⋅°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･toons!! also known as naoyas biggest hater
˖°࿐ •⁀➷ 20! she/her. MDNI. new writer :) i am currently in university with a hectic af schedule so expect random updates to this blog (¬ ͜ ͡¬) i only write for jjk currently but will write for more fandoms in the future!
my interests: jjk (duh), bts, WNBA (dallas wings), food, music (my fav artists are adela and bts), kdramas, baking, animals (specifically my dog), and travelling!
rules: no racism, homophobia, or ableism will be tolerated! also pls don’t steal my work pretty please, it’s not even good enough for you to steal fr fr.
hello i literally just read ur gojo fic and i was obsessed and went to ur profile and realized that was like ur second fic like what...😧😧 anyway dis my application to be ur biggest fan ur so cool
OMG YOU ARE SO SWEET WTFFFF ☹️💔
I am happy to announce that after extensive review of your credentials and supporting documentation, i am delighted to inform you that your application for my biggest fan has been approved with immediate effect. furthermore, i would like to formally submit my own candidacy for the position of your biggest fan (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) hehe
WARNINGS: blood, gore, violence, angst, fluff, some horror elements ish? happy ending, feelings of possessiveness, the smut here is filthy nasty, dirty talk, gojo is an eater!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, pussy EATING (more like devouring), multiple orgasms, fingering, rimming, blowjob, creampie, cum eating, p in v sex, dry humping, edging
NOTES: omg i am so excited to finally release this. this part is so much longer than i intended it to be, sorry guys hehe. i dont know how i feel about the curse stuff in this story, not really used to writing it so idk how good it is or how accurate it cuz i barely fact checked this shizzz. omg but i LOVE the smut in this fic. even if you don't like the beginning and just want the porn, bro scroll to the bottom, i promise it won't disappoint.
pt.1
The second you stepped outside the hotel, the wind hit you like a wall. It was cold, damp, and forceful enough to knock the air right out of your lungs for a second. Although the rain had stopped, a heavy mist hung in the air, turning every breath into a conscious struggle.
You checked the screen of your phone.
10:00 p.m.
Shit. There was seriously nothing you hated more than late-night calls. Sleep was a priority for you, and being dragged out into the field when your body was practically begging to be sleeping in bed was only going to make a tough assignment feel ten times worse.
Luckily, a bright blue taxi pulled up to the curb before you could spiral into misery over your lack of sleep. Thank God you’d had the foresight to call one while you were getting dressed upstairs; at least you wouldn't be standing around freezing in the damp air waiting for a ride.
You slipped inside and gave the driver the location.
“Kabukicho, Shinjuku.”
According to the call from Principal Yaga, that was the curse’s last known location. But it was a special grade—they were incredibly fast, mobile, and rarely stayed in one spot for long.
As the taxi pulled away, its tires hissing against the wet pavement, you leaned back against the headrest, completely unable to relax. Kabukicho was going to be a nightmare at this hour. The nightlife there would be in full swing, the neon-lit streets absolutely packed with people moving between bars, clubs, and restaurants.
Your mouth felt completely dry. This was a massive headache waiting to happen.
Dropping a massive veil over the whole district would just trap thousands of innocent civilians inside with a monster. There was no point in locking people into a danger zone if you could avoid it. Your best bet was to track the curse down first, herd it into a confined space, and then drop a smaller, targeted veil over it. If you could corner it in a small area, you could wrap the whole thing up pretty quickly.
Well, assuming there’s actually only one of them.
The thought made you frown. Satoru had mentioned that this specific special grade might be splitting pieces off from its main body. If he was right, how many of those pieces were running around? How far had they scattered? Dealing with one veil in a crowded place like Kabukicho was hard enough, but managing several by yourself? It felt completely impossible.
The loud, aggressive buzz of your ringtone suddenly shattered the quiet of the car, pulling you right out of your head. Your eyes widened the second you looked down at the caller ID.
Daddy long legs.
This nincompoop had changed his contact name, probably while you were in the shower earlier. You made a mental note to fix that. Still, seeing him call did pull at your heartstrings a little. Without wasting much more time, you pick up.
"Hey," you say softly.
"Hey, you." His voice is low and sleepy, stripped of his usual teasing lilt. "You there yet?"
"Almost, should be there in a few minutes."
"Mmm." For a few seconds, you just hear his quiet, soft breathing. "'m missing you."
If only you could see him right now—eyes closed, sprawled out in your shared bed, arm outstretched to your empty spot, pretending you were right there beside him, your voice in his ear coming from the pillow next to him instead of through a phone.
"Miss you too, Toru." You wanted to say more. To tell him how worried you were and just hear his voice, soothing and steady, talk you down from it. But you don't. You know him too well. If he knew you were worried, he'd come anyway, no matter what you said.
You can't risk it. Curses that mess with your head are the worst kind to deal with—not only are they mentally exhausting, but they’re also time-consuming. Gojo showing up late to this meeting was a firm no. You know those stupid geezers would take their frustration out on Yuji and dress it up as concern for the safety of the world. For once, Gojo had to be on his best behaviour. This wasn't like it was with Yuta, and even that had been an uphill battle. Yuji carried the king of curses inside him. Convincing them that sparing him was the right call wouldn't be easy, not by a long shot. So, you hold your tongue and hope it doesn't come back to bite you, and instead say, "What time do you have to be up?"
"3:30. It's sooooo early, babe. Those fossilized dinosaurs want to meet at 4:30," he whines.
You giggle. "That really is early. They're trying to make it hard for you to show up, stupid idiots. Hate how it feels like they've already made up their minds about Yuji without even hearing you out."
"I know, baby. But you know me, I'm very persuasive. So persuasive I even got you to fall for me."
"Who says I fell for you?"
"It was pretty obvious when you were grinding on me an hour ago."
"Oh my god," you huffed, your face heating up. "You are completely shameless."
"Only when it comes to you."
Before you could fire back a retort, the taxi driver’s gruff voice cut through the quiet car, his eyes catching yours in the rearview mirror. "We'll be arriving in about a minute."
You gave the driver a polite nod and returned your attention to the phone. "Hey, I'm here. I have to go."
You heard Satoru let out a slow, deep exhale on the other end, the sleepiness completely vanishing from his tone. "Okay. Be careful out there. Call me if anything feels off—and I mean anything. I'm serious."
"I will. Thanks, 'toru. See you tomorrow." You murmured your goodbyes and hung up.
The lingering warmth in your chest vanished the second the screen went dark, instantly replaced by that familiar, creeping dread. It was the specific kind of heavy knot that only formed when you knew that a mission was going to be an absolute nightmare.
The taxi rolled to a stop along a relatively quiet side street just off the main strip. After thanking the driver, you stepped out of the car and into the overwhelming wall of noise and neon that defined Kabukicho. You pulled your collar up against the damp chill and blended into the crowd, scanning the bright alleyways to figure out exactly where the traces of cursed energy were.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
The quiet of the hotel room offered Satoru no refuge. His mind remained a relentless cycle of memories, all centering on you. For more than ten years, he had settled for the role of a friend, a position that had become a slow and constant ache. To finally hold you in the way he had envisioned for a lifetime, only to have that connection severed while he was powerless to stop it, felt like a unique form of cruelty.
He revisited every moment you shared, unable to break free from the loop of his memories. The heavy weight of his current loneliness brought a singular, undeniable truth to the surface: there was no logical explanation for this depth of grief other than the fact that he was completely in love with you. He loved every detail of your existence. When he looked into your eyes, he felt a pull so magnetic that he never wanted to find his way back. Your voice was a gentle breeze that swept him away to a place of calm, and your laughter remained the most beautiful sound he had ever known.
His entire being felt anchored to you. His heart and soul belonged to you, even if you remained unaware of the depth of his devotion. People called him the strongest, but that title felt like a hollow prize when it could not keep you near him. He would give up the power that set him apart from the rest of the world in an instant if it meant he could finally be with you. He did not care about the status or the prestige; all he wanted was for you to be there.
He eventually drifted into a light, restless sleep, but you followed him there, too. Waking or dreaming, you were the only thing occupying his mind, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
While Satoru drifted into a quiet sleep, you were out navigating the restless, crowded streets of Kabukicho. The district was alive with a frantic energy. Laughter spilled from the open doors of bars, and a rhythmic bass thudded from clubs upstairs. A group of office workers stumbled past with loosened ties and flushed faces, while couples walked beneath the glow of neon screens, their umbrellas knocking together. The earlier rain had left the pavement slick, turning every puddle into a reflection of red, blue, and gold.
You pushed through the crowded streets, filtering out the noise to focus entirely on tracking the curse’s residue. You spotted a faint smudge of it on a restaurant window, barely noticeable against the bright indoor lights. Further down, there was another trace on the glass doors of a karaoke building and a third smeared across the shiny hood of a parked car. Then, you saw a trail rippling across a puddle at the entrance of a narrow alley, heading into the dark.
Everything clicked into place. The curse wasn’t touching the actual structures of the city. It was only leaving marks on reflective surfaces. It was traveling through the glass and mirrors, jumping between reflections to stay hidden.
Scanning the street with better focus, you noticed a young man slow down near the entrance of an arcade a little farther ahead. His friends kept walking and laughing at a joke, but he lagged behind. He stood frozen beside a glossy black panel near the doorway, eyes fixed on his own reflection.
You watched him closely. His shoulders went completely slack, and then his reflection smiled.
But the man’s actual face stayed completely blank.
You lunged forward. “Hey!” you called out, pushing through the gap between passing strangers. “Step away from that!”
The man didn’t react. In the glass, his reflection tilted its head with a slow, deliberate ease, the smile getting wider.
You quickened your pace. “Can you hear me?”
Still nothing.
By the time you reached him, his hand was lifting toward the panel, fingers trembling as they stretched toward the version of himself waiting on the other side. You caught his wrist a split second before his skin brushed the glass.
The moment your hand closed around his arm, the reflection shattered into something else.
The man’s face vanished from the polished surface, and a creature looked back.
The silhouette was almost human but stretched out and warped. It loomed too tall, its limbs emaciated, and its neck bent at a sickening, fractured slant. Its face was completely blank, just a smooth mask of pale flesh with a dark, scar-like seam running across the bottom. Before you could even draw a breath, that seam split wide open—the flesh peeling back with a wet sound into a massive, jagged grin.
You felt its heavy, suffocating attention land squarely on you. The air went ice-cold.
Around you, the crowd kept moving, completely oblivious. Someone laughed behind your shoulder, a car horn blared, and music pulsed from the arcade. But inside the glass, nothing moved. It just stared straight at you.
The black surface rippled.
You shoved the man backward, hard enough to send him stumbling into a passerby. Someone shouted in annoyance. The young man blinked rapidly, dazed and confused, like he was waking up from a deep trance.
You barely heard them. The movement inside every reflective surface on the street suddenly froze dead.
The windows, the puddles, the cars parked along the curb, the shine of rainwater on the asphalt, and even the dark screen of a phone in the hand of a passing woman. In every single one of them, that same pale face was watching you.
Your breath caught. “Found you,” you whispered.
The curse’s smile tore wider, and the streetlights flickered.
In one sharp instant, Kabukicho bent. The neon signs stretched upward into long trails of color. The pavement beneath your shoes grew soft and unstable. Sound dragged and warped, the voices of the crowd pulling thin until they melted into a distant, ringing in your ear.
You stepped back, cursing yourself as you tried to activate your cursed technique.
Too late.
The glossy panel beside the arcade warped open. A violent, magnetic pull tore through your body, and your stomach dropped as if the ground had vanished. You tried to brace yourself, digging your heel into the changing pavement, but the force only tightened, yanking you forward with impossible strength.
The last thing you saw of the real world was the young man staring at you in horror. Then the street folded inward.
You hit wet pavement hard, pain sparking through your shoulder as you rolled and caught yourself on one palm. For a moment you stayed there, breathing through the shock while the air froze in your lungs and your pulse pounding in your ears.
Slowly, you pushed yourself upright.
Kabukicho spread out around you. At least, it looked like Kabukicho.
The neon signs still buzzed, and the streets still shone with rain. Clusters of civilians blurred past with umbrellas tucked under their arms. A taxi rolled by, its blue paint flashing under the lights before vanishing around the corner.
You turned in a slow circle. The arcade stood behind you, its entrance glowing. The same bars and restaurants lined the street, and the same narrow alley opened a few steps away.
Your hand curled into a fist. “No,” you murmured.
Something was wrong. It took a moment to spot the glitch.
A woman in a beige coat walked past you, laughing softly into her phone. Three seconds later, she walked out of the exact same corner ahead of you and passed you again, her laugh echoing at the exact same pitch.
Across the street, a man dropped a cigarette near the curb and crushed it beneath his shoe. A beat later, he was standing back beneath the sign, bringing the unlit cigarette to his mouth for the first time.
The blue taxi rolled past the corner again, exactly as it had a moment ago. Then the traffic light changed from red to green, but none of the cars actually moved. A second later, it snapped back to red.
You exhaled slowly. A domain. No veil needed anymore you think.
The technique was incomplete, a hollow imitation of a Domain Expansion. It lacked the suffocating pressure of a refined barrier and the immediate, predatory lock of a sure-hit factor. The fabric of the space felt fragile, poorly woven at the seams. It was a stage play of a world—constructed from memory by an entity that barely understood what it was trying to mimic.
You checked your phone. It was frozen, so you had no way of keeping track of how long you’ve been in here, great.
You moved carefully down the street, eyes flicking from surface to surface. The windows reflected the looping crowd. Puddles showed signs flickering in entirely different colours than the ones overhead. The side of a passing taxi caught your shape, but the reflection was a half-second too slow to follow your movements.
The curse was hiding somewhere inside this imitation, and you had to find the anchor holding the illusion together. This domain was likely how it caught non-sorcerers. If a human was drunk or high, they’d probably assume their own brains were playing tricks on them, completely missing the small, unnatural loops until they were trapped endlessly.
You recalled what you saw right before getting dragged in: the face in the glass. The curse had to be hiding in one of these reflective surfaces. You just needed to find the right one and destroy it before it could hop to another.
You were basically playing a high-stakes game of whack-a-mole, keeping cursed energy circulating through your fist so you could strike the instant the curse appeared.
You wandered around the district looking at every surface, your eyes aching from the constant glare of the bright lights overhead. You had no idea what time it was, and the frustration was really starting to build.
Then, as you turned your head to check another window, you caught it. That eerily creepy figure was staring back from a glass pane. Without any hesitation, you smashed the surface with your cursed energy.
Suddenly everything went black. The fake world vanished, and you felt yourself falling straight down into the earth.
You kept your eyes shut until you hit the ground with a loud, painful thud.
"Ouch," you muttered, pulling yourself up.
When you opened your eyes, you weren't in Kabukicho anymore. You were standing in the middle of Jujutsu High.
You stared out at the barren campus, the silence stretching for a heartbeat before total panic gripped you. The air felt thick, poisoned, completely wrong. You were still trapped in the belly of its domain, snagged in a different layer of the curse's reality. A cold, nauseating dread settled deep in your gut.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
The loud blare of his phone alarm broke the quiet of the hotel room. Satoru groaned, keeping his eyes shut as his hand swept across the nightstand until his fingers closed around the device. He swiped the screen to silence it, letting his arm drop heavily back onto the mattress. For a minute, he just lay there in the dim morning light, waiting for the lingering grogginess of sleep to clear. Then the reality of the empty room returned to him, and he remembered that you were still out on your mission.
His eyes opened. He sat up, blinking against the sudden brightness as he unlocked his screen and went directly to your messages. There were no new notifications, no missed calls, and no indication that you had tried to reach him. He stared at the blank space beneath his last message, his thumb hovering over the glass. It was common for missions to run late, especially considering it was a special grade in a crowded area like Kabukicho. He knew there were plenty of practical reasons for the delay, but the lack of an update still unsettled him.
Satoru ran a hand through his messy white hair, his gaze drifting to your empty side of the bed. He knew exactly how capable you were—you were one of Jujutsu High's most reliable sorcerers, and he trusted your instincts implicitly. He didn’t need to hover or treat you like an amateur. But logic did nothing to ease the suffocating silence of the room. That was the part hated: the agonizing act of waiting, left entirely in the dark about whether you were safe, completely exhausted, or just too busy to check your phone.
During your student years, the school rarely separated the two of you. Almost always deployed as a pair, meaning he could simply look to his side and see you right there. You would usually be covered in dirt, stubbornly hiding your exhaustion while scolding him for being reckless. He always laughed because he knew the frustration came from a place of genuine care.
He remembered a specific evening after a grueling assignment. You both were bruised, starving, and waiting outside a convenience store. Satoru had bought the very last sweet pastry from the shelf simply to irritate you.
You had stared at him with intense, exaggerated offense. “You are actually the worst person I know,” you said.
He had grinned, leaning against the glass door. “That is a little dramatic.”
“You stole my dessert.”
“I paid for it.”
“You knew I wanted it.”
Despite the five minutes of complaints, you still sat with him on the concrete curb under the harsh glare of the vending machines, breaking the pastry in half. You took the larger piece, claiming it was a mandatory fee for emotional distress. It was a completely ordinary moment, devoid of any major declarations, but it remained one of the clearest and fondest memories he had.
Things were different now. You were no longer teenagers learning the ropes, and the higher-ups no longer kept you two together just because the two of you functioned perfectly as a team. They had individual duties, separate schedules, and distinct dangers. Satoru accepted a while ago that this was the natural progression of their lives, but he thoroughly disliked the reality of it.
It was a strange, frustrating vulnerability. He possessed the Six Eyes and the Limitless technique, making him the most powerful sorcerer alive, yet none of that power allowed him to see through the distance to ensure you were safe. He was entirely helpless to do anything but sit in a quiet room and wait.
His thumb moved over the call icon. He wanted to dial your number just to hear the line connect. Even if you answered only to reprimand him for interrupting your focus, the sound of your voice would be enough to put his mind at ease. He hesitated, then decided against it, opening the text bar instead.
Hey. Update me when you can.
He deleted it immediately because it felt too serious. Sending that felt like a manifestation, a confession that there was actually something to fear.
Instead, he typed: You better not be making me worry for nothing.
He hit send before he could reconsider, placing the phone face up on the mattress. He started getting ready for his meeting, eyes always flickering to his phone to see if you responded, but you didn’t. When he reached for his eyewear, his hand passed right over his glasses and grabbed his blindfold. Those frames were reserved for you—he only put them on because you loved them, and he had zero desire to look attractive for a room full of old geezers. Wrapping the black cloth over his eyes, Satoru checked his phone one last time, tucked it into his pocket, and left the hotel room.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
The silence in the courtyard was absolute. There were no cicadas buzzing in the trees, no distant hum of traffic from the city below the mountain, and the wind had died down to nothing. The sun was stuck in a permanent, dull twilight that cast long, unnatural shadows across the dirt.
You took a tentative step toward the main building. The wooden sliding doors and stone pathways looked exactly as they always did, but the familiar warmth of the school was entirely gone.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor to your left.
You spun around, your hand instinctively rising as you prepared to channel your cursed energy. Satoru stepped out from the shadow of the building. He was wearing his standard dark uniform, his white hair messy and damp just like it had been in the hotel room. But something was wrong. His blindfold was gone, and his eyes were completely blank, staring right through you without a single trace of life.
"You should have just told me you were worried," he said. His voice was completely flat, stripped of its usual playful cadence, chillingly empty. "You should have told me you were scared so I could actually help you. But you wanted to play the hero. And now look at you... you're going to die here, entirely alone."
The words sent a sharp sting through your chest, but the mechanical delivery gave it away immediately. The real Satoru would never sound this lifeless.
"You're not him," you muttered, backing away.
The illusion did not argue. Its face twisted into a rigid snarl, jaw unhinging just slightly too wide, and it lunged — not with the graceful, almost lazy precision of the real Satoru, but with savage, mindless velocity. Its fingers hooked like claws and drove straight for your throat.
You pivoted hard left, letting it blow past you, and buried your fist into its ribs with everything you had. Cursed energy detonated through the point of contact. The fake Satoru exploded, its torso bursting apart from the inside out in a cascade of jagged glass. Hundreds of heavy shards screamed outward. One opened a line across your cheekbone. You hissed through your teeth, pressing the back of your hand against the cut as the fragments rained down onto the dirt with a deafening, ringing clatter.
You didn't even have time to register the blood before more footsteps sounded from every direction.
Geto walked out from behind the training grounds, a cursed tool balanced in his hand. Shoko stepped off the porch of the infirmary, her fingers gripping a sharp scalpel. Even Principal Yaga emerged from the main hall. None of them spoke. They just advanced on you in perfect sync, their faces smooth and expressionless.
Panic flared in your chest. Even though you knew they were fakes, seeing the people you cherished most coming at you with lethal intent made your stomach turn to ice.
Geto struck first. He closed the distance instantly, his cursed tool whistling in a downward diagonal aimed to split your skull. You ducked under the swing, but the blade caught you, slicing open the meat of your shoulder. It wasn't a fatal blow, but it burned like a bitch.
Not deep, but enough. Pain flared bright and hot, and you used it, let it sharpen your focus instead of scattering it. You surged upward, driving your elbow into Geto's chin with bone-jarring force. His head snapped back, and you got one clean look at his empty eyes before Shoko's scalpel raked across your forearm. Instead of letting the shock break your rhythm, you weaponized it, using the adrenaline to lock your focus. You exploded upward, slamming your elbow into the underside of Geto's jaw. The impact rattled up your arm as his head jerked back, exposing the vacant, unseeing look in his eyes. Then, out of nowhere, Shoko's scalpel raked across your forearm.
That one was deep.
You cried out, staggering. The blade had caught you across the meat of your left forearm and blood welled up instantly, running hot between your fingers and dripping into the dirt. Your arm burned like a brand had been pressed against it. You had to clench your jaw to keep from going to your knees.
No time.
Yaga was already on top of you. He didn't use a weapon — he didn't need one. His fist connected with your ribs like a falling beam, and the world whited out for a half-second. You felt something creak inside your chest, praying all your ribs were still intact. You smashed the back of your skull against his face as he grabbed you from behind, and the grip loosened just enough for you to wrench yourself free, gasping.
Three more copies emerged from the shadows to replace the ones you'd shattered.
Then it clicked. The curse was trying to exhaust you. If you kept fighting these puppets, you would be completely drained of cursed energy and blood before you ever found the real threat.
You stopped focusing on the copies. You dropped your stance, ignored the fresh wave of pain from your arm and ribs, and gathered a massive amount of cursed energy into both palms. You drove your hands directly into the stone pathway beneath your feet with a sound like a thunderclap.
The energy erupted outward in a violent wave.
You don't see it in time.
The shockwave tears through the courtyard in every direction — but you are at the center of it, and the recoil is brutal. The stone beneath your hands pulverizes and kicks back into your palms, shredding the skin raw. You're thrown backward, rolling hard across fractured rock, and when you finally stop, you're facedown in the dirt with gravel embedded in your cheek and both hands screaming.
For a moment you just breathe.
Get up.
Slowly, you push yourself to your knees. Blood patters steadily from your forearm. Your ribs ache with every inhale. But around you, cracks have spread across every surface, climbing up the walls of the buildings, splintering through the sky above like broken glass. With a deafening roar, the entire illusion of Jujutsu High tears apart, dissolving into nothingness.
The false sanctuary vanished, and the sensation of solid ground disappeared with it.
You didn't fall so much as drop out of existence — a stomach-lurching plunge through cold, lightless nothing before the void caught you and held you suspended, weightless, in the middle of absolute dark. No floor. No ceiling. No walls you could reach even if you screamed and swam toward them for hours.
And glass was everywhere.
Thousands of jagged shards hung motionless in the air around you, ranging from splinters the size of your thumbnail to vast, door-wide panels that dwarfed you completely. They weren't floating randomly. They were arranged in a deliberate way. Every single one angled just enough to catch your reflection, so no matter which direction you turned, you were surrounded by fractured versions of your own face staring back at you.
Then you saw it.
The curse hung at the center of the void, coiled around a massive ornate mirror like a pale spider guarding an egg. Up close the thing was enormous. Its spindly limbs were wrapped multiple times around the mirror's gilded frame, fingers curled possessively into the carved edges. Its head lolled at that same sickening angle, neck bent at a degree that should have been impossible and fatal. And its mouth — that stitched, lipless mouth — had pulled back into a wide, serene grin.
It had been waiting for you to fall in.
You felt the domain's sure-hit factor settle over you like a physical weight. It was a pressure behind your eyes, a heaviness across your shoulders, the horrible biological certainty of prey that has just realized the trap has already closed. There was no exit. The boundary had sealed without a single flaw.
Every floating shard in the void rotated simultaneously, pivoting on nothing until every fractured reflection of your body faced the curse directly.
The curse didn't move from its spot. It didn't need to.
With the slow, lazy confidence of something that had already won, it raised a long, pale hand. It reached out toward a shattered shard of glass floating right beside its chest—a shard that was currently mirroring a clear reflection of your right arm. Slowly, the curse drew two sharp fingers right across your reflection.
The pain arrived before your brain could even process what it was looking at.
Three deep gashes tore open across your actual right forearm, the flesh splitting apart like a zipper being ripped open from the inside. The cuts were long, clean, and immediately catastrophic. For one terrifying heartbeat, the wound didn't even burn; the next second, the agony was entirely blinding. You choked on a breath, unable to scream, and clutched your arm as blood instantly soaked through your sleeve in a heavy, dark stain.
There had been no projectile. No burst of wind. No physical attack to dodge or counter. The curse hadn't touched you at all. It had simply sliced the glass, and whatever happened to your reflection happened instantly to your body.
Your stomach dropped, a cold spike of adrenaline hitting you right in the chest.
The curse tilted its head in that horrible, boneless way, its dead eyes fixing on a large fragment of glass floating to your left. That specific shard was mirroring your entire torso.
You were running completely on empty. Pushing through the curse's previous attacks had bled your reserves dry, and what little cursed energy you had left felt thin and weak, like a candle burning down to its last millimeter of wick. Blood was dripping steadily from your arm, pooling onto the floor, and you were locked completely alone inside the core of this domain. No exit, no backup, and a creature that could rip you apart just by touching a mirror.
The curse raised its hand, fingers spread wide, aiming right for your reflected chest.
There was no point in trying to dive out of the way; if your reflection was in the glass, you were a sitting duck. Instead, acting on pure, desperate survival instinct, you scraped together every painful remainder of your cursed energy. You forced all of it into your torso, compressing it into a rigid, invisible armor across your chest and ribs a fraction of a second before the curse's claws slashed across the glass.
The phantom impact hit your body like a speeding car.
The claws shredded through your clothes and into your skin in four parallel lines, but your desperate reinforcement held just enough to keep the gashes from going deep. What it couldn't block was the sheer force of the blow—massive, blunt, like being struck dead-on with a steel pipe.
The air left your lungs in one violent gasp. The impact threw you backward, coughing up a mouthful of blood that sprayed across the space between you and the monster.
You stumbled, hunched over and trembling as you tried to steady your footing on the fractured floor of the domain.
Think. Think right now, or you don't get to think again.
Your eyes tracked the fresh blood dripping onto the ground, and then quickly shot toward the dense cluster of glass shards floating closest to the curse—the ones currently mirroring your reflection in the highest concentration.
You moved before your brain could even finish the thought.
Swiping both hands across your bleeding wounds to coat your palms in thick, fresh crimson, you flung it hard across the cluster of nearby shards. The dark red blood splattered and smeared over the glass, instantly blotting out your reflection surface by surface. It wasn't elegant. It was messy, desperate, and ugly—but it worked. The domain's sure-hit effect stuttered. Without a clear image to target, the invisible lock on your body flickered like a failing light bulb.
A split second was all you were going to get.
You lunged toward the largest shard behind you, planting both boots firmly against its surface. You bent your knees, channeled some of the last bits of your energy into your legs, and pushed off with everything you had.
The glass shattered into dust under the force of your kick as you launched yourself straight across the void like a stone from a sling—aiming right for the curse's chest, bleeding, furious, and completely out of options.
The curse reacted instantly. Two of its impossibly long limbs uncoiled from the mirror frame and snapped outward to intercept you. You twisted your body mid-flight, letting the first blade-like limb slice past your ear.
But there was no dodging the next one. The second limb caught you right across the ribs like a battering ram.
The sound your body made was sickening—a dense, wet cracking that you felt deep inside your ribs rather than heard. It was a sharp vibration that instantly told you something vital had just given way.
The force of the blow sent you flying backward. You crashed back-first into a floating cluster of jagged glass, punching right through them in an explosion of razored edges. The fragments tore through your clothes, slicing into your back and legs in a dozen different places. Yet, through sheer, blind momentum, you kept moving forward, teeth clenched so hard they threatened to shatter, your vision swimming in a haze of red.
Satoru is waiting.
The thought hit you with startling, crystal clarity, cutting straight through the blinding agony. You were not going to die in some stupid curses domain and leave him waiting.
Your hand snapped out, fingers locking like a vice around the curse's extended arm.
And then, you climbed.
Hand over fist, you hauled yourself up the length of its emaciated limb while the creature writhed and convulsed beneath you. You dragged your broken ribs and shredded back forward through sheer, grinding refusal to die. The curse snarled—a metallic, ear-splitting shriek that vibrated horribly in your molars—and its free hand shot toward the surface of the massive master mirror behind it.
One scratch on that glass and you were dead. You didn’t know what part of you it reflected, and you weren't about to find out.
You slammed your body weight directly into the monster a split second before its fingers could make contact.
Squeezing your eyes shut, you forced every single scraping, burning remnant of your remaining cursed energy straight into your fist. You felt the power circulate in a tight, violent spiral through your knuckles until the pressure became unbearable, making your entire hand shake.
Then, you swung.
Your fist connected with the curse's face with a crack that sounded like a gunshot echoing through the narrow space. Its jaw didn't just break, it caved entirely. The smooth, pale face distorted inward under your knuckles, and the sheer shockwave of the impact traveled down your arm, throwing your body forward and slamming you directly into the ornate mirror at the center of the domain.
A massive fracture ripped right across the glass, branching and blooming outward like ice snapping on a frozen lake.
The curse screamed. It was a sound made of metal and static and something older, and the entire void shook.
The floating shards around you began to fracture, then crumble, then dissolve into fine glittering dust. The black walls of the domain started peeling away in long curling strips like burning paper, revealing nothing beneath except darkness.
The curse's body came apart. It dissolved, losing cohesion the way smoke disperses in wind, its limbs unfurling from the cracked mirror and pulling apart into nothing. The grip around the frame released, and as it did the domain folded in on itself in one final, violent contraction.
You didn't fall through it so much as get spat out.
The barrier shattered.
You hit the asphalt at full speed, hip and shoulder taking the brunt of it, skidding across wet pavement in a graceless heap. Rain was falling and the distant sound of the city came flooding back all at once, traffic and voices and a pop song from somewhere up the street.
You lay there on the wet ground of a secluded alleyway and breathed.
Every inhale pulled at your cracked ribs. Your forearm was still bleeding heavily, soaking through your sleeve and dripping onto the pavement beneath you. Your back felt like someone had dragged you across gravel. Your hand — the one you'd hit it with — had stopped shaking only because it had gone mostly numb.
But the domain was gone.
Even though you were bleeding out, entirely depleted of cursed energy, and hovering right on the edge of unconsciousness, a faint smile still tugged at your lips. You were finally out. You tried to force your heavy eyelids open, desperate to make your body stand up, but the weight of it was just too much.
Using the absolute last ounce of strength left in your limbs, you fumbled in your pocket and pulled out your phone. When you turned it on, you saw a notification from Daddy Long Legs was waiting for you.
The ridiculous name made you smile a little wider. A wave of profound relief washed over you, just seeing his name made you feel entirely safe. It was the sudden, comforting certainty that he still cared and that no matter how hidden you were, he would find you. You didn't need to force yourself to stand anymore. You could just close your eyes for a minute and wait for him to come get you. With that final thought, the phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering against the pavement as your eyes fluttered completely shut.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
The second the meeting with the higher-ups finally concluded, Satoru didn’t look back. He didn’t offer a parting snarky comment, he simply slid his chair back and walked out, his stride long and hurried as he pulled his phone from his pocket.
Nothing. The screen remained entirely blank. No new notifications, no missed calls, and no text indicating that you had made it back safely from Kabukicho.
A sharp, cold knot tied itself deep in his stomach. The prolonged silence from you felt heavy, pressing down on his chest until his breathing turned shallow. He unlocked the phone again, staring at his last sent message, hoping the interface was simply lagging. The text sat there, unread.
He didn’t wait another second.
Satoru clamped his right hand into a sharp, rigid hand sign, drawing upon the Limitless to compress the massive physical distance between his location and Kabukico. The space around him folded inward with a violent, deafening crack of displaced air.
He dropped right into the center of Kabukicho. The frantic, neon-soaked chaos of the district hit him all at once—the blare of music from nearby bars, the chatter of late-night crowds, and the smell of damp asphalt from the earlier rain.
He began to move through the streets, his pace rapidly shifting from a fast walk to an outright sprint. To the civilians pushing past, he looked entirely unhinged. His blindfold was slightly pulled down, exposing the frantic, piercing brightness of the Six Eyes as they scanned every window, every doorway, and every passing face. He was completely blind to the people staring at him; his entire universe had shrunk down to a desperate search for your specific cursed energy signature.
But there was nothing. The air was completely clear of residual energy. One might have taken the absence of a curse as a sign of success, assuming you had wrapped up the job and left, but the total lack of any trace only made the nausea in his throat grow thicker. If the fight was over, why weren’t you answering?
Satoru sprinted past the mouth of a narrow, poorly lit alleyway, his momentum carrying him several steps forward before his mind caught up with what his eyes had just registered.
He stopped dead in his tracks. His boots skidded against the wet pavement as he spun around and retraced his steps, his chest heaving as he stared into the shadows of the brick corridor.
The air left his lungs completely.
You were lying on the hard, wet asphalt, your body small and entirely still beneath the glare of the neon lights above. Below you, a dark, heavy pool of crimson was slowly spreading across the concrete, mixing with the rainwater and staining the hem of your uniform.
Satoru felt a sudden, violent surge of bile rise in his throat. For the first time in his life, the Six Eyes failed to process the information in front of him. His mind fractured into a chaotic, terrifying spiral, a thousand worst-case scenarios screaming through his head all at once. No. No, this isn't real. This is an illusion. It's a remnant of the domain. He stumbled forward, his legs suddenly feeling heavy and uncoordinated, completely stripped of his usual effortless grace.
"Hey," he choked out, his voice cracking, devoid of any volume. "Hey, stop it. This isn't funny."
He dropped heavily to his knees right into the middle of the blood, completely ignoring how the dark fluid soaked straight through his uniform trousers. He reached out, his fingers trembling violently as they brushed against your cheek.
Your skin was ice-cold. The vibrant, stubborn warmth he was so used to holding was entirely gone, replaced by a pale stillness that made his heart violently hammer against his ribs. Your eyes were closed, your face entirely blank, completely unresponsive to his touch.
A horrific, suffocating panic took hold of him, tearing through his chest like physical claws. Satoru—the strongest, the man who held the power to alter the balance of the world—could do absolutely nothing to stop the shaking in his hands. He couldn't fight this. There was no enemy here to crush, no curse to tear apart with Blue or Red. There was only you, bleeding out on the dirty ground while he sat by and watched.
"Wake up," he whispered, his hands moving frantically to cup your face, his thumbs sweeping over your pale skin as if he could friction-burn the life back into you. "Please angel, just look at me. You promised you'd come back."
A choked, desperate sob broke from his throat, a raw and ugly sound he didn't even recognize as his own. The absolute certainty he always carried vanished, leaving behind a terrified man who was completely out of options. His mind screamed at him that he was too late, that his obligations to the higher-ups and his responsibilities to everyone else had cost him the only thing that actually kept him anchored to his own humanity.
Satoru gathered you into his arms, pulling your limp weight securely against his chest. He held you so tightly his muscles strained, tucking your head beneath his chin as if his own body could shield you from the reality of your injuries. His fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes, terrified that if he loosened his grip even a fraction, you would slip away entirely.
He didn't care about a clean path. He didn't care about the strict conditions of long-distance warping or the strain it would put on his brain. With a desperate, feral focus, he forced his cursed energy to spike, locking onto the coordinates of the Jujutsu High infirmary.
The neon lights of Kabukicho blurred into a sharp, painful smear of white, and the sound of the city was instantly swallowed by a roaring vacuum as he tore through space, carrying your cold body back toward the only place left that could save you.
The vacuum of warped space collapsed with a deafening thud as Satoru materialized inside the Jujutsu High infirmary. The sudden, violent displacement of air rattled the medical cabinets and sent a stack of loose papers flying across the floor.
Just a second before, Shoko and Suguru had been standing by the counter, sharing a quiet conversation. Faint, relaxed smiles graced their faces. But the moment the air pressure plummeted; their heads snapped toward the center of the room. Sorcerer instincts kicked in instantly, their bodies tensing for a threat, but the defense mechanism shattered the moment they saw what Satoru was holding.
Satoru watched in real time as the blood completely drained from Suguru’s face, his eyes widening in a rare, uncharacteristic look of sheer horror. Shoko froze, her entire posture locking up as her gaze dropped from Satoru’s frantic, uncovered eyes to the limp, crimson-soaked figure tucked against his chest. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision as she took in the gray, waxy pallor of your skin and the heavy, terrifying volume of blood coating your uniform. The easy warmth that had filled the room a second ago vanished, replaced by a suffocating, heavy dread.
Satoru stood there, his chest heaving, his muscles trembling under the weight of your body. His throat caught, a thousand frantic explanations choking him from the inside. There was so much he wanted to scream, so much panic tearing through his mind, but his voice failed him. All he could manage to force out through his trembling lips was a desperate, broken whisper.
“Save her.”
There was nothing else he could say.
Before the words even finished leaving his mouth, Shoko was already moving. The initial shock vanished, replaced by the sharp, cold efficiency of a doctor who had looked death in the face a hundred times. She didn’t waste a single second crying or asking what happened. She rushed forward, her hands moving with practiced precision as she pointed directly to the sterile metal operating table in the center of the room.
“Put her down. Right there,” Shoko ordered, her voice tight but commanding. She glanced up at Satoru, then at Suguru. “Then both of you get the hell out.”
Satoru’s jaw tightened. A sudden, feral instinct flared up inside him, the absolute refusal to leave your side, the overwhelming need to stay and watch over you, to ensure that no one, not even Shoko, separated him from you right now. He opened his mouth to argue, his posture shifting defensively as he prepared to dig his heels in.
Shoko caught the movement instantly. She looked him dead in the eyes, her expression a mix of grief and authority. “Satoru, move. You don’t want to see her like this.”
Her words felt like a harsh slap in the face. The anger flared in his chest, hot and defensive, but beneath it, a crushing realization took hold. He looked down at your face, then at Shoko’s hands, which were already beginning to glow with a faint, steady hum of positive energy. He understood what she meant. Shoko was going to have to expose the deepest, most gruesome wounds inflicted by the domain's sure-hit effect. If he stayed, if he had to watch his own classmate fight a losing battle against time to piece the love of his life back together, he didn't know how he would survive it. If she failed while he was in the room, the raw power inside him would likely tear the entire campus apart.
Before Satoru could spiral any further, a heavy, familiar hand settled firmly on his shoulder.
Suguru stepped up beside him. His grip was tight, grounded, and unyielding. Suguru’s own face was pale, his stomach twisting at the sight of you, but he knew his best friend was entirely untethered right now. He didn't say a word, he just applied a steady, guiding pressure, gently pulling Satoru away from the table.
For once in his life, Satoru didn't offer a single complaint or sarcastic remark. He let himself be led, his boots dragging against the floorboards. Just before the heavy clinic doors swung shut, he caught one last look back at you over his shoulder. Your hand was hanging limply off the edge of the metal table, pale and still, while Shoko hurriedly ripped open your torn uniform jacket to assess the damage.
The door clicked shut, cutting off the sights and sounds of the infirmary.
Satoru collapsed onto the wooden bench in the hallway, his strength completely deserting him. He buried his face in his crossed legs, his long frame hunched over as he tried to block out the entire world. The silence of the corridor was agonizing. Every tick of the clock down the hall felt like a strike against his chest.
Satoru collapsed onto the wooden bench in the hallway, his strength completely deserting him. He buried his face in his crossed legs, his long frame hunched over as he tried to block out the entire world. The silence of the corridor was agonizing.
Suguru sat down right beside him, leaning his back against the wall and staring blankly at the floorboards across from them. His hands were clasped tightly between his knees. He didn't try to offer any empty platitudes, and he didn't tell Satoru that everything was going to be fine. He knew there wasn't a single combination of words in the human language that could ease the torment his best friend was experiencing. Suguru knew exactly what you meant to him, how you were the only person who could consistently make the strongest sorcerer alive forget about his burdens and just be a human being. Watching Satoru break like this made a cold, hollow ache settle deep within Suguru's own chest.
"Before she left..." Satoru’s voice was barely a whisper, thick and fractured. He didn't lift his head from his knees. "Right before she left for the mission. We... it finally happened, Suguru. After all this time. And then she gets called out to some damn mission that she wasn’t supposed to do until the next morning, and the next thing I see is..."
He choked on the words, his jaw tightening so hard it ached. He couldn't finish the sentence. The image of you lying still in that pool of blood was burned into his retinas, playing on a loop every time he closed his eyes.
"I just..." Satoru let out a ragged, trembling breath, his fingers digging into his hair. "I really fucking hate this job sometimes."
Suguru didn't turn to look at him immediately. He kept his eyes fixed on the empty floor, his expression pulling into something weary and dark. He understood that hatred better than anyone. He spent his own days dragging his feet through the mire of their responsibilities, constantly searching for a reason to keep fighting, to keep bleeding for a world that just kept taking from them. He knew the suffocating weight of realizing that no matter how strong you were, the jujutsu world would always find a way to bleed you dry.
"I know," Suguru said softly, his voice heavy with a shared, bitter exhaustion. "I know, Satoru."
Inside the sterile, cold infirmary, Shoko was entirely alone with the ticking clock.
She took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the tears back from her eyes as she focused entirely on her technique. Reverse Cursed Technique was an incredibly rare, delicate process. Unlike standard negative cursed energy, which was used for destruction, Shoko had to take her own negative energy and multiply it within herself to generate positive energy, the unique output capable of regenerating living human flesh.
She placed both of her palms flat against your chest. The positive energy surged from her hands, manifesting as a soft, rhythmic glow that immediately began to combat the trauma in your body.
It was a grueling, meticulous process. The special grade curse's sure-hit effect had executed its attacks from the inside out, meaning the invisible slashes had cleaved through your deeper tissues before tearing the skin. Shoko had to work backward. She focused her energy deep within your torso first, manually forcing the torn, bleeding arteries to knit back together, sealing the internal hemorrhaging that was rapidly draining your life.
Next came the lungs. She directed the positive energy to mend the punctured tissue, forcing the collapsed structures to expand once more so your body could actually process oxygen. Only when the vital organs were stabilized did she pull her hands upward, drawing the glowing energy across your skin to close the deep, jagged lacerations marring your chest and arms. New layers of dermis and muscle fibers rapidly spun into existence under her palms, sealing the raw gashes until the bleeding stopped entirely.
Shoko’s breathing turned ragged, sweat beading along her forehead from the sheer concentration and the massive amount of energy the output required. She didn't stop until your pulse beneath her fingers shifted from a faint, erratic flutter to a slow, steady, and recognizable rhythm.
Outside in the hallway, the sudden, sharp silence was broken by the sound of the infirmary door sliding open. Satoru’s head snapped up instantly, his blindfold completely forgotten on the bench beside him as his piercing blue eyes locked onto Shoko.
Shoko stepped into the corridor, leaning heavily against the doorframe. She looked thoroughly exhausted, her shoulders slumped, but as she looked at the two boys waiting in terror, the tension in her face finally softened. She wiped a stray smudge of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand and gave a single, tired nod.
"She's stable," Shoko said, her voice quiet but clear. "The internal damage is fixed. She just needs to rest and recover her cursed energy."
The breath Satoru had been holding for the last hour finally left his lungs in a long, shuddering exhale. He didn't wait for Suguru or ask for permission, he just pushed past Shoko into the room, his eyes instantly tracking to where you lay breathing softly under a clean white sheet, finally warm, and finally safe.
He walked over to the side of the infirmary bed where Shoko had moved you, his eyes fixed on you.
The moment he saw the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of your chest beneath the white sheets, he felt himself instantly relax. The tight, agonizing knot that had been winding up in his stomach for hours finally unraveled, and an overwhelming sense of joy washed through him. You were alive. You weren't awake yet, but you were there. The gray, waxy pallor that had terrified him in the alleyway was gone; the beautiful, familiar color had finally returned to your face, painting your skin with the soft warmth of life. Even though you were sleeping and entirely unconscious, you were right in front of him.
Standing over you in the quiet of the clinic, he looked down at your hands, now clean and unmarred by the jagged cuts of the domain and knew with absolute certainty that he could never let you go again. The mere thought of going through this a second time made his chest tighten with a suffocating dread. He could not imagine a life where he had to see you like that again; so bloody, so worn out, so utterly lifeless and dead. It had nearly broken him. He was the strongest sorcerer alive, the anchor of the jujutsu world, but without you, the world was just an empty, loud room he had to keep from burning down. He wouldn't put himself through that torment again.
He pulled the wooden stool close to the mattress and sat down, his long frame hunching forward as he rested his elbows on the mattress. Gently, as if he were afraid you might shatter like the glass that hurt you, he slid his hand beneath yours. He locked his fingers with yours, pressing his palm flat against your skin just to feel the steady, reassuring pulse beating against his thumb.
Hours dissolved into the quiet night. The sterile scent of the infirmary faded, replaced by the cool, familiar air of the morning as the sun began to rise over the campus mountains.
Your eyelashes fluttered.
A low, faint groan caught in the back of your throat as awareness slowly leaked back into your mind. Your muscles felt incredibly heavy, and your skin tingled with the residual warmth of Shoko's positive energy, but the sharp, agonizing pain from the domain was entirely gone. You blinked against the soft morning light, your vision shifting from blurry shadows into focus.
The first thing you saw was blue.
Satoru was leaning over you, his face just inches from yours. His white hair was messy, falling into his face, and his eyes were wide, brimming with an intense, raw emotion that he didn't even try to hide behind a smile or a joke.
"Satoru..." you murmured, your voice rough and dry from exhaustion.
The sound of his name breaking through your lips cracked the last of his restraint. He let out a shaky breath, leaning down to press his forehead gently against yours, his grip on your hand tightening until it was almost bruising.
"You're awake," he whispered, his voice thick and unpolished, scraped raw at the edges. "You're actually awake." He said it like he was still trying to convince himself.
"Yeah," you breathed, blinking slowly up at him, "I'm awake, Toru. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
Something in his face broke open at that. He pulled you in before you could say another word, arms wrapping around you with a force that was just short of desperate, like he needed to feel the warmth of you, the realness of you, pressed against him before he could fully believe it. You wound your arms around him as tightly as your tired body would allow, pressing your face into his shoulder.
When you finally pulled back and looked up at him properly, you blinked. Then, despite everything, despite the bone-deep exhaustion and the ache still humming beneath your skin, a slow, scandalized look crossed your face.
"...Are you serious?" you said flatly.
Satoru blinked. "What?"
"The blindfold, Satoru." You stared at him. "I almost died, and the first thing I wake up to is that god awful strip of fabric on your face." You let out the most exhausted, theatrical sigh you could manage given your current state. "I have been through enough today. I deserve your glasses."
He stared at you for exactly one second. Then he laughed, sudden and unguarded, one that started somewhere deep in his chest and spilled out before he could stop it. The last of the tension in his shoulders finally dissolved with it.
"You're unbelievable," he said, shaking his head slowly, but the relief in his voice was so thick it was almost visible. "I almost lose you and the first thing out of your mouth—"
"The blindfold, Satoru."
He reached up and tugged it off without another word, tucking it into his pocket. His bright, sleep-deprived eyes found yours, and for just a moment, before the grin fully settled back into place, there was something unbearably sincere in the way he looked at you.
"Better?" he asked quietly.
"Much," you said softly, as you looked into those icy, sparkling blue eyes.
He smiled, bringing a hand up to cup the side of your face as he leaned in. But just as the distance between you vanished, leaving mere centimeters between your lips, the infirmary door burst open with the unmistakable, chaotic energy of your three students.
Satoru backed away instantly. It wasn't because he wanted to keep you a secret—honestly, he would love nothing more than for them to find out. He wanted the whole damn world to know; he wished he could scream it at the top of his lungs. But he couldn't let the kids in on anything because, truthfully, he didn't even know where things stood himself. The two of you still hadn't put a label on whatever this was, let alone found the time to actually sit down and discuss everything that had transpired two nights ago.
"Sensei!"
Yuji and Nobara hit you at almost the same velocity, both of them folding around you, not leaving any room for personal space but you didn't particularly care. You laughed, startled, reaching up to hold them back.
Megumi stood at the foot of the bed.
He didn't rush in. He didn't say anything right away. He just stood there and looked at you; at the machines still monitoring your heartbeat, at the clean bandages where the worst of the wounds had been, at the hand that had been holding Gojo's before you'd let go to hug the others. His jaw was set, his expression carefully arranged into its usual cool neutrality, but his eyes revealed the true worry that he felt.
"We just heard," Nobara said against your shoulder, voice thicker than she probably intended. "We came as fast as we could. We were so scared—"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry for worrying you." You squeezed them both, before gently disentangling yourself enough to breathe. "I'm okay. I promise I'm okay."
Then, into the small silence that followed, Megumi spoke. Just four words, completely flat, like he was asking about the weather.
"Are you in any pain?"
It was cold and blunt. But you knew him, you'd known him long enough to know exactly what that question was carrying under its surface. You looked at him directly, making sure he could see your face when you answered.
"No," you said gently. "None. I'm okay, Megumi. Really."
His shoulders dropped, and the breath he let out was a little longer, a little more deliberate than it needed to be. Like your words had reached in and loosened something that had been pulled very tight for a very long time.
He gave a single, short nod and looked away.
You smiled.
The sliding door moved with a dull scrape, breaking the quiet of the room.
Shoko came in first. She looked completely spent. Her lab coat was rumpled, her hair was tied back loosely with a few stray strands falling into her face, and the dark circles under her eyes looked heavier than usual.
You looked up at her, offering a small, tired smile. You knew exactly what it took to pull someone on the brink of death back to life, and you knew she was the only one who carried that specific burden.
"Hey," you said softly. "Thanks for saving my life."
Shoko didn't say anything at first. She just walked over to the side of the bed. When you reached out, she leaned down and let you pull her into a brief hug. She held on for a second longer than she normally would, her palm resting gently against the back of your head just to assure herself that you were actually solid.
"Don't make a habit of it," she murmured into your hair, her voice dry but quiet. "I'm running out of patience with you people."
"Hey—" Satoru's voice broke in from the corner, his tone immediately shifting into an exaggerated, wounded whine. "What about me? I sat out in that hallway for hours."
You pulled back from Shoko, leaning your head back against the pillows as you looked at him. "You sat out there and spiraled. Shoko actually did the work. There's a big difference."
"I was providing vital moral support from the bench."
"You were curled up like a shrimp," Shoko corrected flatly, stepping away from the bed and pulling a pack of cigarettes from her pocket before remembering where she was and shoving them back in. "It's not the same thing."
A faint, breathless laugh went around the room. Even Megumi, standing near the window, let out a tiny huff of amusement.
Suguru stepped forward next. He had been waiting by the door, letting Shoko have her space, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets and his long hair falling over his shoulder. He had that typical, calm expression on his face—the one that didn't reveal much to outsiders, but always felt incredibly grounded to the people who knew him.
You extended a hand toward him.
He moved over without hesitation, sitting carefully on the edge of the mattress so he wouldn't disturb your injuries. When he leaned down to hug you, his arms were steady and unhurried. Satoru’s embrace had been frantic and tight, born out of pure panic, but Suguru’s was slow and grounded. He placed a warm palm between your shoulder blades, just holding you there for a quiet moment to make sure you were real.
"Good to have you back," he said quietly, his voice right next to your ear.
You pressed your face briefly into the fabric of his uniform, swallowing the lump in your throat.
"Good to be back," you whispered.
The room was now filled with the easy, hum of all their voices—a casual, comforting chaos that filled the space completely. Looking around at them, a profound sense of warmth settled deep in your chest. After being trapped in the freezing, isolated abyss of that domain, seeing the people you cared about most alive, bickering, and crowded together in the same room made you feel entirely whole again.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
Later that evening, Shoko gave you one final check-up before clearing you to leave. Your body had always been quick to recover, so she wasn't too worried about discharging you early.
Satoru had remained by your side for the entire day. Even after the students, Shoko, and Suguru had all filtered out to give you some space to rest, he stayed right where he was.
"Aren’t you going to be uncomfortable sitting in that chair all night?" you asked, looking over at him.
"Nah, I'll be fine. Don't worry your pretty little head about me," he said, flashing you a soft smile.
You felt a familiar flutter in your stomach. He was being so incredibly gentle with you that it made your chest ache.
"C’mere." You tapped the narrow space on the mattress beside you.
Satoru’s eyebrows shot up, genuinely surprised by the invitation. But without a second thought, he slid onto the infirmary bed and pulled you back against his chest. Your heart hammered against your ribs as he slipped his arm under your shirt, his palm resting warm and solid against your waist. His comforting presence instantly anchored you, pulling you down into a deep, heavy sleep.
Watching your eyes flutter shut, Satoru leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
You smiled, thinking back to the moment from just a few hours ago. It felt a little silly to be like this, a grown adult getting entirely giddy over small touches and romantic tension, like a teenager bumbling through their very first relationship.
Satoru’s voice suddenly broke through your thoughts. “I’ll drive you back to my place so you can stay there for the night. Just in case anything goes wrong, I can bring you back here a lot faster than if you were on your own.”
“Okay.”
Maybe you agreed a little too quickly, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You both knew he was offering a total bullshit excuse; if there was even the slightest chance of your injuries flaring up, Shoko would have never let you leave her sight. You knew it, he knew it, and Shoko definitely knew it.
That was exactly why she raised an eyebrow at his declaration. He honestly might as well have just said he wanted you in his bed out loud.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
The heavy oak door to Satoru’s apartment had barely clicked shut behind you before you made a bee line straight to his master bathroom, desperate to just wash the entire night away.
Stepping into the shower, you turned the handle to an extremely high temperature, waiting for the water to steam. When the stream finally hit your skin, you leaned your forehead against the cool tile wall and simply breathed. Watching your feet, you could see the dark swirl of dirt, gray street grime, and pale crimson blood pooling around the drain before the heavy rush of hot water washed it completely away.
Across the apartment, Satoru wasn't wasting any time either. Knowing him, the thought of sitting around waiting for you to finish—losing even twenty minutes of your presence after almost watching you die—was out of the question. He had immediately disappeared into the secondary washroom down the hall to clean up simultaneously, driven by a restless, frantic need to be back in the same room as you as quickly as possible.
You finished first, stepping out into the steam-fogged room and drying off with one of his ridiculously plush towels. Over the years, you had never bothered keeping a dedicated drawer of spare pajamas at his place; his wardrobe was massive enough that half of it went untouched anyway, making his clothes the obvious choice whenever you needed something to wear. You sifted through the hangers until your hand settled on a massive, oversized cotton t-shirt. Before pulling it over your head, you paused, bringing the fabric up to your nose and breathing in deeply. It was intoxicating—it smelled entirely of him, a distinct blend of expensive, clean cologne mixed with fresh laundry soap and just a hint of sweetness.
You slid into the shirt, which swallowed you down to your mid-thighs, before pulling on a pair of his boxers and padding into the bedroom, letting your weight plop heavily onto the center of his unmade bed.
A few minutes later, the door clicked open. You looked up, and your brain completely short-circuited. You had to physically force your jaw to stay shut to keep from drooling.
His damp, white hair was completely loose, falling messily over his forehead without his blindfold or glasses to hide his striking blue eyes. He had completely bypassed his usual loose, comfortable lounge hoodies, instead opting for a pitch-black, short-sleeved compression shirt that hugged every single contour of his upper body like a second skin. The fabric was stretched tight across the broad expanse of his chest, putting his defined, sculpted abs and the heavy musculature of his shoulders on full display. Every time he shifted, the sharp lines of his biceps and forearms flexed effortlessly under the room's soft lighting.
Your eyes involuntarily drifted down to his lower half. He was wearing a pair of light gray, low-rise sweatpants, the soft fabric secured loosely at his hips with a dark, knotted draw-string. The material hung loosely around his calves, but it clung unfairly well to his upper thighs and groin—leaving the distinct, unmistakable outline of his print clearly visible beneath the cotton.
He stood in the doorway for a second, leaning his long frame against the casing with a faint, knowing tilt of his head as he caught you staring.
However, his teasing grin was immediately wiped clean from his face the moment he fully took in the sight of you. You were completely swallowed whole by the massive expanse of his shirt, your hardened nipples pressing directly against the thin cotton fabric, completely on display. His eyes dragged down the length of your bare legs, the smooth stretch of skin practically screaming at him to climb onto the mattress and pin you down.
As his gaze lingered on your thighs, a sudden realization hit him, making his head go entirely dizzy as his blood rushed violently downward. You never kept any of your own clothes here —not even underwear. It meant that beneath the hem of his shirt, your pussy was completely bare, rubbing directly against the soft fabric of his boxers with every slight shift and movement of your lower body. The explicit thought of you getting wet right there on his sheets, your slick juices slowly soaking into the heavy cotton of his own underwear, sent a dark wave of desire through his chest that made his mind go absolutely crazy.
You notice his gaze locking onto you, and the sheer intensity of it makes a sudden, heavy wave of shyness crest over you. You turn your face slightly, pretending to study the rumpled sheets beside you, but it does little to calm the warmth rising in your cheeks.
When Satoru finally breaks from the trance you’ve put him in, the heavy, dark desire in his eyes doesn't completely vanish, but it gets shoved down and a more sincere look rises to the surface. He crosses the room, the casual grace of his long frame muted by a rare, deliberate seriousness. He sits on the edge of the bed facing you, his knee brushing against yours. You can practically see him forcing his physical urges to the side, swallowing down the heat of the moment because there is something he has been carrying for the last twenty-four hours that he needs to get out.
"Hey," he murmurs. His tone is low, stripped of that loud, sing-song cadence he usually projects to the world.
"Hey," you reply softly. You slide closer to him across the sheets, your movement natural and unhurried as you reach out and intertwine your fingers with his. His hand is warm, his grip tightening around yours the second your knuckles touch.
He doesn't look at you when he speaks next. He looks down at your joined hands, his thumb tracing a slow, almost anxious line over the back of your knuckles. For a man who casually defines himself as the strongest, the sheer vulnerability of this moment is clearly pushing him to his absolute limit. He lets out a short, self-deprecating huff of a laugh—the one he uses when he's trying to mask just how deeply something is shaking him.
"I’m bad at this," he admits, his voice rough at the edges. "Usually, I just say whatever stupid thing pops into my head, but... damn. Seeing you out there in that alley? It completely broke my brain. All I could think about on the way to Jujutsu High was what we did right before you left. How we finally crossed that line."
He stops, jaw tightening as he pulls his gaze up to meet yours, his piercing blue eyes holding you captive with raw, completely undisguised honesty. "I don't ever want you thinking that was just about... you know, sex. Or that I just want your body. Because it’s not that. You mean way too much to me. This job... we both know how it is. It can take everything away from you in the blink of an eye."
He leans in closer, stripping away every last bit of his usual armor. "I don’t want this to be a temporary thing we just do sometimes," he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. "I want everything. I want it forever. A real life, where you're mine and I'm yours, completely. I can't live through another second of wondering if our job is going to take you away before I can tell you that..." He swallows hard, his throat bobbing against the tension. "I love you. I really fucking love you."
His raw honesty knocks the breath right out of you. Tears immediately blur your vision, making it hard to focus on his face. You're so used to the Satoru who uses jokes and arrogance to keep the world at arm's length. Seeing him completely strip away that armor, choosing to be uncomfortably serious and transparent with you, sends a wave of overwhelming warmth straight to your chest.
Because he’s still looking a little thrown by his own honesty, his eyes casting down slightly as if waiting for the impact, you reach up with your free hand. Your palm cups his jaw, your fingers gentle against his stubble-free cheek as you guide his face back up to meet your gaze.
"I love you too, Satoru," you say, your voice trembling slightly but completely certain. "I don't even know how to put words to it. When you weren't there... when I was trapped in that domain, everything felt entirely empty. I don't know when it happened, or how you managed it, but you've become a part of me."
The second the words leave your mouth, the tension in his shoulders completely evaporates. A brilliant, genuinely giddy smile breaks across his face, the unbearable weight he’d been carrying since you left for your mission lifting off him all at once.
"Yeah? Good. Because I wasn't going to let you go anyway," he chuckles, his usual confident demeanor flaring back to life, though it's entirely soft now.
Before you can even blink, his large hands loop under your arms. He lifts your body with effortless ease, pulling you cleanly into his lap so your legs drape over his thighs. He wraps his long arms around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck and squeezing you into a massive, suffocating hug—holding you so close and so tight that you can feel the steady, relieved thud of his heart beating perfectly against your own.
He pulled his face back from your neck and looked at you, the heavy desire he had forced himself to push down earlier rushing back into his body with full force. You leaned in and kissed him first, and a second later, he returned it with desperate, hungry intensity—the kiss turning deep, messy, and urgent. Your hands reached for the hem of his compression shirt, tugging upward; he caught your drift immediately, ripping it over his head and tossing it somewhere across the room. He removed your shirt right after, pulling your bare torso impossibly closer until your sensitive, hardened nipples rubbed directly against the smooth muscle of his chest with every movement.
You could feel his cock hardening to a solid ridge beneath you, and you instinctively began to grind down against it, hard and fast. The friction of your clit rubbing against him through the fabric felt incredible, and you couldn't help but let out a series of broken, breathless whines that Satoru quickly swallowed up with his mouth. Suddenly, that familiar, intense sensation began to ripple through your lower body; your stomach tightened, and you felt yourself right on the edge of an orgasm. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your lips parted from Satoru's as your head lolled back.
He could tell instantly that you were about to cum. His large hands clamped onto your hips with a bruising grip, completely halting your movement.
"No, no, no, please," you begged, pathetically trying to force your cunt to move against his clothed cock, but his hands were glued to your hips, his grip simply too strong for your attempts to go anywhere.
Satoru looked entirely too pleased with himself, a dark, low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he hushed you softly, trying to soothe your frustration. "Sorry, angel. 'M being selfish," he murmured, his voice thick and rough against your ear. "Need the first time you cum tonight to be right on my tongue. Bet you taste fucking delicious."
Even though you were burning with frustration from the denied orgasm, your pussy only got wetter at his words, a fresh wave of slick soaking straight into his boxers.
He lifted you effortlessly from his lap and repositioned you, sliding you down until your hips rested right at the edge of the mattress. Dropping heavily to his knees on the floor between your thighs, he spread your legs wide open. Now that he was face-to-face with your clothed heat, his eyes immediately locked onto the massive, dark wet spot dampening the cotton. He felt his cock throb, hardening even further if that was even possible. Reaching up, his fingers hooked into the waistband of the boxers and peeled them down your legs, carefully setting them on the nightstand for later.
Then, his full attention shifted to you completely bare. To him, you were an absolute work of art. Your folds glistened with your own slick, and your hole helplessly clenched and unclenched around nothing because you were so desperate to be filled. Satoru loved it; every single part of you was beautiful, looking as if you had been perfectly made just for him.
Unable to wait another second, he leaned in and pressed his mouth right against you. He flattened his tongue and delivered a long, deliberate stroke, licking from the very bottom of your slit all the way up to your swollen clit. The expression on his face the moment he finally tasted you was entirely sinful. His deep, sapphire eyes rolled back, and a desperate, low, guttural groan rumbled from deep in his chest.
He couldn't believe he had spent his entire life missing out on this. He was instantly, hopelessly addicted. He couldn't even find the words to describe it—it just tasted like you, pure and overwhelming, and the scent of your slick in the air was driving him entirely crazy. He kept his mouth glued to you, his tongue lapping greedily at your folds before his lips latched directly onto your clit, sucking down hard.
You were a complete, moaning mess now. The slick heat of his mouth felt incredible, and the deep, possessive vibrations of his groans vibrated directly into your core, multiplying the pleasure. Your legs naturally draped over his broad shoulders, your heels digging into his back to pull his body even closer, while your fingers tangled desperately into his damp white hair, guiding his mouth firmly against your center.
"I can’t get enough of you, you know that?" he murmured against your wet skin, his hot breath sending a shiver straight through you as he continued to wind you up. "I could stay down here eating this pretty pussy for hours..."
"I—I'm close, 'Toru," you gasped out, your voice breaking.
He gave a tight nod against your thigh, telling you to let go. You didn't hesitate. Your back arched violently off the bed and your grip on his hair tightened to a death grip as your orgasm tore through you, pulsing and soaking right over his tongue.
Breathless and trembling, you slowly sat up on your elbows to look down at him. Satoru looked back up, his eyes dark and intensely focused, his mouth completely wet with your contrast. Before you could even ask what he was thinking, he grabbed your hips, effortlessly flipping you over onto your stomach. He pulled your hips back, forcing your face down into the pillows while your ass was lifted high into the air.
All you heard was a low, rough murmur against your skin: "Not done yet."
Before you could even process the words, he leaned back in, shifting his relentless, soaking wet assault from your pussy directly onto your tight asshole instead.
You gasped aloud the moment the hot wetness of his mouth made contact. His tongue began to circle deeply around your rim, while his thick, long fingers slicked themselves with your juices and slid straight inside your pussy, fingering you deeply while stretching you wide open. You let out a loud, uninhibited moan, your fingers blindly clawing into the bedsheets and twisting the fabric harshly, needing anything to ground you from the immense, overwhelming pleasure ripping through your body.
Satoru’s eyes drifted shut as he ate your ass, completely lost in the sensation. To him, this was absolute heaven. He had fantasized about this for so long—just being able to taste and possess every single part of you—and now that he finally had you like this, he didn’t know how he’d ever be able to stop. He kept up the ruthless rhythm, his fingers driving into you while his tongue worked over your skin, until he heard your broken voice breathlessly crying out that you were about to cum again.
Once your second orgasm finally finished pulsing around his hand, he slowly drew his fingers out. He brought them straight to his own lips, lazily licking them clean as if savoring every last drop of your flavor.
He then hooked his hands under your arms, lifting your pliant body to turn you around and place you flat in the middle of the mattress. Standing over you for a brief second, he stripped off his sweatpants and boxers, discarding them onto the floor before climbing onto the bed and pinning you beneath his weight. He looked down, staring at how beautifully fucked-out you looked—your eyes half-closed, your chest heaving up and down as you desperately tried to catch your breath, and your inner thighs still spasming slightly from the aftershocks. He thought you looked absolutely gorgeous like this, entirely unraveled under his touch.
He leaned down, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your lips before pulling back just enough to look into your face. "You okay, baby?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly tender.
You opened your eyes, giving him a quiet nod and a genuine smile. Your hands reached up to tangle into his soft white hair, gently pulling his face back down to press another kiss against his mouth. When you finally parted, you locked your eyes with his brilliant blue ones, your voice dropping to a breathless whisper. "I really need you to fuck me, Satoru."
The shift in his expression was instantaneous. That all-too-familiar, confident smirk returned to his lips, his eyes darkening with a heavy heat. "Who am I to deny my sweet girl?"
He sat up on his knees, and you shifted up as well, your gaze naturally dropping down to his lap. You involuntarily swallowed hard at the sight of his cock. You didn't know why you were even surprised; everything about this man was completely oversized—his height, his broad hands, his heavy musculature—so it only made sense that his length would be the exact same. Sitting there completely naked beneath him, a sudden, thrilling spike of apprehension shot through your core. You felt a wave of absurd heat at the thought of being stretched out and destroyed by him, a desperate ache settling deep in your stomach.
Without overthinking, you reached out and wrapped your fingers around the thick base of his shaft, completely enamoured. The broad head was flushed a deep pink and already leaking a heavy bead of precum, making you salivate a little at the sight. Slowly, you leaned your head down, pressing your lips to the tip and delivering a slow, wet lap of your tongue. The salty taste of his precum hit your mouth, and you let out a soft moan against his skin.
Satoru looked down at you in absolute amazement. He froze completely the moment your mouth made contact, holding his breath as if any sudden movement would cause the moment to disappear. But the second you began to lick him, the raw intensity of the pleasure broke his trance. His hand immediately tangled in your hair, trying to gently pull your head back because it just felt too good, and he was terrified of wasting his load before he could even get inside you.
You refused to let him back away, though. Instead, you pushed forward, sliding your lips down his shaft and taking more and more of his thick length into your mouth. You pushed until you hit the very base, burying his cock completely down your throat. As if you knew exactly how to break his composure, you looked straight up at him through your eyelashes, your eyes wide and desperate. Satoru let out a ragged, choked sound; between the sight of your helpless gaze and the feeling of his entire length stuffed to the brim inside your throat, he felt like he could blow his mind right then and there.
He was losing his grip completely. The longer your mouth moved rhythmically against his shaft, the closer he ticked toward the edge. You could tell exactly when he was about to break—his grip tightly locked in your hair, and his hips instinctively twitched, trying to thrust deeper into your mouth. Before he could lose control, you suddenly pulled your mouth completely off his cock with a distinct, wet pop.
Your face looked entirely too happy, a smug grin spreading across your lips. "Gotcha back," you teased.
Satoru sat there completely breathless, his chest heaving, his cock throbbing and violently close to the edge. He stared down at you with a mix of raw desire and sheer disbelief, only able to mutter a rough, "I hate you."
You didn't answer with words. Instead, you crawled over him, climbing onto his lap so you two were in the lotus position. You leaned your head up, bringing your mouth dangerously close to his ear as you began to playfully nibble and lick at his lobe, before whispering directly into his ear, "Yeah? Show me how much you hate me then."
"Fuck. You have no idea what you do to me," Satoru growled, his voice dropping into a register so dark and low it sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.
His large hand gripped your hip, lifting you effortlessly from his lap just enough to guide the broad, leaking head of his cock against your soaking entrance. He paused there for a fraction of a second, his blue eyes blown out with pure, unadulterated hunger, before he slowly started lowering you down onto him.
The initial stretch was overwhelming. Your eyes went wide, your fingers digging frantically into the thick muscle of his shoulders as your walls were forced to part for his immense girth. You felt every single inch of his thick shaft forcing its way inside you, stretching you so wide it felt borderline impossible.
"You're... you're too big, 'Toru," you whimpered, a breathless, desperate hiccup escaping your throat as you tried to take him all in.
He let out a rough, gravelly groan at the tight, burning friction, his hands tightening on your waist to anchor you. "Yeah? You think this tight little pussy can take all of me, sweetheart? Look at how well you're wrapping around me."
You could only nod absentmindedly, your brain completely melting from the sheer fullness of him. Satoru didn't rush it; he kept the pace agonizingly slow, forcing your body to accommodate his size until his hips finally flushed completely against yours, bottoming out deep inside your core. The sensation of being entirely filled by him was intoxicating, a heavy, throbbing ache settling deep in your lower stomach.
He didn't give you a chance to adjust. The moment he was fully inside, Satoru locked his hands onto your hips and began thrusting up into you at an unrelenting, merciless pace. The sheer power behind each upward drive lifted your body slightly off his lap, the friction hitting your clit perfectly with every single stroke. Your tits bounced heavily right in front of his face with the rhythm, and the sight was entirely too much for him. He leaned forward, latching his mouth hungrily over one of your swollen nipples, drawing it deep between his lips and sucking hard while his hips continued to hammer up into you.
The stimulation was astronomical. You were being hit from every possible angle—the deep, invading stretch inside you, the agonizingly good friction against your clit, and the hot, wet suction on your breast. Your senses were completely overloaded. Realizing you were spinning rapidly toward the edge, you instinctively wrapped your legs tighter around his waist and started fucking down against him, matching his frantic rhythm blow for blow. The squelching sound of your mixed juices echoed loudly in the quiet bedroom, driving him completely insane.
"I-I'm gonna cum, 'Toru... I'm close!" you cried out, your head tossing back as your internal walls began to twitch and pre-clench around his shaft.
Satoru’s breathing turned completely ragged, his thrusts becoming faster, shallower, and completely frantic as your tight heat pushed him to his absolute limit. "Yeah? Me too, baby," he gasped out against your skin, his grip on your hips turning downright bruising. "Cum for me. I'm gonna fill your pretty pussy up to the brim, and then I'm gonna eat every single drop of it out of you."
Those filthy, possessive words were the exact breaking point. Your vision went completely white as your orgasm tore through you, your spasming walls clamping down on his cock in violent, rhythmic waves. The tight, milking pressure of your climax instantly snapped his remaining control. Satoru let out a loud, uninhibited roar, throwing his head back as his hips gave one last, deep, desperate shove, burying himself as far inside you as physically possible as he violently came, pumping wave after wave of thick, hot seed deep into your womb.
For several minutes, the room was entirely silent save for the sound of your shared, heavy breathing. You collapsed forward against his chest, completely spent, your forehead resting against his collarbone while his long arms remained wrapped tightly around your waist, keeping you securely pinned to his lap.
Once the ringing in your ears finally subsided and you regained a fraction of your strength, you cleared your throat, your voice incredibly small and raspy. "We... we should clean up."
You carefully shifted your weight, looking down to where your bodies were still tightly connected. The sight made your face heat up; a heavy amount of thick, white semen was slowly dripping out from your stretched opening, tracking down the base of his cock and pooling onto his pubic hair.
"Mmm. You're right," Satoru murmured, his voice laced with a lazy, satisfied post-coital rumble.
He slowly and carefully withdrew himself from inside you, the sudden absence of his thickness making you let out a soft sigh. But before you could even think about moving toward the bathroom, his hands gripped your thighs. He lifted your semi-limp body up and shimmied himself down the mattress with practiced ease, sliding his long frame underneath you until your leaking, hyper-sensitive cunt was positioned directly over his face.
"W-What are you doing—?" you sputtered out.
Satoru looked up at you through his long white eyelashes, his shiny aquamarine eyes glittering with a lazy, unbothered amusement, as if you were entirely in the wrong for questioning him.
"I'm cleaning up," he said simply, a shameless smirk pulling at his lips right before his warm tongue darted out, lapping greedily at the hot mess dripping down your inner thighs.
And with that, his large hands clamped around your thighs with an unyielding, bruising grip, effortlessly hauling your body down until your leaking center was pinned completely against his mouth.
He didn’t waste a single second. Satoru buried his face into your wet heat and began to eat you out with a feral, relentless hunger. At this point, you were entirely exhausted, your muscles trembling and your brain so fried from the previous climaxes that you didn't even think it was biologically possible for you to orgasm again. But the sheer possessiveness of his movements quickly proved you wrong. He wasn't just licking you; he was taking up space, his fingers digging so deeply into the soft flesh of your thighs that he was physically forcing you down onto his face, demanding that you take every relentless stroke of his tongue.
The flavour inside his mouth was intoxicating. The thick, creamy saltiness of his own semen mixed with the sweet, intoxicating taste of your slick, creating a combination so potent it made his head spin. His brilliant blue eyes rolled back behind his closed lids, a dark, muffled groan vibrating straight from his throat into your sensitive core. The taste only fueled his obsession, driving any lingering sanity right out of his mind. He didn't care that your body was heavy against his face or that it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe beneath you; Satoru would have gladly suffocated and died right there between your thighs if it meant he got to keep you pinned to his mouth forever.
He lapped greedily at your folds, his tongue flattening out to deliver deep, heavy strokes before his lips latched tightly onto your swollen clit, sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth. The sudden, intense friction sent a violent shockwave straight to your stomach, and you instinctively began to rock your hips back and forth against his lips, chasing the feeling.
He felt the subtle shift in your movement instantly. Knowing that he had wound you right back up to the edge after completely exhausting you brought a deep, intoxicating surge of pride roaring through his chest. He was the only one who could do this to you. He was the only one allowed to see you completely unraveled, hearing the pathetic, broken noises that left your throat every time his tongue flicked over your skin.
As your back arched and your internal muscles clamped down in a sudden, violent orgasm, pulsing your mixed fluids straight over his lips and tongue, a dark, primal finality settled deep within Satoru's mind. He drank you down greedily, his grip tightening on your hips until you were completely locked in place. Watching you shiver and break beneath him, the only thought consuming his brain was that he would be the absolute last person to ever possess you like this. He was never going to let you out of his sight again. Now that he finally had you in his bed, entirely marked by his scent and his seed, he was going to hold onto you forever—and he would destroy anything in the world that dared try to take you away from him.
Once the final, trembling aftershocks of your orgasm finally subsided, the fierce, possessive intensity in Satoru's posture dissolved back into his usual playful self—just with a lot more tenderness. He lifted your worn-out body with gentle care, settling you back onto the pillows before lazily rolling out of bed. A minute later, he padded back from the bathroom carrying a warm, damp towel. With a soft chuckle at how completely dazed you looked, he carefully wiped away the remnants of your shared intimacy, cleaning your skin with an unexpectedly gentle touch before taking care of himself.
He slid back under the heavy duvet, pulling the sheets up over both of you before immediately hauling you backward by your waist. He tucked you flush against his chest, wrapping his long arms and legs around you like a giant, needy koala, effectively trapping you in his warmth.
"How are you feeling, angel?" he whispered directly into your ear. His voice was a low, rough murmur, followed by a sequence of soft, lingering kisses pressed against the curve of your shoulder and the nape of your neck.
Your heart felt entirely full at the quiet sincerity in his voice, the simple act of him checking in on you grounding you completely. "Amazing," you breathed, a soft, sleepy giggle slipping past your lips.
Satoru smiled against your skin, his chest expanding with a deep, relieved breath as he held you closer. The exhaustion of the grueling night was finally catching up to both of you, the heavy pull of sleep tugging at the edges of your consciousness. But just as your eyes were drifting shut, Satoru reached down and blindly grabbed your left hand. He lifted it up into the dim light of the bedroom, holding it right in your shared line of sight. His long fingers lazily toyed with yours, his thumb settling specifically on your ring finger and sliding up and down the bare skin.
"Y'know, this finger is looking a bit empty, don’t ya think?" he murmured, his voice dripping with playful mischief. "Kind of a tragedy, honestly."
You smiled, well aware of his likeness for throwing absurd, dramatic comments whenever the silence lasted too long. Playing along with his banter, you tilted your head back slightly to look at him through the corner of your eye. "Yeah, I agree. It's a real shame. You gonna do something about it, or just complain?"
"Oh, I'm absolutely gonna do something about it," he said, a thoroughly smug, self-satisfied grin spreading across his face as he squeezed your hand. "Just you wait. I've got big plans."
He let out a soft huff of a laugh, kissing the top of your head before burying his face back into your hair. Even though you knew he was just being his usual, teasing self to lighten the mood, you closed your eyes and let yourself finally sink into the safety of his embrace. A quiet, profound thought settled deep in your chest: if Satoru actually did pop the question right now, you can’t imagine saying anything other than yes.
.⭒☆━━━✰━━━☆⭒.
BONUS:
"What are you even talking about, Megumi? There’s no way," Nobara said, crossing her arms and rolling her eyes.
"Don’t believe me then. I don't care," Megumi replied flatly, not even looking up from his book.
"Wait, I’m completely lost," Yuji muttered, scratching the back of his head with a confused frown.
"Catch up, idiot," Nobara sighed, gesturing dramatically toward Megumi. "Fushiguro here thinks our two senseis are in love or something just because he saw them holding hands while she was recovering in the infirmary."
Yuji blinked, looking between the two of them. "But... can’t friends just hold hands? Like, to be supportive?"
"You’re an idiot," Megumi said blankly.
Before Nobara could launch into a full lecture on the nuances of romantic body language, the classroom door slid open and Suguru walked in. The trio immediately paused, collectively realizing that the perfect source of information had just walked through the door.
"Geto-sensei!" Nobara called out instantly. “Do they actually like you know, love each other?"
Suguru stopped near the podium, raising an eyebrow. He didn't even need to ask who the "they" in question was, it could only be you and Gojo.
A knowing, slightly weary smile graced Suguru's face. He let out a soft huff of a laugh and shook his head.
Suguru setting his lesson materials down on the desk says, "They’ve been completely in love with each other since we were all teenagers."
Megumi let out a sharp, triumphant, "I knew it."
Nobara let out a loud, miserable groan, reaching into her uniform pocket and aggressively slapping a few thousand-yen bills into Megumi's open palm.
"I hate this school," she grumbled, sulking back into her chair.
a/n: okay what r we thinking guys. was the smut goon worthy or no. be honest guys i promise i can take it. anyways i acc had sooo much fun writing the smut, like i literally had a fat smile on my face like i was the one experiencing ts.
im thinking the next fic will be a more smut focused one w police officer toji who pulls you over for speeding ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) totally not based off of my real life where i got pulled over by a fine shyt officer today
also guys if theres something you want me to write, my requests are open :)
A mission, a fancy hotel, one shared room, and years of feelings neither of you has been brave enough to talk about. What was supposed to be a simple overnight assignment with Satoru quickly turns into something much more complicated, especially when old tension starts getting harder and harder to ignore.
PAIRING: bestfriend! satoru x fem!reader
WC: 6.9k
WARNINGS: dry humping, a little bit of smut, no angst yet..
NOTES: erm there will be a part two im so sorry. it will be finished soonish! im still learning how to write in general but like specifically smut so i apologize if this doesn't read too well :( when part 2 is done, ill link it at the top here! there might be a few mistakes here and there, i didn't really edit it, but ill read through tmrw and fix wtv i can find lol. ANYWAYS I HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY
pt.2
“Hey, cutie. What are you doing here?”
Satoru’s playful, velvety soft, and annoyingly smug voice booms from behind you. You didn’t get the chance to turn around before you felt his arms loop around your waist.
He was so confident in his actions and made it feel so natural, like they belonged there. He pulled you back until your back met the solid warmth of his chest and leaned down as if personal space were a foreign concept to him. His breath brushed your ear, soft and warm, and your body betrayed you before your mind had time to object.
You almost shivered.
Almost.
You locked your knees and stared straight ahead.
Satoru hummed near your neck. The sound carried mischief, comfort, and the kind of familiarity that made your heart do stupid flips inside your chest.
“Satoru,” you said, voice flat. “You know why I’m here.”
He laughed under his breath. His arms stayed around you.
To anyone else, the scene would look intimate, too intimate. A quiet embrace in Principal Yaga’s office. His chin close to your shoulder. Your back pressed to his chest. His hands resting at your waist like they had found their favourite place and refused to leave.
But this was Gojo Satoru.
He had always been like this, a touchy, careless, and shameless man. He leaned, grabbed, poked, tugged, and draped himself over people without warning. With you, he was worse. Much worse. It started when you two were students at Jujutsu High. He would steal the chair beside you even when three others were empty. He would rest his long legs across your lap during breaks. He would tug at your hair when he wanted attention, pinch your cheeks when you ignored him, and wrap his arms around your shoulders whenever he got bored.
At first, you fought him. You shoved his hands away and told him to fuck off. You glared so hard Shoko once said your face might get stuck that way.
Satoru never cared.
The first time you snapped at him to give you space, he blinked at you through his dark glasses, smiled like you had said something funny, and leaned even closer.
So, you gave up. Definitely not because you started liking it… yeah definitely not. That was what you told yourself. You gave up because Satoru Gojo was a mulish man, impossible to move once he decided where he wanted to go. And for some reason, he always seemed to move toward you.
You, Satoru, Shoko, and Geto had been stuck together since your first year at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Back then, the school felt like its own world. You spent your days running through the long halls, dragging yourself back from missions, and sitting through Yaga’s lectures like each one might last forever. Being an adult felt so far away. You were always too occupied with getting through the next curse, the next injury, the next report, and the next time Satoru opened his mouth and made everything worse.
You had all been young and reckless then, convinced that whatever pain could be laughed off if you tried hard enough. Years had passed since, and none of you were quite the same people anymore. Still, the four of you remained at the same school, bound to the same world, moving within the same familiar barriers.
The uniforms had changed. The missions had grown uglier, and the weight on your shoulders had settled in so deeply it almost felt natural now. But through all of it, your friendship with them remained one of the few things in this life you truly cherished.
Shoko was your anchor in a heavy storm with her dry humor, tired eyes, and cigarette smoke that clung to her like a second shadow. She always knew when you needed silence more than advice.
Geto had a quiet steadiness to him. He was patient, thoughtful, and strangely easy to be around. You used to tease him for sounding like he had already lived three lifetimes, always ready with some annoyingly reasonable advice when the rest of you were busy making terrible decisions.
With them, you always knew where you stood. With Satoru, nothing ever felt simple. There had always been something between you, something you could never quite name no matter how hard you tried. But you felt it. God, you felt it. In the extra second his hand lingered before letting yours go. In the way his teasing softened when it was just the two of you. In the way he looked at you with those impossible blue eyes, like there was something he wanted to say but never did.
From the first day you met Satoru, you made one very clear promise to yourself: you were never going to fall for him. At the time, it honestly did not seem that hard. Yes, he was gorgeous, annoyingly so, but he was also impossible. Spoiled, loud, shameless, always demanding attention. He flirted like it was second nature, throwing out smiles and stupid little comments just to watch girls blush when he walked by. And the worst part was that he knew exactly what he was doing. Satoru always knew.
Even with his glasses on, he was bad enough—tall, white-haired, unfairly built, with a grin that made it hard to keep your thoughts respectable. But when he took them off, it was like everyone around him forgot how to function. His eyes were ridiculous, too blue and too pretty for one person to have. You had once watched a girl nearly trip over herself after he looked at her for all of three seconds, and another go so red she turned away before he could even say anything.
You had rolled your eyes then, convinced everyone was being dramatic. And then Satoru turned to look at you. For one awful second, you completely understood. You were not blind, and you were definitely not stupid. Satoru Gojo was, without question, the most handsome man you had ever seen. Which was deeply irritating. The kind of handsome that made you roll your eyes on purpose, mostly because admitting he was that attractive felt like losing.
But his looks were never the real issue. It was the way he cared about you. That was what got you in the end.
Because underneath all the arrogance, the teasing, and that smug little grin you constantly wanted to smack off his face with a rolled-up mission report, Satoru was always there. When you called him at three in the morning because you wanted snacks from the convenience store, he picked up on the second ring. He complained the entire walk there, obviously, but still grabbed your favorite drink before you even asked. When you forced him to watch your stupid shows, he groaned like you were torturing him, took up half the couch, and interrupted every five minutes with questions. Then, somehow, he remembered every character’s name. And when you came back from a bad mission too drained to talk, he didn’t push or joke. He just sat beside you and stayed.
That was worse than the flirting. Worse than his face. Worse than the way his hand rested warm against the small of your back when he guided you through a crowd.
Shoko and Geto loved you. You knew that. They would be there the second you needed them, no questions asked. But Satoru was there for all the small, stupid things too. Somehow, he kept slipping into the quiet parts of your life until they did not feel complete without him there.
Maybe that was when your promise started to break. Not in some huge, dramatic moment. Just slowly, in little pieces, until one day you realized you had already fallen and had no idea when it happened.
Whatever you and Satoru were, it never fit neatly into one word. Friendship sounded too simple. Love felt like too much to admit. So, you didn’t call it anything; that felt like the safer choice.
And now you stood in Principal Yaga’s office with Satoru’s arms around your waist as if this was normal. As if your heart was not beating against your ribs like it wanted out. As if his thumb had not started tracing slow, lazy circles against your side.
You grabbed his wrist.
“Satoru,” you warned.
“What?” he asked, far too innocent.
“You know what.”
“I missed you.”
“You saw me this afternoon.”
“That was hours ago.”
“It was twenty minutes ago.”
“Exactly,” he said, tightening his hold. “Cruel.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but familiar footsteps sounded outside the office. Satoru released you at once. Not because he felt guilty. No. He released you only to lift both arms toward the door, preparing himself with the wide, dramatic confidence of a man about to annoy someone on purpose.
Principal Yaga entered and stopped in the doorway. For one silent second, he looked at Satoru’s open arms.
Satoru smiled. “Yaga. Come here.”
Yaga walked past him without slowing down and sat behind his desk.
Satoru’s arms stayed in the air.
You pressed your lips together trying to stop yourself from laughing.
“I need you two for a mission,” he said.
Satoru dropped his arms and leaned against the wall. “Aw. Together? You’re spoiling us.”
Yaga ignored him. “Its an overnight mission.”
That got your attention.
You straightened. “Us?”
Yaga folded his hands on the desk. “Yes.”
You glanced at Satoru. He looked delighted. That was never a good sign.
“Gojo can handle most missions alone,” you said. “Why send both of us?”
Satoru placed a hand over his chest. “Such faith in me. I’m touched.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And yet you keep me around.”
“I don’t recall choosing that.”
“You wound me.”
Yaga’s brow twitched. “Enough.”
Both of you went quiet and Yaga continued, “Gojo has a meeting with the higher ups near the mission site. He will be unavailable at first. You will begin the investigation and containment. Once his meeting ends, if necessary, he will join you and assist with the exorcism.”
You crossed your arms. “What grade?”
“Special grade.”
Satoru’s smile faded.
Yaga turned his attention to you. “The curses have been appearing near a commercial district. Civilian traffic is heavy during the day. Several people have already reported missing time, hallucinations, and sudden bursts of aggression.”
Your fingers tightened around your sleeve. Missing time was never a good sign and hallucinations were worse. Curses that messed with perception were dangerous in a different way. They could turn a normal street into a trap before anyone even noticed something was wrong. A safe path could lead straight into oncoming traffic. The voice calling your name could belong to no one at all. And by the time you realized your own senses had betrayed you, it was usually too late.
Yaga slid a folder across the desk. You took it and flipped it open.
The first page was filled with grainy photos from security cameras. A shattered shop window. A warped reflection caught in polished tile. Black residue smeared along one wall like something had dragged itself across it. Beneath that was a statement from a store owner who swore his own reflection had smiled at him just before he blacked out.
You sighed. This was not going to be a simple cleanup.
Satoru leaned over your shoulder, close enough that his hair brushed lightly against you as he studied the photos.
“Ugly little thing,” he murmured.
You glanced at him. “You see something?”
“Maybe.” The playfulness had left his voice. “The residuals are all over the place. Could be more than one curse. Could be one curse splitting pieces of itself off.”
You hummed, still glancing over the file before looking back up at Yaga. “Alright. And what’s the hotel situation?”
Yaga’s expression stayed perfectly neutral. “Ijichi booked one room for the two of you.”
For a second, you were sure you had misheard him.
You slowly lowered the folder. “Sorry. One room?”
“Yes.”
“With him?” you asked, turning your head just enough to indicate Satoru beside you.
Satoru pressed a hand to his chest like you had wounded him. “Wow. You say that like spending the night in my presence is some kind of punishment.”
“It is,” you said without missing a beat.
His mouth curled into a grin. “You don’t mean that.”
An irritating warmth crept up your neck, and you immediately looked away.
You hated him.
You hated him so much.
Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose, already tired of both of you. “The school is cutting unnecessary costs where it can.”
“Of all the places to cut costs,” you said, “you landed on making me share a room with him?”
“It’s a standard business hotel,” Yaga replied. “There will be two beds.”
Satoru gave a disappointed click of his tongue. “There goes my dream.”
You turned toward him slowly and saw that the idiot was already grinning.
For one very tempting second, you considered throwing the folder directly at his face.
Yaga spoke before you could. “Ijichi’s waiting outside. You’ll leave now, stay near the district tonight, and start early tomorrow morning. Keep civilians out of it as much as possible.”
You looked back down at the photos. A familiar tightness settled in your chest. Not fear, exactly. Something closer to readiness. That unsettling feeling that came before a fight, when your body caught on to the danger before your mind had fully sorted through it.
Satoru noticed. Of course he did.
His shoulder brushed against yours. “Don’t do that.”
You glanced at him. “Do what?”
“That thing where you decide the whole mission is yours to carry before we’ve even left the room.”
"Well, I am starting it alone,” you said. “You’ll be busy with the meeting.”
“For a few hours, maybe.”
“That’s still alone.”
He tilted his head, trying to catch your eye. “I’ll be nearby.”
You said nothing.
“Hey.” His voice dropped, softer now, stripped of the usual teasing. “I mean it. I’ll be close.”
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest, warmer than they had any right to be.
You looked away first.
“Try not to make the higher-ups cry," you said.
Satoru gave you a lazy smile. “I can’t promise anything. They make it way too easy.”
Yaga let out a tired sigh. “Gojo.”
Satoru straightened at once and threw up an overly enthusiastic salute. “Understood, sir. I’ll be on my absolute best behavior.”
“You are a grown man,” Yaga said flatly.
“Allegedly,” you muttered.
Satoru turned to you, scandalized. “Wow. I expected this from him, but from you? That hurts.”
Yaga exhaled through his nose, clearly at the end of his patience. “Get out of my office before I regret assigning either of you.”
Satoru’s mood brightened instantly as he headed for the door. “Come on, then. Our romantic overnight mission awaits.”
“It’s not romantic,” you said, following him.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “But it is overnight.”
“That doesn’t help your case.”
“And there’s a hotel room involved.”
“You’re making it worse.”
“And two beds,” he added, with a sigh dramatic enough to belong onstage.
You gave him a sideways look. “You’re actually upset about that?”
“I’m just saying, it feels a little unnecessary.”
“The beds?”
“The separation.”
You stared at him. “Keep talking and you’ll be sleeping in the hallway.”
He reached for the office door, glancing back at you with that pleased, shameless grin. “Aw. You’d miss me.”
Top of Form
Bottom of Form
You gave Yaga a quick bow, more from habit than anything else, then followed Satoru out into the hallway.
He was already a few steps ahead of you, hands tucked into his pockets, white hair catching in the afternoon light spilling through the windows. He moved with that same careless ease he always carried, like nothing in the world had ever been heavy enough to slow him down.
You watched him walk ahead of you, and that old promise twisted quietly in your chest.
Never fall for Gojo Satoru.
What a stupid thing to promise yourself.
He glanced back over his shoulder. “You know, if you keep staring at me like that, I’m going to start getting ideas.”
“I’m not staring,” you said. “I’m making sure you don’t trip over your own feet again.”
“That happened once, and I still think the floor had it out for me.”
“The floor didn’t do anything. You just tripped.”
Satoru nodded like you’d proven his point. “Exactly. That’s what it wants you to think.”
You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway.
Of course, he noticed. His grin softened just a little, and for a second, the air between you shifted in that quiet, familiar way it always did when neither of you knew what to say next. The hallway felt strangely still around you, like the rest of the school had faded into the background.
Then Satoru opened his mouth and ruined it.
“Since we’re sharing a room tonight, I’m claiming the bed by the window.”
You looked at him. “You don’t get to start making demands before we’ve even left the school.”
“I’m not making demands. I’m planning ahead.”
“You’re testing my patience.” You brushed past him with a groan, and his laugh followed you down the hall, loud and careless, echoing off the walls of the school.
Outside, the late afternoon air felt heavy and damp. Gray clouds hung low over the campus, thick enough that rain seemed inevitable. Wind moved through the trees near the entrance, sending a few loose leaves scraping across the pavement.
Ijichi’s car was already waiting.
He stood beside it with his usual rigid posture, clipboard held tightly against his chest as though it offered some kind of protection. The moment he spotted Satoru, his expression tightened.
“Gojo-san,” Ijichi said, glancing at his watch. “You’re late.”
Satoru looked offended. “We’re exactly on time.”
“You were expected seven minutes ago.”
Satoru leaned slightly toward you and lowered his voice. “He missed me.”
“He’s afraid of you,” you said.
Ijichi opened the back door with a strained sigh. “Please get in.”
You slid into the car first. The seat was cool beneath you, and the mission folder settled on your lap.
Satoru climbed in beside you, choosing the spot directly at your side despite the wide stretch of empty seat available. His knee knocked gently against yours.
You shifted away. A moment later, he shifted closer.
You turned to look at him.
He kept his gaze fixed out the window, smiling faintly as though he’d done absolutely nothing.
The car pulled away from the school, and Tokyo Jujutsu High slowly disappeared behind the trees and gray sky. The road curved down the mountain, carrying you toward the city, toward the mission, toward one hotel room, and toward the one man you’d spent years trying not to want.
Rain began to fall before you reached the main road. At first, it was light. Soft taps against the window. Then it grew, threading silver lines down the glass.
Satoru rested his head back against the seat. For once, he said nothing.
You looked at his reflection in the rain-streaked window. The curve of his mouth had relaxed. His glasses hid his eyes, but not the faint tension in his jaw.
“You worried?” you asked.
His reflection smiled. “About sharing a room with you? A little. You kick in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
You glanced down at the folder again. “What do you think it is?”
Satoru tilted his head, eyes moving over the reports. “Could be a curse working through reflections. Maybe sound, too. A few of them heard voices right before they blacked out.”
You flipped to another page. “One victim said her reflection moved before she did.”
His expression sharpened. “Then it’s probably not just messing with their heads at random. It has some kind of trigger.”
“A cursed technique?”
“Most likely.” He glanced at the photos again. “The question is how far it reaches and whether it needs direct contact or just line of sight.”
You frowned. “So, I shouldn’t rush in blind.”
“Exactly.” He turned toward you, his voice quieter now. “I know Yaga said to go in first but I think you should wait for me."
“I know how to do my job, Satoru.”
“I know.”
You looked at him.
Satoru’s face stayed angled toward yours, but his voice softened.
“I know you do.”
In that moment, the car felt too small. His shoulder bumped into yours, his knee still brushed your leg, and the smell of him, clean soap and faint sugar, filled your senses.
You looked away first and stared out the window. The city lights smeared across the wet glass like paint. Beside you, Satoru stretched his legs and sighed like a bored cat.
“So,” he said, voice bright again. “For our sleepover, do you prefer scary movies or snacks first?”
You closed the folder. “Neither.”
"Ugh, how boring.”
The rain kept falling as Ijichi drove on, steady against the car windows, softening the glow of streetlights outside into blurred streaks of gold and white. The quiet hum of the engine filled the space between the three of you, broken only by the occasional swish of the windshield wipers.
Your eyelids grew heavier with every passing minute. The warmth of the car, the low murmur of the road, and the exhaustion sitting deep in your bones all worked against you. Before you knew it, your head tipped gently onto Satoru’s shoulder.
A small, sleepy smile lingered on your face.
Satoru glanced down at you. For once, he didn’t immediately say something stupid. His expression softened, hidden from you as his fingers carefully brushed a few loose strands of hair away from your cheek.
“Isn’t she just so cute, Ijichi?”
Ijichi looked at him through the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking briefly from Satoru to your sleeping form. “I will never understand your relationship, Gojo-san.”
Satoru let out a quiet, breathless chuckle, careful not to jostle you.
Honestly, he didn’t understand it either.
All he knew was that something about you kept pulling him back. For a while, he’d tried to blame it on your cursed energy. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend there was some reason he kept ending up beside you, some explanation for why leaving never lasted very long.
But that excuse had worn thin a long time ago.
You had settled into his life so naturally that he barely noticed when it happened. You were simply there now, threaded into his days, into his routines, into thoughts he didn’t always mean to have. He hovered close, never fully crossing the line, never quite stepping back either.
And sometimes, when you leaned into him without thinking or looked at him with that exasperated fondness you tried so hard to hide, he wished something would finally shift.
But for now, he stayed where he was, quiet beneath the weight of your sleeping head, letting the rain and the low hum of the car fill the silence.
By the time the car finally slowed to a stop beneath the covered entrance of the hotel, you were still fast asleep.
You ended up waking up to a sharp pain in your cheeks.
Your eyes cracked open, unfocused at first, only to land on Satoru’s grinning face inches away from yours. His fingers were pinching both of your cheeks because apparently gently tapping your shoulder or saying your name like a normal person had never occurred to him.
“Ow, Satoru,” you mumbled, swatting weakly at his hand.
He giggled and finally let go, entirely too pleased with himself as he opened the car door and stepped out into the cool, rain-damp air.
From the driver’s seat, Ijichi turned slightly toward you. “I’ll be back tomorrow night to pick you both up.”
“Of course, Ijichi. Thank you,” you said, your voice softening as you gave him a polite nod before stepping out and closing the door.
The first thing you noticed was the hotel itself.
It rose high into the night sky, all polished glass and dark stone. Water spilled gently from the fountains flanking the entrance, their soft splashing mixing with the rain tapping against the pavement. Tall stone columns framed the broad glass doors, and warm light poured from within, golden and inviting.
This was definitely not what you had expected. You had prepared yourself for something decent, maybe comfortable if the budget allowed. Not this.
You walked toward the entrance beside Gojo, casting him a sidelong glance. The doormen bowed as the two of you approached, and one of them opened the door with a practiced smile.
The lobby was even more extravagant. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, reflecting off the polished marble floors. The air smelled faintly of fresh flowers and expensive candles. To one side, a small group of musicians played live near the seating area, their music flowing softly through the open space. Guests moved through the lobby in low conversation, suitcases rolling smoothly behind them.
You looked back at Gojo, suspicion building.
“Satoru…” you said slowly. “Did you change our hotel?”
He turned to you with a look of pure innocence that fooled absolutely no one. “Well, did you really expect me to sleep in some measly four-star hotel before I have to meet with those old geezers tomorrow? I need my beauty sleep.”
You sighed through your nose.
You don’t know why you bothered asking.
“Just relax,” he said, waving lazily toward the seating area. “Sit down while I check us in.”
You nodded and made your way over to one of the plush chairs near the musicians. The cushions sank slightly beneath your weight, and for a moment, you let yourself settle into the comfort of it.
The music was even nicer up close.
You watched the violinist move her bow in long, smooth strokes, her fingers shifting with practiced ease along the strings. The pianist beside her followed in perfect rhythm, not needing to look up. There was something soothing about how focused they were, how calm their expressions remained as the notes filled the space around you.
A light tap on your shoulder pulled you from the music.
You glanced up to find Gojo standing beside you, room key in hand. “Room’s ready. Come on.”
He extended his hand.
You looked at it for half a second before placing your own in his. His fingers closed around yours easily, warm and steady as he helped you to your feet. He let go a moment later, though not quite as quickly as he could have.
The elevator ride up was quiet, aside from the soft mechanical hum and the faint music still lingering in your ears. Gojo leaned casually against the wall, looking much too relaxed for someone who was almost certainly hiding something.
You should have known.
The moment the hotel room door opened, you stepped inside and stopped cold.
The room was beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering city below, rain tracing slow lines down the glass. A seating area sat near the windows with a low table and a neatly arranged tray of bottled water. The carpet was thick underfoot, and warm lamps cast a soft glow over the space.
But none of that mattered because directly in the center of the room was one bed.
One large, perfectly made, unmistakably singular bed.
You stared at it for a second, just to make sure you were not missing another one tucked around some hidden corner. Then you slowly turned toward Gojo.
“So,” you said, giving him a knowing look, “what happened to two beds?”
Of course, he immediately put on that fake, helpless expression of his. He rubbed the back of his neck and looked almost sheepish, which might have been convincing if you had met him yesterday.
“Well, you know,” he said. “It was the cheapest option. Had to consider the budget and all that. Really, I made the smartest choice here.”
You stared at him.
Then at the luxury suite.
Then back at him.
“God, I don’t even know why I put up with you.”
He smiled, entirely unbothered. “Because I’m delightful.”
You rolled your eyes and stepped farther into the room, setting your things down with a little more force than necessary.
The problem was that arguing about the bed would get you nowhere. Offering to make him sleep on the floor would never work. He would refuse on principle, probably with a dramatic speech about his back and his importance to society. And if you offered to sleep on the floor instead, he would absolutely drag you back into the bed the second you dozed off.
And if you were being painfully honest with yourself, sharing a bed with Gojo was not exactly the part that bothered you most.
You were not opposed to it. You would rather swallow glass than admit that out loud, but it was true.
The issue was everything around it. Your relationship was already strange enough, close in ways that were hard to explain and even harder to define. Sleeping in the same bed felt like one more step into territory neither of you seemed brave enough to name.
You needed a moment away from him before he opened his mouth again and made everything worse.
Grabbing your clothes and toiletries, you headed for the bathroom.
“I’m showering first,” you called over your shoulder.
Then you stepped inside and shut the door behind you.
You turned the shower on as hot as it would go, desperate to burn the thoughts right out of your head. When the water first hit your skin, you flinched, sucking in a sharp breath, but after a moment you forced yourself to stand still beneath it. Steam began to gather around you, fogging the glass and turning the bathroom hazy.
There was nothing inherently intimate about sharing a bed with someone. Not really.
You had slept in the same bed as Shoko plenty of times, and that had been completely platonic. You had even passed out on Geto’s bed while he laid down beside you playing video games. Sharing a bed with someone doesn’t have to mean anything.
The problem was that the person you were sharing one with was Satoru, and somehow he had a talent for making everything feel like something.
A glance held half a second too long. His hand brushing yours. A joke murmured too close to your ear. With him, even the smallest things had a way of feeling like more.
You exhaled heavily and tipped your face up into the stream of water, hoping it might clear your head. Unfortunately, it did not.
By the time you finally shut off the shower, the bathroom was thick with steam. You dried off, changed, and opened the door, sending a warm cloud spilling into the room with you.
“Jesus, woman,” Gojo said from somewhere near the bed. “I think the showers in hell are cooler.”
You waved him off as you stepped past him. “Yeah, yeah.”
He disappeared into the bathroom next, and you walked towards the bed. You were just about to climb in when the balcony caught your eye.
Fresh air. That sounded good. You crossed the room, slid the glass door open, and stepped outside.
The rain had softened to a fine mist, cool against your still-warm skin. Tokyo stretched out below you in glittering layers, streets shining with reflected neon, windows glowing from high-rise buildings, headlights drifting through the roads like tiny ribbons of light. From up here, the city almost looked peaceful.
You rested your hands on the railing and let yourself take it in.
You were not used to views like this. Most nights were spent at Jujutsu High, tucked away from the noise of the city, or running from one assignment to the next. Sometimes you forgot that a whole ordinary world existed outside of curses and missions and the constant threat of losing someone.
It made you wonder, not for the first time, what your life might have looked like if you had never become a sorcerer.
Maybe you would have gone to university like everyone else. Maybe you would have a regular job, a little apartment, and a partner. Maybe by now you would be married, or even have children of your own.
Instead, here you were, standing on a hotel balcony at night, trying to figure out what exactly you were with your stupid high school crush.
You were so lost in thought that the knock against the glass made you jump.
Turning around, you saw Gojo standing inside the room.
Half naked.
A towel hung low around his hips, and that was it.
For one horrible, terrible second, your brain simply stopped working.
Water still clung to his skin, catching the soft room light across the lines of his chest and stomach. His hair was damp and pushed messily back, exposing more of his face than usual. He looked entirely too pleased with himself for someone dressed so indecently in a shared hotel room.
You dragged your gaze upward with great effort and stepped back inside.
“Gojo,” you snapped, trying to sound annoyed instead of completely thrown off, “where the hell are your clothes?”
He looked down at himself as though he had only just noticed. “Don’t you know, sweetheart? I have to air-dry. Towels are just too rough on my baby-soft skin.” He tilted his head, smiling. “Do you wanna feel?”
“As if, princess. Go back into the bathroom and put some clothes on.”
He pouted but thankfully turned around and wandered back in anyway.
The second the bathroom door closed, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in.
You needed to collect yourself. Mentally. Spiritually. Possibly medically.
So, in the most dignified response available to you, you sprinted to the bed and buried yourself under the covers.
From what exactly were you hiding? You were not entirely sure.
A few minutes later, the bathroom door opened again. Gojo stepped out, thankfully dressed this time, and climbed into bed beside you with irritating ease, like the situation was perfectly normal.
“I hope you know I’m a cuddler,” he said.
You turned onto your side to face him, ready with a retort. “I hope you know I’m a kicke—”
The word suddenly stuck in your throat. His face was much closer than you expected.
Close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of his breath against your lips. Close enough to catch the clean mint of his toothpaste and the damp scent of soap still clinging to his skin. His eyes, impossibly blue even in the soft lamplight, were fixed on yours.
For once, he was not smiling. Your throat tightened.
You could have sworn he started to move closer.
Before your thoughts could catch up, you turned away, facing the other side of the bed. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks, and you silently cursed your own cowardice.
“Goodnight,” you said quickly, reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp.
Darkness filled the room.
“Goodnight,” he murmured behind you.
His voice was lower than usual, rough at the edges, and it sent a shiver down your spine.
This was going to be a very long night.
You squeezed your eyes shut and prayed sleep would come quickly. For a few minutes, nothing happened. The room stayed quiet except for the faint hush of rain against the balcony glass and the soft rhythm of your own breathing.
Eventually, you began to drift.
Then an arm slid around your waist.
You let out a small gasp as Gojo pulled you back against him, your body fitting into his perfectly like a missing piece of a puzzle. His arm settled lightly at your waist while his fingers began tracing slow, absent circles against your arm.
You held still until something in you finally snapped.
You turned around to face him, the movement bringing you even closer than before. His hand stayed at your waist, fingers now moving in gentle circles over the fabric of your shirt.
“Satoru…” you began, though you had no idea what you meant to say after that.
His gaze softened.
Slowly, he lifted one hand to your face, cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His thumb brushed lightly along your skin before he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
He looked at you like he was waiting for you to stop him.
Then he leaned in.
His lips hovered just shy of yours, close enough that your breath caught.
“Can’t move away from me this time,” he murmured.
And then he kissed you.
It was soft at first, careful and hesitant. It was like he couldn’t believe that this was finally happening.
The second you kissed him back, he completely changed.
A low groan left him as he deepened the kiss, tongue intertwining with yours and his hand tightening slightly at your waist. Your fingers slid into his damp hair, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing harder, foreheads resting together in the dark.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice rough and unsteady. “Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop. We can pretend it never happened.”
“Please, Toru,” you breathed. “Fuck—please don’t stop.”
That was all he needed.
He kissed you again, harder this time, hungrier, like the last thread of restraint had finally snapped. He pulled back only long enough to sit up, then lifted you with effortless ease and settled you onto his lap, your legs falling around his hips.
His mouth found yours again almost immediately.
He was intoxicating. Warm and overwhelming and far too good at making you forget every sensible thought you had tried to hold onto all night. Your hands slid over his shoulders as you grinded down on his hardening cock.
“Fuck, baby,” he muttered against your mouth.
His hands moved to your hips, helping you move against his cock as he kissed along your jaw, then lower, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck. When he lingered at that one particular spot, you couldn’t stop the soft moan that slipped out right beside his ear.
Satoru shuddered beneath you.
His restraint seemed to slip after that. His fingers found the hem of your top and pulled it up and over your head, tossing it somewhere into the dark. His gaze dropped to your bare breasts. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, voice rough with disbelief. When looking wasn’t enough anymore, he latches his mouth onto your tits, sucking and biting.
The stimulation from his assault on your boobs made you move faster against him as you whimpered, “Toru, please, I need more.”
“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice thick with desire, “how many times I’ve dreamed about this.”
Before you could respond to him, your phone started ringing from the bedside table.
The sudden sound cut sharply through the room, pulling you both back to reality. You glanced toward the bright screen and saw the name flashing across it.
Principal Yaga.
You reached for the phone, shooting Satoru an apologetic look as you answered. “Hello?”
His hand stilled at your waist, though his eyes stayed on you.
Yaga’s voice came through calm, but serious enough that your body tensed almost immediately. The curses you had been sent to investigate were no longer something that could wait until morning. Civilians were in immediate danger, and you needed to head out now.
Gojo was to remain at the hotel. If anything unnecessary delayed him, he could be late for tomorrow’s meeting with the higher-ups. And this one mattered more than usual. They would be discussing Yuji Itadori’s fate as Sukuna’s vessel.
By the time the call ended, the warmth of the moment had been gone.
You lowered the phone slowly.
“What is it?” Satoru asked, already reading the answer in your face.
You sat back slightly. “The curses are an immediate threat. Yaga wants me to go now instead of waiting until morning.”
His brows drew together. “Fine. Let’s go.”
You hesitated. “He said you need to stay here.”
Satoru’s expression flattened. “That’s ridiculous. It’ll be faster if I come with you.”
Normally, you would have agreed. Normally, having Satoru beside you would make any mission simpler, quicker, safer.
But this was not just any meeting tomorrow.
“It’s about Yuji,” you said quietly. “The higher-ups are discussing what happens to him.”
That made him pause.
You could see the argument still sitting on his tongue. The instinct to ignore orders, to follow you anyway, to make sure nothing touched you while he was around. But Yuji was his student. His well-being came first, and both of you knew it.
Satoru looked away for a moment, jaw tightening.
Then he exhaled through his nose. “Fine.”
You gave him a small, grateful nod and slipped off his lap, reaching for
your clothes. The room felt colder as you dressed in a hurry, the quiet between you now laced with disappointment.
Once you were ready, you turned back toward him.
He was sitting on the bed, watching you with an unreadable expression.
You stepped close, leaned down, and kissed him. It was soft, lingering just long enough to promise that this was not over.
“I’ll be back,” you murmured.
His eyes stayed on yours. “You’d better be.”
With that, you turned and left the room, the door clicking shut behind you.
Sukuna drops onto the couch with a heavy thud, the cushions compressing beneath his weight. He reaches lazily for the TV remote on the coffee table when the front door swings wide open.
You stumble in, breathless, cheeks flushed, chest heaving like you'd run the last block. His eyes find your face immediately, and he recognizes that look — the one you save specifically for him. The same look you give him when he leaves the toilet seat up, or when the dishes pile in the sink for three days straight. That look. The one that means you're annoyed with him.
He sets the remote down and waits, smart enough to let you talk first.
"What's wrong with you?" you huff, making your way toward him and dropping onto the arm of the couch.
"Hm?" He tilts his head, confusion etched across his face.
"I called you like a million times. You didn't pick up."
"Phone died. Sorry."
"Asshat." You exhale through your nose. "I was calling because I needed your help. My mom called me today asking what time I'm coming over to do my aunt's makeup for her wedding tomorrow— "
"Don't really see where I come in."
You give him a blank stare. "Maybe if you let me finish my sentence, you would."
When he says nothing, you continue, "I completely forgot about it." You drag a hand through your hair. "I haven't practiced her look even once, and I cannot mess up her wedding makeup. I cannot. So..." You trail off, wincing slightly, like you already know how he is going to react. "I was going to ask if I could practice on you."
"No." He says immediately without even looking at you. "I ain't no chick. Ask one of your friends. Or just practice on yourself."
"It's not the same when I do it on myself. I need to work on someone else's face. And all my friends are busy." You shift closer, now sitting beside him and pressing your palms together. "Please, Kuna. I'm begging. I'll do your laundry for a whole month."
He stares at the blank TV screen. You watch the muscle in his jaw tick as he turns it over — the weight of a month's worth of laundry versus whatever dignity he thinks he'd be surrendering.
"Fine," he mutters finally. "Make it quick."
Your face breaks into a grin before he even finishes the sentence.
"Love you! Don't move, I'll grab my stuff!!"
You reappear in the doorway, arms overflowing with makeup bags and palettes stacked precariously on top of each other. Sukuna eyes the haul from the couch and says nothing, but lets out a quiet, internal sigh. He cannot believe he's letting you do this. The things he does for you, without even fully understanding why.
You set everything down on the center table and get to work, uncapping primers and tapping foundations against the back of your hand to check the shade. He stays still, surprisingly cooperative, though the slight tension in his jaw makes it obvious he's exercising considerable restraint.
You work for a few minutes standing in front of him, but the angle is terrible. He's seated and you're upright, and every time you lean in to blend something along his cheekbone your lower back pulls with the strain. You try to push through it. You last maybe another thirty seconds before you give up.
Without really thinking about it, without asking, you straighten up, place your legs on both sides of him, and settle yourself onto his lap.
His whole body goes rigid.
"What —" His voice catches. "What are you doing?"
"My back was hurting," you say simply, reaching for your blending brush again. "I couldn't stand like that the whole time."
Sukuna turns his face sharply to the side, jaw tight. "Freak," he mutters. But he doesn't move. Doesn't tell you to get off. And you're almost certain there's a flush creeping up the side of his neck, just barely visible beneath his collar.
You decide not to mention it and keep working.
After a moment he exhales through his nose and lets his eyes fall shut, easier probably than figuring out where to look when your face is this close to his.
And then, slowly, without quite meaning to, you stop working.
You're just looking at him.
Up close like this, with his eyes closed and his expression unguarded, he is almost unbearable to look at. His features are severe and achingly symmetrical. The tattoos tracing along his jaw and beneath his collar accentuate his natural beauty. You've seen attractive people before. This is different. He possesses the type of beauty that leaves you with an aching pain in your chest when you don't see it anymore.
Your gaze somehow ends up drifting to his lips and staying there. The brush is hovering somewhere near his forehead and you've completely forgotten about it.
Sukuna notices the stillness and opens his eyes only to find you staring directly at his mouth.
You blink and your eyes snap up to his. "You have nice lips," you say, because that is apparently what your brain decides to offer in your defense.
The corner of his mouth curves into that sinful grin of his. "Yeah?"
Heat floods up your neck embarrassingly fast. "Y-yeah," you manage, and immediately look back down at your palette like the concealer shade requires your complete and undivided attention.
He closes his eyes again and settles back into his still form, but the grin stays on his face longer than it needs to.
When you finish, you take a moment to admire your work. He looks stunning.
"You look so pretty, Kuna."
"Tch."
"Do you want to see?"
"No." He's already reaching towards the makeup wipes. "Get it off me."
"Okay, fine. Close your eyes for me."
He listens, and you grab your phone from beside you and open the camera to take a picture.
As soon as you press the button, the shutter sound goes off at full volume.
Fuck. Your ringer was on.
Sukuna's eyes snap open. "Delete that. Now."
"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, already sliding off his lap.
He makes a grab for your phone and you twist away from him, laughing, holding it out of reach. He lunges for it again and you duck under his arm, scrambling to the other end of the couch with the phone pressed to your chest.
"Give it," he says flatly.
"Absolutely not."
He grabs your ankle and drags you back across the cushions. You shriek and kick your legs uselessly, trying to wriggle free while keeping the phone out of his reach, which is nearly impossible because his arms are annoyingly long. You end up half hanging off the edge of the couch, phone arm stretched toward the floor, other hand braced against his shoulder to keep him from getting any closer.
"Kuna—" you start, laughing too hard to finish the sentence.
"Stop squirming."
"Then stop trying to take it!"
He grabs your wrist, not hard, just firm enough that you can't move it, and starts prying your fingers back one by one with his free hand. You're both fully committed to this now, him stone-faced and determined, you a giggling mess trying to curl your fingers back around the phone every time he gets one loose.
"You're so dramatic," you manage between laughs.
"You took a picture of me in makeup."
"You look cute!"
That earns you a look so deeply unimpressed it almost makes you laugh harder. His grip tightens on your wrist and he makes one final grab for the phone and then it slips. Clean out of both of your hands and straight to the floor.
You both go still for a second.
"Shoot."
Sukuna looks down at you and it's only now that he actually registers it. How close your faces are. How your body is completely flush against his, your breasts rising and falling against him with every breath you take. His hand is still at your hip and he can feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric there.
He should get up. He knows he should. There's no reason to still be hovering over you like this, phone already forgotten on the floor. But he doesn't move. He stays exactly where he is and tries to find a good reason why and comes up empty.
You're looking up at him and for once you're not laughing. The playfulness from a moment ago has gone quiet somewhere, replaced by something neither of you has named yet. You're very aware of the weight of him, the warmth, the way his hand at your hip hasn't moved an inch.
"You gonna get off me?" you ask, but your voice comes out smaller than you meant it to.
He doesn't answer. His eyes move across your face, jaw tight, and you get the sense he's having some kind of internal argument with himself that you're not privy to.
"Sukuna."
"What."
"You're staring."
"I know."
He says it so plainly that it knocks the next thing you were going to say clean out of your head. Your heart is doing something embarrassing in your chest and you really hope he can't hear it.
His gaze drops to your lips. Stays there a moment too long to be accidental. When his eyes come back up to yours there's something in them that makes your stomach turn over, impatient and dark, like he's already made a decision and is just waiting for the last thread of his better judgment to give out.
Your tongue slides out to wet your lips without you even thinking about it.
That's it for him.
His head dips and his mouth meets yours, a little rougher than a first kiss probably should be, and the sound he makes against your lips is low and involuntary, almost primal. Your hands find the back of his neck and you pull him closer instead of pushing him away.
The kiss deepens and you feel his grip at your hip tighten, fingers pressing in like he needs something to hold onto. You make a small sound against his mouth and he swallows it, and for a moment the whole room narrows down to just this, just him, just the warmth of his mouth and the solid weight of him and the fact that you are so completely in over your head.
He pulls back first. You're both breathless, foreheads almost touching, and the space between you is non-existent.
You look up at him, your eyes filled with desire. "Don't stop."
Your fingers find their way into his hair and pull him back down. He grins against your mouth, just barely, and follows without a fight.
He wasn't planning on stopping anyway.
a/n: hi guys this is my first fic. im lowkey dookie balls at using tumblr but its ok, we will figure it out. im gonna make it so aesthetic and cutesie trusttttttt. anyways i hope you liked it :) omg also so random but my ex bf would never let me put makeup on him like what’s this guys problem smh
summary: gojo satoru was the most notorious man across the land. he was the strongest soldier the north had ever produced, the most brilliant of minds, and somebody who slept his way through the noble ranks. his parents set him up in a marriage agreement with you, hoping that a tie with a ring would help save his image. you know gojo never wanted this, and you try to act as if that was normal. but soon, without you or even him realizing it, he comes to the conclusion that while he never wanted this marriage - he's beginning to want you.
warnings: 18+ mdni: arranged marriage, angst, slight no comfort, gojo is emotionally constipated for a bit, heavy making out, eating out (fem! receiving), fingering, (naoya)
word count: 19.7k (sorry)
note: inspired by this drabble. i'm so happy this behemoth of a fic is done!! art credit: _3aem
jjk masterlist + series masterlist
Gojo Satoru was the most powerful man alive.
Not only physically, though some people chalked him up to being half god, but his name held even more control. The Gojo family of the North was as old as the gods themselves, and they’ve been making sure it’s been kept that way. They owned so much land that you would walk to the ends of the earth and circle back around and it would probably still be theirs. They had armies of unfathomable sizes under their command, so much riches that they could probably buy an entire nation and still have plenty to spend.
His presence was just as large as his name created him to be. Any ball he went to, all eyes would fall on him. On the battlefield, men feared to see the flash of white hair, knowing that his strength was unbridled.
And his physical beauty? Most people assumed he was blessed by the gods himself. Gojo had a certain look that just made your knees weak, your heart palpitate, and your cheeks heated up. The handful of times you’ve seen him from afar you’ve been able to understand why all the girls (and some of the guys) yearned for his attention. His eyes were a piercing blue as if somebody had held a mirror to the sky when creating them. His hair had grown whiter with the years, as white as the snow that sunk deep into the grounds of the north. Gojo had the build of a soldier, and he towered over most people. His bulky build was intimidating, but you heard some girls whisper behind their hands about how he must look underneath all those ceremonial garments.
The lord of the North was power itself.
Which would make you, by martial association, the North's most powerful lady.
And for somebody who grew up with the same respect as a stable boy, it was all too much too soon.
And yes, while on paper you still had your father's last name and legacy tied to it, you weren’t really a daughter to your parents. Your mother, though you had to call her by her name whenever you weren’t in public, seeing how she wasn’t really your mother, made sure it was kept that way. Your other three half-sisters should have been in your spot, either one of them more true to the family name than you. But seeing how they’re already married, you were the final resort.
Gojo Satoru, though you’ve seen him countless times (something common because of how close in ranks your families were), had only acknowledged you a couple of times. You didn’t care much, never did, because that's what you were used to. After all, it was a common fact that you were what they nicknamed “the bastard daughter” of the West.
But it didn’t seem to matter much to his parents, as they offered their son up to you in a marriage arrangement.
And who were you to turn that down?
They, his parents, assured you that their son was looking forward to this union. He was the one to offer it, they said, which you were skeptical of but weren’t stupid enough to question. You knew how much Gojo Satoru was tarnishing their reputation with his promiscuous ways, but as long as he was okay with this arrangement you couldn’t find any part of you that would disagree with it.
After all, you knew that this marriage wasn’t out of love, fascination, or even a mutual understanding, but because of the strength your own family (more so your father) held, and how you were the only feasible option for a bride.
So, after weeks of rocking back and forth on agreements, paperwork, dress rehearsals, and grueling dancing lessons (and still no sight of the man himself), you found yourself standing at the end of the aisle, your arm linked around your fathers as a large smile plasters itself on your face.
Ever since you were young you had convinced yourself that the only man who would want to taint his name enough to marry you would have to be either a troll or an ogre, so that fact that your future spouse was human was better than anything you could have asked for.
And you’re not daft. As your heart hammered loudly against the limited space of your chest, waiting for your cue to start walking, you reminded yourself that this was just a mutual agreement. It’s hard for people at your level to marry for love, but even then, you can’t help but hope that you can make a decent friendship out of this.
You glanced at your father next to you, catching his eyes as he nodded once, staring ahead of him into the small crowd of just your two families, and patted your arm.
You still remember the music playing, the instruments harmonizing together as you took a tentative step forward, feeling warm under the eyes of people you didn’t know, but you kept reminding yourself that this was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. Either you died as an old maid in the little room you had near the kitchens at your old home or got married to some warlord who wanted an entire village as family.
The orchids that surrounded the venue still infiltrate your nose as you think about it, the way the silk of your dress felt against your skin that had been scrubbed raw earlier that morning.
And there you saw him, standing at the end of the aisle. At that moment you realized how much of a mistake this was,
Because the man that stood there, the man who you were about to marry, seemed like he’d rather be dead than be your husband.
—
You blink out of your trance, sitting up straighter in your seat as you mindlessly stop tearing up pieces of your bread, rubbing your fingers together to get rid of the remnants of flour.
The dining hall was huge, far bigger than the one back home. Though you rarely ate there, you could still remember it, and it definitely wasn’t as big as this. Yet, despite its size, you felt like you were a little grain of rice in its vastness.
The Gojo estate itself was humongous. His parents resided in a smaller house near the ocean now that you’ve moved in, but you would bet that the word humble they used to describe it was anything but humbling. You’ve been here for weeks and yet you feel like you’ve only discovered half of what this place has to offer.
There were guards at every corner, but at this point, you’re convinced they're just for decoration. If your husband is as decorated a warrior as they say he is, he could protect this entire estate with no help necessary.
You stare at your plate, at the array of food prepared just for you, different sorts of cured meats, loaves of bread, cheeses, fruits, and juices from all over, and still, you feel no hunger.
Months ago you’d be ecstatic to see how much your life has changed. You get new clothes that fit you, food whenever you desire, people at your beck and call. Your room is no longer that cramped space you’d been given to hide you away from the rest of your family, but twice the size of your father's old bedroom. You wake up earlier and sleep later, do whatever you want, but none of it feels deserved.
The only thing you can bring yourself to think about is how the last time you saw your husband was the night of the wedding. The look on his face when you made your empty vows to one another, his faint lingering kiss on your cheek. You can blink your eyes and still see the way he left, his jaw clenched as he ignored the calls from his parents. How, even here, rumors seemed to follow you.
Safe to say, you spent your meals alone.
Not only that, but your rooms were entirely separate as well. You were told that you had to consummate the night of your marriage, but from what you’ve heard, your husband sleeps in an entirely different wing of the estate, with walls and corridors between the two of you.
You tried taking your mind off of things, pretending as if this was normal.
Most days you’d walk around, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout of the grounds. You’d walk the gardens a couple times each week, try to memorize the way back to different places, and stay in the library the other half of the time.
A part of you was happy to at least be away from that miserable home, but it felt like swapping one prison for a slightly better one. Your maids were kind, of course, but you didn’t know anybody here. They treat you like a lady of noble ranking, as expected from being the wife of the Lord in the North, but you’d rather be given an apron and start working around instead of this mind-numbing boredom of just sitting around.
You stare at your plate, chewing on a grape slowly.
Looking up you see the sun filtering in through the large windows, illuminating the long table that sits like an empty grave. Clicking your tongue you pick up another grape, slumping in your seat as you look up.
This is just the way things will be.
—
“Alina?”
You call out from your vanity, staring at your maid as she’s picking out different earrings for you to pick from for dinner.
It’s a couple of days later, and still no word from Gojo. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t stopped for a single second to not think about your supposed husband.
You try not to care, pretend that you’re lucky that he’s not bothering you or going out of his way to remind you of this unfortunate situation, but above anything you just feel alone.
The maid looks up, a curl falling from her tight bun as she smiles at you in the mirror.
“Yes, my lady?” She stands up straighter, flattening out the wrinkles from her apron tied around her waist as she begins walking towards you with the jewelry.
“Is this…is this normal?” You crane your neck around to look at the different pairs she’s holding up, nudging your head to the red ones that shine bright, and watch as she sets them down on your desk, resting her hand on your hip as she stares at you quizzically.
“What do you mean?” She asks as you begin taking your earrings off, putting the new ones on yourself. In the beginning, she protested, saying that a woman of your caliber shouldn’t have to do such measly tasks. But the more you protested, she eventually gave up.
“Do husbands and wives usually sleep separately?” you say, feeling your chest contract in embarrassment at the stupidness of your question.
You watch as she swallows thickly, avoiding eye contact as she sets on fixing some parts of your hair.
Staring patiently through the vanity mirror as you watch her work, Alina wets her lips, her eyes downcast as if not wanting to answer.
“Was there somebody else he preferred to marry?” You decide to ask, twisting that knife that you knew was lodged in her side, one that was stopping her from talking, and watch as her eyes widen slightly in shock.
“If you don’t answer I’m just going to keep asking more uncomfortable questions,” you warn and Alina snorts softly, shoving your shoulder a little bit as you crack a smile.
She moves around, picking up a necklace, and begins clasping it behind your neck.
“I…I don’t know. He’s always been pretty secretive and,” she looks at you briefly, “Selective. I don’t mean to speak ill of my lord but it would be stupid not to acknowledge his old ways. But we never heard of a specific girl.”
Alina places a gentle hand on your shoulder, a sad smile on her face.
“You’re lucky my lady,” she says, her voice hushed, “Most wives don’t have the freedom to say their husbands don’t care what they do. Had you married that Zenin, you’d be pregnant by now.”
You shudder out a breath, nodding once more.
“I’ll see you after dinner, my lady,” she says, moving out of the way as you stare quietly at the floor before leaving silently.
—-
Tonight for dinner the cooks made you a wide array of different dishes, all from the Northern shore. There are different types of fish, each cooked in various ways. It looks delectable, a feast fit for a king.
You feel awful, though, seeing that you can’t eat any of it.
The last time you had fish your face swelled up and couldn’t breathe properly, so that family physician told you to steer away from it. But you’re here now, and it somehow slipped your mind to ever mention this little fact to them, so you’re awkwardly poking around some of the vegetables under the fish, looking for something to eat.
You pile some potatoes and carrots on your plate, scraping off any bits of fish on them as you hold this wasn’t your last meal.
The only sound that fills the room is your fork and knife sometimes hitting the porcelain plate, and you look up every now and then as you chew, looking at the paintings on the wall.
You’re so focused on a portrait of an old man that you don’t even notice the figure standing at the entrance of the dining hall, not until you hear a muted curse.
You look up instantly, your fork and knife dropping to the plate as you stare at the man in front of you, eyes wide at the sight of your husband.
He stands there, blinking slowly as you stare back.
You could swear time has never moved so slowly before.
You can hear him mutter a quiet shit under his breath, not knowing if he should make this worse by turning around and leaving or if he should join you.
He’s wearing a simple tunic, his face a little flushed, hairline beaded with sweat. Did he just come out of training? He must often do that, you decide, seeing how he must’ve felt comfortable enough walking in here without any clothing of import.
His eyes seem to track your little movements; the way your chest rises and falls in a slow movement, the way your fingers have frozen in mid-air, lips slightly parting. Your eyes dart around the room, everybody seeming to have tensed up.
You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’ve never been so moved to silence. It seemed as if years of learned vocabulary slipped your mind within an instant, and no matter how hard you tried, nothing was coming back.
Gojo looks behind his shoulder, at the large double doors he entered through, deep in thought. This would be the first time the two of you had seen each other in weeks, and his tirade of avoiding you has come to an end. It looks like an entire battle is being fought in his mind, and you don’t know what to do.
Suddenly, you watch as he shakes his head, deciding to give in and join you for dinner.
The seconds go by like hours as he walks up to the seat at the other end of the table, staring at his seat for a brief second before he pushes it out and sits there.
You don’t know what to do.
Servants and maids quickly swarm the room, setting up his plate, cutlery, food, and drinks. It was all so hectic and rushed, but you were glad that it offered some sort of noise in the drowning silence.
A part of you wants to say something about the fish but you know this isn’t the right time.
In the flurry of movements you allow yourself to discretely look at him a little better, seeing how the last time you saw him was so brief and hurried.
The man radiates a different sort of aura you’ve never experienced before. While your father was one of the most powerful men in the West, Gojo was the strongest throughout the majority of the North and East. His frame took up the entire chair, his muscular shoulders and arms visible even through the loose fabric that was draped over him. You feel a little disappointed, knowing that if you were a different girl you’d probably be able to enjoy all of this.
You try to make yourself seem indifferent, moving some of the vegetables in your plate around, but secretly just trying to shovel them down as fast as humanly possible to get out of this thick atmosphere.
One of the men who was setting up some of the plates in front of Gojo takes notice of this, a smile overtaking his face as you briefly look up from your plate, startled to see the man walking closer to you.
“My lady, I’m so happy to see you enjoying our Northern delicacy!” He claps his hands together as you stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth still full of potatoes as you try chewing faster to get it all down before he gets closer to you.
His eyes wrinkle around the edges, his graying mustache trimmed ever so carefully, and you can tell he’s trying to loosen up the tension, but you stare in abject horror as he stands at your foot of the table.
“Would you like some more?” He motions to the fish that lay untouched in front of you, and you glance over to Gojo, hoping that maybe he is focused on his meal, only for your heart to sink at the fact that he is staring at you.
“...y-yes,” you croak out, wiping some of the carrot remnants from the corners of your lips as you give him a wobbly smile, “It’s alright, I can serve myself,” you exclaim, trying to thwart him off as he quickly waves this aside, shaking his head as he grabs the tray, beginning to portion some hefty pieces of fish onto your plate.
You don’t have the heart to tell this jolly man that this amount of fish would kill you within an instant, or even that he was wasting this all on you, so you just sit there, giving him a tight-lipped smile as you try not to breathe it in too much.
“Is that enough, my lady?” He asks, setting the tray down as you look at your plate now full of different sorts of sea creatures you swallow slowly, looking back up at him as you give a wobbly smile.
“This is great,” you muster up and watch as an even larger smile takes over his face, and you feel awful for it, “Thank you so much,” you tell him, watching as he bows lowly, excusing himself as he, and the other servants, leave the room,
Leaving you and Gojo alone.
You’re grateful that he’s already dug into his meal, not looking at a struggling you that’s moving the fish around with your fork as you try to find the last bits of vegetables you had saved up for yourself.
The smell itself is enough to make your stomach turn, and you wince, reaching for your cup of wine to wash some of the nausea down.
“You have very good wine,” you say suddenly, against your will, and have an out-of-body experience as you realize what you just did.
Gojo looks up from his plate, a little startled as he looks at you and the goblet in your hand, his white brows furrowed.
He nods once, not saying anything, and you feel the strange need to continue, somehow enjoying the feeling of stabbing yourself in the foot.
“Our wine back home tasted like cow piss,” your eyes widened at your slip of crass language, “Er - not piss, um, urine…?” You wince even more, feeling as if a ghost with awful intentions had taken control over your body, “Not that I’ve had cow piss - urine!” You correct yourself, “But I imagine that if I had…that, um, it would taste like o-our wine back home...”
He’s staring at you, unblinking, and you smile awkwardly, raising the cup to him as a sort of cheers gesture.
You count twenty seconds of silence in your head as you set the cup down, playing with your fork as you glance back up at him. Gojo looks as if he is regretting his decision to stay, his fingers tapping on his knife in a hurried sort of way.
“I don’t really like wine,” you continue, feeling like the only thing that could stop you now was if somebody were to bludgeon you to death, “I like juice more. Oh, well, but I guess…wine is juice…?” you mutter to yourself, contradicting your own words mid-sentence, “Back home we had this mulberry juice and it tasted nice. Kind of like your wine,” he’s not even looking at you and so your words die, quieting down as you sink back into your seat, hoping it could eat you entirely.
“Do you like wine?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, smiling faintly, awkwardly, “Or juice? Or… mulberries…?”
He shakes his head, still not staring at you.
“Did you have a good-”
“I prefer eating in silence.” Gojo finally said, raising his head slightly as he stared directly at you, watching as your mouth clamped shut.
Your smile grows small, eyes falling to the table to hide the embarrassment in them. You give him a brief nod, mumbling a quiet apology under your breath as you begin moving some pieces of carrot around on your plate.
You can hear the clinking of his utensils against his plate, wishing you could somehow fit an entire fish down your esophagus to escape this moment.
You give it a couple of seconds, counting the groves in the wood of the table, and rise, stomach empty, heart churning as you finally excuse yourself.
It only takes you minutes to find your room, quicker than last night, and allow yourself to sink against your bed, rubbing your skin raw of the rouge Alina had applied an hour earlier.
—-
You don’t tell anybody of the awful encounter with the man that’s legally your husband, but you’re sure that those there to observe have already begun talking about it. You try to pretend nothing happened, but Alina could pick up on your closed-off demeanor that night, her hands gentler than usual when helping you take off your garments, her eyes filled with concern.
“How was dinner, my lady?” She asked, staring at you as you waved off her worries, mustering up a lame excuse of a smile as you took off your silk shrug, avoiding any sort of eye contact as you slipped into your nightly garments.
“It was good,” your words are void of emotion, “I had fish.”
The following days are empty of any sight of your husband, but you’ve grown to find that normal. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop thinking about how idiotic you acted, your big mouth never knowing when to stop, tossing and turning in your bed at your excuse of an interaction.
You continue with your old routine of walking around the estate, sometimes trying to track down Alina and your other maids, seeing if maybe they had some free time to spend with you. You know there’s a town nearby, the girls often talk about how they go there sometimes at night, but you’re too afraid of going out alone, not used to that sort of thing.
Sometimes you sit out near the fields with a book, twisting the ring that’s searing into your finger, mindlessly taking in the words on the page. Other days you walk around the gardens, picking out some flowers for the vase in your room. On the days when you’re feeling really adventurous, you’d go near the east wing, where you’ve heard Gojo’s room is, and look at what sort of things lie there. But most times you chicken out, going back near your side just as quickly as you went.
You never see him at dinner again, knowing he wasn’t about to put himself through that torture again, so you go back to eating in silence, sometimes pretending that the chairs were full of people and that you were in one of those balls you longed to go to as a kid.
They seem to keep bringing fish out for you, and it’s in so many days deep that you’re in this sort of limbo where you can’t tell them you’re deathly allergic to it without feeling awful for all the work they’ve put in just to realize it’s gone to waste, so those nights, tonight, for example, you try finding as many vegetables as you can.
The roasted asparagus and beets are lovely, but there was only so much of it. And you find yourself getting a little bit sick of it too, your stomach-churning as you try to chug as much water as you can to get rid of the dirt after-taste that the beets have.
You thank the cooks and the servants as you leave for the night, your stomach still relatively empty as you get to your room, telling Alina to leave early for the night as you get ready for bed by yourself, wanting to be with yourself just for a little bit.
You lay on your bed, staring emptily at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach as if gurgling, still hungry for more. You try to sleep, trying to pretend like you were at your old home, those nights when this would be normal, but it’s no use. You’ve been too spoiled at the Gojo estate, and no matter how much you try to ignore the pang of hunger, it continues to bite you back.
So you find yourself twisting off of the warm comfort of your bed, sitting in silence as you contemplate what you’re about to do, but give in, lighting a candle as you slide into some slippers, leaving your room as you try to find your way down to the kitchens.
Thankfully, it’s well into the night when everybody is asleep, so this embarrassing walk of shame is only seen by the guards on duty. You walk down the testing staircase, careful to look around the corners for anybody there, but you’re alone.
You make your way to the kitchens, not hard to find seeing that they’re near the dining hall, and you peep your head inside, a sigh of relief escaping your lips to find that it’s completely deserted.
At your old home, your room was behind the kitchens. You grew up in a small room, nearly the size of a broom cupboard, but you made do with what you had. One benefit of this situation was that you were raised by the smell of different sorts of food, by people who specialized in the art of cooking. You knew how to make meals that nobody else in your family could even imagine, which you’re grateful for right now as you fumble around the kitchen, trying to find where they put different ingredients.
You rummage through the cupboards, finding some eggs, bread, cheeses, and seasonings. You’re able to find the pots and pans a few feet away and start assembling everything for a little omelet.
In your hurry of trying to be quiet and careful, you somehow manage to miss the large shadow figure that’s standing near the doorway, observing you.
You crack the eggs into a bowl, beating them together with a fork you found, too tired to look for an actual whisk, turning around to throw the eggshells away when a cry of surprise escapes your lips.
“Oh!” Your heart nearly falls right out of your ribcage, your hands flying to your chest as you find yourself staring at him, cheeks heating the way they seem to do whenever you’re looking at your husband.
His blue eyes are tracking you, watching what you do, brows furrowed slightly as the two of you can’t do anything but stare at each other.
“I…” You can’t find anything to say, looking at him and then behind your shoulder, to the things you have found, and swallow thickly, wetting your lips as you straighten your back up, suddenly aware of just how flimsy and bedroom-worthy your outfit is.
You can only stare at the ways his arms are crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, and lips pressed into a thin line. It seems like he wasn’t planning on seeing you here, yet another moment in which he’s probably going to regret somehow finding you in such a large estate.
“I’m making an omelet,” you finally say, your words falling like a whisper from your lips as you point to the eggshells now discarded in the trash, “I tried to be quiet…” you shake your head, eyes dropping from his heavy gaze for a second as you glance back up at him, lips upturned in an apologetic smile, “...sorry.”
Gojo doesn’t say much, you’ve noticed that, but now you’re wondering if he has some sort of impediment that stops him from speaking to specific people.
His chest rises briefly as he inhales, his white hair a little tussled as if he were sleeping. It doesn’t make sense why he’d be awoken, though. The kitchens are a far walk from the east wing…?
“I wasn’t asleep,” he finally says as if reading your mind, his voice deep as you feel it rattle your bones.
You nod once, not knowing what to do with the information.
“Well…um,” you fidget with your fingers, “good, that’s good.” You nod once, as if that was all you were going to say, and look at the slight wrinkles in his clothes, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling naked with the way you’re not wearing any undergarments under your little nightly dress.
“I’ll call for a cook,” Gojo murmurs, looking you up and down one final time as he turns to leave, seemingly done with this conversation.
You sputter, shaking your head as you watch him turn to look at you through a confused stare.
“No! Sorry…no, no need,” you say quickly, taking one step forward as if to stop him, “Please, it’s alright. I can cook myself,” you motion once more to your eggs and little station, noting the way he’s looking at you strangely, and so you feel the need to continue talking, perhaps one of your worst flaws.
Gojo looks at you finally, his fingers tapping on his arm.
You notice that he’s not wearing his wedding ring, your chest filling with a strange feeling as you try to hide your ring-clad finger. “Do you not like their cooking?” He asks, and it takes a second for you to blink out of your stupor, a weird sensation in your throat as you shake your head slowly, trying to pull your eyes away from his hand.
“I do,” you assure him, the words falling thickly from your lips, a lump in your chest, “I just feel bad waking them up right now,” you shrug as if you weren’t feeling any of these strange emotions, “And as I said, I can cook…so…”
He nods, seemingly not believing you, not picking up on the storm that happening inside your head at the fact that he’s not wearing his wedding ring. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t an actual marriage, the ring was only for show.
“Did you not eat dinner?” He continues, pressing, and your eyes widen slightly.
You’ve always been terrible at lying, never able to do so. Even when your father's wife continued to drill you on who ate the candies from a party when you were younger, showing her your chocolate-stained fingers that you had hidden behind your back, not even a minute into the interrogation.
“I did,” you say slowly, rubbing up and down your arms to warm them up from the chill breeze that seems to have picked up from the open windows, “The beets and asparagus were very nice,” you agree, not knowing what else to say without blowing this weird secret you’ve been holding onto.
His brow raised slightly, lips pursing slightly.
“And the fish?”
You swallow once again, fidgeting with the fabric of your slip, your hands, your ring, and you don’t notice the way his eyes fall to the gold on your finger, darting back to your face when he notices you staring at him.
“I…” you feel your face heating up beyond human measures, laughing awkwardly as you tug at your necklace chain, wishing that you hadn’t made that stupid decision to leave your comfortable bed, should’ve listened to your gut instead of your stomach, cursing your past self for being so rash, “I, um, I can’t…eat…fish.”
Gojo’s stoic face, so sure and confident, seems to falter for a brief second.
His arms tighten over his chest.
“...what?” He eventually asks after a couple of seconds of mind-bending silence, his head tipping in utter confusion as you sway from side to side on your feet, chewing your lips raw as you wish the ground could open up and never spit you back out.
“The fish always looks great, don’t get me wrong,” you say quickly as if that’s going to do anything, “But I can’t eat fish. Otherwise I’ll swell right up and um, die…probably,” you wince at how bad you are at talking to people, your husband especially.
He lets out a little puff of air that sounds like a shocked scoff, eyes falling to the floor as he shakes his head, not understanding what you are saying.
“But they’ve been cooking fish almost…four times a week?”
You nod, smiling awkwardly, looking at the painting of a fish on the wall as you look back at him.
“They have,” you affirm, leaning against a counter as he stays frozen in his spot at the door.
“And you…you can’t have fish?” Gojo questions incredulously.
“I’ll swell right up,” you repeat with a little smile that he doesn’t mirror, clearly not a man of humor, and you drop your hands to your side, “...kind of like a pufferfish.” You add quietly, looking at the ground as you say it.
He coughs, his hand covering his mouth as you glance up at him, only to see him trying to hide the shocked laugh that had escaped him.
“Why didn’t you tell them?” He finally continues, and you hate the way all your hard work of just saying quiet isn’t working and is in fact, coming back to bite you in the ass.
You shrug once more, shoving a grain of rice that was on the floor with the tip of your shoe.
“The first time it happened I figured I’d just tell them next time, but then that man kept on giving me more fish so I felt bad and I just never said anything.”
Gojo stares at you, his eyes squinting together as if he were figuring out an enigma, a war strategy that even his best generals couldn’t get a grasp of.
You look away, feeling like a fire was being lit under your skin.
“Alright,” you say, clapping your hands together as your stomach grumbles once again, reminding you that it is still in desperate need of food, “I’ll be done soon. And I’ll clean up,” you promise, but you doubt he even cares as you begin to inch away from him.
You watch as a strand of hair falls into his face, watch as he goes to move, never breaking his eye contact with you, until he looks behind you at the eggs and bread, and then to the window behind you, the moon as bright as ever.
He nods a final time, looking over you a final time before he exits.
You make sure he’s far gone, letting out a heavy breath as you hold yourself up by the table, eyes wide at the fact that you had spoken more than two words to the man who seemed to despise your entire existence.
You go back to your eggs, whisking them in silence as your mind reels.
—
Gojo is there, for dinner, the following night.
You enter the dining room to see him at the end of the table, already eating, and glances up briefly when he sees you walk in.
Trying to hide the shock on your face you quickly look away, finding the way to your side of the table as you look around to see what they’ve given you tonight. A sigh of fleeting relief escapes your lips at the lack of fish, glad you’ll be going to sleep full of food tonight.
You serve yourself, piling roasted meats and potatoes onto your plate as you fill your cup with water, not trusting wine after the last time you had it in his presence, and pretend that everything is normal as you pick up your knife and fork.
His words rang in your mind from the last time, the fact that he ate in silence, so you forced yourself to clam up, knowing that it was probably from the best and save you from any more mortification.
Your eyes fleet up now and then, grateful that he’s never looking up when you do, and give yourself some time to really take him in. Maybe in another universe where everything was normal, this could’ve just been another regular thing, and you try pretending that it is.
He’s probably only here because of a timing issue, you tell yourself, maybe this was the only time in the middle of training, state affairs, or other things that he was able to have dinner tonight. Yes, yes, that has to be it.
You look back down at your plate, chewing as quietly as possible, missing the way he lifted his head to look up at you.
—
Dinner with Gojo becomes a strange weekly occurrence.
The two of you eat in silence a couple of times a week, and every time it happens you’re so sure it’s going to be the last.
On one of the nights you find yourself accompanied by the man you decide that the silence is more choking than whatever it is you find yourself saying.
“Have you been notified about this…gathering in a couple of weeks?”
This gathering was something you were told about that morning by Alina. One of the smaller families allied to the North, the Tokoshi’s, had invited you and your husband to join.
“Yes,” Gojo says, and you’re a little surprised that he didn’t just give you a faint nod, “It shouldn’t be too big.”
He cuts off a piece of his lamb, dipping it in some of the gravy as he glances up at you.
You try to hide your excitement, not only from the fact that he’s spoken to you but also from the fact that this was an actual ball you would be able to go to. You knew that marrying him meant attending more of these sorts of events, but seeing how this was your first one, it was hard to not act a little giddy.
“You have a lovely library,” you speak after carefully chewing through some of your food, your pointer finger resting on your fork as your legs crossed.
Gojo glances up at you, those mesmerizing blue eyes finding yours from across the long table.
“At my old home,” you pause briefly, wondering how he feels when you refer to his estate as your other home, “I wasn’t allowed to go into our library unless my tutors asked to have some of our sessions there. So I just wanted to say thank you for letting me - um, go there,” your words quiet down at the end, looking at the roasted pig in front of you momentarily as you wonder what you were even trying to get.
He takes a sip of his wine.
“The grounds are as much mine as they are yours,” he says, but his words sound rehearsed as if he were told to say this.
“Even the east wing?”
You regretted it the moment you asked it.
Shit.
Gojo opens his mouth and then shuts it. You chew on the inside of your cheek, waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything, but it reverts to that same silence that floods your senses and makes you aware of every other sound in the room.
Your burst of what you attempted at comedy seemed to keep coming back instantly in your face, a form of punishment for somebody who never knew how to make uncomfortable situations better.
Suddenly, all of your appetite is lost. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you can only chide yourself, the food in front of you, no matter how good it looked, felt like it would taste like ash on your tongue. You kept feeding this burning fire that was your marriage, expecting your hay-like words to act like water.
There’s a thick tension in the room, and you look around, blinking slowly as you fidget with your fingers.
You try to go back to eating.
You were wrong,
That initial silence was better.
—-
That night you found yourself back in the kitchens.
You’re wiping at your cheeks, hoping that the therapeutic motions of baking can help alleviate some of your many turmoils.
When you were younger, you were used to silence. People normally avoided you, and those who didn’t weren’t ever your age. The cooks at your old estate were kind, but they were usually too busy to entertain a little girl. You would usually help the maids out with their washing and folding, rather doing something than nothing. You would listen in on their gossip and stories, always happy to be included.
You assumed that it would be the same here.
But the maids assured you that a lady of such high rank shouldn’t be meddling in such lowly tasks, and the cooks here were cooking for such a larger number of people that you knew you couldn’t bother them the way you used to.
So you find yourself with a lot to say but nobody to say it to. The jokes and ideas that pop into your head fall flat because the old ladies who helped clean the bedsheets and used to laugh hearing them are no longer here. In those moments you’re with Alina or your other maids are sparse, and so you sometimes imagine that if you speak more when Gojo is around, he might warm up to you.
You also had to remind yourself that your track record with men wasn’t the best either. Those fleeting crushes on some of the other boys who you’d see at balls always ended with them scurrying away from you as if you were the plague. The only other marriage offer you’d gotten was from a man who had struggled with finding a woman who could keep up with his awful ways. So the fact that Gojo Satoru, the most well-known man in the realm, didn’t want much to do with you wasn’t shocking.
And Alina was right. A lot of wives aren’t as lucky to say their husbands don’t care, but you wondered how it would’ve been if he did. You exclaimed to her a couple of nights ago that you should’ve just married Naoya, but deep inside you knew that’s not what you wanted. A part of you knew ever since you agreed to this arrangement that you wouldn’t be getting an actual husband out of it.
You sniffle, your eyes blurry. You don’t like crying in front of people, and so you allow yourself to do so in the pale moonlight of the kitchen, the only sound other than your ragged breathing being the repeated sound of flour falling softly in your mixing bowl.
Baking was something that nobody ever could judge you about. You were good at it, and you knew you could do it with no error. Your cakes and pastries always turned out well, save for the minor problems you ran into as a kid, but you sometimes act like you’re baking for a group of people, about to take it out to see a sea of smiling faces who are happy to see you and your deserts.
“I thought you only cooked when they served fish for dinner.”
A voice, one that’s seared into your memory, says from behind you.
It takes everything in you not to jump from surprise, and it takes even more willpower not to turn around.
You quickly wipe at your cheeks, breathing in to make sure your voice won’t come out in bits and pieces. You keep your back to your husband, continuing to sift your flour in the bowl, a continual motion like waves hitting against the dock.
“I’m baking,” you specify, cringing at the way you sound like you’re fighting a nasty cold.
Gojo doesn’t say anything for a beat and does nothing to move. You’re glad he doesn’t, too scared that if he saw your puffy eyes or your tear-stained cheeks he’d begin to think that you have no backbone at all. It felt almost pathetic to have the world's strongest warrior see you recover from crying alone.
He hums in the back of his throat at your words, and you wonder what he looks like right now.
“I doubt these walls have seen a lady of such high rank before,” he comments, and you look up briefly from the mountain of white building up in the bowl, “They must whisper to themselves once you leave.”
You let out a little puff of air, something resembling a soulless laugh.
“Everyone whispers to themselves after I leave,” you say, reaching for a whisk, “I’ve heard more whispers than my own name.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you quickly try to wipe at the corners of your eyes.
“You come down here a lot,” it’s posed as a question, but Gojo says it like a statement. He must have eyes everywhere, reporting to him what you’re doing. You wouldn’t be shocked, but you just nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you begin to whisk your dry ingredients together.
“I hope it’s okay,” you throw in a pinch of salt as you mix, “I like the kitchen.”
He let out a little breath as if he was about to chuckle, but then he got confused. You decide to spare him the endless questions that must be going on in his head, wondering why somebody in your position would prefer the kitchens rather than anywhere else.
“My bedroom used to be behind a kitchen. I’d have to go through the pantry just to reach it,” you turn briefly to grab your bowl with the wet ingredients, pouring it slowly into your flour and sugar mixture, mixing it in slowly and carefully.
“My father’s wife wanted me out of sight. That estate had never used one of its actual bedrooms to sleep the daughter of a whore,” you can hear him inhale sharply, “I woke up to the sounds of people shouting for different ingredients, to pots and pans clanging against each other. I learned how to cook and bake when I was young, and I usually helped them cook the food my family would eat for dinner.”
When your batter is all mixed through you go to find the pan you have buttered and dusted with sugar, pouring it in as you wipe off the side of the bowl that had some remnants of batter dripping from it.
“They never asked me to, but I liked it. I liked feeling useful,” you peek over to your side, seeing him leaning against the wall adjacent to you, silent as a mouse.
You walk over to the other side of the kitchen with your pan, careful with the lid to the brick oven, heated with the fire you had lit an hour ago, and slide your cake pan into it, closing it shut as you stand up straight.
Finally, you look over at him.
His eyes rake over your face, lingering on the circles underneath your eyes, the redness that stained the whites of them. He’s clad in the simple tunic and breeches he had worn to dinner hours ago, his large shoulders leaning on the wall as his arms lay crossed over his chest.
“I won’t go to the east wing,” you say in a whisper, your voice quiet but heavy as it falls from your lips as a promise, trying to muster up a smile but it comes out wobbly, “I was just trying to make you laugh.”
His lips looked pinker than usual as if he had been chewing on them, something you often did when you were deep in thought. His white hair had been messily pushed back as if his fingers had been combing through them continuously.
“These grounds are yours,” Gojo says, his words thick from his throat. His exhale and inhale mirror the way you breathe, your two chests rising as though living with the same lungs.
You shrug, a melancholy look on your face as you shake your head.
“Maybe if I was your wife,” your words are said without any malice, “But I’m just another person who sleeps here.”
Gojo tilts his head slightly as if your statement had somehow wrenched itself into his mind, weighing it down. Even in the limited light, you could see the way he looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I’m sorry about all of this. I know I took away your chance to marry somebody you actually wanted, but my father told me you were okay with the arrangement. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise,” you twist your wedding ring around your finger mindlessly, a little habit you’ve grown over the weeks here, “I never wanted to be selfish, and I truthfully never wanted a husband. I just wanted a friend.”
—
Ever since that night, you eat your meals in your room.
Alina protested, saying it’s not right to eat alone, but you told her not to think about it, saying how you liked the silence.
You mustered up the courage to ask some of the coachmen to take you to the nearby town, starting by looking around at the little shops, keeping a hood over your head in case somebody saw a new stranger.
Sometimes you’d go inside the shops, finding little trinkets that you thought your maids might like, or ornaments that might help fill up the empty spots around your room. You’ve never been able to decorate before with how small your old room was, so you decided to take advantage of its space.
When you’re walking around you sometimes see Gojo, either in the training yard or walking around with one of his advisors. There have been moments when the two of you catch each other's stares from across the room, but you’re always the first to look away, making sure you’re going in a different direction than him.
You knew that you’d have to talk to him eventually, especially with the gathering that was coming up at the Tokoshi manor, but each night you pretended it was another day away, instead of one day closer.
Your maids came bustling in and out of your room more often than usual with preparations for the night that was closing in, shoving you into different dresses, not satisfied until they found the right one.
Alina noticed your shift in demeanor, never picking and prodding at it, but silently observing. You could tell she knew something was wrong, but you didn’t know how to put exactly what you were feeling in words.
It didn’t help that the closer you got to the night of the event Gojo seemed to be everywhere you were. The gardens, the library, the field, the stables. He probably just had business to attend to, but it didn’t help that whenever he saw you it looked like he wanted to say something. It also didn’t help that you’d scurry away when you saw him open his mouth.
The weeks turned into days, the days into a day, and that day into hours and you found yourself perched uncomfortably on a chair as three different women attended to your face, hair, and accessories.
You watch them work silently, taking in all the jewelry and makeup that you’ve been looking forward to wearing. It’s nothing too drastic, but that
girl who longed to wear pretty things inside of you is gleaming right now.
“…Lord Gojo requested for her to wear another pair of earrings,” one of your maids says, looking at the earrings Alina had picked out for you.
Your ears perk up at the mention of his name, watching Alina as she perks an eyebrow up.
“When did he request that?”
The older lady looks at you in the mirror and then at Alina.
“A couple of nights ago,” she shows Alina another pair, a sapphire one that seems to gleam brightly, “he dropped them off when she was…away…” the maid trails off, noticing the fact that you were eavesdropping.
Your eyes dart away as if that would help, but she quickly changes the topic, and you huff in annoyance as Alina sends you a knowing look.
“Your husband is a strange man,” Alina mutters in your ear as you giggle quietly, rolling your eyes as she playfully shoves your shoulder.
You don’t say anything in retaliation, and sit back as you put in your new earrings, grateful that they still complimented the color of your dress, and try to pretend you are going down for dinner rather than a gathering with people you didn’t know.
You’ve been learning this entire week how to properly hold a spoon and fork, and how to cut your food appropriately. You’ve been taking dancing lessons, discovered how to properly greet people, and even learned how to gracefully enter and exit a horse-drawn carriage. All things you should’ve probably learned earlier, but were never able to.
Alina helps you out of the chair when they are all done, giving you a second to look into the mirror. The dress they had wrangled you into was beautiful, your hair done in the way you liked. You thanked them all, expressing your endless gratitude for their hard work.
You take a deep breath as you exit the room and go out into the hall, leading yourself down the stairs and through multiple corridors, trying to calm down your palpitating heart.
It takes a few minutes but you find yourself at the front of the manor, standing alone and looking around, trying to see if you were at the wrong place. But in the distance, you can see the coachmen and the carriage, the door shut, still waiting for you.
You take a tentative step forward, nearing the entranceway that leads outside, but feel a soft touch hovering above your elbow.
It’s strange how he usually finds you before you find him, but as somebody who’s trained to know and find things before others do, you suppose it makes sense. You glance to your side, already expecting to see those cerulean eyes as you look up.
Gojo looks good, somehow better than usual.
He’s clad in dark blue garments, intricate with Northern design, and your eyes look up and down his entire body. His usual muscular build seems to be outlined by the stretch of his overcoat, the way the fabric is sitting snugly over his chest.
He seems to be doing the same, though. You can feel his gaze drop to your dress, to the way your lips are a little redder than usual, your hair done in a way that suits your face. His eyes linger on your ears, and there’s a small, barely noticeable tug to the corners of his lips.
“Ready?” Gojo asks, the first time he’s spoken in a couple of weeks, and you hum.
He takes his hand away from your elbow as he rests it on the small of your back, and you feel heat travel from his fingertips through the fabric, through your corset, your undergarments, and straight to your skin.
They bring the carriage out a little closer, a coachman opening the door for you. You brace yourself, heaving your dress upwards as you go to grasp the rail on the side.
But Gojo moves swiftly, offering you his glove-clad hand as you look over at him in surprise, taking it after a moment of hesitation, and haul yourself inside.
It’s far bigger than the one you usually take to town, and you settle for a corner on the left-hand side near the window. The walls of the carriage are lined with this sort of fabric that feels like it’s lighter than a cloud, colored the traditional blue of the Gojo family. You’d guess it could fit at least an entire family comfortably, so you’re not too worried about the underskirt of your dress taking up too much space.
You watch Gojo follow you in. He looks around, having to duck his head (and a lot of his back) as he sits in front of you, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen into his face.
The two of you sit in awkward silence, your gaze settled on the door that they shut after Gojo entered, and your eyes quickly fall to your hands resting in your lap, neatly folded.
The carriage starts a little bit later, the wheels humming to life as the coachmen yip at the horses to start. The sudden rocking movement that you’ve become familiar with sways you side to side, and suddenly you're totally aware of the fact that you’re alone in a limited space with the man you’ve been avoiding for the better half of two weeks.
You can feel his stare boring into the side of your head, can hear the way his breathing is coming out strangely as if he wanted to talk, but kept stopping himself off before he could say a word.
“Did you like the earrings?” Gojo finally asks, and you glance up, eyes narrowing for a second in confusion as realization suddenly comes rushing in.
“Hm? O-oh, yes!” You quickly stutter out, your hands flying to your ears as if you forgot they were there, “Yes, thank you. They were beautiful. They kind of looked like the inside of a belly button,” you say.
Your husband blinks, brows furrowed slightly as you think about what you had just said, eyes wide in shock.
“Er…well, gods, no, not bellybuttons,” your head falls to your hands as you shake your head profusely, “Sorry, they don’t look like belly buttons-”
But you stop when you hear a small laugh from him, quiet as he looks away for a second, a tiny slightly visible grin on his face as he looks back at you.
“Did you know that sometimes,” his eyes are a little upturned as if he fighting back an actual smile, “I make a bet with myself about what you’re going to say?”
You smile slightly, your head cocking to the side.
“Have you ever won?”
Gojo chuckles, and your eyes suddenly fall to his hand, at the way he’s fidgeting with his ring, his wedding ring, the same way you seem to do whenever you’re thinking about everything and anything all at once.
“Not once.”
You grin, and though you still feel this heavy weight of unspoken things resting in the middle of you two, you decide not to acknowledge it at the moment. Things unsaid, unheard, weaved through the air, tying you and him together like a tapestry.
You fidget with your skirt, looking out the window at the moving scenery.
Gojo breathes deeply through his nose, his pointed finger tapping on his thigh.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he finally says, and your eyes dart away from the trees and the sky to look over at him.
His bottom lip is caught underneath his teeth, his blue eyes shining with a different hue. He takes up a lot of room with just his size alone, but it looks like he’s trying to make himself seem less intimidating, less of a warrior, and more of a…person.
You don’t say anything, opting to stay quiet to see what it is that he is trying to formulate into words.
“That night,” Gojo twists his ring back and forth with his thumb, “I…” It’s weird to see somebody so sure of themself struggle to speak, and your brows crease in the middle, not knowing what it was he was trying to get at.
“I wanted to tell you that you too had a right to a good husband. Somebody who didn't rush you into a marriage because of his own mistakes…somebody you wanted.”
Where is he going with this?
You suddenly feel your throat dry up, swallowing thickly as Gojo looks out the window momentarily before looking back at you.
“My parents never told me who I’d be marrying,” Gojo explains, his voice hoarse, “I figured out the day of the wedding,” he twisted his wedding ring, looking at the way it shined, “And I wanted to hate you,”
His words punch you square in the gut, but you can only bring yourself to keep on looking at him.
“I wanted to hate you so much because it would be easier to act like this wasn’t my fault if I could…but,” he sighs, his chest rising and falling, “I don’t think it’s possible to hate you.”
Your lip trembles slgihtly, a sheen over your eyes. What is he doing?
“I’ve been raised in a way most people our age aren’t. My parents wanted me to be the strongest so was put into training since I was four, and I think this entire time I’ve been trying to approach you like a…military strategy. You were this map in my head that no matter how I approached it nothing made sense. But that night, in the kitchen, everything finally did.”
Your eyes flitter downwards so that he couldn’t see the waver in them
“You didn’t deserve how you were treated in your old life, nor this new one,” his hand covers his chest, and you feel lightheaded, “And I promise to you I’ll do everything in my power to make this one better. If you don’t want me as a husband, than as a friend.
“I’d like to be your friend, if you’d allow me,” he whispers thickly, his voice heavy. He fidgets with his fingers, moving them together and back out again, and you notice how he does this a lot whenever you’re near.
Your heart is beating so quickly that you feel like it's going to stop, and your mind is working so hectically that you don’t know what to think. This is the same man who looked at you as if you had torn down the moon and stars when he saw you the first time, the man who never seemed to be that interested in what it is you had to say. The very same person who would’ve rather married a broomstick than you.
…right?
And yet he’s here, asking to be your friend. Something that nobody has ever asked before, something that people wouldn’t ever dare to murmur out loud to you. He had no beneficial gain from doing this, no ally that he would please if he offered to be your friend.
Your heart twists because why does he look like he cares about what you say? His eyes are creased slightly around the edges, his lips pressed together as if he were preparing for whatever outcome it was to what you said.
Nobody has ever told you those things, the things that made years of pain and hurt strummed into one beat that your heart never wanted to drum to. This man, your husband, Gojo, was supposed to be another cog in that old machine, one that hummed and spurred like it was about to eat you alive.
But the more you look at him, the more you let your unspoken words speak in silence for you, you realise that he isn’t lying.
You open your mouth to speak but are cut off when the carriage comes to a sudden halt.
The two of you look at each other and then to the door, watching as it opens up, greeted to the sight of a large manor with multiple people walking in hand in hand. You swallow your bile, not knowing what to say, deciding to flee instead of face him like you should’ve.
—
The gathering itself was far more boring than you imagined it to be.
You and Gojo had the mutual understanding to act more…well, like a couple, than you actually were. You didn’t comment on the way his arm circled around your waist a couple of minutes into making your rounds talking with people or the endearing way he referred to you as my wife.
You’re glad that he doesn’t do anything to talk about what he had told you in the carriage whenever the two of you were alone, acting like nothing was wrong and everything was normal as he inquired about your day.
You told him brief things, still trying to shove his words out of your mind, but it was no use. I’d like to be your friend, your mind kept repeating, and you were too scared of brining it up in case he had changed his mind in between those minutes of quiet.
People you had never seen before congratulated you on your new marriage, their brows raised in that excited way as they motioned to your stomach, hinting at a special little someone who might be joining your lives soon.
“Soon!” You said with a curt laugh, glancing momentarily at Gojo only to see him already looking at you, a light blush dusting his cheeks.
He made sure not to stay with people who were strangers to you for too long, not wanting to bore you to death, and allowed you to take in more of the well-lit and vastly decorated manor.
Though its size was incomparable to the Gojo estate, it was still massive. The Tokoshi family had been a family with the Gojo one for centuries, so there was no question that the riches they had amassed over the years by being trading partners with them had culminated in this.
Gojo told you earlier in the carriage, before everything else, how the young Tokoshi couple were good people. They liked to throw parties a couple of times a year, inviting only a select few. He liked them far more than a lot of the other people he had been forced to grow up with over the years.
You look at the dining hall, at the corridors with openings that allow you to look outside without the glare of glass. His arm never left your body, holding you close to him as he let you walk around, your mouth hanging open slightly as you craned your neck to look at everything. Candles were lit everywhere, the bouquets of different assortments of flowers decorating the stone flower holders carved into the walls.
You mentioned to him in the privacy of the carriage, that you hadn’t ever been able to experience a party of this sort of caliber before. You could see how he wanted to ask more questions, but you could see the answers already formulating his head as to why.
“We probably look like one of those couples where the wife’s dying and the husband takes her out to see the stars one last time,” you whisper to him, still looking around in a stunned sort of way at the beauty of it all.
Gojo’s head ducks down a bit, trying to hide the chuckle that had broken out and made its way onto his face. He coughs into his fist as if that was the issue, but you look over at him to see the humor in his eyes.
“Did you lose your bet again?” You ask, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes as he looks like he’s fighting the grin that’s threatening to take over.
“I’m always losing that bet,” he tells you.
Though he doesn’t do anything to bring up his conversation, you can see it in the way he looks at you, as if he’s still teetering on an edge, wanting to know what you were thinking in that frazzled mind of yours.
You decide to push past it.
“Can I get in on it?” You ask, turning slightly so that you face him, very aware of the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from its spot on your waist.
You try not to think about it, reminding yourself that it’s just for show, but you can’t stop the feeling of heat that travels wherever it is he seems to touch you. His hand is larger than an average one, his fingers moving mindlessly up and down on your corseted stomach.
“Do you need the extra coin?” His voice is carrying a strange tone…is he teasing you?
But again, you try not to think about it, it’s all for show, (you also try not to think too much of the fact that you’re pretty separated from everybody else).
“No, I just need coin,” you explain, fixing one of the medallions on his chest that had been slightly slanted, “I have nearly nothing left.”
Gojo moves barely away from you, his eyes searching yours as if to find the joke.
“Have you run through my family gold already?” His voice is still toying, but now it’s filled with a little confusion.
“No, of course not,” you snort, rolling your eyes as you tilt your chin up to look at him better, “I haven’t touched any of your gold. I just ran through mine.”
His brows quirks upward, mouth parting slightly.
“You’ve emptied the gold your family sent up?”
It’s your turn to be confused.
“What gold?” You ask, moving away from him, his hand falling to his side, and you suddenly miss his warmth.
You remember your father talking about how the Gojo family had rejected your initial dowry, saying something along the lines of outlandish practices, but aside from that, you weren’t told about any other sort of money that was supposed to be sent with you.
He pinches the bridges of his nose, sighing deeply.
“The gold that they sent with you? It wasn’t supposed to be a lot but it was supposed to suffice for the journey here.”
You blink owlishly at him.
“What gold have you run through?” He specifies, plastering on a fake smile when he catches the eyes of somebody behind you, but then focuses his stare back to you.
“Well…” you shrug, “My gold.”
Gojo looks like he’s about to make a new bet, one that’s with every time you’ve almost given him an aneurysm trying to figure out your strange riddles and rhymes that are supposed to be actual words.
“I used to make some gold at my old home,” you explain, keeping your voice low in case somebody was somewhere that you hadn’t seen, but realizing that Gojo was lost, you continued, “The stable boy gave me some of his salary if I took care of the horses and cleaned the stables. Sometimes he’d give me extra if I could haul in the large bags of hay.”
He scoffs, shaking his head slightly.
“Why?” That seems to be a question he’s been asking lately.
You shrug again, feeling his hand circle back around your waist as some people come near you,
“I needed new clothes and my shoes had holes in them. My father’s wife didn’t let him give me much, so I tried to fill in the gaps.”
You smile at one of the couples that are coming near you, going back into your other persona as you begin chatting with them. Gojo pulls you in tighter to his side, staying silent. You don’t notice the way he hasn’t stopped staring at you, nor the way his heart seems to have churned so painfully in his chest.
—
The night progresses and you find yourself inside the dining hall, being shown to your seats by one of the maids, finding your name next to Gojo’s on a name card.
The two of you sit down, watching the people the file in, the sound of laughter filling the room, the clinking of china against each other filling in the rest of the silence. You take it all in with a smile, looking every and at everyone.
“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” you whisper as you lean closer to Gojo, an apologetic smile on your face as you sit further into your seat, “This is all just so new to me.”
You don’t see the ways his eyes soften, his hand inching closer to yours as he shakes his head.
“You’re not embarrassing me,” he murmurs back, leaning his head closer to yours, wanting his words only to be heard by you, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”
The smile that makes its way onto your face could power the universe, and Gojo feels like the wind had been knocked from his lungs, far worse than in training when somebody's foot slams into his chest.
“I am!” Your enthusiastic and hurried words are hushed, but he can still hear the way you’re trying to hide your joy. The small talk is horrific,” he laughs a little bit, “but still I love it.”
He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the sound of a knife hitting glass.
“Everyone! Give me your time, just for a moment!” Miyo Tokoshi, whom you spoke to briefly, stands up, his chair behind him.
All eyes in the room fall on him, people still smiling, their teeth glimmering in the light.
“I cannot express my joy to be in a room with you all tonight,” he says, looking around the room, making sure he saw everyone for a split second. “And my wife and I couldn’t be more ecstatic to host the first gathering of the season!”
You look at the woman sitting next to him, Lana, who you had also met momentarily, is gleaming at him, her face full of genuine adoration. She, along with everybody else, claps, laughing joyfully.
You wonder if this is what a real husband and wife should look like, and you look briefly over to Gojo, your mind reeling with the charade the two of you have been playing this entire night.
“And we couldn’t be happier to welcome the first couple of the year,” he exclaims, pointing his glass over to you and Gojo, saying your name and then your husbands as he claps his hand softly against his wrist, “May every moment you spend together be better than the last. We wish the two of nothing but a lifetime of happiness and prosperity.
Gojo raised his glass to him, his hand grasping yours as he lifted it to his lips, planting a kiss on the back of it.
You feel like you’ve stopped breathing with the linger of his lips on your skin, the last time that happened on the night of your wedding, and watching him grasp it even tighter when he sets it back down, weaving his fingers through yours.
Stop, you chide, raising your glass as well, a shaky smile on your face, it’s just an act.
He winks at the two of you, nodding once more as he focuses his stare somewhere down the table, obstructed by where you are sitting.
“And to the future couple! Naoya and Freya!”
Gojo turned his head immediately to look at you, watching the color drain from your face, and before you knew it, the man, Naoya, was standing up, a hand over his chest in faux gratitude as he thanked the host.
You could never mistake that hair, the feline look in his eyes as he scanned across the room, a slimy smile on his face. You watch as it grows even wider when he finally catches his prey when he finally sees you, and you feel nauseous, like you’re about to throw up all those little crackers they had given you earlier that evening.
The hand holding yours squeezes, knowing he can’t say anything right now, and you swallow thickly, eyes darting over to his as you feel your head about to sway.
Naoya’s here. The man you turned down for Gojo.
The rest of Tokoshi’s speech is muted to you. It feels like your head is being held underwater, and you feel sweat dotting your forehead, your chest, and your palms. You can feel Gojo’s eyes on the side of your head and can tell he’s trying to tell you something silently.
The clinking of glass brings you out of your haze, looking up mindlessly as you haphazardly clink yours against Gojo’s, rubbing a hand down your face as if that would help.
You're grateful for the flurry of movements and noises, everybody talking to somebody, the people beginning to serve themselves the wide array of food places in front of them.
Gojo squeezes your hand one more time, and you finally look over at him, trying to muster up a smile but with how queasy you feel and the way your head spinning, it probably looks like you’re about to be sick all over him.
“I’ll be okay,” you say through clenched teeth.
Gojo nods, his thumb rubbing up and down your hand in a soothing way. It’s just for show.
“I’m sorry my palms are sweating,” you laugh mirthlessly, and he squeezes it again, you’re sure he’s only doing this because of the extra attention of the two of you ever since they realized you and Naoya were in the same room, “you don’t have to keep holding it.”
“Do you want me to let go?” He asks, and you stop poking around at the turnips on your plate.
No.
“N-no,” you croak out, desperate for his touch that’s grounding you, “No, please.”
Gojo nods, his thumb not stopping its comforting motion of moving up and down.
“Don’t worry,” he mutters, leaning closer to you as you duck your head so that your ears are near his lips, “My hands get sweaty too.”
You laugh quietly and it sounds like wind chimes. You look at Gojo and watch as his lips tug upwards into a soft smile, one you had never seen before, and one you thought you never would.
—
You tried to hide away the rest of the party, but Gojo didn’t seem to mind.
When it was time to leave you accepted the gracious hug of the hosting couple, promising them that you’d come back for a more private dinner, and let Gojo lead you out into the courtyard where all the carriages were held.
You slept the entire ride home, not wanting to mess anything up by taking, and you’re happy that Gojo didn’t bother you. You felt groggy when you returned to the estate, grateful for Gojo’s steady hand as he helped you out of the carriage. The two of you looked like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t, so you bid each other good night and went your separate ways.
Separate except for one brief moment.
You were walking away and up the stairs when you suddenly stopped, remembering what it was that you wanted to tell him. You call out his name, watching as he turns, white brows slightly furrowed.
“I…” you start but realize you didn’t exactly have a plan for what you wanted to say. He gives you his patience, not looking annoyed or frustrated when you try to think of the right words to string together.
“I…I would like to be your friend too,” you finally say, and watch as a smile forms on his face, his pink lips tugging upwards in a way that made his eyes shine, the way your earrings did in the candlelight.
He rakes his hand through his snow-white locks, pushing them away from his face.
“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Gojo says, and you dip your head down in a small smile.
You give him a small wave, disappearing as you round the corner.
And since then, you found him joining you not only for breakfast or the sparse dinners but for any meal he possibly could.
Gojo talked more, about anything and everything, and you did the same.
You realized that he was actually an open person the closer you got to him, seeing that he too was capable of laughing and making jokes, his teasing eyes growing more frequent the closer your chairs got to the dinner table until you eventually just sat side-by-side, growing tired of shouting at each other across its length.
On the days he wasn’t busy with strategizing or talking to other lords, he’d walk around the estate with you, telling you stories from his childhood, the times he’d run amock around the halls. Other times the two of you would go into town, looking at the different stores together.
You could tell he was trying, could see it in the way he glanced at you from time to time to make sure that you were doing well.
He’d accompany you to the library if you asked him to, and you’d go down sometimes to the training yard just to see him. Gojo would never tell you how much he tried to show off when you were there and knew he never had to. You could see the way he tried to appear even stronger when fighting with one of the other men, the poor soldier coming out with bruises and cuts all over his body.
Over many weeks, you find yourself looking forward to spending time with him, and a part of your cracked self begins mending itself again.
It felt like after years of searching for somebody, somebody found you.
On one of the nights when his sparring had gone on for far longer than it usually does, you decided to head down to the training yard after your night bath, tugging on a large robe over yourself as you walked the familiar stone steps down to where you knew he was.
You could hear them before you saw them, a cacophony of fists hitting skin, groans, shouts from one another. There was a little perch from where you could watch what was happening below, and you usually hid yourself in a corner so that they wouldn’t see you.
You’d rest on a pillar, arms crossed over your shoulder as you looked at the men below. Gojo was always easy to find, the flurry of white hair a tall-tale sign of where he was. You had watched him before, but you never got tired of it. You found it almost inhuman the way his movements seemed to flow like water, the way his hits were precise and direct.
Gojo truly was the best warrior the North had ever seen, and sometimes you forget that you’re married to a man who brought down entire armies with just his bare fists.
You watch as he jests with one of his friends, his chest rising a little bit at an irregular pace, slightly out of breath, but happy to be there. He turns to one of the guys behind him to say something, but his eyes immediately track upwards to the figure trying to stay hidden, you and a wide smile break out on his face.
He waves at you, and it gets the attention of the other men there. They all turn to see where you are, their boyish grins and calls making you roll your eyes at their antics, your face heating up slightly as you wave back at them.
Gojo says something to the person next to him, and you hear the man shout at the other ones to wrap it up for the night. Some of them wave goodbye to you as they begin exiting, going back to their common rooms.
You make a move to lean slightly over the railing, your arms crossed over the wood as you peer down at the ground where Gojo remained alone, finding him to already be looking up at you.
“Care to come down?” He juts his chin at the staircase to your left, the one that leads down to the courtyard, and you nod, disappearing behind the stone pillars as you take the steps leading downwards.
You’ve been here a couple of times, as per your own request. You wanted to see what they did during training, what the training yard actually looked like from the ground. You lift the ends of your dress up slightly as you near the bottom, rounding the corner to see Gojo standing in the middle.
He’s waiting for you, his eyes tracking your movements as you come near to him.
His nose twitches slightly, his eyes squinting as he lifts his head in the air, suddenly picking up the scent of something unusual.
“What’s that smell?” Gojo asks as you come to him, his eyes looking over your body as if it were emitting from you.
You scoff, appalled, and then suddenly remember that Alina had applied some lavender oil to you after your bath.
“If it’s a good smell then me,” you cross your arms over your chest, nose wrinkling in disgust as you take in his smell of sweat and grime, “If bad then you.”
Gojo snorts, coming closer to you as he continues sniffing, exaggerating the sound. You step away from him slightly, the smell of sweat overpowering, and he takes notice of this.
“What?” He inquires, annoyed that you are moving away from him, and he takes a step closer.
“What do you mean what?” You tease, moving again as he tries to smell the air, “You smell like an army of unshowered men. I just took a bath.”
Gojo seems offended at this, trying to move back closer to you but you side-step him, apparently serious about this.
“You really won’t let me come near you?” He sounds like you’ve kicked him down, his cheeks stained pink from earlier, and you laugh slightly, shaking your head.
“I really won’t,” you affirm, shoving the back of your wrist to him to show him that what he was smelling was in fact you, “See? Lavender oil.”
Gojo just seems to be getting more annoyed the more you try to evade him, his blue eyes swirling with an idea as you look at him in worry.
“No, the smell is coming from somewhere else.” He argues, changing his footing so that he stands right in front of you and you let out a shocked laugh, not expecting this as you take a step back.
You don’t know where else he can smell the lavender oil. Alina dotted it to your wrists and your neck, but surely can’t differentiate the difference in location…right?
“Come here,” he almost whines, “I’m not going to rub off my smell onto you.”
You laugh again out loud, picking up the skirt of your dress as you try to outrun him slightly.
“You will!” You insist, motioning to the sheen of sweat on his body, “You reek of sweat. I swear it’s just lavender oil!”
He groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this inconvenience.
“You’re killing me right now,” Gojo dramatically grabs his chest, “You won’t let me smell this strange aroma and it’s killing me,” his face breaking into a little pout as you laugh even louder, shocked at how petulant he was being. Your laughing seemed to spur him on even more, running towards you as you ran backward, hoping you didn’t trip on the fabric of your dress.
“You have a plethora of bottles of lavender oil in your own room,” you argue, “this isn’t something innovative that you’ve never smelled before.”
Gojo shakes his head, and your heart flutters at the way his smile is so playful and teasing, the way some of his hair falls into his face in that messy way when he’s usually training and not caring about his appearance.
“It’ll only take a second,” he reasons and you shake your head no, your eyes both shining with playful laughter.
The courtyards lead out into the large fields of the Gojo estate, and you look behind yourself at the opening. It’s night, there’s nobody around. Nobody would judge you for running away from your sweaty husband.
You look back at him, see the gleam in his eyes, and know that he’s not going to back down.
He can see the thoughts forming in your head, can assume them before they’re even created, and so he’s straight on your heels as you sprint away from him, a large smile on your face as you squeal out loud.
“Please!” You shout over your shoulder, running down the little hill as the moon lights the way for you, “I just took a bath! Leave me alone!”
You can hear the grass rustling beneath your feet, your screams of laughter contagious as you try to outrun the fastest person ever, and try not to slow yourself down by looking over your shoulder to see where he is.
But after a couple of seconds of running you realize that the only footsteps you hear are your own, and you pause momentarily to look behind you and are surprised to see that he’s not there.
Did he not come after you?
You look around the field, the large blades of grass looking like waves that move with the wind, and whip your head around every time you hear a twig snap.
You're a little bit further away from the manor itself, and the only thing you can see besides its large stone walls are the torches lit outside. You can make out the guards who are standing outside, but no sign of Gojo.
You try to catch your breath, confused as to where he could’ve gone when a force stronger than a horse running at full speed slams into your side.
The scream you let out echoes around the field, and you brace yourself for the harsh impact of hitting the ground. With your eyes squeezed shut you wait for the flash of pain, but peek them open to see Gojo framing your head with one of his hands, his body shielding you from the impact as he lays on top of you.
“How…?” You scream, your chest moving up and down with your fit of giggles, trying to push him off of you, “You’re a beast!” You cry out, moving your head to the side as he laughs along with you, his chest rumbling with the movement.
You shove his face away with the palm of your hands, shoving your wrist into his nose as if that would satiate him.
“I took a bath you behemoth!” You whine, thinking about the dirt and mud that must be staining your skin and dress right now, “Are you so void of any good fragrance in your life that you must hunt me down for it?”
Gojo tsks, shaking his head as he swats your wrist aside.
He’s also slightly out of breath, most likely because he ran across and entire field from another entranceway that you weren’t aware of to catch you off guard, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how close to two of you are together.
His hand is still cradling your head, the other one holding your hips. Truthfully he doesn’t even smell bad, which is frustrating that it’s just another one of his many talents.
He judges your jaw up with his nose, and you helplessly comply, your heart hammering wildly as he leans in closer to the skin of your neck, taking in a whiff as he looks back up to you, his eyes gleaming.
Gojo’s hand on your hip moves up slightly to hold your waist, not hard, but to stop you from squirming around.
“It smells different here,” he nudges your neck with his nose again, and your breathing hitches, “Smells sweeter.”
You swallow thickly, blinking slowly as you crane your neck slightly upwards to give him more room. It’s like your body is moving on its own, and you’re not to sure how you know what to do, but you just do.
“That’s not possible,” you try to argue, trying your best to keep your voice from wavering, “You just lack the nose for good oils.”
Gojo laughs lowly, shaking his head at your antics as he braces his knees on either side of your thighs, caging you in.
“I have a very keen sense of smell,” he boasts and you snort, looking away as he pinches your hip to which you yelp.
His hand moves away from your head and to your shoulder, to where your nightgown had slightly slipped off and runs a thumb down a patch of your skin where it was slightly raised, a faint scar on your collarbone.
“Where’d you get this?” His voice is slightly hushed, and you look down from your chin to where he is talking about.
“Hm?” You look around, see that he’s pointing to the tiniest little scar, and chuckle slightly, “Oh, that?” Your eyes squint as you try to remember, “I tried to climb up a tree once when I was little and fell.”
Gojo huffs out a little laugh, his eyes still focused on your skin as you chew on the inside of your cheek.
“It probably looks far worse compared to anything you have,” you say sarcastically, “The family physician kept saying I wasn’t going to make it through the night.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your antics as he raises himself, moving away from you as he sits back down on the grass. You miss his warmth, the way his heat radiated onto you like a furnace.
“I don’t know how you keep surviving between your inability to consume fish and your near-death occurrences,” Gojo’s voice holds a teasing tone and you smile, moving up so that you’re facing him.
You rest your weight back on your hands, kicking your legs out in front of you as your skirt flows around the grass. A while ago you would’ve felt improper sitting like this in front of anyone, but you don’t seem to care all that much when it’s Gojo.
“I showed you my battle would,” you say, putting one leg on top of the other, “What’s your worst one?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in questioning.
Gojo purses his lip, thinking.
You imagine that he’d tell you or probably motion to where it was, but a second later you watch, shocked, as he tugs his tunic upwards, your face heating as he rises it slightly so that you can see a part of his stomach.
You hate how utterly built he is.
His skin is pulled taught over the smooth stomach of his abs, his chest huge with pure muscle, his arms, bulging through the sleeves. It’s something you thought you’d get used to, something you told yourself to stop ogling at, but never could.
But you shift your focus to a large scar that runs across his chest, from the bottom of his hip under his arm. It still looks relatively new, and the scar itself still pink. You could see the way it was jagged, not one smooth line, and gods, fuck, why do you want to touch it?
“Well,” you try to think of something witty to say, seeing the way he’s looking at you as if waiting for it, “Clearly not as bad as mine, but it comes in as a close second.”
He throws his head back as he laughs, his muscles contracting as he does so. You feel flushed, not able to look away from the scar, knowing that you were merely compensating for not knowing what to say.
“I know,” he says eventually with a shrug, looking down as he surveys the scar, “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”
You pout slightly, thinking.
“Does it hurt?”
He looks up at you, at the way you can’t take your eyes away from it, and shakes his head.
“Not anymore,” he sits up a little straighter, closer to you as you watch him move, “Sometimes I can feel it sting, but it’s barely noticeable.”
You beg to differ.
The two of you don’t say anything and a part of you has decided that silence is bad for you. Because before you can really think about what you’re doing, you push yourself upwards, leaning in closer to him as you try to get a better look at it.
He doesn’t say anything, but if only you could see the way he could barely use his lungs to breath right now you’d make some sly remark about how the best warrior of the North was growing shy from just a look.
But suddenly you’re not looking anymore as you shuffle in a little closer, your fingers reaching upwards to touch the skin.
You can hear the wind move around you, the grass rustiling as your fingers run across the scar. His abs flex at the coldness of your hand, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. You’re studying it intently, wondering what sort of weapon could’ve caused this.
Gojo’s size dwarfs over yours, but you don’t seem to mind. Your lips as slightly pursed as you take it in.
“Did you fight a bear?” You finally ask, peeking up to look at him.
You’re startled by the way the flush on his cheeks has grown even more red, or the way you can’t see the blues in his eyes anymore. Has he always looked like that?
Gojo shakes his head, taking in a shaky breath, looking at the top of your head as you go back to looking at the scar.
“Nearly,” he tries to joke, but his voice is weak, laced with need, “But I doubt a bear would even want to be compared to the man who gave me the scar.”
You look up, your brow quirked in curiosity.
“Who?” You ask, shocked at how quiet your voice came out.
Gojo smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tongue clicks against his teeth, his hand rising up to grab yours, pulling it away from his chest. He can’t bear to have you touching him like that anymore, not trusting himself to restrain the pure desire that bubbling inside his veins.
“Naoya,” he says hushed, watching as your lips part and eyes widen.
There’s a beat of silence, a moment when you think you can hear your heart beating in the same rhythm his is.
Your hand curls into itself, shock taking over your features as your eyes drop to his scar and then back up to him. You find yourself wanting to say everything and anything, but can’t somehow find the words that you’re looking for. Gojo beats you to it, thankfully.
“I’ve been having this recurring dream ever since I fought him of that same moment over and over again when he cut me open. But it’s changed, recently,” He sits up straighter, so close to you that your chests are almost touching, “And I keep seeing him marrying you, what would’ve happened if you had said yes.”
“And gods, fuck,” he ducks his head down, raking an agitated hand through his hair, making it even more messy, “I…” He chokes on his breath, looking back at you, and suddenly you see the glossiness in his eyes, the way that tears brim his waterline.
And suddenly you see the Gojo Satoru, the Lord in the North, the most powerful man alive, cry.
“I keep reprimanding Naoya in my head about how awful he is, about how I’d kill nearly every person alive if he ever touched you, b-but I was just as awful. I think about the first time I saw you, about the first weeks you were here. I think about how you must’ve felt, how alone you were. Every day…” he wipes messily at his cheeks, his lips wobbling, “Every day I wake up and think of you. I think about your face, your smile, your eyes, your lips, the way your nose scrunches, that line between your brows when you're confused, and every night I go to sleep hoping that this was all an awful dream and I haven’t ruined your life, but then I wake up, and it starts all over again.”
“I know I’m a selfish man,” Gojo says with a wet chuckle, his cheeks wet with tears, “I know I shouldn’t, but I want you to myself, I want you forever. I want to be your friend, I want to be the person you sleep next to, the person you go to when you want to talk about your little stories. I want to hear your jokes and I want to see you laugh. I want to hold your hand, I want to put that ring on your finger every morning, and I want to propose to you each night.”
He shakes his head, swallowing his cries down, the moon lighting the tear tracks that start from his eyes and end at his chin.
“But I know you don’t want that. You told me that you wanted a friend, but…” he shrugged, his smile sad, aching, longing, “I think along the way of being your friend I realized I wanted to be your husband too.”
“I understand if you want to leave. I’ll tell my parents the truth, they’ll understand. I have a house ready for you near the sea, one away from your family, where you can start over.”
The wind rustles the hills, and you look at the field, watch the way it moves in tandem with the life around it.
You can feel the tears forming in your eyes, and know that even if you blink them away it’ll do nothing to actually hide them. There’s a burning feeling in your chest, one that you’ve never felt before, one that rings with Gojo’s words.
You run your fingers through the grass, looking up at him with a certain fire in your eyes.
“What if I don’t want that?”
He blinks slowly.
“I,” Gojo sniffs, nodding profusely, hoping you don’t see the way he crumbles, “I understand, I promise I do. The house is a couple days-”
“No,” you cut him off firmly, wiping your palms furisuly across your cheeks, to rid them of the pesky tears, shaking your head, “What if I don’t want that?” You move up to him, reaching your hand down his tunic, your fingers moving against is chest as you dig out the gold chain that’s wrapped around his neck.
The one that holds his ring, the one he told you about one night that keeps it safe whenever he’s training.
“What if I want this?” Your voice is cracking, and you tug the chain tighter.
“What if I want all those things? What if I want you to love me?” The ring shines in the moonlight, mirroring her pair thats wrapped around your finger, “I want to be your friend,” you stress, your brows strewn together as tears overflow from your waterline, “And I want to know what things you like. I want to walk with you all around the earth and walk back home again. I want to sleep next to you. I want to make you laugh, and I want you to make me smile. I want you to be my husband so that I can be your wife,” you cry out, your chest heaving up and down as he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into his lap as he tries to quickly wipe your tears away.
“I want you too, Satoru,” you whisper, broken with your wet sniffles, a wet laugh escaping your lips when you see him crack at the way you said his name with so much care, your thumbs gliding across his cheeks.
You slide closer into him, your legs splitting across his huge thighs as he hugs you tenderly to him, his head resting on your chest so that he can hear your heartbeat, make sure that this wasn’t just another dream.
“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs against your bosom, looking up at you with glistening eyes.
“Then fight for me,” you whisper, your hands on either side of his face, “Give me all those things. Give me more,” you smile when his arms wrap around your waist a little tighter, his hands holding you up, “And I’ll do the same.”
He nods, holding your hand that was still holding onto his ring to his chest, one hand moving to your back, and in the mess of tears and broken laughs the two of you seem to move together, meeting each other in the middle as your lips find each other in the dark shadows of night.
You gasp when his lips capture yours, and he moves towards the sound, wanting to hold it, keep it forever.
Gojo moves slowly, knowing that this is your first time, and cups your jaw, helping you move along with him as you lips slot and lock against each other. It’s messy and with no order, your chin staining with sweat as you moan against him, feeling delirious without the touch of him.
You know this isn’t the easiest position for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He groans against you, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to memorize your taste in case the world ended tomorrow and this was his last meal.
“Is this-” You cut him off when you swoop in again, his laughter cut short by your needienss, the way you paw at his chest, your hands winding up to his hair as you tug harshly on the soft strands.
He moans at this, at the way you grind mindlessly on his thigh, your need for each other bleeding out into the open.
“I love you,” he murmurs against you, kissing down your chin and then back up to you, his tongue swiping against your lips, savroing your whine, “I love you so much,” he says to everybody, hoping even those on mountains oceans away could hear, “I love you, my wife,” and you giggle, eyes bright when you hear those words.
“Say it again,” you ask, your nails drawing little shapes on his nape, and you see him break into a smile.
“My wife,” he repeats with a peck to your cheek, “My beautiful wife,” he kisses the tip of your nose, smiling at the way it scrunhed up slightly, just the way he adored, “My wife,” he kisses your jaw, “My wife,” your giggling nonstop and he hopes to bottle up the sound and hear it on his deathbed.
His hands travel back down to your hips, adusjsting you slightly so that you wouldn’t feelt he embarrassing hardening of his dick just from kissing you, and moves his lips down to your neck, hearing the way there’s a hitch in your laughter.
“Why’d you stop?” he nudges his nose at that spot pf your neck that still smells like lavender, his favroite scent in the world, “Hm?” Gojo hums against that spot, licking a wet stripe up it, sucking at the skin, feeling the way you arch into his chest.
“Y-your reeking s-scent infiltrated my nose,” you murmur, biting on your lip as he pinches your waist.
“Yeah?” Gojo continued to tease you, sliding the sleeve of your dress down, giving you more access to the skin of your collarbone, “Want me to stop?”
“No!” You cry, totally against your better judgement, moaning when he sucks another mark into the skin, biting it, and then presses a soft kiss to it as an apology, “Please, please, don’t stop.”
He chuckles darkly, shifting you around so that you are lying back down on the ground, his body framing yours as he continues tugging down your dress, going slow in case you ever wanted him to stop.
His fingers are quick at untying the string that holds you bodice together, unravelingit all until it falls off and he’s greeted to the sight of your heaving chest, the way your naked breasts rise and fall.
Gojo blinks for a moment, forgetting how to move.
“W-what?” You ask, a little self-conscience as he continues to stare at your chest, “Do they look wonky?” You move your hands to cover up but a deep gutteral growl escapes his lips, pinning your hands back.
“Beautiful,” he bites out, moving his head down, pressing a wet kiss in between the valley of your breasts, “You look like a fuckin’ statue,” he says, “You’re s-so beautiful.” Gojo repeats, and you can’t protest with the way he praises you, nor the way his lips hover over a nipple, finally leaning in fully as he sucks on it.
“F-fuck!” You cry out at the sensation, your fingers lost in his hair as you keep him there, back arching off the ground, “That, that feels…good,” you can’t speak, not with the way his tongue slides across your nipple, pressing little kisses around you areola.
His other hand goes to your other one, making sure she’s not feeling lonely, his thumb flicking over your sensitive nipples as you whine even louder.
Gojo switches and you feel your breath shudder in an embarrassing whimper, your eeys squeezing shut when he bites at you, wanting to mark you up for those wretched gods to see and feel humanly jealous over.
“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin, almost in awe, “feels like silk.”
You would’ve had a witty joke about this, you know you did, but you can’t fathom to think about anything other than the way his lips feel on your tits, the way he seems like he’d die had he not been here sooner.
But he then raises his head, and you whine in protest. Gojo almost break at the way you’re looking up at him, the way yor lips tremble from sheer desire.
“Want more?” He presses, his hands, warmer than the fire that’s burning in your belly, trailing down, down to where your dress was slightly parting, “Here?”
“Y-yes, fuck,” you moan, parting your legs to make room for him, not knowing what this feeling was but knowing that he was the only one who could soothe it, “Need it so bad Sa-satoru,”
His eyes roll back, swallowing his primal groan at the way you plead for him, and nods, pressing a kiss against your stomach before his hitches the fabric upwards, sliding down your body so that his face is closer to that heat.
You know you should feel more shame, but you feel like you’re going to die if your husband doesn’t do something soon.
Gojo’s hand travels up your calf, trailing up your thigh, and suddenly stops.
You go to beg, plead, for him, but cut yourself off when his lips find your inner thighs, pressign wet and messy kisses to them, getting dangerously close to where you felt like you were leaking.
“You’re divine,” he whispers against your skin, hands wrapping around your thighs as he pulls them apart, “Fuckin’ divine.”
His lips suddenly find there, you glistening cunt, and you mewl out for him.
“Satoru,” your chest is heaving like you can’t find any air, “T-there, please, there,” and fuck the way you’re begging him is so sweet that he can’t find it in himself to tease you.
His fingers seperate your wet lips, groaning when he sees just how much you’re dripping, and licks a tentative stripe upwards, your surprised gasp at how good it felt going straight to his cock.
Gojo carefully slides a finger through your tight walls, feeling the way you tighten around that, and lets his lips travel to your clit, pressing small kisses to it before he begins to suck. You clench around him, and your toes curl at the way he begins to pump it in and out, your essence soaking his skin.
“So wet sweetheart,” he groans swapping his finger for his thumb at your clit, his tongue diving into your walls as he nearly cums from your saccharine taste alone, “S-shit, fuck, you taste like fucking heaven.”
Your thighs tighten arund his head, but he craves the feeling, his tongue eating you out at such a fast pace that you begin to wonder if you need this more or him.
“O-oh gods,” your grips his head tightly, can’t find the sympathy in yourself to feel bad, “‘Toru, oh, oh my, don’t stop!
That coil in your stomach grows more taunt with each second.
He alternates, adding in another thick finger, feeling the way you try to stretch for him. He glides in and out of you with ease, but he wonders what you’d look like on his thick cock, how you’d preen as he split you open with his girth.
“Sweet,” he moans against you, his voice vibrating against your pulsing walls, “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”
You nod at something, whatever he just said, not fulling understanding anything around you as he continue to stimulate your clit, sucking on it, his teeth gliding across it with a little bite, and you moan out even louder.
“I…” you can’t think, can’t breathe, “F-fcuk, ‘Toru, something, something’s happening,” you don’t know what this feeling is, this electric, all-consuming feeling that’s zapping through your body, making it numb yet aware of everything at the same time.
“I know, I know,” Gojo praised you, one of his hands holding your stomach down, the added pressure making you whine, “You’re doing so good for me, you’re there, come on come for me,” his hand travels up your body, finding yours as he weaves your fingers together.
“Shit, shit,” you mewl, “I’m coming, fuck, c-coming!” You cry out, your back arching off of the ground as your legs grow slack around his shoulders, your walls pulsing around him as that string tightens for the final time and then finally breaks.
You can see white as your eyes rolls back into your head, squeezing his hand as tightly as you can, your yes dotting with tears. Your climax was all consuming, making you gush around his fingers and tongue, seeming to be never-ending, your body shaking in his hold.
Gojo presses one final kiss to your cunt, licking off your release from his fingers, groaning at the taste, and lets you catch your breath.
When you’re finally able to crack your eyes open, you peek them over to Gojo, seeing the way he tilts his head back, your cum still glistening on his chin and cheek, and whine out in embarrassment.
“What?” He asks, eyes teasing when you go to hide your face in your hands.
“I can’t,” your words are muffled, “I can’t believe I just…”
Gojo kisses your forehead, wiping some of the tears from your eyes away as he kisses your brow bone.
“How do you feel?” He asks, his eyes scanning over your body, glistening with sweat, and you take in a gulp of air.
“Good,” you say finally with a soft smile, “Really good.”
You look from his little grin, one that you peck at, your thumb rubbing up and down his jaw, and then look down, to the obvious bulge that’s hiding behind his training trousers.
You’ve never seen a cock before but fuck he’s massive.
“What…” you trail off, sitting up slightly, and he helps balance you, “What about you?” you paw at his stomach, right before it leads down, and he lets out a shuddered whine.
“As much as I-” he bites his tongue, feeling like he’s going to cum if you continue to look at him like that, “As much as I want to…not here,” he looks around at the field, shaking his head as a definite no, “Not here.”
You go to protest, but he stops you, biting your fingers gently as you yelp, shoving his head away with little force as he chuckles.
You let him wrap your dress around you again, tying some of the knots so that it doesn’t open up when you’re standing, and let the silence wash over the two of you calm your beating down heart down.
He plays with the ring around your finger, and you watch as the ring around his neck moves with his little breaths.
“I want to sleep in your bed,” you say, and his blue eyes find yours.
“You’re crazy if you don’t think I’m letting you sleep anywhere else,” he says in a shocked sort of way and you laugh, looking over to the side for a brief moment, and then look back at him.
“Do you really love me?”
Your words as whispered, but it feels like the wind picked them up and scattered them all around the field, around the river, the ancient stones, and right into Gojo’s heart.
“I really love you,” he whispers back, kissing your eyelids, in between your brows, your forehead, the back of your hand, and murmurs the words, “my wife,” to nobody and to everybody at the same time.
You smile, pulling him down by that necklace of his so that you can plant a soft kiss against his lips.
