draco malfoy x classmate reader
todays school day is a hiking trip to the top of a mountain instead of the usual boring classes.
“And that, children, over there is a Venomous Tentacula! Right, brilliant... what a beauty.”
Professor Sprout spoke, inspecting the plant from a nearer distance. “It is a very dangerous plant with long moving vines covered in thorns, as you can see.” She gestured with her hands.
“It can grab and injure anyone who gets too close. It also- Oh, look right there! The Devil’s Snare, it’s a magical vine that wraps around anyone who struggles against it. Alright, keep walking. Get away from there.”
Sighing, you lazily walked behind the pack of students, dragging your legs more than walking. Turning your head to the side and looking at your friends, they look just as enthusiastic as any other day. What a bore. Lost in their pointless conversation that doesn’t really interest you, something about potions. Turning your head the other way where your Slytherin friends walked beside you earlier, you glance around looking for them but only Draco was still there. When did Blaise and Pansy get so far ahead?
Well, you’ve got 3 options. To involve yourself in that boring potions discussion, die of boredom or either strike a conversation with Draco.
“What are you looking at?” you ask, tugging on his sleeve when he wasn’t answering before he turned his icy stare at you instead. “None of your business.” he spat out. “Rude. I’m just really bored” you looked away, annoyed. “I can tell. Thanks for pointing out the obvious.” He said and you swinged your hand to slap the fuck out of him before he grabbed it and then let go, rubbing his hand on his robe as if you’re dirty. You were about to yell at him before you heard branches cracking.
“Did you hear that?” he said, swiftly turning his head to the side where the noise came from. “What? That’s just the others stepping on branches, Draco.” You said in an exaggerated tone thinking he’s just dumb. You both paused when you heard shuffling that was in the bushes at the side of the trail and very obviously not from any of you. “Okay, that wasn’t the others now.” “I told you but you’re acting like I’m crazy.” “Because you are.” “Shut up, I hear it again. Hear that?” He said now pointing to where the noises came from. Before he started walking towards it, stepping off trail as you immediately grabbed his arm, pulling on it but it really did nothing. “Draco! Stop, you’re going off trail. Are you insane? Slytherins going to lose like 500 points if Professor Sprout sees us!” “So you don’t want to find out what was causing those noises?” he said while looking at you over his shoulder. “Ugh... I.. I do but-!” and he started walking straight ahead into the beginning of the forest without even waiting for you to finish your sentence.
Typical. As if he knows you’re going to end up following him either way. And that is exactly what you do. Walking after him, muttering curses and trying to pull him back clearly isn’t going to stop him so you stayed quiet for a moment before talking again.
“Draco, seriously, it was probably just a squirrel.”
“Explain what these huge footprints with claws are then.”
“Okay but still are you seriously trailing after a monster of some sort right now?”
“So are you.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Love to hear it.”
After about 15 minutes of walking after him, going back and fourth with the arguments you figured there really is no way to convince him to turn back. And it was starting to get dark pretty fast, had you still been with the others you probably would’ve been back in Hogwarts by now, sleeping in the common room infront of the warm fireplace.. But no, nothing ever goes your way. It was starting to get a bit windy, shivering from the cold you pull your uniform cloak a bit tighter over you. It was already dark enough to the point you could only see what was near you.
“Draco…” Hearing you mutter his name he turned his head to the side, looking at you over his shoulder. “What is it now?..”
You frowned at his cold tone. It wasn’t like it was something new but for some reason your heart stung a bit hearing him talk to you like that. The chilly weather must’ve been getting to your head.
He’s the same as he always has been. Nothings changed, so why are you feeling oddly sorrow right now? Harsh wind made your eyes glossier than usual and your hair’s blowout was starting to straighten.
“Can we turn back now, please?” He paused in his steps and you followed shortly after.
“Scared, sweetheart?” One of your favourite nicknames he calls you made heat rush to your face. The warmth was comforting.
All you wish for right now was that you were back in your room right now, hanging out with your friends, sipping on hot chocolate, cuddling with your dear boyfriend who is the reason you got here in the first place. But you’re here, lost in the middle of a forest with countless poisonous plants and who-knows what kind of animals in here at night and you don’t even have your wands on you.
“No, Draco. It’s just that maybe, just maybe we may be lost with no sign of the creature we’ve been hunting down for the past hour, or two? Have you even thought about how we’re gonna get back to Hogwarts?”
Your words had a slightly rude tone to them, but you couldn’t care less. It’s his fault you got into this situation in the first place. You have no idea how much time has passed. You’ve been just randomly switching paths and mindlessly following him like a dog this whole time and it’s been long enough you’re done with-
Snap. Branches were snapping so loudly that it made both your heads immediately turn. The leaves rustling like something is about to jump at you should’ve been your first sign to stop complaining about his carelessness and watch the hell out.
Draco immediately reached out his arms to you, one hand gripping your waist and the other on your forearm yanking you behind him, his wide shoulders covering your point of vision. You gently held onto the back of his cloak, on your tiptoes looking over his shoulder at what’s infront of you but you couldn’t see due to him suddenly giggling. You paused, looking at him and again infront of him, before pushing him to the side and staring at what’s infront of you.
It’s Hagrid’s stupid dog. That’s the last thing you would’ve guessed is here. You have been wandering in the deep forest for what, two or three hours now? Because of Draco’s stupid curiosity and carelessness thinking there’s some kind of mind-blowing yet to be discovered mythical creature. All that just for it to turn out to be Hagrid’s dog. Exhaling shakily from the cold, you couldn’t have been more frustrated right now. Whack! You slap Draco’s cheek playfully as he stops his uncontrollable laughter to cast a stare down at you, feigning a pout on his lips but the look in his eyes was gentle.
“Seriously. Do you realize in how much trouble we’ll be in once we get back to school? We could’ve been in danger right now, we could’ve died!”
Seems like your scolding wasn’t gonna stop his quiet laughter and the- smitten way he was looking at you.
Summary: Cedric just can't shake off a bad feeling before the final task 💔
Word Count: 502
Warnings: Cedric x Reader, slight angstt
You went up the steep steps of the astronomy tower, the quiet breeze blowing softly in your face.
You noted that it felt uncharacteristically quiet, like there was something that desperately needed to be said but was unable to come out.
“I had a feeling you’d be here.” You stepped up the final step, pausing by the archway. “You’re quite keen on hanging near my common room” You smiled, stepping closer to him by the handrail.
Cedric offered you a small nod of his head, “It’s quiet up here. It helps clear my head.”
“Is that the only reason?” You smirked, lightly pushing him, “..Maybe there’s a certain Ravenclaw lurking who tends to fix my problems” He pushed back a smile, his playful demeanor flickering.
“What are you thinking about?” You questioned, noting the way his eyes avoided you and opted for staring at the view from above.
“I have a weird feeling about tomorrow” He admitted after a brief pause, making your brow raise at his slip in confidence. “Something just feels off. Haven’t you noticed anything weird around?”
Your gaze lowered in thought, “I guess, sure, the air around has felt weirder-” You admitted, “-But I don’t think it’s anything that should necessarily worry you. Your previous tasks went perfectly, and your main focus should be the final task-” A shake of his head interrupted your rumbling.
“I had help” He admitted, his head low over the railing, “First Harry, then if Mad-Eye hadn’t told me about the egg, it would have taken me much longer to figure it out.”
“Mad-Eye?” You asked, your expression shifting into confusion.
“This final task is the one where I’ll truly get to show what I can do. I just can’t shake this feeling.”
You took his hand in your own, offering a comforting smile. “Everyone knows what you’re made of Cedric. All of Hogwarts adores you, and whether you had help or not, the performance was ultimately yours alone.”
He turned to you from the contact, subtly taking note of the way the soft glow from the stars made your eyes gleam.
“Don’t stress too much. Everything will go well, and tomorrow night you’ll be standing here, staring at the same sky wondering what you were worrying about the night before” You grinned at the idea, already envisioning his triumphant laughter.
He let out a quiet snicker, allowing himself to picture his victory. “Be there with me?” He asked, giving the hand that was holding his an expectant squeeze.
“Always” You stated back, your expression softening into a smile.
His gaze lingered on your face, as if trying to memorize your every feature.
“...You look like you have something more to say” You commented, breaking his trance.
His expression shifted to one of faint dedication, but whether it was because of the tournament or something entirely different, you had no idea.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. After the final task, up here again.” He confirmed with a determined nod that made your heart clench.
⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰
A/N: This is my first ever fic so please be kind! I hope it's enjoyable and not so cringey or ooc! Lmk if there are any things I should work on! 💗
draco malfoy x classmate!reader
a short story (?) solving draco's small jealousy issue. first post, don't expect too much </3
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ꫂ᭪݁﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
“you’re pouting” you typed in a rush under your desk, nails quietly tapping.
“what?” an immediate response. “no im not. are you crazy?” he texted back.
“draco. I'm not blind, I can see you.” you replied to him right after.
“maybe you should borrow Potter’s glasses.” excuse him?! how unsufferable. He's literally sulking across the classroom, his brows furrowed like his day is already ruined and it's only 8 in the morning. “Draco.”
“its my normal face.” Professor Snape turned around quickly and you slid your phone back in your pocket. Whatever, you’ll question him after. About 2 minutes passed before you gave up on holding back and unlocked your phone, texting him. Again.
“Cedric asked me if I could give him Cho’s number. He wants to ask her to go with him to the ball…” you sent, sighing. Ding!
“Ok.”
“Is that all you have to say?” Seriously, just an Ok?
“Im feeling better, alright.” You smiled, you guessed right. That was the reason he was upset. Slap! Snape hit you on the head, ouch… Snatching your phone from your hands as you looked over to Draco who had a big grin on his face like you deserved that. You frowned at him. You'll get your payback once this class ends.. but it's taking forever!...
꒰ summary ꒱ when a misunderstanding leaves your family convinced you’re bringing a plus one to your cousin’s wedding in Japan, the last person you expect to volunteer for the role is your infuriatingly observant intern, Satoru. it’s supposed to be temporary. professional. strictly off the record. but with your mother already sold on the idea of your mystery boyfriend, and Satoru proving far too good at the role, pretending starts to feel a little too dangerous. also, why is your “intern” secretly the heir to gojo corporation?!
꒰ tags/warnings ꒱ fake dating ⚹︎ undercover ceo! satoru ⚹︎ accountant! reader ⚹︎ satoru is 29, reader is 26 ⚹︎ lots of family pressure. reader has a complicated relationship with her mom ⚹︎ forced proximity ⚹︎ one bed trope ⚹︎ slow burn ⚹︎ mutual pining ⚹︎ wedding chaos ⚹︎ angst and fluff ⚹︎ some suggestive content but no explicit smut ⚹︎
꒰ authors note ꒱ hi cuties! this is a commission piece, and it is about 12k total. this first part is just shy of 6k and the second part will be out next week. i hope you enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/hanamin_0123 on x)
main masterlist - part 2 >>>
"Oi. Boss lady."
“No.”
One problem at a time, and the spreadsheet in front of you wins by default. Because Column F is wrong. It’s been wrong for forty fucking minutes, and if it stays wrong for forty seconds longer, you may actually die here at your desk — hunched over, half-blind, and found by Shoko on a Monday morning with your face pressed into a pivot table like a cautionary tale.
"But… you don't even know what I was gonna—"
"—the answer is no, Satoru."
Unlike the human embodiment of a headache currently lingering on the other side of your desk, the spreadsheet in front of you is at least pretending to be important.
The chair beneath him creaks, and then comes the silence you know too well. It’s the one that comes right before he decides to be a problem on purpose. Attention is gasoline and Satoru is, structurally, a fire hazard. Still, your eyes flick up, and—
"No fair…” he huffs, that ridiculous pout tugging at his lips. “You didn't even let me finish the question."
Your eyes roll back down.
“Mhm.”
"And it was such a good question.”
You turn a page. "Really?”
“Yup.” He’s draped over the corner of your desk now, like gravity has wronged him, whining. “It was such a thoughtful… personal… deeply relevant… extremely genius level getting-to-know-you tier question that—”
You scowl. "—Satoru, enough. Just do your job."
It lands harder than expected. The sigh he lets out is deeply, theatrically offended. And when you glance up again, he’s sprawled over that same corner of your desk you made the mistake of clearing for him on day one because you’d thought, foolishly, that giving him a designated surface might contain him.
It had not.
Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
Snowy white hair falls against his brow, sleeves rolled to his elbows; looking far too expensive and far too comfortable for someone whose official title is intern. His coffee is sweating beside your open planner — the one with a date next week circled in red: WEDDING, scrawled across the margin in your own handwriting. The condensation trails towards a stack of vendor invoices and—
…
Wait.
Are those the same vendor invoices you asked him to file yesterday?
Fucking great.
“Oh, c’monnn,” he grumbles, blinking at you over the rim of those absurdly expensive sunglasses he insists on wearing indoors. “One question. Just a tiiiiny one. It’s completely harmless. Humor me, yeah?”
You narrow your eyes.
“Satoru, you’ve been trying to ask one question for the last four months.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And you’ve been dodging it for four months. Imagine that.”
Technically… four months and four days. But who’s counting?
With an exhausted groan, your eyes fall shut, pinching the bridge of your nose. Noise drifts in from the hall — the elevator, the printer, a phone trilling somewhere nearby. But when you look up again, it all seems to fall away.
He’s gone strangely still. The smug grin hasn’t disappeared, but it’s softened at the edges, hooked at one corner with his head tilted slightly. And those eyes…
Oh.
That’s — no. You’ve seen his eyes before. Obviously. Four months of them. But right now, with the morning light doing something cruel and unhelpful behind him, they catch in a way that makes you forget you were mid-thought. The kind of blue that doesn’t ask if you’re looking. It already knows.
Which means of course, you look away first. “Fine.” Your hand drops as you mutter. “One question. But if it’s stupid, I’m sending you back to HR.”
It’s not much of a threat. It’s his last day, after all, and for reasons you still don’t fully understand, Satoru has always seemed oddly immune to consequences — which, frankly, feels statistically improbable given the amount of shit he’s managed to pull in the few months of being here.
“One question?” his grin sharpens. You point your pen at him. “Don’t make me regret this.” Yet his pleased chuckle is already making you. “Awhh… look at you. Finally yielding.” His pen twirls between his fingers, nodding with false solemnity. “Okay. So, here’s the thing… throughout these four months working beside you, I’ve seen a lot—"
“—that’s not a question.” You deadpan.
But ignoring you, he reclines back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head.
“Liiiike… I’ve seen the exact face you make when Mei-Mei emails you,” he smirks. “Even noticed you work through lunch more than you should. And I’ve noticed that little line right here—” he gestures vaguely between his own brows “—every time the budget goes sideways.”
Lips parting, you blink.
…why is he so observant?!
For someone who acts like he doesn’t give a shit, he’s strangely attentive.
You clear your throat, huffing. “Okay… what’s your point?” Your hands straighten a stack of papers that doesn’t need straightening. “Is there a question in here somewhere, or are you just reciting my habits back to me for fun?”
His grin is far too pleased. “Relax. I’m getting there.” And leaning forward, his voice drops, like he’s unraveling a conspiracy. “I just find it interesting how you answer work calls before the second ring. Every damn day. Doesn’t matter who it is.” His head tilts with a smug grin. “But for whatever reason, for the past month, your personal phone’s been ringing off the hook, and you never pick up. Not once.”
Heat creeps up your neck. Not because he’s wrong — but because he’s right. And he said it like it was nothing. Like noticing the pattern of your avoidance was just something that happened to him between stamps.
Oh.
Way too observant.
Shit. He couldn't have settled on what's your favorite color!? Or, what superpower would you have!? No. Of course he had to go for the fucking jugular.
His eyes drop to the planner lying open beneath the invoices. The circled date: WEDDING. And his grin sharpens. “Ohoho… I get it now,” he whistles, leaning back in his chair and kicking one leg over the other. “What’d your fiancé do to screw up this bad? Is the wedding off?”
Your head jerks up. “F-Fiancé?!” And he rolls his eyes with a scoff, still grinning. “Knew it. God, he must be really in the doghouse. Or maybe he’s just clingy as hell to be calling that much.”
You blink.
Okay. Nevermind. He’s wrong. That is not even remotely what’s happening. The most committed relationship you’ve had is the one with your coffee machine. And yet… part of it feels almost cosmically cruel.
Because somehow, this is the second time in a month that someone had looked at the scattered pieces of your life and decided a man must be hiding inside them. Except the first time, you never even got the chance to correct it.
After all… how do you tell your mother she’s wrong?
Last month, you still answered her phone calls.
Not because you expected anything different. But because somewhere between the second ring and the third, there’s this gap — this stupid, paper-thin gap — where you still believe she might ask how you’re doing and actually wait for the answer.
Some habits taste like smoke. Some burn like liquor. But yours, unfortunately, had always looked a lot like hope.
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
“Oh—uh, hi mom!”
Your phone was wedged between your ear and shoulder while you stepped out of your car, juggling your purse and what was left of your sanity. You were already behind schedule, and your mother was calling — which meant the day had already made its intentions very clear.
“What’s up?” the door slammed shut with your hip. “I’m actually about to—”
“—Trish sent the venue photos,” she blurted, launching into a conversation like always.
Blinking, you shook the bitterness away. Striding toward the towering glass of Gojo Corporation. “That’s—yeah, that’s great,” you muttered, badge in hand as you pushed through the front doors. “But I’m actually heading into work right now? So—”
“—It’s such a beautiful venue,” she ignored you. “Very traditional, very grand. But you know the Zenin family—they never do anything small.” And as she sighed in awe, you resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
The rational part of your brain told you to let this go to voicemail. But the rational part of your brain has never once won this fight. Because…
Hope is a terrible habit you’ve never been able to kick.
"Mom, I'm sure it's lovely, really… but I'm kind of—um, excuse me…" you pivoted around a man in the bustling lobby with a sigh. “Sorry. I’m literally walking into the building right now? But maybe we can revisit this later and—"
"—have you booked your flight yet?"
Your mouth flattened.
Clearly, your half of this conversation is optional.
“No… not yet,” you mumbled, as patiently as you could manage, jabbing the up button harder than necessary. “It’s been a crazy ass week so I haven’t had a chance to, but—”
“—every week is a crazy week for you.” The huff she let out sounded almost offended by the inconvenience of your life. “Why can’t you just book it now while we’re talking? I mean, it literally takes five minutes.”
A miracle, really, that your blood pressure isn’t a medical emergency.
Every week is a crazy week?
Yeah. No shit.
Two managers resigned last quarter. Another got escorted out by security. And their work didn’t disappear. No. It landed on your desk. Because that’s how it goes. That’s how it’s always gone. Group projects. Internships. End-of-quarter disasters no one else wanted to touch. If something needed fixing, it found its way to you.
You’re the one people relied on.
Just… never the one people chose.
“Mother. I’m at work,” you said, stepping into the elevator as the doors slid open, dropping your voice as you stabbed at floor fifteen. “Look—I’m about to walk into an eight a.m. meeting. But I’ll book it tonight, promise.”
“…eight a.m.?” she repeated slowly, before letting out a small, unbothered laugh. “Oh! Right. It’s eight p.m. here. Silly me. I keep forgetting.”
…
Keep forgetting?
She keeps forgetting that she’s ten thousand miles away? Forgetting that twenty years ago she abandoned you in another country to live abroad in Japan—handing you to your grandparents like a detail she'd get back to later?
How convenient that she forgot that.
The elevator slid shut, and you watched the numbers tick upward. “Um. Yeah…” you managed, trying to keep the hurt out of your voice. “Anyways. I’ll book it tonight. After work. Okay?”
"Okay, okay. Sure. Sounds good. But are you bringing anyone?”
Squeezing the strap of your bag, you swallowed the lump in your throat. This again? The last thing you needed was to walk into your shitty eight a.m. meeting looking emotional.
No thanks.
“I… uh…” you cleared your throat. “I um—actually—haven’t decided yet. But anyways, I gotta go, so—”
“Waitwatiwait. Haven’t decided? Does that mean… you actually found someone?!”
Her voice pitched up so fast it almost startled you, and your mouth dropped so low it could’ve hit floor one.
Shit.
“I-I—I didn’t say—"
“—oh, thank God. This is incredible!!” she squealed. “We’ve been so worried. I mean—Trish is younger than you and she figured it out,” her tongue clicked. “People have been asking questions, you know. Your aunt Sara keeps bringing it up every time I see her and—”
“—Mom, I—"
“—It’s about time,” The laugh she let out was relieved, like a problem in her life had finally begun resolving itself. “You can’t keep putting love on hold forever, because men aren’t going to wait around forever. You’re already twenty-six—not getting any younger, dear.”
Love?!
Who has time for that?
And why the fuck is twenty-six the age a woman expires?!
“What’s his name?” she pressed, practically beaming through the phone. “What does he do? Is he from there, or—oh, is he Japanese? Your father would love that, he always said—”
And she was off.
Spinning an entire man out of thin air. An entire future, really. Building him in real time from a tiny slip up you had because you were too tired and cornered and desperate enough to answer the phone in the first place. And you stood there, letting her. Because interrupting her has never once worked in the history of your life.
“—actually, never mind,” she chirped a moment later, as if she was being considerate now. “You have work. I’ll call tomorrow and you can tell me everything, yes? Okay, bye-bye honey—”
Click!
And just like that, the elevator went quiet. You were left staring at your reflection in the metal doors, phone pressed to your ear, listening to the silence where your mother’s voice had been.
‘We’ve been so worried.’
…
If they were so worried… why had you spent most of your life learning to take care of yourself? And yet, the second there might be a man, suddenly you’re worth getting excited about?
Funny how that works.
Scoffing, you lowered the phone, shoving it into your bag just as the elevator chimed open. Itadori Yuji’s head snapped up behind the reception desk.
“Morning, boss,” he waved, radiating sunshine as you walked towards the conference room. “Kento’s asking if you’re still good for the budget review at eight… or if I should just tell him to panic.”
Your smile softened, burying the sting. “Yes… I’ll be right there.” And as you stepped through the polished glass doors, you played the role you’d always played.
The reliable one. Twenty-six years old, with two master’s degrees, a career at one of the most competitive corporations in the world, and a team of seven that would quietly fall apart without you.
But…
None of that glitters quite like a diamond ring, does it?
“Oi,” Satoru frowns. “You’re makin’ that face again.”
“Huh?”
Blinking out of your spiral, your eyes trace back to the man across from you. His chin is resting in his palm, those impossibly blue eyes fixed on you with a quiet stillness that makes something in your chest trip over itself — like a lock turning in a door you didn’t know was closed.
“Oh.” You clear your throat, forcing the pen back into motion. “…what face?”
“The one you make when something’s wrong,” he says quietly, gaze unmoving. “When you’re upset and trying to act like you’re not.”
For a second — one terrible, unguarded second — you don’t have a single thing to hide behind. It’s just him, looking at you like your well-being is something he’s been keeping track of in a column you didn’t even know existed.
But then the sarcasm kicks in, right on time. "Wow," you say, forcing your hands back to the papers in front of you. "So… now you read faces?"
“Mm... nah. Just yours, sweetheart.”
And that grin — god, that fucking grin — hooks at one corner like he knows exactly what just detonated inside your chest. You don’t acknowledge it. Acknowledging things have consequences, and consequences with this man are not something you can afford.
"…that’s highly inappropriate," you mutter, shoving it down. "Let’s maybe redirect some of that insight toward the invoices, yeah?"
“Sorry, sorry.” He leans back, hands up like he’s the picture of innocence. “Wouldn’t wanna start shit with your dear future husband.” His grin goes sharp as he twirls his sunglasses between two fingers. “Though, wow. Tough look for him. Whatever he did, he clearly fucked up bad.”
Why does he sound… bitter?
No. You must be imagining it. This is Satoru. Satoru, who treats everything like a joke until proven otherwise. Satoru, who doesn’t care enough about anything to sound bitter over a man who may or may not exist.
You scoff. "You’re making some wildly stupid assumptions right now…"
He perks up at that. "Oh?" With his grin hooking higher, almost hopeful. "Wait. So, there’s no fiancé, then?"
Your lips purse.
What does he care? He’s not your mother.
“I wish you’d be this interested in your actual job,” you sigh, arms crossing. “Those invoices have been sitting there all week.”
“Uh-huh.” He tips his head. “And yet somehow, I noticed you still didn’t answer me.”
You frown.
What the fuck are you supposed to say!?
Oh. Um. Actually, Satoru, there is no fiancé. That’s the problem, actually! My mother invented him the other morning and I haven't worked up the nerve to call her back.
Yeah. No. You'd rather die at this desk.
“Maybe because it’s none of your business.”
“But I—”
“Drop it.”
He stares at you for a beat, then he flops back in the chair with a dramatic huff, long legs kicking out in front of him, mouth dragging into a sulky pout.
“Well, damn,” he grumbles, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair, rolling his eyes. “No wonder you’re single if this is how you shut people down…”
The second the words leave his mouth, he blinks. His gaze flicks up to yours like he hears it too late — like he realizes, all at once, how shitty that sounded.And it only feels worse the moment he sees your face.
God.
Of all the places to hit.
“Oho… wow. Okay. This?” you say with a thin, self-deprecating laugh, chair scraping as you shove back from your seat. “Yeah. This is exactly why I shouldn’t have let you ask, Satoru.” You reach for your planner, your purse, anything to do with your hands besides let them shake.
He straightens, watching you scramble. “Whoa. Wait. I—"
“—because you don’t know when to stop!” The words come out louder than you mean, blinking at the sting behind your eyes. “You just keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you get what you want. Well good. I hope you’re happy.”
Before you can turn away, he’s on his feet. “Wait—” And the moment his hand catches yours, you freeze, breath snagging.
His voice is quieter now. His grip is firm yet gentle, and the air between you shifts, while something warm and uneasy twists low in your chest. The kind of feeling that makes you want to lean in and run in the same breath.
Though your eyes stay down. “Satoru… let go.”
“I didn’t…” he starts, then stops, gaze flicking to where his fingers still circle your wrist — before climbing back to your face, slower this time. “I’m… sorry. I just—” His mouth tightens. “I see how hard you work, okay? I see it. And every time that phone rings, you get this look on your face like it’s already ruined your day before you even touch it. And…” His brows pinch. “Fuck. I dunno why, but it pisses me off!”
Your gaze hesitantly drags to his, and the look in his eyes is softer than they have any right to be — all that blue, stripped of its usual sharpness, turned careful. Like he’s stepping toward something breakable and knows it. Like… if he asked once more, something in you might actually give.
“Satoru…” your breath hitches. “I-I—"
“Oh, finally.”
Shoko’s voice trails in, and your head snaps up so fast your neck almost goes with it. She’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, coffee in hand — looking like a woman who arrived exactly on time for something she's been expecting all week.
Her gaze flicks down to where he’s holding you, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
"Sooo… not to interrupt whatever this is," she says, taking a sip, "but Kento's one eye-twitch away from a medical event. He needs you to sign off on the variance line before he starts reconciling his own will and—"
You're already jerking your hand back. "Yup—coming!" And as you step away, heat floods your face, but you don't look back. Not once. Not even when you feel him still standing there, watching you go.
Because looking back would mean acknowledging that something just shifted. And you are not — not — doing that today.
Unlike those invoices, perhaps some things are better left… unfinished.
You’re gone in a blur of heels, nerves, and professional self-preservation, leaving Shoko trailing behind and Satoru staring at the empty doorway like maybe the conversation might wander back through it.
It doesn’t.
And it’s not long before his mouth is pulling into a slow, petulant pout—just before he flops back in the chair with all the elegance of a man personally betrayed by the universe.
Un-fucking-believable.
He’d almost had you! After four months and four days of being stonewalled, redirected, and professionally shut down, you’d finally looked like you might give him something. A crack. A sliver. And then Kento had to ruin it with his stupid reconciliation sheet, his stupid earnest face, and his stupidly impeccable timing.
…
He could fire Kento.
Should he fire Kento?
As tempting as that thought is, Satoru settles for glaring at the empty doorway a second longer before dragging a hand down his face and raking it back through his hair. There’s no point. This performance will end soon. Because by this time tomorrow, he’ll be on a flight back to Tokyo. Where he can resume the slow, agonizing process of preparing to inherit a company he didn't actually give a shit about.
'Grow up, Satoru.'
'Apply yourself, Satoru.'
'You have no idea what it takes to run something like this, Satoru.'
Right. Because apparently, the heir to a multinational corporation needed to learn humility. Alphabetize files. Sit in a cubicle. Fetch coffee like some goddamn spreadsheet slut with a trust fund and nowhere to put it.
Four years of business school, two years shadowing his father; and yet, this is what they had for him?!
He scoffs. And when his gaze drops to the wreckage of your desk, he’s pulling the stack of vendor invoices toward him with a sigh that sounds put-upon even to his own ears. You’ve been nagging him about filing them for the better part of the week and… the least he can do is clear one thing before he goes.
The stamp thuds against the first page. Then the next. Then the next. And with muscle memory taking over, his face goes blank in the way it always does when boredom finally wins. It’s mindless shit. Still, he’s used to it. So naturally, when the phone on your desk buzzes, he doesn’t think twice; snatching it up, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he reaches for the next invoice.
It’s probably another budget nuisance. Or Mei. Or one of the other thousand little crises that seem magnetically drawn to your extension.
“Yo,” another stamp echoes. “Satoru speaking.”
There’s a sharp inhale. “…who?”
His brow lifts. “Uh… Satoru?” Another thud of ink slams against the paper and he huffs, annoyed. “What do y’need?”
The line goes quiet for a beat too long. Before the woman on the other end finally murmurs, “Satoru…” Sighing in awe. “What a lovely name. Is that Japanese?”
"Uh… yeah?” he snorts, flipping to the next page. “I mean. Last I checked.”
“Mm… I thought so!” She giggles. And her voice pitches like she's just unwrapped a present she didn't know she was getting. “So… Satoru. Why exactly are you the one answering her phone, hm?”
…
Why the hell does this woman sound so invested? And why is she asking questions that should be obvious?
Frowning down at the invoice, he stamps it harder.
“Because it rang?” He says it like it’s obvious. “And uh—sorry, but. Maybe because I’ve been with her for months, so… why the hell wouldn’t I?”
"Months?!” A soft gasp crackles, far too delighted. “You've—you've been with her for months?!"
"Mmm… four months and four days, technically."
He’s been her intern for that long.
That’s the question, right?
"—technically?!" she squeals, like the word personally seduced her. "Ohmygoodness—oh, this is perfect. Four months and four days—that is so specific.”
He blinks. But she doesn’t give him time to process.
“Look at you Mr. Devoted. Keeping track. I was starting to worry she’d never find someone like you. Every time I asked it's like pulling teeth. But I knew there had to be someone. I told her father—I said, there is a man, I can feel it.”
Pausing mid-stamp, the words slowly begin to catch up. Satoru straightens.
"…sorry. Who is thi—"
“—everyone is so excited to meet you at Trish’s wedding. I already reserved your seat and—"
Her voice keeps going… and going… and going. He pulls the phone away slowly as her voice echoes on the receiver, staring down at the phone in hand to see:
📞 Mom
Oh.
Oh, shit.
This is not your work phone. Your work phone is currently sitting at its dock twelve inches to his left. And it dawns on him that he accidentally just spent the last sixty seconds answering your personal phone like an absolute jackass and—
"Uh…” he backpedals. “Wait. I—"
"I told Sara, I said, we have to meet him and—”
"Stop. I-I really think—"
“—Satoru, what are you doing?’
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice, mouth dropping as he sees you standing at the doorway, eyes wide in horror.
Oh, fuck.
“Who is on the other end of that phone,” you hiss.
He winces, pulling the phone from his ear like it’s toxic — and you’re snatching it right out of his hand. He lets you have it without a fight, sinking back into the chair like he’s trying to physically dissociate from the situation he’s just created while you press the phone to your ear.
“And I mean…” she rambles. “I certainly was never one to wait around at twenty-six, believe me. But—"
"Mom."
"Oh! Honey!” She gasps. “Oh, my goodness, hi—I was just having the loveliest chat with—"
"I'm at work. Gotta go."
"—okay! I can't wait to meet Satoru, he—"
Click!
The phone sits in your hand like evidence.
And Satoru — to his credit — has the decency to look like a man standing in the blast radius of his own stupidity. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Like he’s rehearsing an apology in a language he hasn’t learned yet.
You stare at him.
He stares at you.
And somewhere ten thousand miles away, your mother is already calling your aunt Sara.
“Sooo… funny story…”
“—what did you do?!”
Satoru flinched, and now, the tears were already rolling down your cheeks — hot, fast, completely unauthorized. Not the kind you could disguise as allergies or blame on the air conditioning. No. The ugly kind.
Great. Fucking great.
You were standing in the middle of your own office, in the building where you work, crying in front of your intern. And Satoru felt the weight of it all at once. In the last four months, he had seen you in every flavor of workplace misery there was. Pissed off, stressed out, one spreadsheet away from actual murder.
But cry?
Never.
And this had his fingerprints all over it.
"Shit," he breathed, panic flashing across his face. "I—fuck. Okay. Please don't—I can fix this. I can—"
"Fix this?" A splintered laugh ripped out of you, and you hated how thin it was. "Fix what, Satoru? You just confirmed a boyfriend to my mother, a boyfriend that doesn't exist—and she is, at this very moment, probably already—"
Another break in your voice cracked, and you squeezed your eyes shut, pressing your hand to your forehead hard like you could hold the tears in by sheer force. But it only made it worse, because now you could feel the wetness on your own face, the heat of it under your palm, and the mortification landed like a second wave.
God. How fucking humiliating.
"Hey, hey—it's okay,” his voice softened. “We'll just… call her back. Right? Tell her it was a misunderstanding. Easy."
“Easy?” you scoffed, the word coming out strangled. “Y-You don’t understand my mother, Satoru,” you managed, voice gone thin as thread. God, you sounded like a child. “If she thinks something is true, then it’s true. That’s it. That’s—there’s no correcting her, there’s no walking it back, she’s already told my aunt Sara by now and Sara’s told Trish and—oh, fuck—”
Another sob tumbled out, and your fingers dug harder into your temple.
God. Stop it.
Stop it stop it stop it.
Think.
Think logically. You're good at this. You solve problems for a living.
But every time you tried to grab onto a thought, it slipped — replaced by the echo of your mother's voice, high and delighted. The happiest she'd sounded talking to you in years. Maybe ever.
…what look will she give you when you show up alone?
"I can’t," you whispered, and the word came out waterlogged. "I-I'm supposed to get on a plane to Japan in a week and—do what? Tell them there's no one? Tell them I'm still—"
Single.
The word sat in your mouth like a stone. You didn’t realize you’d gone silent until the silence itself started ringing — your sniffling, the hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled life of the office continuing beyond the door like yours wasn’t actively coming apart at the seams.
And through all of it, you could feel Satoru looking at you. His stillness; holding you with an expression you'd never seen on him before and couldn't categorize if you tried.
"Um…” he looked down, scratching the back of his neck. “Soooo... the wedding's in Japan?"
You blinked. “What?” And as you wiped your face with the back of your hand, his gazed tentatively flicked back up. “The wedding…” he repeated, voice careful. “It’s in Japan?”
"Yes." Your brow furrowed, not understanding. "Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting, like he was turning something over in his head — something he hadn't fully assembled yet but could already feel the shape of.
"Huh… okay."
Okay what?
You watched his expression change in real time — from guilt to calculation to something else. "Right then!" He said, clapping his hands once, bright and sudden. "No biggie. I'll just go with you."
No biggie?
Your mouth dropped.
That wasn’t even an option, was it?
…is he crazy?
“You’re kidding,” your laugh was awkward and breathless. His eyes rolled with a smug grin. “Sweetheart, c’mon,” and he was gesturing between the two of you like the answer was sitting there in plain sight and you were the only person in the room committed to not seeing it. "Your family thinks you're bringing someone? Cool." A hand pressed to his chest with theatrical solemnity. "I'm someone."
You stared at him. Genuinely stared.
Oh. He wasn’t kidding.
Yup. He’s crazy.
"You are not 'someone,' Satoru. You are my intern."
“Yeah. For like… another six hours?"
He checked his watch with a shrug, and your lips flattened.
"…that is not the point."
“Mm… feels a little like the point."
He smirked, but it faded faster than usual, dimming at the edges as his blue eyes hesitated on yours. Something shifted in his posture; the performance pulling back, like a tide going out. "Um… look…" He pushed off the desk, stepping closer. "It’s really no hassle." He said, hands sliding into his pockets. "I already have a flight scheduled. My family's in Tokyo. And I was going back after this internship anyway, so… this just moves my timeline back a little."
He was shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t agreeing to fly across the world with you and walk straight into the disaster that was your family.
…
His family’s in Japan too?
You barely knew anything about him. He kept his life sealed off with the same practiced deflection you kept yours — jokes in place of answers, charm in place of honesty. You never bothered to ask, because asking meant caring and that was a door you never intended to walk through with anyone.
But…
"Just… let me come with you. I’ll be your boyfriend for the weekend. For the wedding. For… whatever you need,” he said. And this time, when he stepped closer, there was no grin to hide behind. "I can be useful. I caused this. So… let me fix it."
Heat creeped up your neck, and you scoffed, weakly.
"Okay… but you can't fix my mother."
"No…” he murmured, tilting his head. His hand came up and brushed a tear trailing down your cheek with a careful gentleness. “But… I can make sure you don't have to walk in there alone?"
Your breath hitched, and when your eyes finally lifted, the morning light was being cruel again — catching in that impossible blue and turning it soft. Like stained glass dipped in sunlight. Like something holy made dangerous by the simple fact that it was looking straight at you.
“Mhn. So, do I get the job, boss lady? Because that look you’re giving me…” a slow smirk curls up the corner of his mouth. “Very encouraging for my boyfriend résumé, by the way. Might get addicted to it and wanna make it a full-time gig.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, looking away too fast to be convincing.“That was not a look. I was just—” You grimace. “…never mind.”
He’s chuckling as you brush past him. And his words are what scared you the most. Which was bad. Very, very bad. Because your mother was one problem. Japan was another. But Satoru looking at you like that?
Shit…
That felt like the kind of complication that didn’t stay neatly contained. And you knew better than anyone. Nothing about Satoru had ever suggested he could be contained.
a/n: hehe. this has been fun to work on! i am excited to share the next part. clearly i love these fake dating/fake marriage tropes aha 🙂↕️ bc this is like... what—my third time doing it? soooo i tried to change things up and make it feel less standard/generic :) but anyways, like i said pt 2 will be out in a week, pls lmk if you wanna be tagged 💖
♡ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟎𝟏 :: 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐎𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑 ੭ ⌗ serial killer!satoru x prosecutor!reader
you're one of japan's best and most notorious prosecutors. but when you meet your match, how do you handle looking straight into a morbid mirror? when an old flame lights the courtroom— and you're met with the man you haven't forgotten since law school. now sat in the defendant's chair with an infuriatingly charming smirk to woe the jury and a new title to terrify them: the reaper's successor.
⌗ wc. 4.4k
♡ ₊˚‧ cws. violence :: violent descriptions :: death (duh) :: obsession :: manipulation :: so much smut :: angst :: mystery drama :: law aspects :: blackmail :: mental illness & disorders :: clinical psychopathy :: free will vs fate :: courtroom drama :: detective ex!suguru x reader
♡ ₊˚‧ sweetheart. this is my favourite series I think <3
꒰ prologue :: masterlist :: playlist ꒱
"You're the most stubborn woman I know."
"Wow, Shoko. You know other women? You think you know a person. . ."
"Deflecting never looks on you."
Best friend banter wouldn't save you from the tired sigh through the line. You could practically smell her nicotine through the phone. She must be exhausted. Well, tough luck. That made the both of you. You just had a better way of dealing with it.
Organisation. What better way to round up your mind but by tidying up your room? The cluttered desk and creased pillowcases were another itch to your already scratching brain.
As you stepped through the boxes you'd pulled from your bed to set aside old case files and unnecessary items littered around your bedroom, you paid Shoko only half an ear. Your phone laid on the desk scattered in scrolls and certificates. Might as well move those in here, huh? Maybe the reminder that you were a prosecutor would help you sleep better at night.
"You know," her voice cracked through the line. "I never took you for the type who ran from things."
Low. Blow.
You scoffed, aligning a stack of papers by tapping them on your desk. "Who said I'm running? I'm just saying. The human mind can be a mess. Who's to say those results mean anything?"
The way your glare stabbed through the phone said they meant everything.
"We even did an MRI."
"Technology fails."
"No, humans fail."
"I don't."
"You know these results aren't a failure, right?"
Your paused on the papers, staring them down. Trying to read the lines of print to distract yourself between them from Shoko's words.
Failure. Those results weren't failure. Course not. You scored almost full points on the damn test. As if your mind couldn't keep from competing even towards its detriment.
"Well," you started. "Failure or not, it doesn't define me. So I'm not paying it any mind."
"It's vital that you do."
Her voice strained over the line, but you gave it no consideration as you stepped over to one of the boxes. Fleeing the exasperation in her tone. Was that judgement in the crackles of the line? Pity?
You sure fucking hoped it wasn't pity. You never needed that from anyone.
Stepping over two boxes and nearly tripping over another, you cursed the dim room. Your only light was a dwindling lamp on the desk. You mind said it's because your eyes ached from sleep deprivation.
Your heart whispered: it's because you didn't want to see your hands.
Heart. Hah. Funny joke. Those results said you didn't have one. Lack of empathy, remember?
You pulled the lid of a box off, ready to stuff the pile of papers into it as Shoko prattled on. She was on her little soap box about counselling and consideration.
All your life you never needed counselling. Consideration left a gap for acceptance. And you sure as hell weren't accepting whatever twisted fate tried to throw at you.
"Most people in power are psychopaths. Statistically, it's more common than you think." Shoko spoke. "They're dubbed successful psychopaths. It's what I'd consider you."
"The fact you need a distincter hardly proves your case."
You replied. Quick and cutting. Just like in the courtroom. As you snatched your embroidery set from the box and filled it with papers instead. You'd set your hobby aside in a different box. Keep it by your bedside. You'd need it, it seemed.
"Look," you sighed. "I'm not discrediting your field. Just saying I think there has to be some kind of mistake. You said it yourself. Human error's a thing. Maybe my results were swapped."
"I personally handled your file from start to finish."
"Well, you're not above mistakes."
"The fact that you think you are only proves the fact."
You winced. Hand on another box and the other curling into your embroidery canvas. The stitches were neat. Crisp and clean. Everything about you was. The way you spun the thread, measured the length, snipped the string. Your fingers weaved the thread through the needle. Your fingers stitched the patterns on the canvas.
Couldn't your fingers do the same with whatever fate Shoko insisted on? Couldn't you spin, measure and snip your own story?
Of course you could. You had the free will to do so.
"I didn't mean it like that," you scoffed, lifting the box lid and rustling out whatever was in. Ready to set your canvas and pocket of supplies in. Sealing your belief in your own will. "Just meant I can't see myself like that."
"You say it like its a slur."
"If you spent half the time I did in the court room with my convicts you'd think the same."
"That's so—"
Smooth paper beneath your fingertips drowned her rant to your ears. Your touch recognised the ink. Your eyes remembered its colour, now washed out and wrinkled.
A newspaper. Dated a few years ago with a headline that burned into your stare.
DOCTOR FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED IN APARTMENT.
A beloved local practitioner was found on Sunday in his apartment. Authorities state that the victim was strangled to death, however, his body was found disembowelled. The gruesome display was made even more morbid by his hair and head being laid neatly. His face was completely untouched.
The news often dramatised crime scenes. But you saw it yourself.
Your brother was laid like an angel in a pool of his own blood.
The article creased beneath your fingers. The descriptive lines of his murder blurred whatever rant Shoko was on. Your focus honed on the retelling of a crime that changed your life.
He was found in his apartment. A pool of his own blood. Face untouched. Body disembowelled.
His apartment. A pool of blood.
Disembowelled. Face untouched.
Body untouched.
Face disembowelled.
He was found disembowelled.
He was found in his apartment.
Face in a pool of blood.
Body. Blood.
Face.
Body.
Untouched.
Disembowelled.
The sentence was seared into your mind. Dizzied in it. You heard it in the headlines. On the news. From professionals. You repeated the same sequence. Again— and again— in that wretched courtroom.
He was found in his apartment. In a pool of his own blood. His face untouched and his body disembowelled.
That's what the convict confessed to as you stared him down. Professionalism kept your face cold, but your eyes— your eyes.
It's the only time you ever cracked in a court room. Stare alone. That's when your headlines started. That's when they first saw your grin. Because you put your brother's murderer behind bars.
You. No one else.
You.
"— and furthermore, it's apart of you. Something you should find pride in—"
Beep beep.
The buzz cutting through the call sliced your stare from the newspaper crumbled in your grip. From your spot you could see another call coming through: Ryomen Sukuna. Your colleague.
Smoothing out the article, you laid it back in its box and ushered to the desk. "Shoko, I'll call you back. It's work."
Like a switch. A staple. You swiped answer on your screen and brought the phone to your ear.
"Bout fucking time." A grunt rumbled through the line. Sukuna never bothered with pleasantries. "Been trying to reach you for ten minutes."
"I was on another call, sorry." You rolled your eyes and drummed on your desk. "What's up?"
"We got a suspect. Ripper's Successor."
Your fingers froze.
Your heart did too.
Before you pressed the phone closer, brows furrowed. "You serious?"
"Yeah. They've got him in the interrogation room. We've got a case. I'll explain more when you get here."
"Name?"
"Gojo Satoru."
Your nails bit into the wood.
Eyes voided into memories. A hundred questions and a thousand flashbacks. From one name alone. One man.
The phone tensed in your hold. "Excuse me?" You lowered your voice. To test the barrier of reality.
"What's up with you tonight?" Groaned Sukuna. "Yes. Gojo Satoru. Limitless CEO. Eye witnesses say he was with the last victim before her body was found the next morning."
The last victim. Found in some alleyway of a bar you couldn't remember the name of.
Her hair and face were untouched, apart from the blood smeared across her lips like rouge. Probably from the slit on her throat. All of the victims had a nasty gash but still showed signs of strangulation. It stumped professionals as to which was the cause of death. Honestly though? That was the least of their worries considering every body turned up disembowelled.
Face untouched. Body disembowelled.
A sick spark crept up your spine. Curled itself in nausea on the back of your tongue
Face untouched.
Body.
Disembowelled.
"So are you coming or what?" Sukuna's rough exhale snapped your attention back to the line.
You answered without hesitance. No freeze nor falter.
"Yeah. I'll be there in ten."
The drive to the station was twenty minutes away.
But all you could think of were those blue eyes that haunted you from law school. And that same, damned line.
Found face untouched and body disembowelled.
The victims were found with their faces untouched despite the carnage of their bodies.
They were disembowelled completely. With their organs often strewn right beside them. The killer never took any as trophies back with him.
It's said their throats were slit first. It's precise, but ugly. A clean cut meant to gush savage scarlet all over their collarbones.
What puzzled authorities was that there were signs of strangulation after the fact. So did the killer slit their throats, then strangled them after?
A sign of anger. A crime of passion.
But that wouldn't explain the way their hair was brushed neatly. Deliberately cleaned considering there's no way blood wouldn't get matted in the mangle of their bodies.
That typically meant a sign of remorse. But a third contradiction came with their lips. Painted in their own blood.
This wasn't remorse. It was a statement.
A display.
Twenty five women, hunted like prey by a crudely artistic predator. Wouldn't it have been enough for him to sink his teeth in and gnaw away the evidence?
No, he wanted them to be seen.
Gojo Satoru adored being seen.
The star of your class. Criminology, LAW 604. The only man who could ever make you falter. With his smug smiles and sharp eyes. Arrogance glinted from his rimless glasses. Self assurance bled from the ink of his pen.
You were always head-to-head. Whether by exam, assignment or the latest unit. He was the match to your gasoline. The grin to your glare.
Before he fell off the face of the earth, at least.
Even through the one-way panel of the dingy interrogation room— his blue eyed stare was sharp like steel. Were his teeth canines now? Did he exchange pens for claws?
He didn't sit in the chair. He laid in it. Leaned back carelessly with his black dress pants spread at the knees and his shoulders slumped so that his light blue, buttoned-up shirt creased. Black shades pushed up into his fluffy white hair. Like he wasn't in an interrogation room. Like his wrists weren't on table. Cuffed.
Like his name wasn't on a serial killer suspects' list.
He never looked like a man that would resort to murder. But he certainly always looked like one who had a plan.
Those same eyes that haunted your memories seeped into your skin. Itching to pump into your veins and dizzy your mind with even more flashes of the past as you stepped into the interrogation room.
You met his stare. Unflinching. Unblinking.
Clashing. As always.
Only this time, instead of pens. It was a steeled sword and a sabre-smile.
"Our state prosecutor." The police chief roughly introduced you as you took a seat on the creaky chair right before Satoru. "She'll be in charge of your case. She'll—"
"She'll decide whether she wants to see me again in court or not, yeah?"
His voice was still the same. Infuriatingly smooth and easy. Like velvet slipping through steel. He didn't bother sparing the officer a stare, but he sure as hell grinned at the glare. Old habits die hard.
You glanced to the left. To the empty seat where his attorney should be. It didn't seem like he even requested one. Why would he? He knew the ins and outs of law himself.
Your stare turned back to him. Locked on his eyes and drowned on those blues that haven't changed one bit. Still bright, still beautiful, still oh so brutally clever. While you'd never admit it, you searched for something. Something familiar. A spark of recognition. The glint in your eye when you saw an old friend.
Nothing.
"Gojo Satoru." You greeted.
He hummed, slumping his shoulders back on the chair as he leaned.
"Prosecutor." He returned.
The bastard didn't even call you by name.
Not a smidge of acknowledgement nor a nod to your past. Treating it like it was a memory only you kept. Tucked away in some forbidden corner of your heart that was written off as obsolete.
Just a smirk.
That same. Damn. Smug smirk.
You hated how it irked you. Hated that you cared in the first place. It wasn't as if you were both friendly back in LAW 604. Every day was the start to a new war.
So much for that, huh? One of you was sat in the wrong chair despite all the boasting. With his hands cuffed and his name close to slander. And the worst part?
He looked fucking proud of it.
"I have a few questions, if you don't mind," you started, placing the file onto the table and flipping it open. "You have the right to have a lawyer present."
"Oh, I know." He hummed, unbothered.
So why was your heart clearly bothered?
He shook his head. Still fucking smiling. "But that won't be necessary. Ask away, Miss."
You bit your tongue. Steeled your brow from twitching. His smile said it all, but his eyes— his eyes reflected something that called for you.
But you braced yourself. Took a breath. Hardened your stare.
"Eye witnesses state that they saw you at Shinjuku Golden-Gai bar with Kayumi Fumika, is this correct?"
"Yeah, we had some fun," he crooked his head, brows pinching at the centre and his smile smoothly slipping into a frown. "A shame, really. What happened to her."
His expression melted with ease. Too much ease. His lips pressing together and his jaw setting. But his eyes—
His eyes.
They remained staring. Not a blink. Not a bat. Pupils pouring into your very soul. The charm in the blue didn't reach the biting cold of his gaze. Enough to make anyone who dared to look close enough flinch.
Eyes were the mirror to the soul.
So why did you recognise the reflection?
Why didn't you flinch?
You flipped through the file, tucking the questions between the pages. Your brows narrowed and lips set tight. As the abyss wrapped itself in the gaps between your ribs. Taunting your tongue. Mocking your mind.
"You're aware why you're currently being held in custody, right, Mr Gojo?"
"Apparently your officers have connections to me and the other victims."
"Is it correct that each of the twenty five victims are associated with you company, Limitless, in some way?"
"Tragically."
You pulled your gaze from the file. Glancing at him from beneath your lashes. His face had melted a second time. The forlorn look smoothed with a blank canvas. Ice. Cold and crisp.
No.
Not blank. Bored.
You shut the file. Hand on the front like an oath to the justice that stirred in the pit of your stomach.
Satoru held your stare. Kept his expression. Completely uncaring to how utterly unfazed he looked at the prospect that blood might be on his hands.
Or did he savour the taste between his teeth?
"Most people in your position would show a little more decency." It wasn't part of your interrogation to question his empathy. But the easy way his brows rested and his blunt nails drummed on the table rubbed you up the wrong way.
"You don't seem the least bit empathetic towards these women, Mr Gojo."
Your stare sharpened.
"Can't."
His smile followed.
As his lashes hung and his brow arched. It itched at your irritation. Ground your teeth into one another.
"And why not?"
"It's not in my code. Psychopaths lack empathy."
Your hand sunk on the file. Jaw unclenched. Heart. Stuttered.
It left his mouth so seamlessly. Like it was a trivial fact. The word psychopath sounded like it was his favourite colour when it slipped from his tongue.
Still. Not once did his stare falter. Nor freeze. No blink, nor bat, not even a fucking burst of laughter from the absurdity of it all.
Gojo Satoru— a psychopath?
Looking back at it now, the signs were all there. If he was the match to your gasoline and the grin to your glare, really, what surprised you that he was also the mirror to your very soul?
Splintered. Shattered. With smug smiles jagged in the cracks.
"I. . ." You never froze. That's what they loved about you.
Now, you faltered.
"I never knew that," you muttered. Hated yourself for it.
Both of his pale brows arched. The corner of his lips twitched as his head crooked further. Infuriatingly so.
"I'm sorry, but have we met before, prosecutor?"
No smile. No simper.
The bastard. Fucking. Grinned.
Nothing faint or small either— because really, when was anything modest about Gojo Satoru? His lips pulled back to reveal a slice of teeth. Pearly and white. Sharp. Like he was proud of the blood that ground between them.
Like he remembered the taste of yours. No matter what that treacherous tongue spouted.
You sat there. Still. Staring. He'd become quite an actor since the last time you saw him. Is that why he dropped out of law school?
Law school. Within the blink of an eye, the four walls of the dingy interrogation room fluttered into the mirage of a lecture hall. Pews and students. Debates and bets.
One grin, one glare. Was all it took for that dead spark to rekindle. Sharper. Brighter. A flare that stirred the past and promised an exciting future.
All in the stare of a man you never forgot. Who pretended like he'd forgotten you.
There your teeth went grinding again. And there his went grinning.
A competition once laid to rest. Now reignited like an old match to long-awaiting gasoline.
The chair skidded across the floor as you stood. Abrupt. Snatching the file and turning to the police chief that re-entered the second he witnessed your tempered display.
"What happ—"
"We have a case."
Still. Your stare never left Satoru, even over your shoulder. His smile never faltered, but his eyes sparked.
There's that glint you were looking for.
It never quite left his stare. Even in the court room.
Gojo Satoru was still as charming as he was cunning. The kind of intelligence that struck like a knife. That wore teeth and grinned back at you from the stand. With his rimless glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose and those brutal blues cutting at you from over them.
You were almost surprised he hired an attorney at all. You fully expected him to commit to his ego and represent himself in court. Guess you could thank whatever god was up there for small mercies.
Honestly though, was there a god? You didn't think so. Because what kind of divine being would sit by and watch this carnage?
Accepting the case was simple. Researching it was when most prosecutors were advised to keep an empty trashcan near their desk. Lest they hurl up breakfast all over their files.
You often found it dramatic. To get queasy at the mere sight of a crime scene. As if anyone but a victim's family had the right to mourn. As if anyone but the victim knew of the horrors they endured.
But this time? You'd be lying if you said earlier's coffee wasn't tickling at the back of your throat when you paged through the photos.
Nothing had ever made you quite sick like the sight of organs aligned neatly with a body laid to look like a doll. With red lips and glass eyes staring into your very soul.
See? Shoko was talking nonsense. You do have a soul.
You felt it stir whenever you called Satoru to the stand. Felt it burst into flames when his brows arched in that irritating slant and he smoothly replied to each of your questions. Like it was second nature.
To sit in a court room? Or to taunt you?
The case made headlines. Naturally so. News outlets jumped from their seats and clawed at every crumb provided to them. It was widely televised. Probably internationally. Why wouldn't it when twenty five were murdered and your killer's alias was The Ripper's Successor?
Jack the Ripper only killed five. Not even a quarter of this— so how was he dubbed the world's worst?
His methods. His manners. The malice alone mounted to malevolence not many could match. Even if his identity was never legally confirmed, you imagined what his eyes might have looked like. Cold, with a touch of hellfire.
Gojo Satoru kept that brutality and quintupled the number.
Detectives started calling the sites 'carnage scenes'. Crime sounded sanitary next to whatever horrors these were.
With all that considered, you wondered:
How the hell did anyone think him innocent?
"Mister Gojo! Mister Gojo! How do you feel about this case focusing on your psychopathy? You mentioned it was something you were unashamed of?"
A reporter chased after him. Down the steps of the courthouse. Amidst the crowd he was escorted through by his sea of bodyguards.
Satoru turned his head. Halting his feet. Smiling. Unfazed by the shutter of cameras and the shouts of journalists trying to worm their foot in on the conversation.
"I have no shame for my psychopathy," He replied easily. Too easily for a man in Tokyo's limelight. "It's a shame that the case has taken such an obvious turn. Psychopaths are often judged poorly based on the way they were born alone. Can't say I'm surprised."
The reporter's eyes lit up. Clearly she was already counting the headlines from this interaction alone, as she nudged the mic closer.
"Would you say it's unfair for the court to focus on this sole part of you?"
"Highly. I've put in a lot of work to be considered what society now calls, 'a successful psychopath'. Weird, ain't it?"
Zip!
The television screen zapped at the centre. The improv interview drowned out into a dark abyss that taunted you more than eased. You tossed the remote to the chair you previously sat on. Before you lunged across the grey floors to get that irritation dressed in black and white off of the screen.
Why did Shoko even insist on a tv in her morgue in the first place? How the hell was that even permitted?
"Well," she idly drawled from her spot at the steel stable. Stained tools clattering in a dish and bloodied latex slipping from her once busy hands.
"At least one of you admits it."
"Not in the mood, Sho."
You shot her a look over your shoulder, before your eyes fell to the elephant in the room. Or well— the carcass of one, at least.
Laid over the autopsy table. Skin an ugly pale and lips blue as opposed to the red that Shoko made a point to wipe off. Strewn in the same way that you found her: Kayumi Fumika. The twenty fifth victim
You averted your stare back to Shoko. Not because the sight bothered you. But because it didn't.
"Can you believe that bastard's not in a holding cell? Those should be police, not bodyguards." You huffed, stepping over. Unblinking to the corpse laid open. The gorge down its middle felt familiar. Its abyss called to you.
"Can you say you're surprised? The guy's loaded." Shoko spoke from the sink. Washing her hands off. "Money makes the world go round, doll."
You clicked your tongue and pressed your lips together. She was right. Lady justice wasn't just blind to bias, but to bank accounts too.
Sucking in a breath, you stopped beside the body. Eyes lingering on the autopsy incisions. A necessary battery. It's not as if her body was left in any better condition. "You find anything else?"
"Not even a hair," Shoko sighed. "It's confirmed. He slits their throats and then strangles them."
"It doesn't make sense."
"Never quite saw anything like it, I can tell you that much."
You pinched your nose bridge. Shut your eyes. Twenty five victims and not once was there a slip up. Every cut was in the same direct. Every organ aligned. Ever mouth painted in just the same amount to make it look like rouge.
You almost admired the consistency.
As if your annoyance couldn't reach greater heights— your phone buzzed. A quick glance at the clock on the white wall reminded you that you had a meeting.
So despite the tension in your neck and the stiffness in your shoulders, you rolled them back and drew a sigh. You swore whatever was left of your soul seeped out with it.
"Try again." You muttered, stepping to the chair and snatching your jacket. Promptly ignoring Shoko's glance over her shoulder.
"You want me to look again? It's been two weeks. I'm not going to find anything new."
"Don't say that. Just try one more time, please?"
"The victim's family need the body for burial."
"Well, by law we can hold a body involved with a crime for thirty days. So they can be patient."
Not a flinch. Nor a falter. The words left your frowning lips as a matter-of-fact. Colder than the morgue you stepped through without a care, like it was just the butcher aisle in a grocery store.
Shoko approached from the sink. Her arms folded and labcoat creasing as she watched you make a beeline for the door. The sound of your heels clicking on the cool tiles. Like a clock ticking away at a death sentence.
"And where are you off to?" She asked.
"Gotta meet with Geto. There's some stuff about the scenes we need to discuss."
Geto Suguru. The state's best detective who you had the displeasure of working close with whenever it came to these cases.
Why? Simple: he was your fucking ex.
Your night just turned a whole lot more great. Hurray.
"I'll still be there for our girls' night," you called. Already out the door and down the hallway. Ignoring the abyss that tethered from the darkness. Licking its teeth and grinning at you from the shadows.
You simply steeled your stare ahead. Muttered beneath your sharp teeth.
"If I myself don't get put away for murder first."
