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۶ৎ It’s 1946. The war is over. The city is learning to breathe again — but you are not. Nanami Kento, your husband, was buried in a common grave for heroes. A final telegram, a forgotten medal on the dresser, and a bloodstained letter were all that remained of him. Since then, you’ve lived in a house that feels far too big for one woman, and a bed that weighs like stone without his body beside you.
You spend your days writing letters that will never be read, listening to the neighbors rebuild their lives, smelling the coffee without feeling hunger. Loneliness is a cruel but constant companion. Until the union’s accountant — a man named Ryomen Sukuna — begins to show up more often than necessary.
He’s rough, ill-tempered, and smells of smoke and old paperwork. But there’s something in his eyes… something that sees you without pity, yet without condescension. A man marked by the war in another way. A man who also lost, but never speaks of it.
wc. 2.6k+
tw. prolonged grief and extreme loneliness, depression and emotional alienation, widowhood routine and existential emptiness, hints of stagnation and self-neglect, silent relationship between pain and the presence of a stranger.
Not with snow — not in that town that only knows cold by the damp breath of the early mornings and the metallic smell of fog clinging to the windows. But it came. It came in the edges of doors that don’t close properly, in the purple tips of fingers, in the creaking floorboards that groan as if they too are tired of bearing so much silence.
You spent the whole first month in a fog. A thick veil over your eyes, as if the world had faded into the colors of wet paper.
Mornings were born slowly. You didn’t invite them. You just let them in.
The stove clicked on with the same dry snap, and the kettle still whistled. But the sound of boiling was no longer promising — it was a reminder. That your breath still existed. That time was still running.
You cooked every day, though you barely ate. The food was a silent ritual of staying present. You chopped onions until your hands burned. Filled too many pots. Seasoned for two. And served just one plate.
You kept the other one.
Let it cool.
Then threw it away with guilt.
There was a routine of ghosts.
Cleaning the same places. Organizing the same drawers. Folding socks that wouldn’t be worn.
You wrote letters to him.
Long letters.
Unraveling the days like someone embroidering on old linen.
Telling about the cold, the drizzle, the neighbor who lost her cat, the burnt bread, the noise heard at night.
Ending with the same “Come back soon.”
But never sending them.
You kept them all in a box, next to the one you buried.
Life’s letters arrived — invitations, bills, war bulletins.
You stacked them on the table, unopened.
Life spoke, but you didn’t answer.
Until, on a gray Tuesday, the wind brought something different.
A knock at the door.
Not like Mrs. Watanabe’s, with her sweetness of a funeral. But firm. Quick. A sound of someone way too alive.
You widen your sewing machine eyes. Your fingers still hold an unfinished hem.
You stand up. The robe already swapped for a wool nightgown, but there’s still the smell of mildew in the air, in your hair, in the whole house.
You unlock the door. Slowly. As if every inch was a risk.
And there he is.
Tall. Broad shoulders wrapped in a coat too dark for the bright day. Messy hair. Eyes somewhere between tiredness and sarcasm.
He doesn’t smile.
“Are you Mrs. Nanami?”
You freeze for a second. The word “Mrs.” hurts.
“I am.”
He raises a brown leather folder.
“I’m an accountant from the Central Restitution Office. There was an error in the war tax accounts. I need to review your late husband’s records.”
You stare at the folder as if it carried dynamite.
“Can’t this be done by mail?”
He sighs. His eyes scan the house behind you.
“Believe me, I tried. But since you haven’t answered any correspondence for months…”
Silence.
He raises an eyebrow.
You feel a stab in your stomach. It’s not fear. Nor irritation. It’s bewilderment. Like when the window creaks on its own at night.
“Got coffee?” he asks, as if you were old acquaintances.
You hesitate. Your body freezes. But then you step aside.
He enters. The weight of the coat makes the floor creak beneath his feet. His smell fills the space — smoke, cold, paper, something bitter and masculine.
Different. Alive.
You put the kettle on the stove. You feel his gaze on your back.
He looks around the room, the objects, the empty spaces.
He says nothing. But his eyes say everything: He notices you still set two cups on the table.
“How often do you review these accounts?” you ask without turning.
“Every month, since October. But every time it seems worse.”
You serve the coffee.
He accepts it black.
You watch how he holds the cup — firm, but awkward. Like someone unused to kindness.
He spreads the papers over the table. You pretend to understand the numbers. But it’s not for those that he’s here, and you know it.
“This here,” he points with a finger, “was declared incorrectly. Someone put your husband as honorably discharged, but the official records show active in the field until final discharge. This changes the restitution. And the taxes.”
You don’t answer. You stare at the coffee stain on the table. It looks like a map of another country. One where you’ll never live again.
He notices your absence. Closes the folder. Leans back in his chair.
“I can come back another day. When you’re more… willing.”
You look into his eyes for the first time.
There’s something there.
A trained hardness.
But also a crack.
You recognize it. It’s the same one you see in the mirror.
“Come back tomorrow.” You say. Your voice is low, but firm.
He nods.
Stands up. Grabs the folder. Adjusts the collar of his coat. And before leaving, stops at the door.
But doesn’t look back.
“Beautiful house.” He says.
And leaves.
You close the door with a trembling hand and rest your forehead on the cold wood.
You don’t know his name.
But you know the sound he made when he entered. And, worse, the sound he left behind when he went out.
Silence, yes. But a different silence.
Alive.
Unsettling.
Like something about to happen.
The next morning arrives, but you don’t invite it in.
It drags through the window cracks, dripping down the wood like sweat from a forgotten fever. The light touches your feet first, then the sheets, then the frame on the wall — the one where he smiles in black and white, dressed in uniform, as if there were still time.
You wake up with breath caught between your teeth. There’s no sound in the room besides your chest. A muffled drum. The sheet wrapped around your legs, wet with night sweat. The pillow bears the mark of your nape, of your absence.
You didn’t dream. And that hurts more than dreaming of him.
You get up slowly. The floor is cold, and the cold runs from your heels up your spine. Each step echoes through the house. As if it too is testing its own existence.
In the kitchen, his cup is still on the table.
You hold the porcelain. There’s still a trace of dried coffee on the rim. You wipe it with your thumb. Slowly. Then bring your finger to your mouth.
The taste is bitter.
You close your eyes.
It’s just old coffee.
But for a second, it seems like something else.
Seems like skin. Seems like presence.
The house is exactly the same. But completely different.
You try to occupy the day.
Change the water of the dead flowers. Sew a button on a shirt no one wears anymore. Go down to the basement to reorganize boxes you know by heart. Wash clothes that still smell like September.
Time, in this state, doesn’t move.
It stagnates.
Like a clock left in the sun.
With every second, your body weighs more. Your chest, denser. The air, thicker.
You don’t speak.
Don’t sing.
Don’t sigh.
Because any sound can break the thin glass of your denial.
And you’re not ready to see the shards yet.
So you pretend.
That he just went there.
That he’ll come back after lunch.
That there are dirty boots waiting to be cleaned.
You don’t notice the time. But you notice the sound.
The doorbell.
Your body reacts before your mind.
You straighten up.
Smooth your blouse.
As if he had come back.
As if this was the scene of his return.
But it’s just the accountant.
He’s standing again, on the threshold. Same posture, same expression. Only the tie changed. Now blue.
“I’m back.” He says.
As if it’s normal. As if he did this every day. As if he hadn’t crossed the void of a devastated woman to get there.
You give space.
He enters. This time without asking for coffee.
The papers spread out on the table.
You pretend to listen.
He talks about restitution, taxes, acronyms. But the words are shapeless sounds.
You focus on his hands.
His fingers. The red hairs over the knuckles.
How the pen slides between long fingers. How the light touches his face when he leans over the numbers.
It’s ugly.
In an interesting way.
There’s an air of something too alive.
You wonder what kind of pain he has lived. If someone waited for him when he came back.
Or if he also only returned to silent walls.
“This here…” he pushes a paper toward you.
You don’t read. You just sign.
He notices. But says nothing.
And that, somehow, is worse.
He gathers the papers.
Stands up.
Cracks his shoulders.
The chair creaks.
You follow him to the door. Say nothing.
He stops with his hand on the doorknob.
“I need to come back Thursday.”
“All right.”
“You’re not sure about that, are you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You don’t answer.
He opens the door.
Leaves.
And the house swallows you again.
You return to the living room.
Look at the couch where he sat.
The fabric still dented in his shape.
You touch the crease with your fingertips.
It’s just foam.
But it smells.
Of someone who is still here.
You go back to the kitchen.
The kettle is cold.
You fill it and light the stove.
The gas responds with a damp whoosh.
As the water heats, you open the window.
The wind rushes in. Stirring the curtains, the loose strands of your hair, the papers left unpinned.
You let it.
Because you want to feel something.
Anything other than this throbbing nothingness between your chest and throat.
When the kettle whistles, you allow yourself to cry.
But not like someone breaking down.
You cry with dry eyes, like someone who slightly bows under the weight of the invisible. Like someone who opens a crack in her own body for the pain to drip, drop by drop.
The tea spills.
You don’t stop it. Let it run over the edge of the cup onto the saucer, onto the table, onto the floor. Forming a warm puddle.
Like blood.
Like memory.
You wipe it with a cloth. Slowly. Like someone tending to a wound.
Then sit. And wait.
Not for the accountant.
Nor for Nanami.
But for yourself.
For that moment when your body will remember what it was like to be whole.
And maybe your spirit will slip back into your skin.
But it doesn’t come.
Not yet.
He comes back Thursday.
And Monday.
And later, with no set day.
Always the same excuse: a missing receipt, a wrong initial, a new ministry directive.
But it’s a lie.
Or maybe it’s too true.
He comes in with the same dark coat. With the same eyes that don’t get lost in condolences, but linger long on your wrists, your deep-set eyes, your always-too-clean clothes.
You offer tea.
He accepts.
You pour.
He drinks.
Neither of you speaks of loss. As if that were the agreement.
You don’t know why he keeps coming. Don’t understand if it’s stubbornness or kindness. Or something in between.
But he shows up. And you allow it.
Because Sukuna demands nothing.
He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t smile much. Doesn’t drag his body against yours nor his gaze.
He exists on the margins.
Like you.
And maybe that’s why he comes back. And why you don’t send him away.
On the days he doesn’t come, the house becomes a tomb dressed in wallpaper.
You sweep the corners. But don’t move the furniture.
You iron. But don’t fold his clothes.
You eat. But don’t savor.
Absence is a creature that lies with you. That holds your hand while you fold letters you won’t send. That whispers “I’m here” when you, alone in the early morning, find yourself speaking aloud to nothingness.
Sometimes you catch yourself writing in the air with your finger: K-E-N-T-O.
Other times, you set the table for two. Then undo it, like committing a crime.
What Sukuna finds each time he returns is a woman held together by organized shards.
Hair always tied back. Skin without shine. Lips cracked but not wounded. Hand steady but cold.
He doesn’t ask about Nanami.
But notices the frame you move to clean.
The hanger still hanging.
The cup you never use.
And one day, amid piles of notes and receipts, he asks:
“Aren’t you afraid of rotting alive in here?”
The phrase is neither cruel nor gentle.
It’s just direct.
Like him.
You don’t answer. Don’t look, just adjust your sweater sleeve at the wrist, as if that could protect you from what he said.
“There’s no answer to that.” You say.
“That’s why I asked.” He laughs, humorless.
You want to hate him at that moment.
For his presence.
For his rudeness.
For the voice that cuts through the invisible film with which you tried to wrap your days.
But you don’t hate.
Because he’s right.
And that’s the most unforgivable part.
The next morning, you wake up to the sound of wind. It pushes the half-open window, and the curtain dances like a forgotten bridal veil.
The sun doesn’t come in.
The day has the color of eggshell. Everything seems pale.
You shower, but don’t look at yourself in the mirror.
You dress. But without intention.
It’s like wearing wallpaper.
In the kitchen, the bread is dry.
The tea, lukewarm.
The body, tired.
The mind, absent.
You write his name in a notebook. Then cross it out.
Again.
Again.
And again.
As if that could lessen the weight.
On Tuesday, Sukuna comes back without warning.
The doorbell rings like a scream in the middle of the night.
You open it with your bare face.
No excuses.
No words.
He raises his chin, studies your too long face.
You know you’re worse.
Thinner.
Paler.
Less here.
“I didn’t come about any papers.” He warns.
You let him in anyway.
The silence between you is almost intimate.
As if you had known each other for a long time. As if there were something old in the repeated gestures — him touching his hat when entering, you carrying the teapot to the kettle without asking.
This time he watches you more.
With every step. Every sip. Every slight tremor you try to hide when holding the cup.
You look away.
You want him to leave.
You want him to stay.
“Do you eat?”
The question comes like a silent shot.
You shrug.
“I survive.”
“Surviving is the opposite of living.”
The phrase cuts through you.
You curl up.
Your hands press the table. The wood is cold. Or is it you?
“Why does it matter to you?”
He doesn’t answer.
He just leans over the table.
His eyes are like winter: uncomfortable, necessary, real.
“Because you bleed in silence. And because I know what that’s like.”
The words are a torn sheet.
And for a moment, you want to scream.
To say he doesn’t know.
That no one knows.
That your world was ripped apart with stitches and all.
That your body is still a coffin where love lies.
That every day you talk to a dead man.
That every gesture is an echo.
But you don’t scream.
You cry.
Soundlessly.
Hot tears. Heavy. Poured out like dammed water.
They fall on your wrists, run down your chin, mix with untouched tea.
Sukuna doesn’t touch. Doesn’t comfort.
He just stays there.
And strangely, that’s enough.
When he leaves, his scent lingers.
Tobacco. Rain. Something metallic.
You sit on the couch with your body still trembling. And for the first time in a long time… you sleep without guilt.
You don’t dream. But you also don’t run away.
You just exist. Quietly.
Like someone timidly beginning to leave a funeral that has lasted too long.
Gojo Satoru walks through a world that doesn’t touch him. Not really. Not in the ways that matter. People look at him and see infinity, power, the six eyes not a man. Not someone who wakes up in the middle of the night gasping from dreams where he couldn’t reach you in time.
Where his hands are too slow. His voice doesn’t reach. Where the ground splits before he can leap.
Where he isn’t enough.
(And gods aren’t supposed to feel like that, right?)
He remembers laughter. Yours, mostly.
You, barefoot in his kitchen. You, flicking water at him after brushing your teeth. You, saying his name like it meant something soft, not something sharp.
You touched him like he wasn’t a weapon. Just Satoru.
But the stronger he got, the more the world took from him.
He buried friends with dirt under his fingernails and blood on his cuffs.
He told himself: “This is the cost.”
But then it was you.
And the cost was too high.
People don’t ask him how he’s doing.
He makes it too easy not to. Flash a grin. Toss a joke. Hide the decay behind the sunglasses.
They never see the rot behind the white of his eyes.
They don’t hear the silence after he hangs up the phone no one answers anymore. Don’t feel the heaviness in the hallway where your shoes used to be. Don’t smell the faint trace of your shampoo on his uniform that he can’t throw away.
He’s always smiling.
Even when he’s choking on it.
He doesn’t visit your grave.
Too human. Too vulnerable. Too real.
He fights.
He saves.
He protects.
He performs the role of “the strongest” so well he forgets where the mask ends and the man begins.
And at night, when it’s too quiet to pretend..
He dreams of you.
Of your voice. Your warmth. Your hands brushing through his hair. The way you whispered, “come home safe.”
And in the dream, he never does.
Sometimes, Satoru wonders what it would be like to not be him.
To be ordinary.
To be weak.
To be loved and held and kept.
He presses the thought into the back of his throat like a pill he’ll never swallow.
Because Gojo Satoru doesn’t get to want things.
He only gets to save them.
Or bury them.
The strongest can’t bleed.
But if you listen closely when the city is asleep, and the sky has no moon
you’ll hear it anyway.
—In which JJk Men Tell You to Leave in a Fight… and You Actually Do.
gojo, sukuna, suguru, and choso
genre, angst.
notes, IM BACKKKK.
Gojo Satoru — “So just leave, then.”
"You always do this," you snapped. "You make a joke, act like none of this matters, and when I finally break down about it, I’m the problem."
Gojo leaned against the counter, arms crossed like he wasn’t cracking inside.
"You're making it bigger than it is."
"Because you don't care," you said, voice low. "You never fight for anything. Not really."
He scoffed. Rolled his eyes. Then: "So just leave, then. If it's that bad."
You went silent. And he froze.
You turned away, grabbed your bag, and headed for the door — slow but certain, like you’d been preparing for this moment in your heart for a while.
By the time the door opened, he snapped out of it.
"Wait—" He was already following you into the hall, barefoot, heart racing. “Wait. Fuck, okay — I didn’t mean that. Please just—wait a second.”
You didn’t stop walking.
"Let’s just talk, sweetheart. Just for a second—”
He reached out, but you stepped farther away.
"I’m done talking, Satoru."
And then you were gone. Down the steps. Out the front door.
Gojo stood in the cold night air, still calling your name long after the echo stopped answering him.
Sukuna — “Don’t walk away from me!”
"I’m not doing this anymore," you muttered, grabbing your jacket off the chair.
"You never meet me halfway. You mock me when I’m upset, and I’m tired of being in love with someone who only loves me when it’s easy."
Sukuna stood by the window, jaw tight.
"You’re not walking out over this."
"No. I’m walking out because you think I won’t."
You opened the door.
"Don’t you fucking dare—" he snapped, crossing the room in two strides.
You were already halfway down the hall when he bellowed after you:
"Don’t walk away from me!"
You didn’t look back.
The door slammed behind you. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped.
"Stupid. Fucking. Idiot."
He swore under his breath, pacing like a caged animal, hand dragging down his face.
A beat passed. Then another.
And suddenly he was storming out the door, steps fast, heart faster — chasing after the one person he swore he'd never lose control over.
Choso Kamo — “Wait—please.”
"I know I’m not perfect," he said, frustrated, "but I never asked you to fix me."
You turned slowly. "I wasn’t trying to fix you, Choso. I was trying to love you."
The silence that followed was worse than yelling.
He didn’t chase you at first. Just stood there, helpless, as you grabbed your things. The hurt in your face said it all — you'd been hoping he’d stop you. That he'd try.
And just when you reached the front door, you heard it.
"Wait—"
His voice cracked.
Then the sound of footsteps — and suddenly his hand was around your wrist, gentle but firm. You turned, and he pulled you into his chest like he needed to feel your heartbeat to believe he hadn’t already lost you.
"Don’t go. Please."
Your face pressed against his hoodie. His arms wrapped tight around you.
He smelled like cedar and faint cologne and every memory you didn’t want to leave behind.
You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.
He just held you there like the world would fall apart if he let go.
Suguru Geto — “Don’t.”
"You’re not even here half the time, Suguru."
You were trembling — not with anger, but something worse. Disappointment.
"I keep showing up, and all I get is silence."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I’m trying, alright?"
"Trying isn’t enough when I feel like I’m doing this alone."
You turned, heading for the door — but his hand shot out before you could reach it. Gripping your wrist, not tightly, just enough to stop you.
"Don’t."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
You looked at him. Really looked.
And he was scared.
"You’re not good at this," you said softly. "And I’m tired of bleeding myself dry to fill the spaces you keep empty."
You pulled your wrist from his grasp.
His hand dropped to his side like it weighed too much to hold.
And then you walked out, even as his lips parted, even as he took one step forward and couldn’t seem to take another.
The door clicked shut.
And he stood alone in the dark — in a home that didn’t feel like home anymore.
Warnings: please read my blog's rules before interacting. 18+ mdni, angst, smut, hurt/no comfort, explicit sexual content, undertones of misogyny (because the 'olden days'), mature themes, depiction of gore and violence, mentions of pregnancy and abortion.
Tags: mini series, angst, smut, Heian Era, true form Sukuna
Prompt: Sukuna understands love, but in the end it is worthless.
Current status: Complete
A/N: Happy new year! Kicking off 2025 with my first mini series featuring Heian era Sukuna. You can read some more of my personal ramblings about this series here. Thank you so much for reading and stay tuned. x
I’m reaching out with a quiet hope in my heart. These days are heavy, and my family is living through a reality filled with uncertainty—but I’m still here, doing my best to hold on and keep going.
If you have a moment, please check out my pinned post.
A simple share could help it reach someone who might be able to make a difference.
If you’re able to give, even the smallest kindness can bring light into the darkest places.
Your time, your voice, your compassion — it all matters more than you know.
With deep gratitude,
@nadinfamily
please try to help nadin and her family in any way possible and pray for their safety
satoru feels a feeling beyond himself, beyond his own understanding.
the kind that can only be helped by your touch, your company, your voice, your presence whatever form it may take. the kind that can only be relieved by being held in your arms. his larger frame curling into yours with his head resting so closely to your chest the steady beat echoing in his ears and his strong lengthy arms around your back, holding you close, just so close.
he wants to become a part of you, you know?
the two of you an extension of one another.
the same way how anglerfish do it.
to merge. to fuse. to be so closely interwoven into each other it's impossible to tell where you begin and he ends. that is the way he feels for you in his soul anyway, it would really only be a physical representation of it; how interconnected the two of you are.
the perfect symphony. two notes floating together in the air, dancing together, mingling with one another in perfect harmony. of course there were a few off keys, but that hardly had an impact on the sound of your shared song, if any thing it only emphasized how resilient a song you two prove to be.
you breathe life into each other.
you do.
but your not here. not anymore anyway. your gone. the warm softness of your skin was replaced by an icy cold he's never felt on you before. the color drained from your face. all the shadows and colors that you were made up of fading into nothingness, slipping through the spaces between his fingers.
satoru tried to catch them, to secure the pieces that were you in his hands, to protect them, to keep them from slipping away, to carefully weave them back together and return them to you in full. after all the two of you were nothing if not for your ability to bounce back.
and so it was revealed that you are nothing. a nothing that managed to get by on his everything.
your life was slowly leaving you, draining from you, being taken by something he could not fight, taken by a force of something he cannot defend you from until there was nothing left you.
it was no longer yours. your life no longer yours, it's become only a life.
lost, just as the billions that have been before and the billions that will be after.
he heard screams and cries. they sound pained, oh so horribly pained. screams and cries that tell the story of the greatest horrors one can know. his chest aches, and his hands tremble. and the screams are his.
he hears them even now in the quite of the cold room he once laid in with you. he's on his side of the bed and you in the earth. you, beneath the very ground that is walked on everyday. taken for granted and forgotten forever as it takes on the role to guard the very essence of you.
his hand reaches for your side of the bed, it's cold, he remembers your skin, how it turned blue, how he believed he could save you. naively so.
he could. he would. there was no room for an option with the uncertainty that 'could' brings. believing he was so close.
satoru's throat burns, and his hands fall. he's reaching for what is not there. the glowing crystalline blue of his eyes a dark murky color that always seem to be looking beyond whatever it is that can be seen. his eyes cannot focus on anything anymore. the skin below painted in a dark that melts into that of the room.
he's a yet to dry water colored painting, a mere portrait of who he once was, and it's all flowing out of line.
he hasn't showered in a while. he hasn't done anything in a while. do ghosts do things? he doesn't really ponder the question, simply asking to it to the nothingness.
the way he is right now, the state he is in, makes it difficult to believe he could be anything but a ghost. but a lifeless form, floating around aimlessly until it can be freed from the tortured inbetween state it finds itself stuck in.
tomorrow he'll have to go out again, to work, to teach, fulfilling his duties as the strongest despite the fact that he feels utterly disconnected from the title. for he is a man of many obligations. well, man is a long shot, he isnt one to them, weapon or tool of many obligations is more fitting. the world cannot go round with out him, in his absence they are wholly doomed, left to fend for themselves. his world has spun of its axis when you took your last breathe.
he feels he's floating, the can't feel the sheets crumpled beneath him, he has nowhere to rest his aching bones and exhausted mind. satoru curls his body closer into itself, his arms hugging his legs close to his chest. close, and closer, then closer still.
it doesn't hurt, hurt is what he feels in his chest, a heartache he feels all over his body. but he continues, he figures if he pulls himself close enough, squeezes tight enough, he might explode and it'll all disappear in the aftermath of it.
he wanted to become a part of you, not to ripped away.
once again the heavens have managed to fail him. to misunderstand him. to be the cause of a gaping hole in him. one that leaves him unable to just be; one that is scheduled to consume him in his entirety.
the voices in his head reduced to only one, it is your voice left to be narrating his thoughts to him in the limitless chamber of his mind. the voice is even and monotone, you never spoke like that. it is a cheap copy formed by his subconscious, created only to torture him endlessly.
satoru's throat is dry, although he speaks no words he feels it as it cracks under the weight of your absence. the weight of your loss. but really, the greatest, loss was his own.
synopsis: in which what begun as an arranged marriage, blossomed to love. for sukuna, at least.
a/n: for my beloved @salsakiyoomi, whom i wrote this for, and who also inspired me. it's, like, 1.7k words, so definitely longer than i'd thought. banner credits to @/aquazero.
"do you think," he begins, his voice a hesitant murmur, so unlike the usual booming pronouncements of a king, that you almost miss it. "do you think it would be fair… to give us a chance?"
you glance up from your book, a collection of ancient poetry, the words blurring as you try to process his question. "sorry?" you ask, genuinely unsure if you’ve heard correctly. the firelight dances in his usually sharp, confident eyes, softening them in a way you’ve never witnessed.
he clicks his tongue, a nervous tic you’ve only ever seen him display in moments of extreme agitation, and shakes his head slightly. a flush creeps up his neck, staining his pale skin a delicate pink. it’s a startling sight on the usually stoic king.
is it embarrassment? fear? the thought is so foreign, so incongruous with the image of sukuna, that you almost dismiss it. almost. yet, as he stands there, fidgeting like a schoolboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, you can’t fathom any other explanation.
sukuna clears his throat, the sound rough in the sudden quiet of the room. "i think… we could try," he says, the words coming out in a rush. a pause hangs in the air, thick with unspoken possibilities. "us."
you blink, your mind struggling to catch up. "what do you mean? we are married, are we not?" the words feel hollow even as you speak them.
"that’s different," he grumbles, scuffing the toe of his boot against the expensive rug. "that’s… not real."
you close your book, the leather binding snapping shut with a sharp sound. setting it aside, you watch him pace, a restless energy radiating from him. you’ve never seen him this… uneasy. vulnerable. it’s unsettling. "we sleep beside each other. we eat together. we share the same last name. what is not real?"
the answer comes quickly, almost too quickly, as if he’s been rehearsing it in his head. "our love. that’s not real."
you shake your head, a small, involuntary movement. "well, of course. we agreed that—"
"—fuck what we agreed to," he interrupts, the crude language shocking you into silence.
"sukuna," you breathe, your eyes widening.
gathering a sudden burst of courage, he steps closer, taking your hands in his. his touch, usually so demanding, is surprisingly gentle. "petal," he whispers, the nickname he only uses when he thinks no one is listening, "i want more."
"i… i don’t think that’s wise," you stammer, instinctively pulling back. the hopeful light in his eyes dims, and your stomach clenches.
"you don’t love me, sukuna," you continue, your voice trembling slightly. "we wouldn’t work like that. things are… perfect right now. the arrangement we have, we’re at the top. we don’t have to worry about… feelings. we—we don’t have anything getting in the way."
"who’s to say they would get in the way?" he counters, his voice laced with a desperate plea.
"we know they would," you insist, the years of carefully constructed logic solidifying your resolve. "and what makes you believe that—that i feel the same?"
"nothing," he admits, his gaze dropping to the floor. "i don’t know. but if we’re already ‘married,’ would it hurt to…?" he trails off, the question hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken desires.
"besides," you say, grasping at any logical argument, "we’re awful to each other."
"i don’t mean any of it, though," he protests, his voice rising in frustration.
"you did before," you remind him, the memory of his cruel words stinging even now. "and i don’t know if i can be with someone like that."
"people change," he whispers, his eyes searching yours for a flicker of understanding.
for a fleeting moment, you waver. you allow yourself to imagine it: a life with sukuna, not as a political alliance, but as something… more. a warmth spreads through your chest, a dangerous, tempting feeling. but then, the cold reality of your responsibilities crashes down on you. you can’t risk it. you can’t risk the stability you’ve worked so hard to achieve.
what if it all goes wrong? what if you have an irreparable fight? what if he uses his power as king to ban you from the battlefield? you love being out there, fighting alongside your troops, protecting your people. you won't be confined to some gilded cage. you won't be stripped of your purpose.
"no," you whisper, the word a death knell to his hopes. "no."
love was a liability, a weakness to be exploited. and you, you were strong. you had to be.
"petal," sukuna breathes, his voice thick with a desperation that claws at something buried deep within you. he reaches for you again, but you recoil, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the heat that had pulsed between you moments before.
"don't," you say, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he craves. "don't do this, sukuna."
his eyes, usually blazing with arrogance, now flicker with a vulnerability that makes your chest ache. he looks like a wounded animal, cornered and confused. it almost breaks you. almost.
"is this about the throne?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "is that what this is about?"
you clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms. "it's about what's best for the kingdom," you say, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "it's about… stability. it's about ensuring our people are safe. love is a luxury we can't afford."
he laughs, a harsh, broken sound that echoes through the opulent room. "a luxury? you think this is a life of luxury? living a lie, pretending to be something we're not, for the sake of appearances?"
"it's the life we chose," you reply, your voice unwavering, even as your heart crumbles inside. "it's the life we have to choose. there's no other way."
he stares at you, his gaze searching, probing, as if trying to find a crack in your resolve. but you’re a fortress, built on years of expectations and responsibilities. you won’t yield.
"you're wrong," he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "there's always another way. you're just too afraid to see it."
he turns and walks away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. he doesn't look back. you watch him go, your breath catching in your throat. a single tear escapes, tracing a lonely path down your cheek.
as the door closes behind him, the silence in the room is deafening. you’re left alone with your carefully constructed world of duty and obligation, a world that suddenly feels cold and empty.
you’ve won. you’ve protected the kingdom. you’ve made the right choice. but as you stand there, the weight of your crown pressing down on your head, you can't shake the feeling that you’ve lost something far more precious than anything you could ever gain.
the victory tastes like ash, and the silence screams with the echo of what could have been, a haunting melody of a love that was never given a chance.
a love that was a liability, a weakness to be exploited. and you, you were strong. you had to be.
"petal," sukuna breathes, his voice thick with a desperation that claws at something buried deep within you. he reaches for you again, but you recoil, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the heat that had pulsed between you moments before.
"don't," you say, your voice flat, devoid of the warmth he craves. "don't do this, sukuna. you're playing a dangerous game, one you're destined to lose."
his eyes, usually blazing with arrogance, now flicker with a vulnerability that makes your chest ache. he looks like a wounded animal, cornered and confused. it almost breaks you. almost.
"is this about the throne?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "is that what this is about?"
you clench your fists, digging your nails into your palms. "it's about what's best for the kingdom," you say, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "it's about… stability. it's about ensuring our people are safe. love is a luxury we can't afford."
he laughs, a harsh, broken sound that echoes through the opulent room. "a luxury? you think this is a life of luxury? living a lie, pretending to be something we're not, for the sake of appearances?"
"it's the life we chose," you reply, your voice unwavering, even as your heart crumbles inside. "it's the life we have to choose. there's no other way."
he stares at you, his gaze searching, probing, as if trying to find a crack in your resolve. but you’re a fortress, built on years of expectations and responsibilities. you won’t yield.
"you're wrong," he says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "there's always another way. you're just too afraid to see it."
he turns and walks away, his shoulders slumped, his steps heavy. he doesn't look back. you watch him go, your breath catching in your throat. a single tear escapes, tracing a lonely path down your cheek.
as the door closes behind him, the silence in the room is deafening. you’re left alone with your carefully constructed world of duty and obligation, a world that suddenly feels cold and empty. you’ve won. you’ve protected the kingdom.
you’ve made the right choice. but as you stand there, the weight of your crown pressing down on your head, you can't shake the feeling that you’ve lost something far more precious than anything you could ever gain. the victory tastes like ash, and the silence screams with the echo of what could have been, a haunting melody of a love that was never given a chance.
and in the quiet solitude of your gilded cage, you realize that the greatest sacrifice you made was not for your kingdom, but for yourself. you sacrificed your own happiness, your own chance at love, and in doing so, you condemned yourself to a lifetime of regret, a slow, agonizing decay of the heart.
the crown is yours, but the cost… the cost is everything.
genre gojo x gn!reader, fluff, domestic life with satoru
warnings none
wc; 273
please do not plagiarise or share my works on any other social media platforms. as always, reblogs are appreciated <3
satoru finds himself bound to you in a plethora of ways, emotionally, spiritually, telepathically, any way, you name it; but his heart beats a little bit faster when he confirms those bounds through the physical affection you give him.
sure, your kisses bring him life, and making his giant ass little spoon fixes his entire week, but there’s nothing that squeezes his heartstrings more than when his hands are intertwined with yours.
the physicality of your fingers tangled with his, in such a simplistic manner, yet held in such an intimate regard, reminds satoru why he loves you all over again. he’s reminded of your first dates, first kisses and first i love you’s and how you had held hands each and every time.
they say the only constant in this world is change, but satoru begs to differ, because his existence (that which involve worshipping the ground you walk on), proves otherwise. the simple fact that you never let go of his hands, even if he complains that they’re sweaty, will always surpass the statement that change is the only constant.
“baby, where are you going?” he voices out, although groggily.
“-gonna go brush my teeth. wanna come?” you hold out a hand for him as he slowly rises out of bed, and rubs the sleep out of his eyes.
nodding with a gentle hum, satoru trails behind you, hands interlocked, watching your quiet footsteps towards the shared bathroom and the ambience of your apartment at dawn repeats the same revelation he’s always had, through his lips.
“i love you, beautiful.”
“i love you too toru. now brush, our breaths stink.”
If there’s anything Satoru doesn’t want getting out, it’s how big of a baby he is the second you get him alone in bed. In the times he’s not fucking you roughly into the pillows, he’s the one with his head stuffed between your thighs as he sleeps the day away.
Warm cushiony thighs that lull him deeper into sleep. Don’t even try to move either, because he’ll wake up and grumble at you. Things like:
“Where are you going?”
“Do you hate me?”
“Stop moving.”
Or your personal favorite is when you succeed in pulling away from the sticky glob of a boyfriend to retrieve some water and he comes looking for you. As much as you hate to say this, Satoru is a fucking oven. His white curls stick to his forehead as sweat glistens over his chest. He never slept with a shirt on because he swore skin to skin was better for both of you. “It’s scientifically proven!” Is all he’d say before wrapping a strong arm around your leg and settling in.
This particular time you were standing in the bathroom hunched over the sink, splashing cold water on your burning cheeks. From your peripheral view, snow white hair and beautifully flushed skin appears. You turn around to face your lover and smile gently at the sleepy man in front of you. His eyes are barely open when one of his fingers comes to rub the hood of his eye. “Where’d ya go? Come back t’bed baby.” Thick biceps cage you against his chest, Satoru nudged his head between your collar and jaw to breathe deeply. The sensation tickling the sensitive skin.
He was such a baby when it came to getting what he wanted, and how could you tell him no? He asked you so sweetly. A beautiful man who was so sleep riddled he could barely tell where he was somehow found you with ease every time. “Hi sweet boy.” You mumble into his cheek before pressing a kiss into the warmth and allowing him to drag you back to bed.
𝄞 “Saw death on a sunny snow || for every life || forgo the parable || seek the light || my knees are cold || … || for Emma, forever ago” — Bon Iver
Playlist — Rainy Day Lovin’ | Moodboard
Satoru Gojo x Fem!Reader
Words — 7.1k
Cw — reader highkey doesn’t fw Gojo at first, why do I always make the reader like this am I projecting (yes), death, angst, grief, brief descriptions of gore(?), use of y/n, I can’t write this stuff for shit I’m so sorry DONT BASE UR OPINION ON MY WRITING OFF OF THIS PLSPLSPLS, mentions/use of alcohol (reader picks up gojo from a party; he’s drunk), what is it with me and drunk stupid men omg, not proofread, lmk if I missed any!!
Working in a quiet little bookshop, your life consists of only crumpled pages of novels and the weight of your classes resting on your shoulders. When a certain white haired man one year your senior comes by, you’ve already decided you don’t like him. Unfortunately, you’ve always had a tendency to rebel against your own wants. You give yourself to what felt like your beginning and was eventually your end, Satoru Gojo. OR Satoru Gojo hates the rain, but he loved you more.
a/n — ughhhhhdhdhh I spent half of my time writing this procrastinating the ending I’m ngl. This was so difficult to write and then I had a random burst of energy and wrote like half of it in one night like hello???? But it’s probably still blegh idk. Um I’m sorry for this please don’t doxx me. No spoilers but aha…!!!!! I lwk teared up I fear. BLAME SIA FOR THIS NOT ME THIS WAS REVENGE
The very moment you set eyes on Satoru Gojo, you knew he was trouble.
It was a brisk autumn day, shades of brown and orange blanketing the streets and casting a warm, cozy mood over the city. Your little book store was in its element, acutely so. The vintage wood and gold accents strewn throughout the shop reflected the dim light seeping in through the windows, surrounding you in a soft glow.
You were immersed in the newest stock of books, placing each one on the shelf with delicate precision when you heard a bell chime. The dainty little bell at the entrance made only a small noise, but one you’d learned to recognize in your months working here. Stepping down from the stool you’d been balancing on, your foot had barely touched the ground when a whiny voice broke through the silence.
“Suguru,” he drawled, all too pitiful for the time and place. “Can’t you come back later? You keep dragging me into these boring places, I just wanna get mochi,” he groaned. That was when you rounded the corner, entering the line of sight of the two men who had just arrived. One of them was a tall, white haired individual whose face was pulled up in what seemed to be dramatic irritation; the other, ravenette man looking all too fed up at his side. You assumed that the former had been the one complaining, considering the stark contrast in how comfortable the other looked compared to him. Suguru, that was his name. At least, that was what the man-child had said (or rather: howled). Suguru was somewhat a regular here, though you hadn’t caught his name until then. You didn’t recognize his companion. Something about him felt familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on exactly what that was.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that your first impression wasn’t positive. Your thoughts of him changed, but not so much for the better, upon meeting his eye. Something in him seemed to shift then. His eyes lit up as they did a once over on you, posture straightening and a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
“Hush, Satoru. You dragged me into like, four different dessert stores today. You’ll survive five minutes of being surrounded by literature,” the other boy, Suguru, grumbled. Satoru Gojo?.. Oh, you got it now. They went to school with you, that’s why they seemed familiar before. You hadn’t recognized them at first glance because while you were only in your first year of university, they’d been in their second. But you knew that name, everyone did. He was rather known around campus, though not for bad reasons, not exactly ones you’d consider great either. You knew little of the blue eyed man, only a few (three, to be exact) traits burrowing into the depths of your mind. 1. Prodigy 2. Charming (disgusting so) 3. Cocky asshole.
So when he was silent for a beat too long, eyes only flickering back to his friend when he turned to him, you knew he was trouble.
That sly smile still residing on his lips, he nodded at Suguru. “Well…” he said. “I guess I’ll let it slide for now.”
Geto glanced at him, then to you, unimpressed. With a small nod, a polite greeting to you, he rolled his eyes. As he grabbed Gojo by the material of his expensive looking jacket, he grumbled.
“Just look at the damn books.”
Situating yourself behind the cash register, you let out a sigh. It was only you on the shift at the moment, your tiny little establishment usually lacking the amount of customers to require more. You tried to make yourself look less bored than you were, mindlessly tapping your fingers against the leather cover of a novel sitting near the cash register. Courtesy of your boss, going on your phone whilst customers were around was strictly forbidden. You were sure that the college kids were too exhausted to care, nor would they anyway, but rules were rules. You could keep yourself busy, the little voice in your head was enough.
You’d only barely begun to let your mind wander when the soft clunk of elbows meeting the structure you leaned on met your ears. You looked up to see Satoru Gojo staring down at you, winter blue eyes sparkling with a determined curiosity.
“Hey there,” he said, snowy hair shifting as he tilted his head. He was leaned forward lazily, as if preparing for a conversation that was yet to happen. You quirked a brow, feeling the effortless charisma roll off of him in waves. You didn’t allow yourself to be tricked, though, you refused to be like the rest of his little fans fawning and kissing his shoes. Five minutes in and you’d already decided you disliked him, and all he’d said was a greeting. You tried not to judge a book by its cover, but inside you was a need to stick out that overran the compassion.
Your reply was short, a simple “Hi,” all that you felt was necessary. It wasn’t like you really knew the guy at all, you owed him nothing but the service given to every customer that had ever stepped into your humble little shop.
His grin seemed to falter for a split second, b it was quickly plastered back onto that face of his. How long had he been smirking like that? It seemed more habit than amusement at this point.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
You let out a hum under your breath, shrugging. “I don’t think so. Do you?”
His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, you were sure he could see right through you. Every bone in your body felt all too exposed to his prying eyes, every concealed bit of you shining through the cracks. But then he smiled, and everything else washed away. “You’re in uni, aren’t you?”
In return to your soft, approving nod, he clicked his tongue as if proud of himself. “Ah, that’s where. I knew I wouldn’t forget a face like yours.”
You were about to ask him to elaborate when a deeper, more annoyed voice cut through. “I leave you alone for five seconds and you’re already trying to charm the employee?” He rolled his eyes, looking between you and Satoru with a quirked brow. Gojo stood up a little straighter, a dorky, sideways grin adorning his face.
“Little ol’ me? Never.”
Amusement hinted at Geto’s face, but he was good at hiding it. He took up the empty space between Gojo and the counter, placing two books down before you. As you gently picked them up and scanned, the soft red glow accompanied by a soft beep echoing through the room, he watched.
“Nice to see you. How’ve you been?” you asked the black haired man standing across the counter, eyes kept on your nimble hands as they bagged up the paperbacks he’d been purchasing. He responded with a polite smile and a nod, radiating an air of nonchalance, far in contrast to the radiant man beside him.
“Likewise. I’ve been well, you?”
You opened your mouth to speak but were swiftly interrupted, Gojo’s mouth agape as he spoke. “Hold on hold on,” he said, picking his jaw off of the floor. Dramatic much? “You didn’t tell me you knew the cashier.”
“Maybe because you whine every time I even utter the word ‘book’,” Suguru rolled his eyes.
“I am the most intellectual person to ever roam the earth, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Watching them go back and forth, you had to suppress a laugh. They argued in a way that radiated ‘I’ve been dealing with him for years too many’, or something of the sort. You chose to ignore Satoru’s dramatic yearning for your attention, handing Suguru his books and bidding them farewell.
Freedom.
Or… for the next two days, at least.
The bell over the door chimed, quick and soft above the door. It only took a quick glance, a split second for you to recognize who exactly that was. His porcelain hair stuck out against the rustic wood bookshelves like a sore thumb, his bright eyes already shining the moment they met yours.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he grinned.
“…I work here?”
He rolled his eyes, brushing off your dismissal of his attempt at being sly. He took the few short strides from the door to the checkout, and the two of you found yourself exactly where you’d been a few days prior. Except this time there was no Suguru to interrupt (aka save you), and he was all the more annoying.
You let out a breath, already anticipating his behaviour. “I don’t take you for much of a reader.” He shrugged in response, a dorky, grossly pretty grin crossing his face.
“Paying that much attention to me?”
“Your whining is pretty hard to ignore.”
“Ouch,” he placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. His brows furrowed, a crease deepening between them. If you didn’t know exactly what type of man he was, you might’ve genuinely thought he looked like a kicked puppy. He strode over to you, his long legs stretching over the distance with ease. He was tall, very. Not that it mattered. You didn’t care. You didn’t even bother to notice his long limbs, the way his biceps flexed beneath his long sleeve as he reached down, grabbing a book sitting between you. It wasn’t like your eyes lingered for a moment too long, it wasn’t like you suddenly felt oddly uncomfortable being so close to him. The counter separated you, but it did little to keep the distance. The small width of it was to thank for that, you made a mental note to get a stool or something—anything that was a rightful excuse to scoot away.
He placed the novel down. “So, what’s your name?” he asked. He radiated confidence, like he didn’t mind pushing into your space. The only indication that he knew if your disinterest was the way his eyes flickered over your face, all too observant to miss the way it contorted.
“You gonna buy something?” you moved past his question, making a point to glance down at the disregarded item, now placed gently upon a stack of a few others.
He sniggered. “Yeah, but tell me your name.” He didn’t break eye contact with you as he slid it over the counter, the cover making a rough noise with the friction of the wood.
You gave no response, the only noise in the place being the scanning of his book (which you were sure he hadn’t even read the title of) and the dull sound of the constant chatter along the streets. It seeped in through the cracked windows, like a buzzing hive of bees.
“1700 yen,” you said. Your voice held a sort of boredom, but you didn’t care to actually be rude. You just weren’t going to be pinky pie from my little pony whenever you saw the man, and he surely couldn’t blame you for that.
That stupid damn grin never faltered under the weight of your gaze. He tapped his card against the machine like it was second nature, took the bag from you smoothly, hand brushing against yours. “I’ll be back,” he said. And he fully intended to keep that promise.
⋆
“No name, long time no see!”
You suppressed a groan, the all too energetic voice cutting through the quiet of the store like a knife. By the first word, you’d have known who it was. This guy never gave up, did he? And for the record, it had not been a long time since you last saw him. A day and a half, 34 hours to be exact. Though it wasn’t like you were counting or anything, in fact, you dreaded the moment he’d walk through those doors.
He made it his mission to visit you daily. Every day he’d buy a book you were certain would do nothing but collect dust on his shelf, seemingly never going over his budget. That only pissed you off further. How much money did he have to blow it all just to see you? You hated how endearing it was. You hated him.
“‘Afternoon, Gojo,” you sighed, emerging from the depths of the shelves and into the light. It was a sunny day, at least, compared to the rest of the dull winter grey that had found home in the heart of Tokyo.
“You know, I’m starting to get the impression that you don’t like me,” he said.
You attempted to look surprised, though the both of you knew very well that you weren’t. “Wow, what would ever make you think that?”
“You won’t even tell me your name? Am I really that bad?” he huffed, tossing his head back in an exaggerated show of frustration.
“You want the honest answer?”
“Hush.”
He straightened his neck, now craning it slightly down to gaze at you. He was a little ways away, but he might as well have been one with you with the way his eyes bored into you. It was intense in an anticipating way, if that made sense.
“Go out with me.”
You blinked, a little dumbfounded for a moment before gathering the bits and pieces of your brain that had just been scattered across the country. Be logical. Obviously he was kidding, obviously he didn’t mean it. I mean, he barely knew you. He didn’t even know your name, and it was your coldness to thank for that. Surely he wouldn’t want you, not genuinely at least. “You’re ridiculous,” you rolled your eyes.
“Aw, come on!” he whined, and you could’ve sworn you saw a hint of real disappointment behind those cerulean orbs of his.
You suppressed a grin. Maybe his pestering had some perks, maybe it was even entertaining. That wasn’t to say you appreciated the mockery of him “asking you out,” but you figured it was funny as long as you didn’t allow yourself to be deceived. “You making a purchase or not?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, lazily snatching a book from the rack nearest to him. He didn’t even look at the cover. “This one.”
It was pride and prejudice.
⋆
Your first time seeing Satoru outside of your workplace other than fleeting glances around campus, you were drinking coffee. You were sat on a barstool, chunky sweater loosely slung over your body as you tried to manage both typing an essay and sipping your drink. You were stuck on the first sentence, the text cursor staring impatiently up at you as you begged your mind to conjure something up.
‘If I could change one thing about my past, I would change…’
And that was it. That was all you could think of, the unfinished phrase being the farthest you could dive into the depths of your conscious. You didn’t know. It felt as though you had no answer, and yet a million all at once. You let out an annoyed groan, shoving your face into your hands. The frustration was a good enough distraction, considering you failed to notice the figure sliding into the seat next to you.
“Lookin’ a little stressed, mystery girl. You okay?” he teased, though there was more to it. An underlying softness, what you might even say is genuine concern.
You wanted to quip back, to keep up that consistently annoyed facade you’d managed to keep for the past few weeks. But everything was so overwhelming, you were running on a few hours of sleep, and you felt like your brain would implode if you tried to pack another thought in there. So instead of groaning or shooing him away, you peeked out over your hands and replied softly. “No.”
His playful grin twitched, threatening to disappear. The moment you opened your mouth and instead of an insult he was met with something near vulnerability. “…what’s up?”
“Stuff,” you replied curtly, before softening. “Right now I just… I don’t know what to do for this stupid assignment.”
“Hm,” he said, a crease forming between his brows. “What’s the question?”
You gently nudged your laptop, rotating it on the countertop so that he could real the half-sentence you’d left off at. He stared at it for a moment, eyes flickering back to you. “What, you don’t have anything you regret?”
Your voice was soft and smooth like butter, but it held a sort of shake, almost fearful. “Quite the opposite.”
A beat of silence passed, understanding swirling through the air as well as the bits and pieces of the layer that he felt he’d broken through. Whether you liked it or not, he knew you. Maybe not your name, but you. He’d promised himself that he would, and he was a man of his word when it mattered.
“How would you answer?” you asked, growing shifty from how exposed you felt.
He paused, contemplating whether to tell you the truth or not. He bit his cheek, eyes unfocused. “I think I would want to be born someone else.”
That shocked you more than anything else. He was Satoru Gojo, smart and charismatic and confident. He was the last person you’d expect to wish he were another. Everyone else wished they were him, so why did he long for the opposite? But every bit of wit was a layer encasing the deeper parts, the ones that hurt to look at. You knew that all too well.
Conversation flowed much better after that, and it was the first time you had allowed yourself to indulge in his presence as much as you wanted to. He was… nice. Nice to talk to, a nice person, generally. You got to see another side of him, not just the silly man who spent disgusting amounts of money to see you and kept begging you to go out with him—which you still thought was derisive. He was just Satoru, laughing and smiling and helping you figure things out in the midst of what seemed to be dark clouds surrounding you. He was the light.
You were just about to part ways, the sun setting over the horizon and casting a warm glow in its wake. You reached out, taking him by the elbow to get his attention. “Y/n,” you said. “My name is y/n.”
You swore his grin couldn’t have gotten any wider. “Nice to meet you y/n, I’m Satoru Gojo.”
⋆
Gojo surrounded you nearly as much as the sky did from then on. It seemed that was the way things were for the next… what was it, month? 30 days, 30 visits from Gojo, save for the occasional day of absence. Unfortunately, you’d caught yourself warming up to him. You longed to deny it, to believe yourself when you did. You just couldn’t. He started popping up everywhere; along the streets as you walked from one class to another, “just passing by” your class (which you still wondered how he knew), he was everywhere. Usually you managed to duck out before he could embarrass you, taking full advantage of knowing your name and choosing to shout it at every possible opportunity.
This was one of those times.
“Y/n!” he shouted, momentarily turning away from his two best friends to get your attention.
You gave him a sidelong glance before looking away, avoiding him in a dramatic, almost cartoonish manner. Before you knew it, he was by your side. He had a way of making sure you couldn’t avoid him even if you wanted to.
“Am I gonna see you tonight?” he asked.
You shrugged. “Considering I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m going to say no.”
“Come on,” he drawled with a pout, tilting his head to the side. “Party. That big fancy house down the street. You should come.”
“Uh… no.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Just once? For me?”
You hesitated with your next attempt to shut him down, and that was when he knew he’d gotten you. He’d won, yet again. With a wolfish smirk as he retreated, he called back, “I’ll see you there!”
You grumbled under your breath about how you didn’t know why you agreed to these things, and how annoying he was. Deep down, you knew it was all lies. You were sure you’d go anywhere if he asked nicely enough, maybe even the ends of the universe. You just weren’t ready for that conversation, not yet. He was a shining star, proud and bright, and you were nothing but an emotionally stunted mortal basking in his beauty. Him and his disgustingly beautiful eyes, the way people did a double take every time he passed them. He was everything, and he’d only recently learned your name.
That very same night you found yourself feeling utterly ridiculous as you walked up to the front door, wondering whether you should knock or not. It took another group of people walking straight in to give you that answer, pushing through the door and immediately being hit in the face with the sweaty heat of the party. Why were you even doing this for him? Last month, if given the same pleads as you had earlier that day you would’ve shot him down without a second thought. Why did that change? Why had you fallen for his tricks, just as you promised yourself you wouldn’t?
“Y/nnnn,” slurred an all too familiar voice from behind you. You turned to see Satoru Gojo stumbling out from the kitchen, a red solo cup in hand. Some of it sloshed out as he approached you, the liquid falling on the floor and looking like something radioactive.
“Gojo,” you said, instinctively placing a hand under his arm as he almost fell over you. “I see you’ve gotten started.”
His lower lip was pushed out into a pout, his eyes heavy and lazy as they looked you over. “I don’t… usually drink,” he swallowed thickly, eyes landing on yours once again. “But you were taking too long… I had to pass the time,” he explained, the corner of his mouth quirked up. You rolled your eyes, letting go of him with an unimpressed glance. He wished you hadn’t, he liked the way your hand felt on him. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the alcohol or just how much he yearned for your touch, but it was unlike anything he had ever felt before. You made him feel those things rather often, it seemed you were a capsule of new emotions. Ones he hadn’t opened up to prior, ones he wasn’t sure were meant for him. Honestly, he didn’t know what was meant for him, but as he looked at you in the dim yellow lights of the frat party he had a pretty good idea. It was muggy and gross and sweat was already starting to create a soft sheen over your hairline, but to him you’d never looked more beautiful. Because you were here for him, you’d come for him and that was enough.
You glanced around the party, the one you hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place (which definitely had not changed upon arrival), and then at your disgustingly drunk, lightweight loser of a man standing next to you. Your friend? Maybe.
“Did you come with friends?” you asked, but the answer was fairly obvious. Satoru Gojo was rarely found without the people he loved… but now he was with you. Was that a switch up on his end, or was it sticking to his pattern? You couldn’t tell, and that wasn’t something you wanted to work out.
“Mm…” he hummed, as if he’d forgotten. “Yeah, but I don’ wanna be with them… wanna see you…”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart sped up embarrassingly and the face only grew warmer. His friends were nowhere to be found, and you may have seemed like you lacked an ounce of compassion to anyone else, but you couldn’t leave him.
With a sigh and eyes that avoided his all too much, you took him by the hand and led him towards the door. He was all too pleased, barely even bothered asking where you were going. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah? You’ve done enough partying.”
He offered a protesting whine in return, but didn’t dare to pull his hand from yours or even let his steps falter. Well, not voluntarily. He wasn’t the most coordinated drunk.
“Mmh- yeah, there ya’ go.” You guided his arm around your shoulder, and though your hand had parted from his, he didn’t mind the replacement. The nights air was cool in comparison to the interior of the house, refreshing against your flushed skin. It was momentarily silent as you walked down the sidewalk, choosing to save the money you would’ve spent on an uber for the drive two blocks away.
“Y/n?”
You could fill up an entire pad of paper if you tallied every time he said your name. He couldn’t help himself, it tasted so sweet on his tongue.
You responded with a hum, not wasting too much air on what you assumed would be some form of delirious, intoxicated thoughts.
“Why don’t you like me?”
You stopped in your tracks, and you swore your head had never whipped around faster. “What?”
He let out a sigh as if it was a great inconvenience to explain. His arm was still wrapped around you loosely, though there wasn’t much purpose to it now that you’d stopped walking. He glanced at you, and you were met with a rare flicker of something akin to hurt in his eyes.
“I… why don’t you like me? I come ‘round your little shop ‘nd I buy books… I don’t read any of them… and… and I beg you to go out with me, to just look at me, and you don’t. Why?” His voice was surprisingly even for his state. “Somethin’ wrong with me?”
All you could do was stand there and blink for a moment. He’d meant it. All of it. No mockery, nothing. Honestly, in the moment, he couldn’t have phrased it any better? Made it sound like he really wanted you, without that teasing tone underlying his voice? “I… I didn’t think you were being serious, Gojo.”
At the formal name he glared, but he didn’t comment. “I don’t even go for other girls,” he mumbled. “Why would I ask you if I wasn’t?”
Even in his slurred, tipsy condition, he had a point. You had never seen him with a woman, save for Shoko and when the need came, like schoolwork or helping out or anything of the nature. The point was, he didn’t pursue others romantically. You knew this, he knew you knew this, so he didn’t understand why you felt as though he was deceiving you.
“You’re right.”
“So…?” he said, a little more cheeky now.
With a huff and a few begrudging steps forward, you responded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go out with you.”
⋆
Your laughter rang out over the half empty streets, loud and unguarded. You’d spent the day visiting various places; the arcade, lunch, sipping hot chocolate as you walked through the park. More than you’d dreamed of, honestly, and to think you’d rejected him so many times. It felt as if your vision had been freed of the foggy lenses you’d been looking at him through before, seeing him for the kind (although a little cocky) man he was. The man he’d been trying to prove was there all this time.
“And then-“ you were cut off, the feeling of a small, wet droplet landing on your face pulling you from the conversation. You brought a finger up, wiping it and examining it for a second, long enough to come to the conclusion that it was raining. You looked upwards, as did he. The clouds were dark and gray, swirling with the threat of thunder and downpour. Your reactions were completely different, to say the least. While your eyes twinkled with awe and subtle anticipation, his nose crinkled in disdain. For once you were the bright eyed one, and he was just as gloomy as the sky above.
“It’s raining!”
“…it’s raining.”
You looked down from the somber atmosphere, met with the picture of his annoyance. “You don’t like the rain?”
He shook his head, meeting your eye. You almost gasped, but the singular nonchalant bone in your body made you refrain. “But it’s the best weather!”
“It’s dark and gloomy and wet,” he said, looking at you like you had spoken another language. He was utterly dumbfounded by your simple opinion.
More raindrops began to fall, decorating the concrete with dark, tiny spots. It was only then that you realized nearly everyone head cleared, leaving only the two of you and a few others as well as the passing vehicles. You smiled, wider than he’d ever seen you smile before. Your head was thrown back as you backed away from him, your arms outstretched at your side as you took in every bit of the rain. “Come on!” you said, a short laugh leaving your lips. Your eyes were closed now, but he was sure they’d be crinkling if they were open. “You can’t tell me this isn’t beautiful.”
“Hmm, yeah… I guess you’re right,” he agreed, but he wasn’t looking at the rain.
Satoru hated the rain, but he figured than the dampness of his bones and the way his vision blurred was all just fine as long as he could make out your foggy figure in the midst of it. Though his body hated the storms, his soul was unaffected, and all it did was long for you. So when your own spirit basked so happily in the wet weather, he couldn’t help but be content.
⋆
Satoru Gojo was a good boyfriend. Had you dared to tell yourself from a few months in the past, she would laugh in your face and send you away. But you were you now, and you knew all too well how good of a man yours was.
He opened doors for you, he cracked cheesy jokes when he knew you needed a laugh (they were so unfunny that you couldn’t even help it, he knew that), he gave you jackets when you were cold and he loved to guess your flavour of lipgloss before dropping you off at class every morning. He opened jars for you and braided your hair on tense, quiet nights when you didn’t have any words left to speak. He loved you more than someone who’s only known you for a handful months should, but you were not planning on complaining about that part. Some may say it was the honeymoon phase, some would argue it was love at first sight. You couldn’t be sure. All you knew was that you were happy, and that couldn’t be changed.
You felt a certain surge of bliss flow through you the moment you woke up, not because it was a particularly great day, but because of the first thing you were blessed with the sight of. Satoru was curled up in your bed, mouth agape as he slept on your chest. His white hair was fuzzy and strewn in gentle spikes surrounding his head, a hint of drool collecting at the corners of his lips. He looked so stupid, yet so absolutely peaceful that you were convinced he was beauty in its highest form. Screw whatever Greek mythology said, nothing blessed the eyes as greatly as the face of Satoru at ease.
A low grumble fell from his lips, though neither of you knew what words they were. His pale lashes blinked open, bleary eyes meeting yours. “Hey there,” he cheesed, mouth already forming into that cocky smirk. You hated it, hated the way you felt like every other one of his crazy fangirls every time he flashed it at you. Except it was just you, only for you.
“Morning, Satoru.”
He snuggled further into your chest, the fabric of your (his?) shirt crinkling beneath his nose as it nudged it. “Dream of me?”
You rolled your eyes, gently flicking him in the side of his head. His head shot up, looking cartoonishly offended. “That’s not nice!”
You grinned. “I’m not nice.”
He moved his face closer to yours, your features level as he looked into your eyes. “But you’re supposed to be nice to me,” he said, though no real emotion lied in the sentence. His were eyes flitting down to your lips, looking almost like some sort of deer in headlights. His head dipped down, just millimetres from you. He barely thought as he pressed his own to yours, lips meeting in a soft, sleepy way.
You parted for breath, a soft “satoruuuu,” tumbling from you before he was shutting you up with another kiss.
“Shh, I didn’t spend weeks begging for you to like me for you to not let me kiss you. Boyfriend privilege,” he tutted against your lips, and any protest you’d begun to shoot back was swallowed by him once again. You sassed, but he felt the way your hands tightened in his hair and your throat bobbed every time his teeth ran over your bottom lip. You loved him, and you hated it. It only made him like it all the much more.
⋆
The day was sunny, beating down on heaps of smiling faces as they took in all its warmth. The sky was clear and blue, you’d made a comment about how it looked similar to his eyes. He liked that, but he hoped you liked looking into his eyes better. The streets were busy, the sound of overlapping conversations and gas engines almost overwhelming. The only thing that grounded you was your hand wrapped around his bicep, his gentle guide through the crowd bringing you back to earth. You liked to act so big and tough, but there were moments like these where you were reminded that you were human too. Sometimes, you needed him. Needed your toru. You smiled bashfully when you came to the realization, to which he only smirked. It was as if he could read your mind, as if you were so in sync that he didn’t need to hear you voice it to know what you were thinking about.
But Satoru didn’t remember any of that. No, not clearly, at least. Looking back felt like trying to watch a video on a scratched disk, like there had been an old cameras lens’s blocking his vision.
All he remembered was screeching wheels and the sound of you being nudged just a little too close to the road, the way you tripped and fell seeming to be in slow motion. He remembered blood, too. A lot of it. It was yours. There were people screaming and the person behind the wheel crying, but by then it had all been tuned out by his ringing ears. He suddenly felt dizzy, all too dizzy. He’d zeroed in on your crumpled figure, hadn’t even noticed himself falling until his knees thudded against the rough road. His hands reached out to you, he was shaking. He nudged you once. A second time. No response.
“Y/n?” he asked weakly, as if a whisper only to you, avoiding the hundreds of eyes crowing around. He could hear distant police sirens, flashing lights bleeding in the corners of his vision. No. No. No no no no no. He could only think of one word then, the stubborn denial that this wasn’t happening. He was dreaming, he would wake up cuddled next to you and you’d wipe his tears, remind him that you weren’t going anywhere. But it wasn’t, the blood that stained his hands as he reached out to you was warm and wet and crimson, equally as real as the love you shared had been. The tears collecting in his eyes were real, too. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even think, he could barely cry.
He cradled you, and he felt no pulse as he placed his fingers on your neck. Your hair was stained ruby, leaving a trail of haunting colour in its wake as it dragged along his finger. You were being pulled from him, he tried to resist, but his arms felt weak and his mind numb. This couldn’t possibly be happening. You couldn’t go so soon, not when you had so many regrets, not when you’d finally gotten over it all and loved and lived with him. He needed more time, he needed to show you that everything was okay. But now he couldn’t, and he was left sitting on the side of the road as what used to be you was driven away. He lost you twice that day.
Once the road was empty and he was left with nothing but your looming absence, it started raining. Your favourite weather. Usually he’d be delighted, he’d bring you outside by the hand and watch as your heart was filled by every drop of water. Not this time. Now every bit of the liquid was wasted on a soul that could no longer be filled, what would only ever be a leaking shell of a man who loved foolishly. While the rain was what healed you, you were what healed him. Without you he was left a wounded man without aid, filled with cracks and chips that would reside with him forever. It was his fault. His fault for bringing you, his fault for loving you at all. After all, there was no curse more twisted than love.
Satoru Gojo hated the rain. Now and forever.
⋆
He wished you lived to see how much you mattered. He knew you tended to doubt it, didn’t value yourself nearly as much as you should have.
The bookstore you worked at closed not long after your passing. The only other worker there was a good friend of yours, she quit. She couldn’t handle your loss. Nobody could. Every time Gojo passed the empty building he was reminded of you, the old store just as lifeless as your body had been in that casket. You lingered everywhere, in every old book and cup of coffee and stupid philosophical question his professor would ask. You lingered in the sheets of his that you once slept in, your legs tangled with his as you laughed in the piercing bright of the morning. The clothes you’d scattered around his room untouched since the day you died, moving them felt like erasing you. Even washing his sheets was hard. He got a whiff of your perfume in one of his hoodies and he just broke, started ugly sobbing on the floor of his bedroom right then and there. Tears soaked the sweater, and he couldn’t help but notice that they looked like raindrops. Your favourite type of day was the one most similar to the picture of his despair, the way he curled into a ball and wailed to himself as he mourned your death. He figured that wasn’t too much of a surprise. You’d always appreciated the gloomier things, after all.
Sometimes he’d convince himself you were still there. He’d tell himself that you were right beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder and your voice ringing out in what was undoubtedly a sassy quip, but every time he turned to search for you he was met with nothing but a gaping emptiness, the hollow walls you haunted. You were no longer, you wouldn’t come back. You never would. He didn’t even get you tell you he loved you once more, kiss the soft, untouched expanse of your skin, remind you that you were delicate and precious and all his. Every day, the hatred inside of him grew and swallowed every bit of who he used to be. The man you loved was gone, his vessel unrecognizable. Satoru died that day too, but nobody mourned him because he wasn’t the one bleeding.
He sat on the roof of your bookshop, gazing out over the skyline. Buildings stuck up, jagged and irregular as they made tough lines over the horizon. You would’ve liked this view, but you simply hadn’t thought of coming up here before. Only he had, and by then it was far too late.
He looked down at his hand, bottom lip pulled between his teeth. It shouldn’t have been you. It should have been him. Maybe then he’d be reincarnated and born as someone else, hopefully reunited with you in the next lifetime. He had a feeling you would, your souls seemed to dance around each other in that sort of rhythm. But no, it had to be you. Did his suffering ever end? Tears fell and wet his skin, but suddenly, there were too many. Too many, too far.
He looked up, and he didn’t know if it was a cruel reminder or a gift sent by you, but it was raining.
He couldn’t bring himself to get up and go home that time. He embraced it, lying on the ground and imagining that if he closed his eyes tight enough, he’d open them and be able to see you again. When his eyelids parted, he was met with gloomy clouds and dim skies. In the midst of the darkness, he caught a glimpse of what he swore to be your silhouette. You were sly, even in the afterlife.
That day he didn’t lay in the rain; Satoru Gojo would never be caught dead doing that. He lied beneath you, raindrops that soaked into every part of him and sent chills up his spine. He knew you wanted him to. You didn’t come back as a sunset, you didn’t paint the skies with pink and orange. You were a chilly, rainy day that reminded him of your hands in his and your wide smile as you willingly gave yourself a cold, because with the sickness came a moment of joy. There was more truth to that than let on. Yes, now he grieved and lied in a puddle of tears and rainwater, but not long ago he’d been with you. He’d held you and felt the warmth of you on his fingertips, heard your voice ring through his ears, been granted the bliss that was your lips on his. He’d gotten the greatest joy of all, and he knew that if he died in this moment his only regret would be not embracing it more than he had, if that was even possible. He’d loved you, he’d felt your love. He’d been blessed with the softness of your gaze and the twinkle in your smile, seen the soft parts of you that would forever remain a secret between him and the rain. The knowledge of that, the feeling of bits of your soul returning with every rumbling thunder crash and strike of lightning was enough for him to know that you hadn’t died. You never would, because you loved, and nothing that loves ever truly dies. You would live on through him and everyone else you came by, his family for years to come would hear the story of a stubborn girl who healed someone she hated without even knowing it. Even after you were long gone, you healed him, one dollop of water at a time.
For years after that, though begrudgingly, Satoru was never inside during a storm. His opinion of rain hadn’t altered in the slightest, no. Satoru still hated the rain, but he loved you far more.
note — why does he never catch a break omds… but on a real note I hate this real bad but wtvvvvvv I promised something and I’m a girl of my word. I don’t know how to write death I fear… and also the ending wasn’t even decided until very late into the story so it might’ve been a little sudden idkkkkkkuhhhhb
.tw cursing, gojo clearly needs help, mentions of death, alcohol
.wc 4.3k
SUMMARY — In the July heat, Satoru is a glass of ice cold water, there to refresh you. In the December chill, he’s a bittersweet memory that tugs at your heartstrings.
reblogs are appreciated!
It was a warm summer's night meeting Gojo Satoru, yet it felt like the winter blazed upon your heart as he glared at you with his piercing eyes, intimidated by his stare. The heat of July 13th could not melt the ice protecting the shackles of Gojo Satoru’s heart and it was obvious from your first encounter.
On the contrary, you came into Satoru’s life like a breath of fresh air you didn't know you needed. His shoulders seemed to relax from their tensed state, and his teeth would no longer grit as he registered your existence beside him. But it could not satiate the clenching feeling in his heart when he stared down at the headstone in front of him.
–
“I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to-"
It was cliché, your encounter. The classic coffee incident, who knew that the two most unpredictable people to live in Japan would have the most foreseeable romance of all time.
"It’s alright, I wasn't paying attention."
You paid him back for his shirt and the jelly stick in his hands as an apology, to which he seemed to accept gleefully. Cute. You thought.
A month was how long it took for him to kiss you on your seventh date. Rather than the stories telling you the butterflies in your stomach finally fluttering, or the fires set alight in your heart, there was peace, and tranquility within the depths of your stomach, the swirling feeling no longer in movement.
Pulling away from him, heavy breaths, and rosy cheeks you smile, laughing as he cups your face and pulls you into his embrace once again.
"You're so cute, Y/N."
Nine months, and he asks you to move in with him.
"Satoru, aren't we going a bit fast?"
"I'm sorry, it's just, you make me so happy."
That seemed to be enough reason for you to pack all of your bags, and move into his apartment in upstate Tokyo.
–
You grew uncomfortable in his presence the first night you moved in. He felt like a new person. The swirl within your stomach intensifying each second, and you felt nauseous. Who was this man you met all those months back in July?
"Toru, I’m sorry, it's just slippers I didn't know-"
"Well they're not yours. Fuck off and get your own."
Being his partner, you assumed that he bought those for you as some sort of housewarming gift, to get comfortable in the place on your first night, whilst it was actually the down side of your relationship.
He had a partner a few years ago, that he seemed to not be completely over, and you had fit their exact description appearance wise. But you would never be them, hell you didn't even know him back then. And it's not like you were ever going to find this out from him, it was the little things.
It grew from scolding to comparison, "Why can't you be like Yuki?" "Yuki never did this when we were together" "That’s not how Yuki does it." and you grew tired of it.
Your heart burned every second as he left the house more frequently, coming back later than scheduled, with tears stained into his shirt, and red tainted into his sclera. Living with him grew to be a chore, and the couch became more comfortable than the confines of his arms where he would whisper a name that wasn't yours.
You acknowledged that you were hurting yourself in this ill-fated relationship, but enjoyed the validation he had served you so seldom. The peppering of his kisses in the rise of the sun, and the moments where you would lock eyes as you brushed your teeth together at night, and interlocking hands as you went grocery shopping.
Pulling you back by the waist became a habit, and Satoru’s limbs felt empty without a presence that was familiar to Yuki’s, or rather a face. He was unaware of the agony he had afflicted upon you before entering the relationship with his toxic baggage.
As selfish as he was, your presence slowly pieced into his schedule like it was always meant to be there, and a day without it felt like a void that could only be indulged with the stimulating comfort of alcohol and cigarettes. subsequently, it brought out an unattractive aspect of his personality, torturing you emotionally according to his own pleasures or until he was tired and expected you to put him back to bed.
–
Eighteen months was how long it took for you to finally pack your things and leave. You were fed up with waiting for him to realise he had been hurting you, fed up with waiting for his apologies, or the deserved explanations as to why he kept you around like a toy.
Upon meeting his friends, you grew the closest to Nanami, who finally had the guts to explain to you that Satoru's previous partner, Yuki, had died in a car accident on their four year anniversary.
–
"You know, I think you were his next big thing." Taking a sip from his glass, Nanami stares at the light he turned on from the torch on his phone.
"...big thing?"
"You’re the first serious relationship he's had since...I’d rather not."
"Then why would you bring it up?" You couldn't understand his logic, if he never wanted to speak about it in the first place why would he leave you hanging like that?
"It’s just, I think it's best to hear it from Gojo himself."
"He’s barely home, why do you think I'm here right now?" Sighing languidly, you slouch in your seat staring up at the white ceiling.
"Fine. But don't tell him I told you, I’m only saying this because you deserve to know." He exhales deeply, as if to prepare for a big speech. "About four years ago, Gojo’s last partner died in an accident on their anniversary, after that he didn't date or do anything for that matter, for a long time. Until he met you. I think you make him happy, we haven't seen him like this in a while."
A twisting sensation grew its way up your stomach to your chest, as pieces connect, you finally understood why he was so flagrant in his distaste towards you when you committed a sin as grave as wearing a pair of slippers that were never yours.
"I don't think it's me that makes him happy."
"Do you want me to be honest?" He pushes on, staring at the drink before him.
"...Yeah."
"You look an awful lot like them."
And the twisting soon melted into an ache, so familiar and reminiscent of your feelings when you would stare at his eyes with adoration and notice the emptiness in his looking at yours.
You scoffed. You acknowledged that Nanami was trying to sympathise or make you feel better these days, but it took a turn for the worse. Satoru made you feel like a rebound, as if you were just a speck of dust in a dirty room, a second in his time of life to which he was going to waste. One like any other. In the end, he would never love you the way you loved him, because he was still mourning.
His honesty should've stayed a mystery – your curiosity should've never delved past the limit Satoru had set from the day you moved in.
You were a sign screaming for help from the man who held you by his side at night, had waited for someone to swoop in and save him from the clutches you never meant to keep him under.
"I understand." And you left.
–
“I’ll see be home late today, I’m having a couple drinks with Suguru and Shoko.” Satoru presses a chaste kiss on your lips as you make him his morning brew, with extra sugar as he always likes it. He grabs the mug and gives you another kiss. “Thank you, baby.”
He was in an awfully good mood. “Alright, be safe on your way home, just text me when you guys are going home, I can pick you up from the bar.” Your mind races back to the conversation you had with Nanami a few days prior.
Satoru nods, before taking one last gulp of his coffee, washes the dish quickly and grabs whatever else he needed for work that day. “I’ll text you later, love you!”
You smile weakly, and mutter a “You too”. The door slams shut, and you sigh in relief, before your legs give out, recollecting everything that had happened with Nanami, giving yourself time to process everything.
There was a conflict between your mind and your heart, each battling for different paths. Your mind fighting so defensively for a future that doesn’t involve living a life where Satoru doesn't have to leave your heart in shambles every time he looks at you in longing, a sad, grieving, mourning longing. A life without him.
But as torturous your feelings were, your heart kept you within close proximity with Satoru, thinking that one day, some day, you could reach out to him, and finally make him realise he was yours. Not Yuki's, but yours. Your heart fought for a future where that was possible, driving your every move and word for Satoru to lead you to that potential moment.
You were already halfway there, living with him, breathing with him, calling him yours, exchanging "I love you's", albeit they may not be entirely true on his part, but you were halfway there. There was just one more push needed, whether it be from you or him.
And you chose your heart. You chose Satoru. As you always do.
11:44pm
toru <3: bbay come het me pla
you: alright.
Arriving at the bar Satoru laid red, and intoxicated, his head resting on his forearm, muttering mindless words to himself, as Geto waited uninterestedly beside him. "Come on, Y/N's here."
Satoru's ears prick up at the mention of you, and he cheeses, the red deepening on his inebriated cheekbones. "My love, there you hic- are." Arms outstretched towards you, and you take one of them and lay them around your shoulder as you send Suguru an apologetic look.
"Hey, thanks for waiting with him Geto. How much did he drink?" You question, as your boyfriend lolls his head in a circle, and comes to rest beside your neck, his breath fanning against your ear, and the stench of alcohol wafts its way to you.
"A few pints of beer, as you can see. He's never been great at holding his alcohol." Geto rolls his eyes.
"Clearly." You chuckle, "Sorry for taking so long, are you okay? Do you want a ride back to yours?"
"Nah, it's cool, Shoko's waiting in the car for me, thanks though. I'll see you 'round."
"Bye." You wave, and you stare back down at Satoru, whispering little nothings to himself again. "Come on, home time, Toru."
"Heck yeah, Home Time Toru!" He exclaims, before dragging his feet as you struggle to carry his weight to the car.
Driving home, Satoru mumbles the whole car ride, humming along to the music every few minutes or so until you finally pull into the parking spot outside your apartment.
He attaches himself to your waist as you drag him through the entrance of your apartment, and flings himself onto the sofa in your living space.
“You’re so sweet…” His slurs reverberates through a pillow, just loud enough for you to hear. Heartwarming, you feel as his words creep up to your chest and you smile to yourself.
“Have some water, here.” Bringing a cup towards his lips, he puckers up and takes a sip, before sighing deeply.
“Why does it have to be you.” An eerie atmosphere engulfs itself in the four corners of the walls, and he stares at you in anguish, possibly hatred. “I hate that it’s you picking me up when I’m out, making me coffee in the mornings, giving me water when I’m drunk.”
Drunk words are sober thoughts.
And the metaphor drills itself into your brain, pushing past your years of development and all of a sudden, you’re a child again. Dejected by the criticism thrust upon you.
“Why don’t we get you to bed, yeah?”
He nods in accordance, dragging his feet behind him as he struggles to unbutton his shirt and change into his pajamas, with you following suit, your heart crumbling with every step you take.
You help brush his teeth and wash his face, still clearly out of touch with the world of sobriety even after tucking into the sheets and he begins once again.
“I hate your face.” He seethes.
You shift further away from him in the bed, the distance between you two opening as your chest aches into another chasm, and you stare up at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all you can be.” Because you weren’t Yuki.
–
Satoru wakes up the next day, with a pounding in his temple, and he turns around to see your back facing him. How domestic, he stares at the divot in the bed, created by your form, the months that you've so loyally stayed on that side of the bed, your boundary, never truly passing over to his.
He shuffles slightly to learn towards you and lays his head atop your shoulder, feeling the slow rise and fall of your body as you slept and you shift as you feel a weight against your body.
He doesn't remember.
"Good morning, dear." Mumbling into your shoulder, presses a kiss onto your cheek and pulls you towards him, without the recollection of last night in his memory.
Sadly it wasn't mutual – the events fresh, lingering in your consciousness and the sentiments of agony rush over the spot Satoru kissed. As if he had the power to trigger that pain into you.
"You're up early, it's a Saturday." A faint smile displays on your lips, in a groggy state you lay as Satoru crushes you in his hold.
"Can't I enjoy the view?" His eyes wander over your sleepy condition and his heart clenches at the sight.
He knows it's wrong, what he's doing right now, what he's been doing for the past two years with you. But it's the closest thing he's got to keep the memory living. He knows the memory of them will never fully project itself again, especially not through your vessel.
"I guess so," you begin, "what do you want to do today?" You tap on his thigh as he hums in thought, and he gives you a reminiscent expression of when you first met.
"Why don't we have dinner today? That nice Italian place I took you that one time last year?" He sits up straight, plan already forming in his head, "We can dress up all nice and fancy, I can pretend I'm picking you up like it's first date like we did last time?"
The idea of it brings a smile and you nod in agreement as he smiles and kisses you once again, your lips connecting in synchrony, and the smack of his lips as it departs from yours.
"I just have to help Suguru with the birthday party he's planning for the girls tomorrow, I'll be back before 5:30, and I'll be all yours, yeah?"
"Of course, I'll be here waiting. Don't be late or I'll track you down." He throws his head back and laughs, promising you he'll be punctual.
–
He knocks on Suguru's door in a spritely manner, who answers, in a not so amazing mood, with pink hair clips adorning his locks, glitter ornamenting his cheekbones and lipstick smeared against his lips, clearly not aligned with his lipline.
"Need some help with that?" He points at the 'makeover' Nanako and Mimiko did, stating that he clearly needed it.
They begin filling up party bags, in casual conversation as they take the sweets and trinkets and carefully place them in the princess-themed plastic bags that said "Thank you for coming to my birthday!".
"You're in a good mood today." Suguru interrupts, and Satoru pauses as he sends a strange expression. "It's a good thing, I didn't even think you would come help today, I had Shoko on speed dial."
"Why wouldn't I come help for the girls' birthday?" With a quizzical expression, Satoru picks up another toy to place inside the goodie bag and Suguru answers.
"It's the five year anniversary today, last year you even got in a huge fight with Y/N. You seem to be doing a lot better, I'm happy you have them in your life."
He stops what he was doing, and regret rushes in. He was just thinking about Yuki, yet he lets it slips his mind that today was the day he lost them. All because he was too busy thinking about a day with you.
Satoru thinks it's cheating, betrayal on Yuki's behalf, and a crestfallen countenance appears over his face, lips downturned, eyes watering and clear. He blames it all on you, before standing up and apologising to Suguru, who's just realised that his best friend wasn't doing better at all, and leaves his house.
A flower shop, one so familiar and nostalgic. So, he steps in and recklessly buys a bouquet.
"Satoru, buying flowers for Y/N? They told me you were taking them out for dinner. I was beginning to think you were neglecting them." Shoko pops up behind him, and it worsens his day.
You're mentioned again, dampening his mood, but he feigns a smile and nods, "Yeah, thought it'd be nice to go on a date."
"Well, I'm glad. You look a lot better."
It isn't without any extra exchanges before Satoru leaves the establishment with a heavy heart and a location to be. It's cheating, he thinks, to be so focused on someone else, when his true love is waiting in an intangible realm. How could he move on and be so happy without Yuki?
And he isn't.
He appears at their gravestone, flowers in hand.
"Hey." Crouching, he settles into the grass, wiping around their name, and photo so he can clearly see it.
It's obvious their ghost haunts him, that they've laid their territory in his memory and will forever remain. There is no waking day without Yuki, and no dreaming night with them to cease. A permanent embedding of their life exists through Satoru and him alone.
There's a guilt hanging in the air as he longingly stares at their photo, realising that time will never move for them but could only continue for him. Oh, how he wished it would end.
"I'm sorry for not remembering, don't be mad at me." He takes a deep breath and a long pause. "I don't come here as much as I used to. I've been dreading it." He speaks to nothing.
"Coming here just makes me remember you're not around." The air around him responds. "I wish it was me. Maybe you could've moved on, and been in a happy relationship." He thinks of you.
"Just, let me sit here with you before I go."
–
You wait patiently, it's 5:30, and Satoru hasn't returned yet. The outfit he prepared for himself earlier in the day laid neatly and ironed on the bed, yet with no body to wear them. No Satoru.
Tapping your foot, you check your phone to see if he's responded. Only a text message from Shoko, saying she saw him at the flower shop, buying chrysanthemums. You hated chrysanthemums. But you digress, flowers are flowers, and he had you in mind.
It's 6pm, and you've found solace on the sofa, scrolling on your phone, waiting for his arrival. No Satoru.
You refrain from messaging any of his friends, so as not to raise suspicion, and you wait in torment.
Three hours pass, and no sign of Satoru, and you've already changed back into your home clothes and cosy up to the pillow as the TV plays before you. A mindless romance drama, one so corny and unrealistic that you roll your eyes and change the channel.
The door creaks open, and an absentminded, empty shell of a man you call your boyfriend walks through, with no flowers in hand. You stare as he walks straight past you, as if he never made plans in the first place.
All your hopes and dreams dissipate as he changes into his home clothes, hanging up the fancy little outfit he had prepared earlier and placing it back in the wardrobe – and your heart shatters once more. Yet you don't press him about it.
–
Taking all of your belongings and traces of your existence from his apartment, tears blinded your vision and you choked back a sob as everything had finally pieced itself together like a puzzle.
He didn't deserve this suffering, it was an unfortunate accident, one that had brought misery into his life. However, you didn't deserve this suffering either. The pain of sleeping beside a man who saw someone else in your eyes, the person he thought of as he kissed your face.
Being in love with Satoru for a year and a half had taught you many things. It taught you not to wait for someone who was already waiting for another, that you should realise you could not love someone else when you barely loved yourself.
"What are you doing?" Startled, you turn around to see the familiar face.
"Leaving." it was silent for a few moments.
"Why?"
"Because you don't love me." How immature, thought Satoru, you sounded like a child, who craved for someone's attention every time it lacked for a second.
"Who said that?"
"It doesn't need to be said, I can see it. You think I can't hear you cry at night as you call out for someone who is long gone, or how you hold me like I’m some kind of toy, there to relieve your stress? You look at me like you're waiting for a person to come through the door and kick me out. I don't want that, I’d rather leave myself."
How did you know? Was he too obvious? But you couldn't leave, no, who was he going to come home to if not you, let alone Yuki, how was he going to feel loved if there was no one there to love him in the first place?
"But you can't leave me!" He walks closer, reaching out to you for the first time in months, finally showing you an inkling of what he truly felt. Sober.
“Why? So I can continue living in their shoes? Filling the empty space they left behind?” You retort, tears brimming your eyes with a wavering voice. “It’s not fair, Toru.”
“No- it’s not like that-“ he takes a step forward.
“Yeah, then what is it like?” There’s a pregnant pause, and he shuts his mouth. “I thought so.”
“Just hear me out, please?” He begs, eyes glimmering under the yellowed light of his living room. And you nod. “I admit, when I first saw you, it reminded me of them, but the longer we were together, that association disappeared. I don’t even think about them anymore!”
“Oh, that’s just bullshit, Satoru. You don’t think I can hear you every night? Crying for them, wishing they could come back into your arms?” Sobs simply spill at this point, and there’s no control over your emotions anymore. “What does that leave me with, huh? A boyfriend who doesn’t love me, but just the appearance I symbolise? You think you’re so slick, but I know it all, the look you give me, searching for someone else in my eyes, the things you buy me, knowing they’re all for them. I’m not just some vessel for you to dump your feelings on. I’m a fucking person, your partner at that!”
“I’m just, having a hard time, I love them so much.”
He looks down, ashamed to look into your eyes, to acknowledge the pain he’s forced you through. “And I completely understand that Gojo,” calling him by his last name had never felt so nerve wracking, “you never deserved any of this. But I’m not where your grief should be placed, especially when I have no idea that this ever happened. Get some fucking therapy.”
Something inside of him snaps, and he loses control of his emotions, the colour red seeping through his line of vision, a cloud of it embossing around your figure before him.
“Me? Get therapy? You’re the fucking clingy one always wondering where I am, asking when I’m coming home. You always want to fucking talk to me, hug me and spend time with me when you fucking know I value my space.” He almost yells back.
“God, I know you want your space, I give you your fucking space that’s why you’re never around. I try to respect your boundaries so fucking much and you give me nothing back. Why are you even with me if you know so clearly that you haven’t moved on!”
“I don’t know.”
The silence returns. Alongside a gut wrenching realisation that the relationship had been one sided. It’s possible that you were catastrophising it, but your world comes crashing down, and everything you’ve ever known about love, about Satoru, dissipates the longer you stare at him. And his confidence falters.
“Alright. I’ll come back in a few days to collect anything I’ve left behind.” Your voice comes out in a shallow whisper, but loud enough for Satoru to decipher.
And he nods, again. “Okay.”
"You should give yourself time to heal, Satoru. Real time."
Deep down, you both know it's impossible.
Your footsteps recede, and slowly the volume of your shoes fade away the further you get from him, and all Satoru sees before him is the pair of slippers that you bought when you first moved in.
a/n: had this in the drafts for like two years and did nothing ab it so i'm sorry for the half assed ending its been hectic recently
