club. He showed up. I called you. That’s it. I don’t recall agreeing to an interrogation, least of all about him.”
“You couldn’t wait to leave your home this morning, yet you’re content to sit with him in a room and talk. Alone.”
“Are you serious? There were civilians in the club. If I hadn’t done what he asked, he would’ve—“
“I would’ve stopped it.” The way he looked at you was as if he didn’t believe what you were saying. “You didn’t need to stay. So why did you?”
“God damnit, I already told you why. So you’d know what he was up to. So no one would get hurt. And what I choose to do is none of your bloody business.”
Satoru tilted his head. “You sure about that? Because I think we’re well past the whole minding our own business thing.”
“Don’t start,” you snapped. “You don’t get to bring this up again. Not when I’m the one who chased you. Not when you’re the one who didn’t want me in the first place.”
You saw Satoru’s body tense, and suddenly he wasn’t sprawled on the steps. His broad frame closed in on you, arms coming down on both sides of your legs.
His gaze hardened to cold, blue steel.
“If that’s what you think,” he said, “then why was I fucking you every night for years?”
You flinched, your back meeting the stair wall, solid and unforgiving. You pasted against it. But that traitorous scent of yours continued sticking to him like thick, gooey honey, lapping him up as if he was its own personal feast.
Satoru hesitated. His voice eased, softer. “Come here, baby.”
“No.”
“You’re going to need to turn off that scent of yours soon enough. We both know which way is fastest.”
“No.”
His jaw tightened. “Who do you think I am? A prepaid number? Delivery service? Make up your mind, because everything I’m seeing is telling me that’s not it.”
“Me? You’re the one who won’t let things go. You accost me at work. Invade my home. You brought me here, to this place—for what? To show me how useless I am without you? That I need you around to be of any worth? You can’t stand it, can you? Not winning. Suguru left. I left. Deal with it.”
Heavy breathing echoed out the television speakers. The fluorescent tube above doused Satoru’s face, his eyes, in rigid, clinical light.
“I see,” he said, quietly. “Then do you think I should deal with you the same way I’ve dealt with him?”
It was like a stab in your gut. You felt your resolve crack—a thin, crooked line that slithered down the walls you’d built under your skin. A small, weak sound escaped your lips.
“I’ll answer for you,” said Satoru, bluntly. “Did you put your hands on a single one of those villagers? No. Where were you the day he did it? You didn’t even know he went. You were with me. Did you forget what we were doing? And you still think you have something to do with it?”
Your chest caved in. The ugliness stewing inside you threatened to boil over. “I helped him—all those curses. He used them to—“
“He would have done it anyway. You’re not that special.”
Red exploded in your vision. You kicked him, and found your foot suspended. It hung there, in his Infinity, frozen in the void he’d created between the sole of your heel and his ribcage so it would never land.
Then Satoru was gripping your ankles. He yanked.
You jerked forward, head flying back. In one swift move, Satoru caught your waist, breaking your fall, and swung you upright. You were pressed into him, your face coming to a screeching halt before his own, and all you saw then was blue.
Endless, devastating blue.
“Are you done yet?” Satoru asked. He had your legs draped over his lap. His hand was on your thigh, leaving a burning trail as it glided up to stop below your skirt. And there, he stroked.
“Don’t,” you said, but the warning only came out feeble. The cracks in you multiplied.
“If it’s not enough, you can hit me again and find out.”
“I said don’t.”
“That’s not an answer.” Satoru’s fingers dragged up, and he slipped them under your skirt.
Your walls crumbled.
“We can’t...” Your voice stuck to your throat.
“Come on, sugar,” he said. “What can’t we do? Say it. I’ll hear whatever lie you’ve got.”
A gap. A rupture. Your curse lashed out in full force, breaking through the dark, forgotten place you had thrown it in to rot for years. Hot. Searing. Hungry. A vicious drought that surged around you, around him, all encompassing. All consuming.
Satoru smiled. “Found you.”
You lunged at him, grabbing him by the neck. Your nails dug into his skin. Punctured through flesh. You glared at him, wanting to choke the life out of him. Wanting to destroy him—
And crashed your mouth onto his.
It was everything, it was nothing. It was the taste of him. His tongue. His hands. It was the blank space in your mind that couldn’t fit anything but the ghost of everywhere he touched.
His hand was on your waist, your torso, cupping your breast. Squeezing. His long, languid strokes high up your thigh deepened to an unyielding pressure, sliding into the curve right at the apex.
You moaned into him, diving your fingers into his hair. For awhile, nothing existed save that touch inside your leg. You were sinking further into him. Insatiable. Feral.
Alive.
Satoru licked the roof of your mouth. Licked away any thoughts trying to bubble up, coaxing out each breath, slicing them up until you were drowning in the sensation of him.
"God, I..." he breathed, hot against your skin. He paused. Didn't finishe his sentence, and captured your mouth again.
A dull ache was building between your legs, and as if he knew, he spread them apart.
His fingers grazed over the thin fabric that did nothing to conceal your slick evidence pooling beneath. You gasped, clinging onto him, your nerves unspooling and tangling all at once.
You felt Satoru smirk against your lips. Then he flicked it. Flicked right up the centre of your heat. And you swore you caught on fire and burned. Right there and then.
You would eat him alive. You would devour him whole out of pure starvation.
You pushed him back against the stairway, legs shifting to straddle him. And found him hard against your centre. Felt his breaths, hot on your cheek, your jaw, your neck, before your mouths found each other as if they couldn't bear to be apart.
You let go. Let your scent engulf them, and ground against him.
A low groan escaped Satoru’s lips, and it nearly undid you. All your senses narrowed to the feel of him. The friction as you moved along his straining length.
More. You wanted more. You ground harder.
"Fuck..." he groaned again. His fingers pressed down. Pressed into the thin, wet fabric through to your aching core, and began circling.
You almost lost it.
Sighing into him, you spread your legs wider. A plea. A surrender.
Satoru stilled. And it took everything in you to pull away from him. Just enough for his gaze to find yours, and what you saw in them—you knew you had him.
You smiled. Then balled your hand into a fist, and punched him.
This time, it landed. Straight in the gut.
Satoru blinked. He stared down at his stomach, and then up at you as you pushed off him and stood. Peering down at him, you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.
“That was for being an asshole,” you said, then thought you might spit in his face for good measure.
But Satoru’s lips curved upwards.
“You’re welcome,” he said.
Your chest stalled. For a second, his words hung in the air. Clean, stale air. No haze. No flowers. No cloying sweetness—
Your cursed scent was gone.
And in its place, the realisation that he had known exactly what he was doing.
The motherfuc—
“Movie’s done,” said Satoru. He peeled off the stairs, stretching, as if he’d woken up from a particularly restful nap, and walked to turn off the television. The screen had faded to black. Credits were rolling. His clothes were rumpled, his hair a mess. There were red streaks on his neck where your nails had clawed. “So, have you decided yet?”
His abrupt nonchalance stung you. “What?”
“On the assignment,” he said. “To train with me.”
Unbelievable. Unbefuckinlievable.
“Is that what this was? Training?”
“Not really. Not when we’ve done this a thousand times.” Satoru pulled out his blindfold, and those blue eyes were lost again behind its bindings. “You’ll need to learn more control than that to track down Sukuna’s fingers. Or were you considering taking up another offer?”
Your blood seethed. You should have spat at him when you had the chance. Should have deleted him the day you left. You thought three years were enough for you to purge him from your system, your habits. That if you shovelled enough dirt over that grave, you would forget. Your sins. Your curse. Gojo Satoru. Your scent that treated him like a golden beacon. Like he was the one cure who could appease it. Tame it.
Well, you had enough. You were sick of him turning everything into a game. Of reducing you to the desperate, foolish girl you were before. Of your scent bowing to him as if he was God incarnate. He might govern your cursed technique, but if his plan was to have everything else, he was sorely mistaken.
Satoru wanted to train you? Fine. Use you? You would let him. You would let him give and give and give. And when the world’s strongest sorcerer had nothing else to give, you would take back what was yours.
And be done with him for good.
“One month,” you said. “You get one month.”
Satoru didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, relaxed, in the middle of the room you had refused to enter this whole time. Then he removed his hands from his pockets, and clapped them together.
“Excellent. You start tomorrow.”
♡〜To Be Continued〜♡
a/n — you're hereeeee *kissing you* thank you for giving this story your time! i promise the next part will have infinitely more spice, heh! until then, wishing you the most pleasant dreams with satoru and all your blorbos <333
*** likes and reblogs make me cry happy tears, but please do not repost this fic or use it with any form of AI, thank you <3
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